Chapter 16: Gentleman Caller

John Thorne was not the first of his kind, but for a brief period he was among the most successful. He was English by birth and had been raised in genteel and highly conventional surroundings in Sussex. At the age of twenty-six, no longer able to tolerate what was to him too circumscribed a lifestyle, he moved to the United States, where he found matters more to his liking. Here was opportunity for an intelligent, enterprising man, not enslaved by convention.

Having no aversion to either physical or mental effort, Thorne tried his hand at a number of jobs, working as a stevedore, a logger, a coalminer, a store manager and a bartender before deciding that none of these estimable occupations was right for him. What he wanted was to divide his time between scientific matters and humanitarian issues. In fairness to him, he did not wish to do either of those things for his own material gain. He really was intent upon both expanding his technical knowledge and serving the public. In order to do what he had in mind on a timescale he considered acceptable, he needed a short cut to financial independence.

As he was open to all possibilities and not in the least encumbered by inhibitions, Thorne concluded that the swiftest way to achieve social security was by relieving a number of his more affluent contemporaries of some of their shares of the world’s wealth. To him, the assessment was a simple one. The targets he had in mind would, even after receiving his attentions, still live well enough. What did another business coup or one more piece of jewellery mean to them? They would never be destitute.

Thorne’s reasoning extended to the idea that his plunder would be put into one bank or another, thus increasing the credit base of the whole national system. That was surely better than allowing people to have cash and trinkets just lying around. It would increase the rate at which money circulated, and as financial people were always moaning about lack of liquidity, that seemed to be a good thing. And anyway, many of the wealthy and privileged probably owed their advantages to means which, if usually not illegal, were often hardly more savoury than those Thorne was minded to employ. He knew that that was pure rationalisation, but contented himself with the moral fig leaf.

So John Thorne became a gentleman thief. He had no grandiose notions of one mighty coup that might see him though for life, but could alternatively put him behind bars for many years, or possibly subject him to relentless pursuit, which would be almost as inconvenient as incarceration. A man of breeding should not find himself hampered in such ways. A little here, a little there was Thorne’s motto. The odd few hundred dollars or some bauble – the latter always converted into cash – purloined would cause annoyance, but most likely no great uproar.

It was surprisingly easy. Thorne began with an evaluation of the prospective job. If he perceived any obvious risk, he went no further. Where there did not seem to be a problem, he proceeded. In short order, he laid hands on a good deal of money, which he invested in a dozen banks. But he was still in his middle twenties, and as restless as men of that age so often are. Also, even the most individualistic and precarious occupations can eventually become repetitive. The escape from routine becomes another kind of routine. A banker banks, a builder builds, a salesman sells and a thief steals. The stirrings did not induce Thorne to abandon his chosen line of work immediately. He would do so when the right time came. Meanwhile, a little variety would be welcome. Different scenery might be the answer.

During one of his spells of relaxation, Thorne read extensively about the burgeoning economic success in the wide open spaces of the West. Gold, silver and copper were, it seemed, being found in abundance. Admittedly this vast area was sparsely populated, so the way of life was often rather more basic than that in the East. But still, it was something new and it had been said that a change was a good as a rest. Thorne decided to try his luck west of the Mississippi.

He started in Colorado then worked his way north, across the High Plains, intending to reach the Pacific Northwest. His approach was simple. Endowed with the airs of an upper-class English upbringing, which he had no intention of discarding – a man had his standards – he projected himself as a wealthy Briton, seeking investment opportunities. He used several assumed names, dressed well, spoke with the affectation widely expected of him and generally conformed to a somewhat foppish image. But the openings he mentioned never appeared. After a short spell in whatever community he had selected, he moved on to some vaguely implied further port of call.

The thefts which coincided with Thorne’s presence in any town were never attributed to a man of his obvious affluence, especially as he usually made a point of staying on in the place concerned for some days after the unfortunate events. When involved in conversations with the locals about such matters, he was as outraged as anyone else. It was most baffling to a clearly upright English gentleman. Still, they all lived in a wicked world, he opined. These depredations were most likely the work of a gang and no doubt the law would catch up with the miscreants.

On a clear frosty December night, Thorne was about his business in Grant’s Ferry, Montana. He had spent two days looking over the town. It didn’t seem promising, but a man had to take what was available and as the last month had been kind to him, he was feeling buoyant. Having established that he could depart fast and far, he had decided that there was no point in dallying. Even before reaching this place, he had almost made up his mind that this would be his last outing as a lawbreaker. Though the whole thing was well within his intellectual and psychological scope, it was becoming a little too demanding in physical terms. Wriggling into and out of confined spaces was increasingly tiresome and not without danger. Only a week earlier he had sustained a nasty cut on the right hand, while exiting a house via a window he had broken to get in. He would pick up what he could that night, then return to his earlier haunts and think things out.

By three in the morning, Thorne was tired. Since midnight he had called at a saloon, a store and the freight office. The first two had produced acceptable pickings, but the third had been disappointing. He had decided to leave the small bank until last, guessing that its defences might be harder to penetrate than those of the places he’d already visited. He had in mind that his previous experience with banks had not been encouraging. First, he wasn’t the best of cracksmen – it wasn’t easy to get tuition in that art. Second, his black valise was now bulging with recent takings, and he didn’t really need to run any more risks. Third, if he was to keep to his schedule for departure, he hadn’t much time. However, it seemed remiss to pass up the obvious local cash repository. He would devote a few minutes to it.

Ingress didn’t take long, the back door yielding easily. Once inside, Thorne was helped by the bright moonlight. He inspected the tellers’ area and was not surprised to find it bare. Anything of value would be in the safe, which was likely to be in the manager’s office. The short corridor leading from behind the cash counter to the rear of the premises had a single door on each side. Thorne opened one, finding himself confronted with an assortment of cleaning paraphernalia. Trying the other door, he entered a room, about twenty by fifteen feet. Clearly, this was the inner sanctum. It was dominated by a large desk and a bulky item which was in deep shadow, but seemed to be his objective. At the far side of the desk was a high-backed chair, turned outwards, facing the window.

Thorne did not hesitate. He moved quietly across to the safe. Having reached it, he nearly leapt out of his skin when, with some creaking, the chair turned. “Were you looking for something?” The man’s voice was flat and seemingly disengaged.

Still aided by the moon, Thorne saw a small fellow, arms folded across his chest, in the massive chair. Accustomed as he was to happenings that would have unsettled most people, the intruder remained calm. “As a matter of fact, I was,” he said, “but I hardly expected to find company. Whatever are you doing here at this hour?”

“Doing? I’m not doing anything in particular, but I suppose you are. Robbing the bank, unless I’m much mistaken, eh?”

Thorne maintained his equanimity. “Well, to be truthful, I had some such notion,” he said, “but you seem to be rather in my way. I assume you are the owner or manager of this place?”

“I am both, sir,” said the man in the chair. “My name is Joseph Ransome and I assume you have drawn a predictable blank in the tellers’ drawers and you now intend to take the contents of the safe?”

“Quite so, but if you are adamant in your opposition to the scheme, I will not insist.”

“Adamant. No, I’m not. In fact, you’ve caught me at a particularly critical point in my life – the last hour, as it happens.”

Even for the urbane Thorne, this was startling, but he was nothing if not a quick thinker. “My goodness,” he said, “I hadn’t expected a discussion of this kind, but now that we’re engaged in it, I really do think we might have a little light in here. Would you mind?”

Ransome did not answer immediately, but struck a match, putting it to a lamp on his desk. Thorne took one of the two chairs facing him, seeing a man who really did seem to be in the state his words indicated. He was as diminutive as he had appeared to be in the dark, but looked somehow even more so, shrunken as he was in the large expanse of worn brown leather. His face was painfully haggard, the hue fish-belly. Thorne assessed him as being in his late forties.

The frustrated burglar rubbed his hands, not entirely because of the cold. This was something new and he was always ready for that, even in so awkward a position as his present one. “Now,” he said, with genuine joviality, “we can’t have this kind of thing. I would like very much to hear what’s on your mind, although I’d be just as well pleased if you could be brief. I’m rather busy.”

“Brevity is no problem to me, young man. I am ruined and have no wish to see the dawn. Is that brief enough for you?”

“Oh, come, old fellow” drawled Thorne. “I think you make too much of the matter. I never yet encountered the problem that did not have a solution.” He stabbed a thumb and forefinger into a vest pocket, withdrew a handsome gold watch, consulted it and shoved it back. “I fear I cannot allow your difficulty to impede my movements for very long. I have a timetable to maintain. However, I’ll happily give you half an hour. Perhaps I can suggest something that will help. These things are best discussed in a relaxed atmosphere, so I think we might as well get through a brace of those smokes you have there.”

Staring at his extraordinary caller, Ransome absently pushed across the desk a cedarwood box containing an assortment of cigars of various sizes and qualities. Thorne selected one of the largest, raising it to his ear and giving it the connoisseur’s roll between thumb and forefinger before piercing the end with a match. He lit up, taking his time about getting an even burn. “Do join me,” he said. “I find it so much more convivial when men smoke together, especially at twenty past three in the morning. Also, I cannot abide uncomfortable companions and you are fidgeting. Kindly do something with your hands.”

Still mesmerised, Ransome fumbled in the box, took out a panatella and got it going. He noticed that his right hand had twice within a minute been within six inches of the revolver with which he intended to end his life, yet he had not considered using the weapon, upon either himself or his visitor.

Thorne took a pull at his cigar and gave a contented sigh. “Jamaican, if I’m not in error,” he said. “I prefer Havana but this will do. Now, I indicated that my time is limited, so let us try to make best use of it. By the way, I’d be obliged if you would remove that firearm. I find that such contrivances come between gentlemen. So common, don’t you think?”

Ransome, mouth agape, took the gun and dropped it into a drawer.

“Excellent,” said Thorne, “though I must say you are not the best host I have ever had. I believe it is customary to offer a libation. At this time of day my first choice would be brandy, but I’ll be happy with whatever you have.”

Ransome fumbled in another drawer, extracting a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He poured handsome measures and slid one across the desk. “That’s the nearest I can offer you,” he said.

“It’s good enough.” Thorne raised his glass. “Here’s to your health. Now, what is the difficulty?”

By this time, Ransome was totally entranced, the surreal nature of the situation having already receded to the back of his mind. Also, as the result of a gulp of the whiskey and a few draws on his smoke, he was, to his surprise, mellowing at remarkable speed, associating with his interlocutor’s mood. “I’ve failed,” he said. “That’s the problem.”

“Failed? How?”

“Well, I fancied myself as a banking man, but I’ve come up short. Now, don’t get me wrong. I pride myself that I’m honest, but I’ve made errors of judgement. All along, I wanted to be straight – and I have been. Unfortunately, two of the last three winters have been disastrous. Ranchers and settlers have had their livelihoods destroyed. The mining and lumber interests have suffered, too. That’s affected all the businesses around here. Apart from a few lucky individuals, we’re all in big trouble.”