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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
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RGL e-Book Cover
Based on an image created with Microsoft Bing software
NO. I don't think I'll have another, thanks—not more than a pint anyway.
Mind you, don't get away with the idea that I don't know what you're after. I mean, you ain't buying me all this beer just because you like the look of my face! Some body's told you what I am and you're so to speak casting your bread—only in this case it's beer, which is better on the waters.
In other words, you're hoping to get me so oiled that I'll tell you a story you can sell for filthy lucre. Well, that being so, I reckon I'd better tell you the story before I get oiled (I'll trust you to do the decent thing afterwards). Because I talk better when I'm fairly sober, and I'm less quarrelsome.
I got a yarn in mind. What I said about bread just now reminded me. It's a good story, and nobody knows it yet outside of Dartmoor and even in there they ain't got the full strength.
Talking about proverbs. They're much like cheap fireworks—some of them go off and some of them don't. And some just depend. A stitch in time may save nine, but it depends a lot on the stitcher and the quality of the thread.
A favourite one is that old-timer about "Honour among thieves." Now, I don't want to sound cynical, but I've always found a darned sight more honour among honest men than among crooks! In fact, I might say I ain't never found any honour among thieves at all! Not any class of thieves—neither pickpockets, burglars, con-men or stockbrokers.
But there's one proverb I put faith in—and that's the one I quoted just now —about casting your bread on the waters and it comes back in divers forms. I reckon it's just queer how the things you do—good and bad, little and big—come fluttering back home, like stool-pigeons when the wind blows east.
The yarn I'm going to tell you is about bread cast upon the waters—and also about all the honour that isn't among thieves.
BIG BILL BENTLY was a bloke who chucked quite a lot of bread
about in a quiet way. But he never talked about it much, so quite
a lot of people didn't notice it. But I was one who did. You see,
when they pulled me in for a stretch over a little job out Barnes
way and my missus was sick and with a kid coming and all, Big
always saw to it she had the rent and enough for grub and the
doctor. He even paid for her to go into a posh lying-in hospital
instead of the dump.
He never said nothing to me about it; but, of course, the missus did. And I never forgot it. Big was like that. He was big in every way, besides his name. Big at his work, too—a proper craftsman, and never bothered about small jobs. They say Big never busted a crib for less than a thousand smackers and if he ever did so I never knew of it.
Of course, I never got up to his grade of business, but I sometimes used to lend him a hand—especially after I came out of stir. And in course of time there came a wind that blew back those crusts that Big set adrift over me and my missus.
Like this. One morning I was out Clapham way. It was a hot day, and I'd got a 40-horse-power thirst on. When it came to chucking-out time I had just three things in my head. Too much beer, the fact that it was hot, and that I was standing on the edge of Clapham Common. There was one answer to all three of those, and I found it. I went on to the Common, found a nice quiet gorse-bush and went to sleep in the middle of it—where I wasn't likely to be seen or disturbed.
Now places like Clapham Common and Battersea Park and so on look to most people like the lungs of London—just nice open spaces where nursemaids are nursemaids, and little boys play ball with each other, and fat old gentlemen drive funny little electric motor boats round little round ponds just to amuse the children. That's what they look like—nice, innocent harmless places.
But really they're more like those sloppy ads, you see in the agony columns—you know: "Algy darling, come home. All forgotten and forgiven! Melisande"—which really means: 'All O.K. Sykes, we bust the crib to-night. Raffles."
By which I mean that if you want to talk private, to discuss a plan or hold an inquest on a job—or want to spiel about anything you don't want the splits or the bogies to get an earful of—you can't beat those wide open spaces. But in these days you want to keep as near the middle as possible, and keep away from gorse bushes, as this narrative will demonstrate.
I slept for an hour or so, and then I awoke—to the unpleasant cacophony of voices. Low, sinister voices, they were. I thought I recognised one of 'em, so I took a quiet peek out—and there, sure enough, sitting right against my bush was three of the boys—Morny, Slype, and Codshead. I thought to myself if the devil was to cast his net just then he'd be liable to land three of the slipperiest eels in all the depths of depravity. Meantime, having no thought of that nonsense about honour amongst thieves, I lay doggo, and stretched my ears to hear what they were talking about.
I was glad I did. Now Big had chucked quite a lot of bread about in his time, and some of the crumby bits had gone to those three, to my knowledge. He'd helped 'em all at times, but the trouble was he was smarter than them at their own game, and he pulled off the big jobs while they had to be content with the little ones. Professional jealousy—that was the trouble.
Then it seemed he'd slung another bit at Lizzy—that's Lazarus, one of the smartest and hardest fences in the Big Noise. That happened to be a crusty bit—it was over some deal or other. I don't know what—and I reckon it stung Lizzie some. Anyway, it seemed he'd been bribing these precious three to put a nasty one over on poor old Big.
When I'd heard all they'd got to say, and when they'd moved off and the coast was clear, I went off in the other direction, and took a tram and tube to the West End, where Big kept a nice little flat. I found him in and ready to listen to what I had to say.
"Well, what can I do for you, Snide?" says he.
"Nothing, thanks!" I told him, "Matter of fact, I've come to do something for you. Or at least to tell you something."
"Good!" says he. "I got gin and beer in the place. Which would you rather have?"
"I'll show no favouritism," I answers. "Dog's nose is a pleasant beverage!"
So he gives me a glass of beer well-laced with gin and I started in.
"On Tuesday, the eighth instant," I kicked off, "the Earl of Oxted gives a ball. Lady Oxted will wear the famous necklace, valued at ten thousand smackers, on that occasion!"
Big's face was quite blank, but I saw his body stiffen.
"Thanks for the tip!" he said. "But I'm resting next week!"
"You ain't! You're going after those sparklers before they go back to the safe deposit! And Lizzie put you up to the job!"
He shot me a quick look:
"Say, you know a lot, don't you?"
"I don't. This is secondhand information. I heard three gentlemen discussing it this afternoon on Clapham Common. Right in the middle only a bit too near a gorse bush. They said also that Lizzie had got it in for you, and he was dishin' em one hundred smackers each clear, to put the bogies on you and get you copped. As an added inducement, they reckoned there'd be less competition in the business if you went into the country for five or so!"
"Oh, they did, did they?" said Big, very gently—he's dangerous when he's like that "Now. I wonder who these gentlemen were?"
"Morny, Slype and Codshead!"
"Nice boys! Well, I hope it keeps fine for them! And what is to be the modus operandi?"
"The modus whatever-you-said runs this way. They reckon you'll time the job between three and four, because the proceedings and gaiety won't be over until two, or two-thirty, and the dawn cracks about five. They reckon you'll approach the house from one of three sides—not the front. So each of 'em is going to watch on one of the three sides—or two sides and back, whichever way you prefer it. And as soon as one of them sees you go in, they're going to give the others the wire. Then they'll 'phone the Yard, and they reckon the Flying Squad'll get there in nice time to clean you up. And that's that!"
"So it is!" said Big thoughtfully.
"I reckon you'll chuck the job now?" I suggested. "They'll all get colds in their heads, waiting for you. Or it wouldn't be a bad idea to ring the Yard yourself and get 'em picked up for being on enclosed premises with intent."
But Big, who had been thinking hard and quick, shook his head.
"I'll do a bit better than that, I think!" he said. "You see, Snide. I been to a lot of trouble over that job. Disguised as a newspaper man—a difficult disguise for me, me having a natural gentlemanly manner—I've been down to Oxted Hall. I've taken photos and made plans of the interior for my series on 'The Ancient Homes of Old England'. I've got the whole thing cut and dried and I'm not going to give it up now! Hang on for a bit!"
He went out of the room and came back with some maps, blueprints and photographs. These he studied for a bit. Then he had a think.
"I've got it, I think. I'll want a little help from you—not on the actual job, though. You're on twenty per of what I make and all exes paid. Are you on?"
I said I was on and he gave me five fivers.
"Go and buy the fastest second hand motor bike you can spot and tune it up pretty!" he told me. "We'll want it for alibi work, and that's where you come in!"
I did that. In the meantime, Big got busy, in this manner, as I learned later.
He dropped a line to each of the three—Morny, Slype and Codshead—and asked each of them to call—at different times of course.
Morny was the first. When he'd done the honours, Big came down to brass tacks. He explained, as a great secret, about the Oxted crib and the sparklers and suggested that Morny should help him and take half the doings.
"The sparklers are worth ten thousand. We'll get four thousand from Sneapes, the fence, for them. That's two thousand smackers each. Are you on?"
"I am on," agreed Morny. "Now, how about it? We'd better meet right on the spot, hadn't we? Won't do to be seen around together beforehand, will it?"
"No!" said Big. "We'll meet outside the house at three ack emma sharp. On the left-hand side of the house as you face it. Got that?"
"Fine," said Morny, and went, after promising not to tell a soul about it. The interview with Slype was about the same, and so was the result. Except that it was arranged that Big should meet him at 3.15 on the right-hand side of the house. The chat with Codshead was also similar and the result synonymous. Except again, that he arranged to contact with Codshead at the back of the house, and at 3.30 prompt.
Three days before the job was due to come off, Big went and took lodgings at King's Langley, which is in Herts, while Oxted is in Surrey.
On the eighth he went out with his landlord and they both apparently got very drunk. That's to say the apparently only applied to Big. At 10.30 he staggered to bed. At 12 o'clock he got out of his window and met me in a quiet spot, where I had the motor bike. He took it and scooted off to Oxted on it. At three sharp he met Morny on the left-hand side of the house (all of those three were mighty pleased that there was no quarrel about which side of the house each should take—it was what they had all been nervous about!)
"Do we get in this side?" Morny whimpers, anxiously.
"Sure!" answered Big. "I've fixed the burglar alarm, so it's easy!"
"What's the evening dress for?" Morny asked curiously.
"Alibi! And looks well if any questions are asked!" answered Big. "Come on."
He had a window open in no time, and they went in upstairs to the first floor where Big said the safe was.
Half way along the corridor Big gave a sudden gasp, and clutched Morny's arm:
"S-ss-ht! Somebody's coming —in here, quick! And keep quiet as a mouse!"
He shoved Morny into a big cupboard and closed the door on him. He also, quite silently, turned the key in the lock. At 3.15 he joined Slype, on the right-hand side.
"Good boy!" he whispered. "Come along—I've got a window already opened here!"
The window belonged to the kitchen. They had hardly got inside when Big gave a sharp exclamation:
"My God! There's someone coming! In here—quick! And don't make a sound!"
And he shoved Slype into a boot-cupboard, and locked the door on him.
At 3.30 he found Codshead, at the back of the house:
"Come on," he whispered. "We've got to make it slippy! And keep your ears open!"
This window led right into the library, where the safe was. It was actually open, because Big had come through it at ten minutes to three, after lifting the sparklers out of the safe. You see, he had gate-crashed the party about two o'clock (hence the glad rags) and, hidden behind a curtain, had seen the maid put the diamonds away. He had a wonderful eye for the manipulation of a combination lock, and the moment she was out of the room he had opened the safe and taken the necklace.
Now, as soon as they were inside, he switched on the light.
"Great pip!" he gasped, pointing to the open safe. "Some blighter's been here before us!"
"So they have, darn their souls!" growled Codshead. He was wondering which it is—Slype or Morny?
Big gave a sudden jump:
"And there's someone coming!" he gasped. "Quick —in here, and keep quieter than death!" He opened the door of an old-fashioned book cupboard, and pushed Codshead in. Then he shut—and locked—the door.
Five minutes later Big was on the motor bike and streaking through Surrey. Luckily Lizzie, the fence, had his place at Purley, comfortably adjacent, and nicely private. Lizzie often had late visitors, you see.
In the purlieus of Purley, Big got off the bike. First he took the necklace, and a pair of pliers from his pocket. He broke off a small piece of the necklace—about an eighth—and put that into a side-pocket. The rest he put in a safer place. Then he went into a telephone booth (he had stopped by one on purpose) and rang Whitehall 1212:
"There's been a burglary at the Earl of Oxted's!" he told the Yard. "Four men concerned in it. I've captured three for you—one's locked in the boot cupboard; one in the library cupboard; and one in a cupboard on the first floor. The fourth man has got away with the loot. I'm following him—he's too big for me to tackle by myself, and I haven't seen a constable. You want to wake 'em up! At the present time the fourth man is having a cup of coffee at a coffee stall, so I've got the chance to 'phone. I'm sticking to him, and I'll let you know more later! You'd better send out and get the other three right away! What's that? Who am I? Oh, just an enthusiastic amateur detective. You'll hear from me later. Bye."
Shortly after Big did a thing he had never done before, to a man who had never had such a thing done on him previously, he broke into a house in order not to take something away, but to leave something there! In other words he burgled Lizzie's house, and while the old chap was sleeping the sleep of all just and honourable fences, Big left the eighth part of the necklace in his sitting room—putting it in a place where it was sure to be found, but not too easily.
Then he rang up the Yard again:
"The chap with the necklace has gone into 'Mon Repose,' Mount Pleasant Road, Purley," he told them. "If you go there quick you'll find him and the necklace, for it's evident he lives there! What? No—not now! I'm going home to bed!"
Which he did. That's to say he motor-biked hell for leather down to King's Langley, handed over the bike to me, got back into his bedroom through the window, and was very grateful for the cup of tea his landlady brought him in the morning.
So even if Lizzie and the other three had been taken notice of by the cops when they said that Big was the real criminal, he had a perfect alibi. Or as near perfect as wouldn't matter!
Talking about casting bread upon the water! I call that toasting it when it comes back anyhow!
Yes, thanks. I'll have another pint, having earned it!
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.