The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More Read online

  "That's impossible," I said. "You'd have to undo the buckle and slide the whole thing out through the loops all the way round. I'd have seen you doing it. And even if I hadn't seen you, I'd have felt it."

  "Ah, but you didnt, did you?" he said, triumphant. He dropped the belt on his lap, and now all at once there was a brown shoelace dangling from his fingers. "And what about this, then?" he exclaimed, waving the shoelace.

  "What about it?" I said.

  "Anyone round 'ere missin' a shoelace?" he asked, grinning.

  I glanced down at my shoes. The lace of one of them was missing. "Good grief!" I said. "How did you do that? I never saw you bending down."

  "You never saw nothin'," he said proudly. "You never even saw me move an inch. And you know why?"

  "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 flog, 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 giving me a lift."

  "I'm glad to hear it." I said.

  "All I'm doin' is answerin' your questions," he went on. "You asked me what I did 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 driving-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 the 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 the 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 'eard of a goldsmith and 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 in 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 in 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."

  A Note About the Next Story

  In 1946. more than thirty years ago, I was still unmarried and living with my mother. I was making a fair income by writing two short stories a year. Each of them took four months to complete, and fortunately there were people both at home and abroad who were willing to buy them.

  One morning in April of that year. I read in the newspaper about a remarkable find of Roman silver. It had been discovered four years before by a ploughman near Mildenhall, in the county of Suffolk, but the discovery had for some reason been kept secret until then. The newspaper article said it was the greatest treasure ever found in the British Isles, and it had now been acquired by the British Museum. The name of the ploughman was given as Gordon Butcher.

  True stories about the finding of really big treasure send shivers of electricity all the way down my legs to the soles of my feet. The moment I read the story, I leapt up from my chair without finishing my breakfast and shouted good-bye to my mother and rushed out to my car. The car was a nine-year-old Wolseley, and I called it "The Hard Black Slinker". It went well but not very fast.

  Mildenhall was about a hundred and twenty miles from my home, a tricky cross-country trip along twisty toads and country lanes. I got there at lunchtime, and by asking at the local police station, I found the small house where Gordon Butcher lived with his family. He was at home having his lunch when I knocked on his door.

  I asked him if he would mind talking to me about how he found the treasure.

  "No, thank you," he said. "I've had enough of reporters. I don't want to see another reporter for the rest of my life."

  "I'm not a reporter," I told him. "I'm a short-story writer and I sell my work to magazines. They pay goo