Terry was born on decimal day in 1971 and was now somewhat than in his youth. If he attempted to scramble over roofs or shin up drainpipes at fifty-two, his knees would not recover for days. An added problem was that most of the drainpipes were now plastic, and Terry had put on a few pounds over the years, so that particular modus operandi was out of the question.
“It’s not really that wrong though, is it?” That’s what Terry still said when a friend challenged him about his hobby. He saw himself as redistributing wealth, from those who have more than they can easily count to those who have less than they need. A bit like the taxman, was his analogy, but without all the paperwork.
The law and the populace, especially the wealthier sections, saw his pastime quite differently. So, when Terry was caught, having crawled through a half-open sash window, he needed a speedy and plausible explanation.
“I was just trying to get my cat back,” he said. “Someone must have left the window open, and the little bugger just jumped through the gap. I didn’t want him stealing your cat’s food or doing his business on your carpet. He’s not house trained you see.”
Terry always managed to sound sincere, and it was tempting to believe him. But on that day, he was also dressed completely in black, including black gloves and a black balaclava.
One thing the police always mentioned in Terry’s favour was the absence of a violent bone in his body. Any officer of the law, who met Terry professionally, would testify that he had always been a gentleman, and a pleasure to arrest.
That day Terry was doubly unfortunate. By the time he was in handcuffs, and the owners had been around the house to check on their valuables, Fagin had snuck back out the window, purring happily and with a full tummy.
It had been a good plan, and Terry was sure it would have worked, if only he had thought to shut the window after he had made his entry. He touched the good luck charm hanging around his neck. It had been a christening present from his uncle and aunt, both pickpockets operating in the London markets. He kept it as an insurance against hard times. Over the years, its value had increased substantially, and there had been occasions when he had thought of cashing it in and taking a holiday.
After the failed escapade with Fagin, it was a few months before Terry was free to go about his business again. But levelling up society was not his only occupation, in fact, it was secondary to his real love in life. Terry spent his weekends as a children’s entertainer, mainly performing simple magic tricks, but he was also adept in creating balloon animals. Kids loved him, mothers loved him, fathers never saw him as a threat. Terry was short and rather plump, not the perfect physique for a cat burglar, and certainly not the type over whom young mums might harbour fantasies.
Terry loved making children laugh. He had a gift for it. Of course, it also gave him the opportunity to have a look inside some very nice houses – and temptation was always difficult to resist. But he never directly mixed his two occupations.
After one children’s party, he was having a reviving mug of tea in the kitchen of a rather elegant old house. He asked the hostess if he could possibly use the toilet and was directed through a storeroom at the back of the kitchen to a small, shabby bathroom. On the floor, in a corner of the room, was what appeared to be a bronze statue of a cowboy. It was, Terry was sure, a Frederic Remington. He assumed it must be a reproduction, or the value would run into six figures, but even a good bronze copy could still fetch a tidy packet.
“I was looking at that statue you have out there,” he said to the hostess when he saw her.
“Oh, that, it was in the loft when we bought the house. I’ve been meaning to get rid of it, my husband hates it. He said it can’t be worth anything.
“It’s a reproduction,” Terry said. “But quite a good one. Do you mind if I have another look?”
There was a local children’s hospice which he knew was struggling for funds. They would be the perfect recipient for such an unexpected find. And it wouldn’t be like he was relieving the owners of a family heirloom, or even something they cherished.
He wanted to test the weight, just to make sure it was bronze, and not some cheap polymer casting. The hostess said she needed to get back to the party, but he was welcome to help himself. Not the wisest thing to say had she known Terry’s other hobby.
The statue was heavy, definitely bronze, it had a foundry mark on the base and a casting number. Terry was not an expert on such things, but he liked to think he had an eye for quality, and this piece screamed quality.
A small ginger cat wound itself round his legs while he was replacing the bronze on the floor.
“Hello, beautiful. What’s your name then?”
The cat had a collar with a little disc that said, ‘Oliver’.
Terry looked at the back door, but there was no cat flap. He picked up the cat, who purred relentlessly, and he checked its claws to make sure it wasn’t a house cat. He returned to the kitchen, still cuddling and stroking Oliver, but there was no cat flap on the door to the garden.
“So, how do you get in and out then, my darling?”
Terry gently put the cat outside and closed the door, hoping for an answer to the puzzle. Within seconds, Oliver was on the kitchen windowsill, he wiggled his bottom a couple of times, and leapt up to an open fanlight. He meowed once, carefully descended to the draining board, next to the butler’s sink, and meowed again.
“I’ve got a friend you might get on with,” Terry said, picking Oliver up and scratching the top of his head.
The hostess came back into the kitchen and was surprised that Oliver was being so friendly. Terry said he loved cats and had one himself.
“It’s my daughter’s birthday in six months’ time. I wondered if you might be free on that day. I know it’s a long time ahead.”
Terry took his phone out to check his diary. He had been forced to cancel several bookings due to his recent government-sponsored sojourn, so he knew his calendar was almost empty. The entertainment side of his business empire relied on word-of-mouth recommendations. It always suffered when he took a break. The date was confirmed, and the hostess delighted.
“I know it’s a bit cheeky,” she said. “But would you like to take that hideous statue as part payment?”
Not wanting to appear too eager, Terry hesitated and suggested halving his fee in exchange for the bronze. Delighted with the deal, the hostess insisted he take it away with him that day.
“I have decorators booked next week, and they’ll only get it splattered with paint or break it.”
So, that is how Terry ended up that evening with a potentially valuable bronze sitting on the coffee table in his basement apartment. All his research on the internet had confirmed his instinct. It was almost certainly genuine, a near impossible find.
Picked up as a memento from a previous excursion a couple of years ago, was a business card for a world-famous auction house. Twice, Terry went to reach for the card, both times Fagin’s claws opened on his thigh, reminding him that they were both quite comfortable as they were.
The apartment, a rather generous term for Terry’s two small living rooms and a rather cold bathroom, was all he needed. The thought of having a large house, lots of possessions and the constant fear of burglary, was not on Terry’s wish-list. He scratched Fagin under his chin and smiled to himself.
It was four months before the bronze came to auction. Terry had written an invoice for the daughter’s birthday party, detailing the gift of the statue, just to cover any future accusations of theft. The hostess had signed it without hesitation. She even added a humorous note saying she hoped he made the rest of his fee from the sale of it.
Authentication had caused part of the delay, along with research on the previous owner of the house where it had been found. The last owner had been an eccentric character and died without making a will. It turned out he had no heirs and not a single relative on the horizon. His estate had, by law, been passed to HM Treasury, and sold. What little was left in the house was deemed to have become the property of the new owners. The legal ownership of the bronze had legitimately passed to Terry as part payment for services rendered, or at least booked.
Aware of his history with the police, Terry decided to remain anonymous when the sale was scheduled. The auction house had detailed instructions to donate all the proceeds to the children’s hospice, bar ten percent for his own expenses.
Two months after the sale, Terry was back at that same house, wondering what else might be tucked away in the dark recesses of the loft. Oliver was still there, the fanlight was still open, and Fagin was overdue for another little exploratory excursion.
The hostess treated Terry like an old friend, bending slightly to exchange air kisses with him. It was not the sort of greeting with which Terry was familiar. When she started to whisper in his ear, an urge to run almost overcame his usual calm demeanour.
“Don’t mention anything to my husband. He doesn’t know about the bronze and would never have been that generous. And such a worthy cause. You are my hero.”
Terry completed his afternoon’s entertainment with trembling fingers. One or two of his tricks went wrong, but the children laughed even longer and louder when they did. His show was such a success that he decided to incorporate those mistakes in future performances.
And there were many more bookings and performances after that day. Word of mouth travelled far and wide. And, thanks to the reviews his current hostess showered on him, his phone rarely stopped ringing.
From that week, Fagin restricted his activity to the neighbouring gardens. His duty as accomplice was replaced by that of lap-cat, but one with a very shiny new food bowl. Sometimes it would even be topped up with smoked salmon – his favourite treat.
Terry never pursued his slightly riskier hobby after that. Everyone needs to retire sometime. But he still wore his ten-dollar gold coin around his neck. It remained his good luck charm, even though the valuers at the auction house had weighed it and revealed it was merely gold-plated.
Bruce Aiken 