The Burglar’s Blunder

“That’s done the trick! Now for the swag!”

As Mr. Bennett made this observation to himself he slipped the window up and stepped into the room. He stood for a moment listening. Within, all was still; without, not a sound disturbed the silence of the night.

“I think it’s all serene.”

It is probable that Mr. Bennett smiled. He was engaged in the exercise of his profession, and it consoled him to perceive that, on this occasion, the stars seemed to be fighting on his side. He drew down the window softly and replaced the blind. It was a principle of his never to leave anything which might give a hint to the outside public of what was going on within. The room, with the blind down, was intensely dark. He put his hand into his pocket and drew out a little shaded lantern. Cautiously removing the shutter about half an inch a pencil of light gleamed across the room. He was apparently content with this illumination. By its aid he carefully examined floor, walls, and ceiling.

“Early English. I thought so.”

This remark referred to the upholstering of the room, which was in the Early English style. Stooping down he drew a pair of list slippers over his indiarubber shoes. With swift, cat-like steps he strode across the floor and left the room. He was evidently familiar with his ground. The burglar’s profession, to be profitably practised, entails no inconsiderable labour. It is quite an error to suppose that the burglar has only to stroll along the street and break into the first house which catches his eye. Not at all. Such a course is altogether unprofessional. Persons who do that kind of thing get what they deserve--”stir,” and plenty of it. A really professional man, an artist--such, for example, as Mr. Bennett--works on entirely different lines. He had had this little job in his mind’s eye for the last three months. Acacia Villa presented an almost ideal illustration of the promising crib to crack. Did he rush at it on that account? Quite the other way. He prepared his ground. He discovered, what all the world--in that neighbourhood--knew already, that it was occupied by a single lady and a solitary maid. That fact alone would have induced some men to make a dash at it before unscrupulous competitors had had an opportunity to take the bread out of their mouths. But Mr. Bennett was made of other stuff.

It was situated in a lonely suburb, and in a lonely portion of the lonely suburb. It stood in its own grounds. There was not a dog about the place. There was not a shutter to a window. There was no basement to the house--you had only to step from the ground to the window-sill, and from the window-sill into the house. These facts would have been so many extra inducements to the average burglar to “put up” the place at once.

But Mr. Bennett looked at the matter from a different standpoint. He did not ask if he could crack the crib--he had never yet encountered one which had mastered him--but whether the crib was really worth the cracking. The very defencelessness of the place was against it--in his eyes, at any rate--at first. People who have anything very well worth stealing do not, as a rule, leave it at the mercy of the first individual who passes by--though there are exceptions to the rule. Mr. Bennett discovered that there was one, and the discovery revealed the artist in the man.

The occupant of Acacia Villa was a Miss Cecilia Jones. Mr. Bennett had never seen Miss Cecilia Jones. Nobody--or hardly anybody--ever had. There appeared to be a mystery about Miss Cecilia Jones. But Mr. Bennett had seen the maid, and not only seen her, but promised to marry her as well. This was a promise which he never made to any woman unless actually compelled: the present had been a case of actual compulsion.

The maid’s name was Hannah--Miss Hannah Welsh. She was not young, and she was not good-looking. Mr. Bennett was partial to both youth and beauty. It went against the grain to court Miss Welsh. But he found that courtship was an absolutely indispensable preliminary. After he had encircled her waist a few times with his arm, and tasted the nectar of her lips--also a few times--Miss Welsh began gradually to unbend. But the process was very gradual. She was the most reticent of maids. He had not only to present her with several presents--the proceeds of the exercise of his profession--he had not only to promise to marry her, he had not only to name the day, but he had even to buy--or steal: the words were synonymous with him--the wedding-ring, before all the tale was told. When he had actually tried the ring on Miss Welsh’s finger--to see if it would fit--then, and only then, he heard all there was to hear.

Miss Jones was queer--not mad exactly, but peculiar. She had quarrelled with all her relatives. She was rich. She was full of crotchets. She distrusted all the world, particularly bankers. To such a length had she carried her want of confidence that she had realised all her fortune, turned it into specie, and kept it in the house. It was at this point that Miss Welsh’s conversation became interesting to Mr. Bennett.

“Keeps it in the house, does she? In notes, I suppose?”

“Then you suppose wrong. She won’t have nothing to do with notes--trust her. It’s all in gold and diamonds.”

“Diamonds! How do you know they’re diamonds?”

Miss Welsh glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes. The conversation was carried on in the back garden at Acacia Villa, which was extensive and secluded. The time was evening, that season which is popularly supposed to be conducive to sentimental intercourse.

“Perhaps I know as much about diamonds as here and there a few.”

Her tone was peculiar, almost suggestive. For an instant Mr. Bennett meditated making a clean breast of it, and asking Miss Welsh to come in on sharing terms. But he had an incurable objection to collaboration. Besides, in this case sharing terms would probably mean that he would have to go through the form, at any rate, of making her his wife.

“Where does she keep them? In a safe, I hope.”

He did not hope so, though he said he did. At the very best, a safe, to a professional man, means the wasting of valuable time.

“She keeps them in her bedroom, in the chest of drawers, in a red leather box, in the little top drawer on the left-hand side.”

Mr. Bennett felt a glow steal all over him. He began to conceive quite a respect for Miss Cecilia Jones.

“And the gold--where does she keep that?”

“In tin boxes. There are ten of them. There are a thousand sovereigns in each. There are five boxes on each side of the chest of drawers.” Mr. Bennett possessed considerable presence of mind, but he almost lost it then. Ten thousand pounds in sovereigns! He would never regret the affection he had lavished on Miss Welsh--never, to his dying day. Would it be a bad speculation to marry her? But no; the thought was rash. He would reward her, but in quite a different way. He made a rapid calculation. Ten thousand sovereigns would weigh, roughly, about 130 pounds avoirdupois. He might turn them into a sack--fancy, a sackful of money! But 130 pounds was no light weight to carry far. He must have a vehicle at hand. What a convenience a “pal” would be! But he had worked single-handed so far, and he would work single-handed to the end.

When he had ascertained his facts he acted on them at once, thus revealing the artist again. Spare no pains in making sure that the crib is worth the cracking, then crack it at once. On the night following this conversation the crib was cracked: he had arranged for the marriage to take place on the next day but one--or Miss Welsh thought he had--so that if he wished to avoid a scandal he really had no time to lose. We have seen him enter the house. Now we understand how it was he knew his ground.

He paused for an instant outside the drawing-room door: it was through the drawing-room window he had effected an entrance. All was still. He moved up the staircase two steps at a time. There was not a stair that creaked. At the top he paused again. From information received, to adopt a phrase popular in an antagonistic profession, he was aware that Miss Jones slept in the front bedroom.

“There’s three bedrooms on the first floor. When you gets to the top of the stairs you turns to the left, and if you goes straight on you walks right into Miss Jones’s room.”

Mr. Bennett turned to the left. He went straight on. Outside Miss Jones’s door he paused again. The critical moment had arrived. He felt that all his properties were in order--a bottle and a sponge in his right-hand pocket, a revolver in his left, a stout canvas bag fastened round his body beneath his coat. The lantern was shut. He opened it sufficiently to enable him to see what sort of handle there was on the door. Having satisfied himself on that point he closed it again.

Then he proceeded to effect an entrance into Miss Jones’s bedroom.

He took the handle firmly in his hand. It turned without the slightest sound. The door yielded at once.

“Not locked,” said Mr. Bennett beneath his breath. “What a stroke of luck!”

Noiselessly the door moved on its hinges. He opened it just wide enough to enable him to slip inside. When he was in he released the handle. Instantly the door moved back and closed itself without a sound.

“Got a spring upon the door,” Mr. Bennett told himself--always beneath his breath. “Uncommonly well oiled they must keep it too.”

The room was pitchy dark. He listened acutely. All was still as the grave. He strained his ears to catch Miss Jones’s breathing.

“A light sleeper!”

A very light sleeper. Strain his ears as he might he could not catch the slightest sound. Mr. Bennett hesitated. As an artist he was averse to violence. In cases of necessity he was quite equal to the occasion, but in cases where it was not necessary he preferred the gentler way. And where a woman was in question, under hardly any provocation would he wish to cut her throat. He had chloroform in his pocket. If Miss Jones was disagreeable he could make his peace with that. But if she left him unmolested should he stupefy her still? He decided that while she continued to sleep she should be allowed to sleep, only it would be well for her not to wake up too soon.