An amusing incident was once the experience of a London bookseller. While sitting behind his counter inside the shop, he was amazed one day at seeing a man running at a tremendous rate, and, momentarily slackening his speed to seize a book off the stall, he had disappeared before the astounded bookseller was able to get to the door. And it is remarkable that, though many people were about, no one seems to have noticed the thief take the book, though they saw him running. Another favourite device is to carry a newspaper in the hand, and when no one is looking deposit the paper on a carefully-selected book within the folds; or having an overcoat carried on the arm to quickly hide something under cover of it. This latter method requires, of course, a well-to-do-looking man, and obviously is chiefly confined to the stealers of the higher class of valuable books. It also requires, like every well-managed business, a certain amount of capital, for it is absolutely necessary—in order to lull suspicion—that small purchases should be made from time to time in the hunting-ground that has been chosen for the season.
Then there is the mean man who, having money, is yet lacking in the will to spend it. Such individuals in these days of disguising bad deeds under grand names are euphemistically designated kleptomaniacs. Most London booksellers have had experience of this class. It is a known fact that a literary man whose name is familiar to many readers was expelled from the reading-room of the British Museum for this sort of conduct, stealing small trifling things that could easily have been bought, and mutilating other books by cutting out passages which he was too lazy to transcribe, and too mean, although a well-to-do man, to employ an amanuensis.
'Steal?' quoth ancient Pistol. 'Foh! a fico for the phrase. Convey the wise it call.' Had Pistol lived in these days he would have said, 'Kleptomania the wise it call.' Some years ago there resided in the West End of London a Belgian gentleman well known in literary circles, and a man of good position to boot. He possessed a valuable library, and was a frequent visitor at shops where he could add to his collections. One dealer noticed that, whenever Monsieur Y. called upon him, one or two valuable books mysteriously disappeared, and he was not long before he arrived at the conclusion that his Belgian customer appropriated his wares without attending to the customary, but disagreeable, process of exchanging the coin of the realm for his bargains. Our friend the dealer, an honest but remarkably plain-spoken and fearless individual, made careful notes of all his losses and their prices.
One day he stopped Monsieur Y. just as he was leaving the shop, and remarked that he might as well pay for the little volumes he had stowed away in the pockets of the capacious overcoat he almost invariably wore. Great was the assumed indignation of the Belgian bibliophile, who asserted that he had no books on him but those he had already accounted for. 'Come, come,' said the dealer, 'that won't do; I left you alone in the room upstairs, but I watched you through the door, and saw you pocket the books, of which the price is so much. Unless you pay for them I shall send for a policeman; and whilst I am on the topic you may as well settle for those other books you have taken from my shelves at various times.' Here he produced his list, with the prices all affixed, and a certain small sum added by way of interest. Hereupon Monsieur Y. stormed and raved, swore it was an attempt to extort money from him, and threatened legal proceedings. 'If,' said the dealer, 'you can empty your pockets now without producing any book of mine, except those you have paid for, I will withdraw my claim and apologize, otherwise I shall at once send my man' (whom he then called) 'for a policeman.' Whereupon Monsieur Y. paid the full claim, walked out of the shop, and never entered it again. But the catalogues were regularly sent to him, and as the dealer constantly had books that he required, he ordered what he wanted by post, so that in the long-run the bookseller really lost little or nothing by his boldness. The same bookseller complained that people often ordered his books but neglected to pay for them, whilst intending purchasers who meant to pay ready money, and called at the shop for the books, had to be sent away disconsolate, sometimes after having come long distances to secure the long-wished-for volume. 'But first come, first served, is my motto, and if six orders come for the same book, it goes to the man whose letter or card I first receive.' A sturdy John Bull sort of man this, with a great knowledge of books, who has had to fight a long uphill battle, and is perhaps one of the best-known men in the trade.
An awkward incident for the thief happened once. A bookseller, the proprietor of two or three shops, was in one of them, when a person entered and offered for sale a couple of books. The proprietor recognised one of them as being his property, he having that morning sent it to the other of his shops, from which it had been apparently almost immediately removed. When questioned, the intending vendor pretended to be much insulted, and asserted the book had been in his possession for some considerable time, and even threatened the bookseller, when he insisted on detaining the book, with the police. This was rather unfortunate, for at that moment a constable passing by was called in, and, in spite of a great deal of bluster and many threats, the thief was marched off to the nearest police-station. The other book, it was found, had also been stolen that morning from another shop, and the result was four months' imprisonment.
The remarkable fact is that book-thieves are nearly always well-to-do people; if hunger induced them to steal a book to get a dinner, they would come in the category of ordinary thieves. If they stole books because they wanted to read them, and were unable to pay for them, one might overlook their crime. One of the most remarkable illustrations of the past few years is that in which an ex-lieutenant in the Royal Scots Greys was implicated. The books belonged to a lady who had let her house to the prisoner's father. She left a number of books, which were in three bookcases. They were locked, and contained valuable books. She was informed (so runs the report) that several of the books were missing, and a few weeks after she saw a number of books, including Ruskin's 'Stones of Venice' and 'Modern Painters,' which she identified as her property. The law was put into motion, and the case came into the courts. The value of the two books mentioned she estimated at £60, and the other books at £50. Mr. Reeves, bookseller, then of 196, Strand, deposed that he could identify the prisoner, and on June 21 he purchased five volumes of Ruskin's 'Modern Painters,' and gave a cheque for £16. He understood that the accused had come into possession of them through a death. On that occasion the prisoner asked the witness what he would give for three volumes of 'The Stones of Venice.' Witness offered him £9. On June 28 the prisoner brought the book, and finding it not to be in such good condition, witness offered him £7 10s. This was accepted, and witness handed a cheque to the prisoner for that amount. Witness bought other books from the prisoner for £3 2s. 6d. Mr. Reeves said that he sold 'Modern Painters' for £18, and 'The Stones of Venice' for £8 10s.
Here is another illustration, gleaned from the Greenwich Police Court: A person, forty-six, of ladylike appearance, and no occupation, was charged at Greenwich with stealing a book, valued 4d., from outside the shop of Charles Humphreys, 114, South Street. She was seen to take a book from a stall, place it in a novelette, and walk away. Prosecutor followed, stopped her, and said, 'I've got you now.' She cried out, 'Oh, for God's sake, don't, don't! Let me pay for it.' But he said, 'No, not for £5, as you are an old thief.' At her house he found over a hundred books bearing his private mark, but he could not swear that they had not been bought. Once he bought some books from the prisoner which she had stolen from his shop, but he did not know that when he bought them. Prisoner pleaded guilty to stealing one book, and on her behalf a solicitor produced a certificate from a medical man, stating that she was suffering from general weakness of system, loss of appetite, sleeplessness, and evident mental disorder. Those symptoms he attributed to causes which induced the magistrate to deal leniently, and a fine of £5 was imposed.
