It was the witching hour of midnight on this night in 1949, and he ceased his pacing up and down and moved into the shadow of an elm tree and surveyed the house across the street once more. The moon shone down brightly, bathing everything in a clear amber glow, and he cursed it heartily. He had watched the house for an hour now, since the last light had gone out, but one could never be too sure; he was still smarting under that six months’ sentence he had received for that last little contretemps. He always worked alone; the Lone Wolf they called him; with the type of job he went in for there was never enough in it for two; besides, he was a solitary man by nature.
He crouched down under the hedge for a moment and took stock of his surroundings once more, and cursed the moon silently again. He cast his eye to the window he had selected for his entry, the one a little to the right of the porch, and in the shadow of a small palm tree which would afford him cover while he worked on it; then like a panther he slipped noiselessly across the lawn, his boots slithering over the close-cut grass being the only sound in the still, dead night. He crouched under the window for five minutes to make sure that everything was safe, and then he went to work, prizing it with a short steel bar. Inside, he scarcely dared to breathe, but flashed his torch around to get an idea of the position of the furniture. Then he doused it and moved in the direction of the door. He had noted with satisfaction that the room was handsomely furnished with expensive whatnots and nicknacks, and that there had been a deep armchair pulled up facing the fireplace, although there had been no fire.
“Switch on that light!”
Had the voice come from some ghostly regions, which for the moment he thought it had, he could not have been more startled.
“I say, switch on that light!” There was that note in the voice again which had struck him; imperative, yet some suggestion of cajolement about it, and he could tell now that it came from the depths of the armchair. And as if directed by its invisible authority, he fumbled for the switch alongside the door and pressed it. The room was flooded with light, revealing an elderly man in a dressing gown, half turned towards him in the armchair. He had a fat, pink, happy face, with a few long strands of sandy hair drawn across his almost bald cranium, and his red eyes were blinking as if he had been asleep. He surveyed the burglar up and down deprecatingly. “Tst, tst. tst!” he muttered.
Taken aback by the other’s aplomb, the Wolf could only gaze at him with some sort of fascination, and the gun in his hand wavered a little.
“Keep that gun up!” the other snapped, almost irritably. “No mask,” was his next remark. “When are you younger school ever going to learn the value of a mask?” Next, his eyes travelled down him with the air of a connoisseur. “Clothes,” he murmured, half to himself, “much too light — for this class of work anyway.” Then his gaze moved to the other’s feet and he saw something which seemed to horrify him, and he looked up with accusation in his eyes. “Boots!” he exclaimed, “Look! Make me a promise, will you? The very next job you do, get yourself a pair of sneakers out of the takings — dark for preference. I suppose you came across that lawn as lightly as you could, but it sounded to me like a troupe of elephants dancing on kerosene tins. Sit down,” he said finally.
The Wolf took a seat on the edge of a couch, diffidently; well clear of him, the gun still poised, and felt that he could handle any false move the other made. The fat man reached across to a small table alongside him.
“Sherry or whisky?” he said . . . “You had better, have whisky— I always found whisky the best when I was doing my jobs.”
“Your jobs?” the burglar exclaimed.
“How do you think I got this beautiful home? Why, it was only the other day,” he continued, in a reminiscent vein, “I happened to be riding in a tram — no petrol for the coupe,” he said apologetically. “I just couldn’t resist going back to the first line I ever took on, dipping— best little whiz merchant in the game, I was — you wouldn’t understand that highly skilled branch of the profession. It wasn’t because it was so easy, man’s wallet buttoned lip inside his waistcoat pocket, but it was the fact that I needed petrol tickets that made me do it. I got them all right— the fuel tickets, and there must have been a hundred Dollars in a roll he had there, but I put it back. I’ve retired now. It was a big temptation, though,” he sighed. He flicked his cigar expansively. “Yes, I was known as the Baffles of the profession in my heyday. None of that Burglar Bill stuff about me. A real credit to my calling. And now,” he became even more expansive, “I’m passing on the benefit of my vast experience.”
The Wolf was still watching him uneasily as he held the automatic in one hand and sipping the whisky gingerly without removing his eyes from the fat one.
“There’s a book I’ve just published on the Subject: ‘Codex for Crooks’ — printed in a limited edition, of course, purely for circulation among ourselves — and said by competent reviewers to be a real work, ‘a masterpiece,’ to quote Nitkeeper in ‘Crackman’s Courier.’ ‘A treatise of unexampled merit,’ comments Shakesbeer in “Robbers’ Review. !No house should be without one!” he continued, examining his nails contentedly “From all over the countryside I have received letters of appreciation; testimonials from grateful subscribers. “It’s a mine of information for all. There is the opening chapter: ‘Pilfering for Pleasure,’ for amateurs only. Then there’s the chapter: ‘Why Big Al Was Copped,’ and said by some people to be worth the price of the book alone. ‘Dieting,’ the correct diets for different jobs. Diet charts included. For instance, you wouldn’t go out on a safe-blowing job without an adequate supply of vitamin B inside you would you?”
“Dunno.”
“Would you, or wouldn’t you!”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Pass your glass — and keep that gun raised, man! And as for the idea of going warehouse-breaking without vitamin A, it’s preposterous.”
“It’s pre what?”
“Preposterous, I said! And the thought of doing a stickup without a foundation of cereals and bulk it’s Preposterous, too? No, suicidal.”
The Wolf winced a little and felt quite humbled.
“No, the whole fact of the matter is, old boy, your technique is bad — rotten, atrocious,” the fat man continued. “Your approach tonight had all the earmarks of the novice … I was only hoping that it was one of my old pals breaking in, so that we could have a chat about the good old days: Cockeye Roberts, Bunghole Smith or Limpy the Lag, great fellows all of them, and ornaments to the profession. They graced everything they touched. They say that whenever they burgled a house it increased it’s value, and property owners used to bid for their services.”
The crook was shuffling nervously on the couch and appeared to be becoming ill at ease. The revolver had sagged to an angle of 43 degrees, and neither seemed to notice it.
The other continued, “Or if you really want to go ahead rapidly — to do a bit of mining, as it were — why not try my correspondence course? ‘How to Crack a Crib,’ in twelve easy lessons. I think I can find room for another pupil.”
The Wolf rose to his feet. . . .
“Your money refunded if not satisfied — have another drink?”
“No. As a matter of fact …”
“Just as you like . . . this course has been acclaimed by press and public as the most advanced in the Country.” He leant over and said confidentially, “Now, why not enrol today?”
“No, if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll be getting along,” the burglar said. “I’ve had a lot of late nights lately and the wife gets worried if I’m not home on time. She thinks I might be up to something.”
The fat man rose. “Please yourself. I’ll see you out.” He showed him to the front door. “So sorry you can’t stay. Remember me to the boys . . . Watch the step.”
Then the Great Whodunnit Author closed the door and went into the front room and poured himself out another whisky, a double one this time, and mopped his pink perspiring brow.
“Phew! That was a near thing,” he gasped. “It’s a good job I snoozed off in that armchair.”
——- The End ——-
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