‘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 roads 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 good money.’ I went on to say that if he would tell me exactly how he found the treasure then I would write a truthful story about it. And if I was lucky enough to sell it, I would split the money equally with him.