The Collected Short Stories of Roald Dahl Volume 2 Read online

  "Yes," I said. "Because you've got fantastic fingers."

  "Exactly right!" he cried. "You catch on pretty quick, don't you?" He sat back and sucked away at his homemade cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a thin stream against the windshield. He knew he had impressed me greatly with those two tricks, and this made him very happy. "I don't want to be late," he said. "What time is it?"

  "There's a clock in front of you," I told him.

  "I don't trust car clocks," he said. "What does your watch say?"

  I hitched up my sleeve to look at the watch on my wrist. It wasn't there. I looked at the man. He looked back at me, grinning.

  "You've taken that, too," I said.

  He held out his hand and there was my watch lying in his palm. "Nice bit of stuff, this," he said. "Superior quality. Eighteen-carat gold. Easy to sell, too. It's never any trouble gettin' rid of quality goods."

  "I'd like it back, if you don't mind," I said rather huffily.

  He placed the watch carefully on the leather tray in front of him. "I wouldn't nick anything from you, guv'nor," he said. "You're my pal. You're givin' me a lift."

  "I'm glad to hear it," I said.

  "All I'm doin' is answerin' your question," he went on. "You asked me what I do for a livin' and I'm showin' you."

  "What else have you got of mine?"

  He smiled again, and now he started to take from the pocket of his jacket one thing after another that belonged to me—my driver's licence, a key ring with four keys on it, some pound notes, a few coins, a letter from my publishers, my diary, a stubby old pencil, a cigarette lighter, and last of all, a beautiful old sapphire ring with pearls around it belonging to my wife. I was taking the ring up to a jeweller in London because one of the pearls was missing.

  "Now there's another lovely piece of goods," he said, turning the ring over in his fingers. "That's eighteenth century, if I'm not mistaken, from the reign of King George the Third."

  "You're right," I said, impressed. "You're absolutely right."

  He put the ring on the leather tray with the other items.

  "So you're a pickpocket," I said.

  "I don't like that word," he answered. "It's a coarse and vulgar word. Pickpockets is coarse and vulgar people who only do easy little amateur jobs. They lift money from blind old ladies."

  "What do you call yourself, then?"

  "Me? I'm a fingersmith. I'm a professional fingersmith." He spoke the words solemnly and proudly, as though he were telling me he was President of the Royal College of Surgeons or the Archbishop of Canterbury.

  "I've never heard that word before," I said. "Did you invent it?"

  "Of course I didn't invent it," he replied. "It's the name given to them who's risen to the very top of the profession. You've heard of a goldsmith or a silversmith, for instance. They're experts with gold and silver. I'm an expert with my fingers, so I'm a fingersmith."

  "It must be an interesting job."

  "It's a marvellous job," he answered. "It's lovely."

  "And that's why you go to the races?"

  "Race meetings is easy meat," he said. "You just stand around after the race, watchin' for the lucky ones to queue up and draw their money. And when you see someone collectin' a big bundle of notes, you simply follows after 'im and 'elps yourself. But don't get me wrong, guv'nor. I never takes nothin' from a loser. Nor from poor people neither. I only go after them as can afford it, the winners and the rich."

  "That's very thoughtful of you," I said. "How often do you get caught?"

  "Caught?" he cried, disgusted. "Me get caught! It's only pickpockets get caught. Fingersmiths never. Listen, I could take the false teeth out of your mouth if I wanted to and you wouldn't even catch me!"

  "I don't have false teeth," I said.

  "I know you don't," he answered. "Otherwise I'd 'ave 'ad 'em out long ago!"

  I believed him. Those long slim fingers of his seemed able to do anything. We drove on for a while without talking.

  "That policeman's going to check up on you pretty thoroughly," I said. "Doesn't that worry you a bit?"

  "Nobody's checkin' up on me," he said.

  "Of course they are. He's got your name and address written down most carefully in his black book."

  The man gave me another of his sly ratty little smiles. "Ah" he said. "So 'ee 'as. But I'll bet 'ee ain't got it all written down in 'is memory as well. I've never known a copper yet with a decent memory. Some of 'em can't even remember their own names."

  "What's memory got to do with it?" I asked. "It's written down in his book, isn't it?"

  "Yes, guv'nor, it is. But the trouble is, 'ee's lost the book. 'Ee's lost both books, the one with my name on it and the one with yours."

  In the long delicate fingers of his right hand, the man was holding up in triumph the two books he had taken from the policeman's pockets. "Easiest job I ever done," he announced proudly.

  I nearly swerved the car into a milk truck, I was so excited.

  "That copper's got nothin' on either of us now," he said.

  "You're a genius!" I cried.

  "Ee's got no names, no addresses, no car number, no nothin'," he said.

  "You're brilliant!"

  "I think you'd better pull off this main road as soon as possible," he said. "Then we'd better build a little bonfire and burn these books."

  "You're a fantastic fellow!" I exclaimed.

  "Thank you, guv'nor," he said. "It's always nice to be appreciated."

  The Surgeon

  "YOU have done extraordinarily well," Robert Sandy said, seating himself behind the desk. "It's altogether a splendid recovery. I don't think there's any need for you to come and see me any more."

  The patient finished putting on his clothes and said to the surgeon, "May I speak to you, please, for another moment?"

  "Of course you may," Robert Sandy said. "Take a seat."

  The man sat down opposite the surgeon and leaned forward, placing his hands, palms downward, on the top of the desk. "I suppose you still refuse to take a fee?" he said.

  "I've never taken one yet and I don't propose to change my ways at this time of life," Robert Sandy told him pleasantly. "I work entirely for the National Health Service and they pay me a very fair salary."

  Robert Sandy MA, M. CHIR, FRCs, had been at The Radcliffe Infirmary in Oxford for eighteen years and he was now fifty-two years old, with a wife and three grown-up children. Unlike many of his colleagues, he did not hanker after fame and riches. He was basically a simple man utterly devoted to his profession.

  It was now seven weeks since his patient, a university undergraduate, had been rushed into Casualty by ambulance after a nasty car accident in the Banbury Road not far from the hospital. He was suffering from massive abdominal injuries and he had lost consciousness. When the call came through from Casualty for an emergency surgeon, Robert Sandy was up in his office having a cup of tea after a fairly arduous morning's work which had included a gall-bladder, a prostate and a total colostomy, but for some reason he happened to be the only general surgeon available at that moment. He took one more sip of his tea, then walked straight back into the operating theatre and started scrubbing up all over again.

  After three and a half hours on the operating table, the patient was still alive and Robert Sandy had done everything he could to save his life. The next day, to the surgeon's considerable surprise, the man was showing signs that he was going to survive. In addition, his mind was lucid and he was speaking coherently. It was only then, on the morning after the operation, that Robert Sandy began to realize that he had an important person on his hands. Three dignified gentlemen from the Saudi Arabian Embassy, including the Ambassador himself, came into the hospital and the first thing they wanted was to call in all manner of celebrated surgeons from Harley Street to advise on the case. The patient, with bottles suspended all round his bed and tubes running into many parts of his body, shook his head and murmured something in Arabic to the Ambassador.

  "H