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(...) THE HITCH-HIKERI had a new car. It was an exciting toy, a big B.M.W. 3.3 Li, which means 3.3 litre, long wheelbase, fuel injection.(...)
It had a top speed of 129 m.p.h. and terrific acceleration. The body was pale blue. The seats inside were darker blue and they were made of leather, genuine soft leather of the finest quality. (...)
The windows were electrically operated and so
was the sun-roof. The radio aerial
popped up when I switched on the
radio, and disappeared when I it off.
(...)
The powerful engine growled
and grunted impatiently at slow
speeds, but at sixty miles an hour
the growling stopped and the motor
began to purr with pleasure.
(...)
I was driving up to London by
myself. It was a lovely June day.
They were haymaking in the fields
and there were buttercups along
both sides of the road.
(...)
I was whispering along at
seventy miles an hour, leaning back
comfortably in my seat,
with no more than a couple of
fingers resting lightly on the
wheel to keep her steady.
(...)
Ahead of me I saw a man thumbing a lift.
I touched the footbrake and brought
the car to a stop beside him. I
always stopped for hitch-hikers.
I knew just how it used to
feel to be standing on the side
of a country road watching the cars go by.
(...)
I hated the drivers for pretending
they didn't see me, especially the
ones in big cars with three empty
seats. The large expensive cars
seldom stopped. It was always the
smaller ones that offered you a
lift, or the old
rusty ones, or the ones that
already crammed full of children
and the driver would say, "I think we can squeeze in one more." (...)
The hitch-hiker poked his head
through the open window and said, "Going to London, guv'nor?" "Yes," I said, "jump in." He got in and I drove on. (...)
He was a small ratty-faced man
with grey teeth. His eyes were dark
and quick and clever, like a rat's
eyes, and his ears were slightly
pointed at the top. He had a cloth
cap on his head and he
was wearing a greyish-colored
jacket with enormous pockets.
(...)
The grey jacket, together with the
quick eyes and the pointed ears,
made him look more than anything
like some sort of huge human rat.
(...)
"What part of London are you
headed for?" I asked him.
"I'm goin' right through London
and out the other side," he said.
"I'm goin' to Epsom, for the races. It's Derby Day today." "So it is," I said. (...)
"I wish I were going with you. I love betting on horses." "I never bet on horses," he said. "I don't even watch'em run. That's a stupid silly business." "Then why do you go?" I asked. (...)
He didn't seem to like that question.
His little ratty face
went absolutely blank and he
sat there starting straight
at ahead the road, saying nothing.
(...)
"I expert you help to work the
betting machines
or something like that," I said.
"That's even sillier," he
answered. "There's no fun working
them lousy machines and selling
tickets to mugs.
Any fool could do that."
(...)
There was a long silence. I
decided not to question him any
more. I remembered how irritated I
used to get in my hitch-hiking days
when drivers kept asking me
questions."Where are you going?
Why are you going there? What's your job? Are you married? Do you have a girl-friend? What's her name? How old are you?" And so on and forth. I used to hate it. (...)
"I'm sorry," I said. "It's none
of my business what you do.
The trouble is, I'm a writer, and
most writers are terrible
nosey pokers." "You write books?" he asked. "Yes." "Writing books is okey," he said. "It's what I call a skilled trade. I'm in skilled trade too. The folks I despise is them that spend all their lives doin' crummy old routine jobs with no skill in em' at all. You see what I mean?" "Yes." (...)
"The secret of life," he said,
"is to become very very good at
somethin' that's very very 'ard to
do."
"Like you," I said. "Exactly. You and me both." (...)
"What makes you think that I'm
any good at my job?" I asked.
"There's an awful lot of bad
writers around." "You wouldn't be drivin' about in a car like this if you weren't no good at it," he answered. "It must've cost a tidy pocket, this little job." "It wasn't cheap." (...) "What can she do flat out?" he asked. "One hundred and twenty-nine miles an hour," I told him. "I'll bet she won't do it." "I'll bet she will." "All car makers is liars," he said. "You can buy any car you like and it'll never do what the makers say it will in the ads." "This one will." (...)
"Open 'er up then and prove it,"
he said. "Go on, guv'nor, open 'er
right up and let us see what she'll do." There is a roundabout at Chalfont St Peter and immediately beyond it there is a long straight section of dual carriageway. We came out of the roundabout on to the carriageway and I pressed my foot down on the accelerator. (...)
The big car leaped forward as
though she'd stung. In ten
seconds or so, we were doing ninety. "Lovely!" he cried. "Beautiful! Keep goin'!" I had the accelerator jammed right down against the floor and I held it there. "One hundred!" he shouted... "A hundred and five! ...A hundred and ten! ... A hundred and fifteen! Go on! Don't slack off!" (...)
I was in the outside lane and we
flashed past several cars as though
they were standing still - a green
Mini, a big cream-coloured Citroen,
a white Land-Rover, a huge truck
with a container on the back, an
orange-coloured Volkswagen
Minibus...
(...)
"A hundred and twenty!" my
passenger shouted, jumping up and
down. "Go on! Get 'er up to
one-two-nine!" At that moment, I heard the scream of police siren. It was so loud it seemed to be right inside the car, and then a policeman on a motor-cycle loomed up alongside us on the inside lane and went past us and raised a hand for us to stop. (...)
"Oh, my sainted aunt!" I said.
"That's torn it!" The policeman must have been doing about a hundred and thirty when he passed us, and he took plenty of time slowing down. Finally, he pulled into the side of road and I pulled in behind him. (...)
"I didn't know police motor-cycles
could go as fast as that,"
I said rather lamely. "That one can," my passenger said. "It's the same make as yours. It's a B.M.W. R90S. Fastest bike on the road. That is what they 're usin' nowadays." (...)
The policeman got off his
motor-cycle and leaned the machine
sideways on to its prop stand. Then
he took off his gloves and placed
them carefully on the seat. He was
in no hurry now. He had us where he
wanted us and he knew it.
(...)
"This is real trouble," I said.
"I don't like it one bit."
"Don't talk to 'im any more than
is necessary, you understand," my companion said.
"Just sit tight and keep mum."
Like an executioner approaching
his victim, the policeman came
strolling slowly towards us.
He was a big meaty man with a
belly, and his blue breeches were
skintight around his enormous thighs.
(...)
His goggles were pulled up
on the helmet, showing
a smouldering red face with wide
cheeks. We sat there like guilty
schoolboys, waiting for him to arrive.
"Watch out for this man," my
passenger whispered. "He looks mean
as the devil."
(...)
The policeman came round to my
open window and placed one meaty
hand on the sill. "What's
the hurry?" he said. "No hurry, officer," I answered. (...)
"Perhaps there's a woman
in the back having a baby and
you're rushing her to hospital?
Is that so?" "No, officer." "Or perhaps your house is on the fire and you're dashing home to rescue the family from upstairs?" His voice was dangerously soft and mocking. (...)
"My house isn't on fire, officer." "In that case," he said, "you've got yourself into a nasty mess, haven't you? Do you know what the speed limit is in this country?" "Seventy," I said. (...)
"And do you mind telling me exactly
what speed you were doing just now?"
I shrugged and didn't say anything.
When he spoke next, he raised
his voice so loud that I jumped.
(...)
"One hundred and twenty miles per
hour!" he barked. "That's fifty
miles an hour over the limit!"
He turned his head and spat out
a big gob of spit. It landed on
the wing of my car and started
sliding down over my beautiful blue
paint. Then he turned back again
and started hard at my passenger.
"And who are you?" he asked sharply.
(...)
"He's a hitch-hiker," I said. "I'm giving him a lift." "I didn't ask you," he said. "I asked him." "Ave I done somethin' wrong?" my passenger asked. His voice was as soft and oily as haircream. "That's more than likely," the policeman answered. "Anyway, you're a witness. I'll deal with you in a minute. Driving-licence," he snapped, holding out his hand. (...)
I gave him my driving-licence.
He unbuttoned the left-hand
breast-pocket of his tunic and
brought out the dreaded books of
tickets. Carefully, he copied
the name and address from my
licence. Then he gave it back to
me. He strolled round to the front
of the car and read the number from
the number-plate and wrote that
down as well.
(...)
He filled in the date
the time and the details of my
offence. Then he tore out the top
copy of the ticket. But before
handing it to me, he checked that
all the information
had come through clearly on his own
carbon copy. Finally, he replaced
the book in his tunic pocket and
fastened the button.
(...)
"Now you," he said to my
passenger, and he walked around
the other side of car. From
the other breast-pocket he produced
a small black notebook. "Name?" he
snapped. "Michael Fish," my passenger said. "Address?" "Fourteen, Windsor Lane,Luton." "Show me something to prove this is your real name and address," the policeman said. (...)
My passenger fished in his
pockets and came out with a
driving-licence of his own.
The policeman checked the name and
address and handed it back to him. "What's your job?" he asked sharply. "I'm an 'od carrier." "A what?" "An 'od carrier." "Spell it." "H-O-D C-A-..." That'll do. And what's a hod carrier, may I ask?" (...)
"An 'od carrier, officer, is a
person 'oo carries the cement up
the ladder to the bricklayer. and
the 'od is what 'ee carries it in.
It's got a long 'andle, and on the
top you've got two bits of
wood set at an angle..." "All right, all right. Who's your employer?" "Don't 'ave one. I'm unemployed." (...)
The policeman wrote all this
down in the black notebook. Then he
returned the book to its pocket and
did up the button.
(...)
"When I get back to the station
I'm going to do a little checking
up on you," he said
to my passenger.
"Me? What've I done wrong?"
the rat-faced man asked.
(...)
"I don't like your face, that's
all," the policeman said.
"And we just might have a
picture of it somewhere in our
files." He strolled round
the car and returned to my window.
(...)
"I suppose you know you're in
serious trouble," he said to me. "Yes, officer." "You won't be driving this fancy car of yours again for a very long time, not after we've finished with you. You won't be driving any car again come to that for several years. And a good thing, too. I hope they lock you up for a spell into the bargain." (...)
"You mean prison?" I asked, alarmed.
"Absolutely," he said, smacking
his lips. "In the clink. Behind
the bars. Along with all the other
criminals who break the law.
(...)
And hefty fine into the bargain.
Nobody will be more pleased about
that than me. I'll see you in
court, both of you. You'll be
getting a summons to appear."
(...)
He turned away and walked over
to his motor-cycle. He flipped the
prop stand back into position with
his foot and swung his leg
over the saddle. Then he kicked
the starter and roared off up
the road out of sight.
(...)
"Phew!" I gasped. "That's done it."
"We was caught," my passenger
said. "We was caught good and proper."
"I was caught, you mean."
"That's right," he said. "What
you goin' to do now, guv'nor?"
(...)
"I'm going straight up to London
to talk to my solicitor," I said.
I started the car and drove on. "You mustn't believe what'ee said you about goin' to prison." my passenger said. "They don't put nobody up the clink just for speedin'." (...)
"Are you sure of that?" I asked.
"I'm positive," he answered.
"They can take your licence away
and they can give you a wroppin'
big fine, but that'll be the end of it." I felt tremendously relieved. "By the way," I said, "Why did you lie to him?" (...)
"Who, me?" he said. "What makes
you think I lied?"
"You told him you were an
unemployed hod carrier. But you told me
you were in a highly-skilled trade."
"So I am," he said. "But it don't pay
to tell everythin' to a copper."
"So what do you do?" I asked him.
(...)
"Ah," he said slyly.
"That'd be tellin', wouldn't it?" "Is it something you're ashamed of?" "Ashamed?" he cried. "Me, ashamed of my job? I'm about as proud of it as anybody could be in the entire world!" "Then why won't you tell me?" (...)
"You writers really is nosey
parkers, aren't you?" he said. "And you ain't goin' to be 'appy, I don't think, until you're found out exactly what the answer is?" "I don't really care one way or the other," I told him, lying. He gave me a crafty little ratty look out off the sides of his eyes. "I think you do care," he said. "I can see it in your face that you think I'm in some kind of a very peculiar trade and you're think and you're just achin' to know what it is." (...)
I didn't like the way he
read my thoughts. I kept quiet and
stared at the road ahead. "You'd be right, too," he went on. "I am in a very peculiar trade. I'm in the queerest peculiar trade of 'em all." I waited for him to go on. "That's why I 'as to be extra careful 'oo I'm talkin' to, you see. 'Ow am I to know, for instance, you're not another copper in plain clothes?" (...)
"Do I look like a copper?" "No," he said. "You don't. And you ain't. Any fool could tell that." He took from his pocket a tin of tobacco and a packet of cigarette papers and started to roll a cigarette. I was watching him out the corner of one eye, and the speed with which he performed this rather difficult operation was incredible. (...)
The cigarette was
rolled and ready in about five
seconds. He ran his tongue along
the edge of the paper, stuck it
down and popped the cigarette
between his lips. Then, as though
from nowhere, a lighter appeared in
his hand. The lighter flamed.
The cigarette was lit. The lighter
disappeared. It was altogether
a remarkable performance.
(...)
"I've never seen anyone roll
a cigarette as fast as that," I said. "Ah, he said, taking a deep suck of smoke. "So you noticed." "Of course I noticed. It was quite fantastic." He sat back and smiled. It pleased him very much that I had noticed how quickly he could roll a cigarette. "You want to know what makes me able to do it?" he asked. "Go on then." (...)
"It's because I've got fantastic
fingers. These fingers of mine," he
said, holding up both hands high
in front of him, "are quicker and
cleverer than the fingers of
the best piano player
in the world!" "Are you a piano player?" "Don't be daft," he said. "Do I look like a piano player?" (...)
I glanced at his fingers. They
were so beautifully shaped, so slim
and long and elegant, they didn't
seem to belong to the rest of him at all.
They looked more like the fingers of
a brain surgeon or a watchmaker.
(...)
"My job," he went on, "is
hundred times more difficult than
playin' the piano. Any twerp can
learn to do that. There's titchy
little kids learnin' to play
the piano in almost any 'ouse you
go into these days. That's right,
ain't it?" "More or less," I said. "Of course it's right. But there's not one person in ten million can learn to do what I do. Not one in ten million! 'Ow about that?" (...)
"Amazing," I said. "You're darn right it's amazin'," he said. "I think I know what you do," I said. "You do conjuring tricks. You're a conjurer." "Me?" he snorted. "A conjurer? Can you picture me goin' round crummy kids' parties makin' rabbits come out of top 'ats?" "Then you're a card player. You get people into card games and deal yourself marvellous hands." (...)
"Me! A rotten card-sharper!"
he cried. "That's a miserable
racket if ever there was one." "All right. I give up." I was taking the car along slowly now at no more than forty miles an hour, to make quite sure I wasn't stopped again. We had come on to the main London-Oxford road and were running down the hill towards Denham. (...)
Suddenly, my passenger was
holding up a black leather belt in
his hand. "Ever seen this before?" he asked. The belt had a brass buckle of unusual design. (...)
"Hey! I said. "That's mine,
isn't it? It is mine! Where did you get it?"
He grinned and waved the belt
gently from side to side. "Where
d'you think I got it?" he said.
"Of the top of your trousers, of course."
(...)
I reached down and felt for my
belt. It was gone.
"You mean you took it off me
while we've been driving along?"
I asked, flabbergasted.
He nodded, watching me all
the time with those little black
ratty eyes.
(...)
"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 going it. And even
if I hadn't seen you, I'd have felt it."
"Ah, but you didn't, 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 wasmissing. (...)
"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 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 through he were telling me he was the President of the Royal Collage of Surgeons or the Archbishop of Canterbury. (...)
"I've never heard that word
before," I said. "Did you invert 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 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 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
has. 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. He'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 address, 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
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." |
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