And I'm dashed if he didn't produce from his pocket two cigarette-cases and a gold watch belonging to us! He roared with laughter, and we laughed too, though not quite so heartily.
"A little proof to the Colonel," he said as he left the room, "that what I can do as an amateur is easy money for the professional."
"Darned sight too easy," growled old Firebrace, who disliked being made a fool of. "Shouldn't wonder if the blighter ain't a professional himself. I know one thing: I wouldn't play cards with him for a pony." And yet no one could have been quieter than he was. He drank the waters and conformed strictly—or as strictly as anybody did—to the rules and regulations of the cure. He read a lot, principally lives and biographies, and he could talk sensibly on a variety of subjects. In fact, in his quiet way he was distinctly good value for money.
I forget what started the conversation on crime one evening. I was sitting alone with him, and I think there had been an account in the papers of some woman being run in for trying to smuggle silk things through Dover. At any rate, I know I made some remark as to the inequality of the age-old struggle between the criminal and the forces of law and order.
"Sooner or later they all get caught," I said, "and a very good thing too."
For a while he said nothing, though it struck me that the faintest of smiles twitched round his lips. Then: "All is perhaps a slight exaggeration," he remarked, "though I quite agree with your general statement. And yet, there is a fascination in pitting your wits against the whole resources of the police. Finger-prints: flying squads: wireless—all the powers of science ranged against you. Or perhaps I should say ranged against the man who does it." he added with a deprecating wave of the hand.
I bowed: words seemed unnecessary.
"Are you interested in what people call crime?" he asked.
"A rather peculiar way of putting it," I said. "Crime, I take it, is always crime."
"But there are varying degrees," he insisted. "In the eyes of the law perhaps you are right. But I maintain that the man who swindles a poor woman out of a shilling is an infinitely more despicable character, and should be punished far more severely, than the man who relieves a millionaire of several thousand pounds."
"A dangerous doctrine," I remarked; "though I suppose that, from a sentimental point of view, most people would agree with you."
"Now I," he continued, "have always been interested in the study of crime. And from a purely academic angle, I think I may claim to have as much knowledge on the subject as anyone, in the force or out of it. It has always fascinated me, the lone gamble against gigantic odds. And I feel a great admiration for a man when he brings off a big coup and gets away with it."
"Very few of them do," I put in.
"As you say," he agreed, "very few of them do. All the more power then to the very few."
"And even if they get away to begin with," I said, "the pitcher always goes to the well once too often."
"Always?" He raised his eyebrows. "I wonder."
"It's easy to wonder," I said, a little nettled. "There can be no proof either way. After all, if a man isn't caught, it may merely mean that he has given it up and is running straight."
"Of course," he agreed. "And yet that doesn't alter my argument. It may be that by the time he has given it up he has been so successful that it is unnecessary for him to continue. Naturally, I am not alluding to the petty burglar—the man who breaks into villa residences and pinches the spoons. The man I am referring to is the really big one, who plans perhaps one or, at the most, two coups a year. Who plots and plans and contrives for each of them as an artist does, and whose risk of being caught in his one coup is greater than the little man in his many, because he has so much more to contend with."
"Can you give an example?" I said, interested in spite of myself.
"Many," he answered. "There was the case of the two Vandycks stolen from the chateau of the Prince de Perpignan: the celebrated mail-bag robbery on the liner between Southampton and Cherbourg six months ago: a dozen I could mention. But I think that the one that might amuse you most was the removal of the great Magor diamond from its so-called lawful owner, Sir Rube Jenkins, five years ago."
"Why so-called?" I put in.
He shrugged his shoulders. "You surely know Rube Jenkins's past history," he said. "And the less said about it the better. To my own knowledge there were at least three men who had a prior claim to that stone. However, that is beside the point. Do you recall the story at all?"
"Vaguely," I said. "I remember there was the devil of a song and dance about it in the newspapers."
"And quite right, too," he remarked with spirit. "A work of art is a work of art, whatever be the medium in which it is expressed. And I maintain that that robbery was a very fine example of such a work. I will, if it does not bore you, run over the salient points of the case, and you can judge for yourself."
"There is nothing I should like more," I assured him.
He settled himself comfortably in his chair and lit a cigarette.
"To make things quite clear," he began, "I will go back some years. Mr. Rube Jenkins, as he then was, was one of those products of South Africa who made their money round Kimberley during the diamond rush. And, to put the matter mildly, he was not the most scrupulous of them. It was never brought home to him, but against his name in the dossiers out there the three letters I.D.B. were written in letters of red. Time went on, and from being the owner of a small store he grew to be a wealthy man and finally a millionaire many times over. And it was at that latter stage of his career that the great Magor diamond came into his possession in circumstances which do not bear looking into. At least two men got knifed in the process, and another was shot in a most suspicious manner. Anyway, Rube got the diamond, while three other men got varying terms of imprisonment. And it is of interest to note that all three of them, before they left the court for jail, swore openly from the dock that they would be even with him.
"A month or two later Rube returned to England, bringing with him his wife. And the lady was about the only thing Rube ever possessed in his life that he deserved. It is hard to say which was the more impossible being of the two. In fact, one can only paraphrase the old chestnut of the man at the country hotel: 'Waiter, if this is tea, bring me coffee; and if it's coffee, I'll have tea.' So with Rube and his wife. When you were with either of them alone, it was impossible not to believe that the other was less repulsive. So you sought the other, and found you were wrong. However, their wealth was fabulous, and when they bought Mexbridge Towers, and started spending a fortune on the Turf, Society gradually began to take them up. In fact, you may remember that the year War broke out the devastating spectacle was seen of both of them in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot.
"During the War they turned Mexbridge Towers into a hospital, supplied a Red Cross train in France, and did all the usual things necessary to turn Mrs. Jenkins into Lady of that ilk. And in the fullness of time Rube was made a Knight of the British Empire, which caused those who knew him best to shake with silent laughter.
"The War ended: the wounded were drafted away to other hospitals, and Sir Rube and Lady Jenkins returned to Mexbridge Towers prepared to continue their assault on Society. They bought Old Masters and tapestries, and first editions, and scattered them indiscriminately about the house. They had fifty gardeners, and twenty Rolls-Royces—or perhaps I've reversed the figures: they had grouse moors and deer forests, and salmon rivers. And finally they had the great Magor diamond.
"During the War this celebrated stone had been stored in the strong-room of Rube's bank in London, but now that they had come into residence again he determined that this, his crowning glory, must be on view. And so he had a specially embossed golden cabinet of incredible vulgarity made for it.
"You have doubtless passed at times the window of one of the super chocolate shops in London or Paris, and you have seen reposing in the middle one lone bon-bon. It lies there supreme, with nothing else to distract one's attention. This, then, was his