was in our party. He is – er – not quite loyal.’
‘Wilshore?’ asked the officer, aghast. ‘Do you mean he “blew” the raid to Tommy?’
Mr Reeder scratched his nose and said gently, that he thought so.
‘He has quite a big income from various sources – by the way, he banks with the Midland and Derbyshire, and his account is in his wife’s maiden name. I tell you this in case – er – it may be useful.’
It was useful enough to secure the summary ejection of the unfaithful Wilshore from the force, but it was not sufficiently useful to catch Tommy, whose parting words were: ‘You’re clever, Reeder; but you’ve got to be lucky to catch me!’
Tommy was in the habit of repeating this scrap of conversation to such as were interested. It was an encounter of which he was justifiably proud, for few dealers in ‘slush’ and ‘snide’ have ever come up against Mr J G and got away with it.
‘It’s worth a thousand pounds to me – ten thousand! I’d pay that money to make J G look sick, anyway, the old dog! I guess the Yard will think twice before it tries to shop me again, and that’s the real kick in the raid. J G’s name is Jonah at headquarters, and if I can do anything to help, it will be mud!’
To a certain Ras Lal, an honoured (and paying) guest, Mr Fenalow told this story, with curious results.
A good wine tastes best in its own country, and a man may drink sherry by the cask in Jerez de la Frontera and take no ill, whereas if he attempted so much as a bottle in Fleet Street, he would suffer cruelly. So also does the cigarette of Egypt preserve its finest bouquet for such as smoke it in the lounge of a Cairo hotel.
Crime is yet another quantity which does not bear transplanting. The American safe blower may flourish in France just so long as he acquires by diligent study, and confines himself to, the Continental method. It is possible for the European thief to gain a fair livelihood in oriental countries, but there is no more tragic sight in the world than the Eastern mind endeavouring to adapt itself to the complexities of European roguery.
Ras Lal enjoyed a reputation in Indian police circles as the cleverest native criminal India had ever produced. Beyond a short term in Poona Jail, Ras Lal had never seen the interior of a prison, and such was his fame in native circles that, during this short period of incarceration, prayers for his deliverance were offered at certain temples, and it was agreed that he would never have been convicted at all but for some pretty hard swearing on the part of a certain sahib – and anyway, all sahibs hang together.
Ras Lal was a general practitioner of crime, with a leaning towards a specialization in jewel thefts. A man of excellent and even gentlemanly appearance, with black and shiny hair parted at the side and curling up over one brow in an inky wave, he spoke English, Hindi and Tamil very well indeed, had a sketchy knowledge of the law and a very full acquaintance with the science of precious stones.
During Mr Ras Lal’s brief rest in Poona, the sahib, whose evidence had been so damning and whose unromantic name was Smith, married a not very good-looking girl with a lot of money. Smith Sahib knew that beauty was only skin-deep and she had a kind heart, which is notoriously preferable to the garniture of coronets. It was honestly a love match. Her father owned jute mills in Calcutta, and on festive occasions, such as the State Governor’s reception, she carried several lakhs of rupees on her person; but even rich people are loved for themselves alone.
Ras Lal owed his imprisonment to an unsuccessful attempt he had made upon two strings of pearls, the property of the lady in question, and when he learnt, on his return to freedom, that Smith Sahib had married the resplendent girl and had gone to England, he very naturally attributed the hatred and bitterness of Smith Sahib to purely personal causes, and swore vengeance.
Now in India the
‘Wilshore?’ asked the officer, aghast. ‘Do you mean he “blew” the raid to Tommy?’
Mr Reeder scratched his nose and said gently, that he thought so.
‘He has quite a big income from various sources – by the way, he banks with the Midland and Derbyshire, and his account is in his wife’s maiden name. I tell you this in case – er – it may be useful.’
It was useful enough to secure the summary ejection of the unfaithful Wilshore from the force, but it was not sufficiently useful to catch Tommy, whose parting words were: ‘You’re clever, Reeder; but you’ve got to be lucky to catch me!’
Tommy was in the habit of repeating this scrap of conversation to such as were interested. It was an encounter of which he was justifiably proud, for few dealers in ‘slush’ and ‘snide’ have ever come up against Mr J G and got away with it.
‘It’s worth a thousand pounds to me – ten thousand! I’d pay that money to make J G look sick, anyway, the old dog! I guess the Yard will think twice before it tries to shop me again, and that’s the real kick in the raid. J G’s name is Jonah at headquarters, and if I can do anything to help, it will be mud!’
To a certain Ras Lal, an honoured (and paying) guest, Mr Fenalow told this story, with curious results.
A good wine tastes best in its own country, and a man may drink sherry by the cask in Jerez de la Frontera and take no ill, whereas if he attempted so much as a bottle in Fleet Street, he would suffer cruelly. So also does the cigarette of Egypt preserve its finest bouquet for such as smoke it in the lounge of a Cairo hotel.
Crime is yet another quantity which does not bear transplanting. The American safe blower may flourish in France just so long as he acquires by diligent study, and confines himself to, the Continental method. It is possible for the European thief to gain a fair livelihood in oriental countries, but there is no more tragic sight in the world than the Eastern mind endeavouring to adapt itself to the complexities of European roguery.
Ras Lal enjoyed a reputation in Indian police circles as the cleverest native criminal India had ever produced. Beyond a short term in Poona Jail, Ras Lal had never seen the interior of a prison, and such was his fame in native circles that, during this short period of incarceration, prayers for his deliverance were offered at certain temples, and it was agreed that he would never have been convicted at all but for some pretty hard swearing on the part of a certain sahib – and anyway, all sahibs hang together.
Ras Lal was a general practitioner of crime, with a leaning towards a specialization in jewel thefts. A man of excellent and even gentlemanly appearance, with black and shiny hair parted at the side and curling up over one brow in an inky wave, he spoke English, Hindi and Tamil very well indeed, had a sketchy knowledge of the law and a very full acquaintance with the science of precious stones.
During Mr Ras Lal’s brief rest in Poona, the sahib, whose evidence had been so damning and whose unromantic name was Smith, married a not very good-looking girl with a lot of money. Smith Sahib knew that beauty was only skin-deep and she had a kind heart, which is notoriously preferable to the garniture of coronets. It was honestly a love match. Her father owned jute mills in Calcutta, and on festive occasions, such as the State Governor’s reception, she carried several lakhs of rupees on her person; but even rich people are loved for themselves alone.
Ras Lal owed his imprisonment to an unsuccessful attempt he had made upon two strings of pearls, the property of the lady in question, and when he learnt, on his return to freedom, that Smith Sahib had married the resplendent girl and had gone to England, he very naturally attributed the hatred and bitterness of Smith Sahib to purely personal causes, and swore vengeance.
Now in India the
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