"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 though he were telling me he was the President of the Royal College of Surgeons or the Archbishop of Canterbury.
"I've never heard that word before," I said. "Did you invent 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 do 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 while 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 'as. 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. 'Ee'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 addresses, no car number, no nothin," he said.