BRITISH COMICS
THE
TWISTED TRAIL OF THE FORTY FAKES
Complete
Story taken from The Wizard issue 1793
There’s a saying, “Set a thief to catch a
thief.” I wouldn’t say that we follow it very often in the police, but there
was one occasion when a little sneak-thief called Slippy Shearman did give us a
helping hand. I’m Detective-Inspector Jellicoe, and Slippy Shearman had been
one of my “clients” for some time.
He wasn’t what you’d call a king of crime. In fact,
he was nothing more than a slag, which is about as low as you can get in the
underworld. Slippy would steal milk bottles off doorsteps, and do similar great
feats of daring and cunning. Well, one night Slippy decided it was time he had
some more money in his pocket. Naturally, it didn’t occur to him to go out and
work for some. Instead, he set out on the prowl for anything that wasn’t nailed
down or chained up. He did quite nicely, and the next day his pockets were
bulging with money. Slippy set off on a little spending spree, feeling that he
was entitled to a treat. He popped into a corner shop and bought himself some
cigarettes. Having a sweet tooth, he ordered a few bags of assorted sweets as
well. It cost quite a bit, and Slippy counted the money out on the counter. He
paid the whole bill in shillings and pennies. The shopkeeper picked the money
up and dropped a shilling. He lifted it up and rang it on the counter. Then he
bit it. “Hey, this is a dud!” he said. “Sorry!” replied Slippy, hurriedly
pulling another shilling from his pocket and giving it to the shopkeeper. “So’s
this one!” snapped the shopkeeper. He began to rummage through the money that
Slippy had given him. “Half these shillings are phoney!” he exclaimed. “What’s
the game?” Slippy didn’t stop to argue. He ran for the door and hared off up
the street. The shopkeeper hurried after him. “Stop that man!” yelled the
shopkeeper. There was a young copper patrolling the street and he raced after
Slippy. The chase didn’t last very long. Slippy was weighed down. His pockets
were bulging with shillings and pennies. He was puffing before he’d gone fifty
yards, and the copper’s heavy hand descended on his shoulder. In due course,
Slippy was brought into my room, looking very sorry for himself. Sergeant
Potter, my assistant, stacked up piles of shillings and coppers on my desk.
“These were all found on the accused, sir,” said Potter to me. “About forty of
the shillings are snide!” Snide means counterfeit. I gave Slippy a stern look.
This is something new for you, Slippy,” I said. “I didn’t know you were in the
dropping game.” Dropping is what crooks call passing counterfeit money. That
sort of thing was usually right out of Slippy’s class. “I haven’t been
dropping, Mr. Jellicoe,” he said. “Honest, it’s all a mistake! I’ve been
cheated!” “Cheated?” I said. “Suppose you explain how you laid your hands on
all this lot?” Slippy hesitated, then shrugged. “All right,” he said. “Gas
meters!” Potter and I exchanged glances. This sounded more like Slippy’s style.
“So you emptied a few meters, and found yourself with a fistful of snide
shillings?” I said. “I didn’t know they were snide,” said Slippy. “I wouldn’t
have tried to pass them if I had known!” I had a look at one of the fake
shillings. It was certainly well made, and it would pass as a real one at a
glance. “Isn’t it shocking what some people will do?” said Slippy. “Imagine
trying to swindle the gas company like that!” “This looks a bigger job that
just trying to get some free gas,” I said. “I’d like to know all the houses
where you went prowling last night, Slippy.” “All of them?” said Slippy. “You
can’t be sure which gas meter held these snide shillings, I suppose?” I said.
“No,” said Slippy. “I just scooped the stuff up and got out as fast as I
could.” “Then you’ll have to take us round and point out all the houses you
entered,” I said.
We put Slippy in a police car, and away we went.
The way I worked it out, Slippy had stumbled on a place where coiners were at
work. They were probably minting a good pile of the stuff before trying to pass
it. It was my guess that they planned to be away before the gas company man
arrived to empty the meter and discover that the money was fake. The coiners
hadn’t reckoned on Slippy calling first. “Have any complaints come in of gas
meters being broken open?” I asked Potter. “Not so far,” said Potter. Slippy
looked pleased with himself. “I do a good job!” he said. “You can’t hardly tell
the meter’s been opened, unless you look close!” We kept on driving around, and
Slippy pointed out one or two houses where he thought he had broken in. We made
a note of the addresses, but we didn’t hang around. A police sticks out like a
sore thumb, and I didn’t want to alarm our birds before we were ready for them.
We radioed the addresses back to headquarters and asked for a check of the
occupants. Soon the details started coming in over the car radio. All the
addresses that Slippy had given us so far seemed to be occupied by ordinary,
law-abiding citizens. “Think again, Slippy,” I urged. “Where else did you go?”
Slippy scratched his head. “There was another street,” he said. “Just round the
corner here.” We turned the corner, and there was one of those long streets
with rows of terraced houses, all looking exactly alike. “Well?” I said.
“Search me, Mr. Jellicoe!” said Slippy. “I nipped into one or two, here and
there, but I couldn’t point them out to you now.” “OK, let’s try to work it
out,” I said. “Coiners need a furnace to melt the metal, right? That’s probably
why they started popping snide shillings in the meter. A gas furnace runs away
with the money. Now, they’d want a chimney for the furnace. I squinted up at
the chimneys in the street. It was a warm day and there were no fires lit in
the houses. I couldn’t see any smoke from the chimneys. I told our driver to go
slowly down the road. About halfway along I spotted something. There was a sort
of shimmer above one chimney pot, like a heat haze. “This could be it,” I said.
“Do you recognise the house, Slippy? Did you break in there last night?” “They
all look alike to me, Mr. Jellicoe,” sighed Slippy. “OK, then you come along
with me and the sergeant and we’ll find out,” I said. The three of us went up
to the door of the house I suspected. I banged on it, and there was a pause.
Then a chap in shirt-sleeves looked out. His jaw sagged open when we told him
who we were. “Sorry to interrupt you,” I said, “but you might be able to help
us in a case of breaking and entering.” I pointed to Slippy. “This man has been
charged with robbing gas meters. We have reason to believe he may have robbed
yours. “Mine?” muttered the fellow. “No, I don’t think so.” “We’ll just have a
look, sir, if you don’t mind,” I said. “I must make sure.” I pushed my way in,
and Potter shoved Slippy after me. The other chap blinked at us all. “Would you
mind showing me the gas meter, sir?” I said. “It’s in the cellar,” the man
gulped. Another man’s voice called from the back room. “What’s up, Ernie?” he
asked. “It’s the police!” answered Ernie. There was a deep silence that I
thought the fellow in the back room must have fainted. But he answered at last
in a strangled voice. “What do they want?” “Checking on the gas meter!” said
Ernie. That seemed to reassure his pal, who came out to meet us. He was a big
fellow. His face red, and looked as if he’d just been doing a really warm job.
“The gas meter?” he said. “Isn’t that a job for the gas company?” “Not when the
meter’s been robbed,” I said. “Can I have a look at it?” The two fellows looked
at each other, then showed me down the cellar steps. I found the meter in the
corner. It looked all right until I peered closer. Then I saw it had been
broken open. I saw something else, too. The meter was ticking away merrily.
“You use a lot of gas,” I said. “What have you got on now? It wouldn’t be a
furnace, would it?” The chap called Ernie made a run up the steps. Potter got
him by the leg and heaved him back. The other fellow tried to get away and I had
to clout him. At last order was restored and the two suspects decided to behave
themselves. “Let’s have a look in that back room,” I said. All of us, including
Slippy, trooped into the back room. It was a proper coiner’s den. There was a
furnace, with its flue going up the chimney. There were moulds and pots of
metal. Stacked on a table were heaps of gleaming shillings, florins and
half-crowns. That about wrapped the case up. I sent the two counterfeiters off
in the car, with Potter and the driver to look after them, and waited for
another one to come and collect Slippy and me. “Thanks for your help, Slippy,”
I said. “I’ll put in a good word for you when you come before the magistrate.”
“Glad to have been of service, Mr. Jellicoe,” replied Slippy in a mournful
voice. “Now hand that lot over,” I went on. “What lot? Asked Slippy, trying to
sound puzzled. “That lot,” I retorted, tapping Slippy’s pocket. Slippy sighed.
Out of his pocket he pulled the handful of snide half-crowns that he’d just
pinched from the counterfeiters’ table!
THE END
© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic Whittle 2003
