December 16, 1828
. . . I woke up early to the sound of someone banging on a table. I got out of bed, washed my face in a basin, combed my hair, and left my bedroom.
I found Fagin brooding near the fire with a newspaper clutched and twisted into a knot between his fingers. He was bent over in his chair and was mumbling some frenzied conversation to himself.
When he heard me enter the room he looked over his shoulder in my direction, "Guess what, my dear?" his voice was a hissed whisper and was dripping with rage. His eyes were narrowed along with his brows and he grinned in a very leering manner.
"What?" I asked, wondering whether he was drunk.
He turned back to face the fire and shuddered, "This!" he rapped the paper on the brick and then continued, "Mr. Lively was taken into custody last night. And do you know who did it, my dear?" Fagin grabbed the fire poker and proceeded to exhaust his mad rage on the helpless, burning logs.
"Who?" I asked quietly.
"James Edvard!!!!" he jumped up from the chair, flung the newspaper onto the fire, and whacked at the chimney for several seconds with the poker. Fagin then continued on by kicking his chair over and by giving a long yell, "Aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!!!!!!" After finishing this last bit of show, he sat back down again and did not speak.
I did not ask for more information since my life would have been in extreme jeopardy and since I already knew all this . . .
( I will now spend some time in letting the confused reader hear the missing part of the tale - and I hope, in turn, to be able to clear up his confusion in the best possible manner.)
The next night, after the laundry incident, I remade my invitation to the elderly gentleman, "Would you like to go down to the bar tonight?"
"Ah, my dear, once again, sadly, I must decline, but thank you . . . I have some business tonight that I must see to," he smiled and continued to work on the chicken he was cooking for dinner.
"Alright then . . . ," I walked outside and down the lane.
I had honestly been hoping that Fagin would be too busy; I had decided on what action to take that would result in my retrieval of my property. I headed down to my house and changed into my best attire. After that, I headed over to the police station.
Once there, I went inside and talked with the police chief. I told him that I had been missing several items and that I knew the culprit. I even showed him my badge (one that explained my official title - that of a child abuse investigator).
"What was stolen?" he asked.
"A comb, five pairs of cufflinks, thirty-four pounds in cash, a ring, two wallets, five handkerchiefs, a silver snuff box, a mahogany pipe, a spoon, two pocket-watches . . ."
I went on for another minute and then gave a detailed description of each item. The policeman looked shocked. He immediately got ahold of about ten other police officers and we headed down to the pawn shoppe.
I would like to mention that Mr. Lively was no hypocrite. He lived up to and beyond his name.
When we arrived (me and eleven policemen), Mr. Lively was just shy of giddiness. His chubby face broke into a wide, guilty grin and he began to bounce back and forth on the tips of his toes. After trying his best to sell several items to the police, he was handcuffed and told to "shut up his trap." He went quiet, but stared at me as though he would gouge my eyes out.
The police made a thorough investigation of the stock and were able to find several of the stolen items. They were then returned to my possession and I went back to the station to fill out some paperwork.
Once, I had seen Mr. Lively safely in a jail cell, I went home, changed into my hobo dress, and went back to Fagin's. That is the whole story and, as far as I know, Mr. Lively came to a terrible end - that is, the end of a rope, the following day.
(Returning now to the story at hand . . .)
I continued to stare at Fagin until Bill suddenly showed up. He came in and looked at me and then looked at Fagin.
"What's the matter with 'im?"
"Mr. Lively was caught." I waited for Bill to join in on the moping, but he didn't, "That don't matter," he waved his hand in Fagin's direction.
"Oh, yes it does, my dear."
"Now'd it don't. Find someone else."
"What do you want, Bill?" Fagin was trying very hard to keep his voice steady.
"Tom," he replied. I looked warily at him.
"Why do you want Tom, my dear?"
"I need 'im for another job," Bill took out a pipe and lit it, "Toby's taken sorta ill, it seems, an' I need some 'elp."
"I'll do it . . . as long as I get paid handsomely for it!" I waited for Bill to give the particulars.
"'ow much is handsomely?"
"Thirty pounds and not a cent under," I gave him a very serious expression.
"Right . . . I'll come by an' get yer tonight at elev'n," he turned to leave and Fagin shot him a nasty glance. Luckily, Bill didn't notice it . . .
Another chapter done! I hope it was worth your time. It is important for the story. Please leave some feedback! I hate to think that no one is reading my stuff. - Elaine Dawkins