by Otto Penzler
I wonder if, during those hours of horror, Sir Olin Slater’s evangelical faith in the intrinsic goodness of human nature ever faltered. Somehow I doubt it. His heroic manner of death gives me the clue. For Sir Olin, however frightfully he had mismanaged his life, made a triumphant success of death. I can see him, weakened with hunger and thirst, scarcely able to breathe; I can see him neatly, almost meticulously, wrapping up the telltale alarm clock which, if left to be discovered, might have pointed to Martin’s complicity. I can see him writing a pious “suicide” note to his wife, and that other probably forgiving note, which was never to be read, to his son. I can see him producing a revolver from one of those brass-handled drawers in the wall of the vault—and gallantly taking his own life in order to shield his son’s immense crime from detection.
Indeed, it may well be said of Sir Olin that nothing in his life became him like the leaving it.
Rogue: Karmesin
Karmesin and the Big Flea
GERALD KERSH
ALTHOUGH THE TIRELESS GERALD KERSH (1911–1968) wrote more than a thousand magazine pieces and more than a thousand short stories, he is best known in the crime field for the few very short tales about Karmesin, a rogue who narrates his own adventures and has been described as “either the greatest criminal or the greatest liar of all time.” Typical of these stories is “Karmesin and the Crown Jewels,” in which the thief may have stolen the jewels from the Tower of London. For all his savoir faire and apparent elegance, there remains an undercurrent of smarminess; he could have been played by Sydney Greenstreet.
It is impossible to slot Kersh into any category of fiction, as his strange and powerful stories and novels cover the gamut from crime to fantasy to literary fiction, with many of the works straddling more than one genre. A somewhat bizarre young life—he was pronounced dead at four, only to sit up in his coffin at the funeral—continued through the early years of adulthood, in which he worked as a baker, nightclub bouncer, salesman, and professional wrestler. Although a successful writer, he moved to the United States after World War II to escape what he regarded as confiscatory taxation and became a naturalized citizen.
His most famous novel, Night and the City (1938), is set in the London underworld of professional wrestling and was the basis for the classic 1950 film noir directed by Jules Dassin and starring Richard Widmark; it was remade in 1992 with Robert De Niro and Jessica Lange. Most critics regard the 1957 novel Fowler’s End to be Kersh’s masterpiece and one of the great novels of the twentieth century, but it remains relatively unknown.
“Karmesin and the Big Flea” was originally published in the winter 1938/39 issue of Courier; it was first collected in Karmesin: The World’s Greatest Criminal—or Most Outrageous Liar (Norfolk, Virginia, Crippen & Landru, 2003).
KARMESIN AND THE BIG FLEA
Gerald Kersh
A STREET PHOTOGRAPHER clicked his camera at us, and handed Karmesin a ticket. Karmesin simply said:—“Pfui!” and passed it to me. It was a slip of green paper, printed as follows:—
SNAPPO CANDID PHOTOS
3 Film Shots have been made of
YOU
—by our cameraman.
Post this ticket with P.O. value 1 /-,
to SNAPPO, JOHN ROAD, E.I.
For Three Lifelike Pictures.
Name …………………………
Address…………………………
“There is an opportunity for you,” said Karmesin. “Procure nine or ten dummy cameras. Give them to nine or ten men, with your printed tickets. Have an accommodation address. A reasonable number of your tickets will come back with shillings. It will be quite a time before anybody complains. If anybody does, explain:—‘Pressure of business: millions of customers.’ In three or four weeks, you have made some money. Then you can start a mail-order business. By the time you are forty you may retire. Voila. I have set you up in life. I have done more for you than many fathers do for their sons. Give me a cigarette. Well, what are you laughing at?”
“Why don’t you try the scheme yourself?”
Karmesin ignored this question and went on, in an undertone:—“On second thoughts, have real cameras and real films. That relieves you of the necessity for accomplices. Always avoid accomplices. Don’t develop your film: just keep it. Then, if the police come, you say indignantly: ‘Look, here are the pictures. Give a man a chance to develop them!’ In this manner you can last for two or three months. Never trust any man. Work alone. And speaking of photography; keep out of the range of cameras. They are dangerous.”
“Why?”
“I once blackmailed a man by means of a camera.”
I was silent. Karmesin’s huge, plum-like eyeballs swiveled round as he looked at me. Under his moustache, his lips curved. He said:—“You disapprove. Good! Ha!” and he let out a laugh which sounded like the bursting of a boiler.
I said: “I hate blackmailers.”
“The man I blackmailed was a very bad man,” said Karmesin.
“How bad?”
“He was a blackmailer,” said Karmesin.
“Oh,” was all I could say.
“It was a good example of the manner in which little fleas bite big fleas. The man whom he proposed to blackmail was myself.”
“Make it a little clearer,” I said.
“Certainly. It is very simple. We were going to blackmail Captain Crapaud, of the French Police. He, in his turn, was blackmailing a certain Minister. The man with whom I was working was a certain villain named Cherubini, also of the French Police. He, not content with blackmailing Captain Crapaud, also wanted to blackmail me.”
“On what grounds?”
“He was going to blackmail me, because I was blackmailing Captain Crapaud; and blackmail is a criminal offence, even in France. All he had to do was obtain evidence that I was blackmailing Crapaud.”
“All this is very complicated.”
“Not at all. It is childishly simple,” said Karmesin; and, having borrowed a cigarette, he proceeded to explain:—
—
Captain Crapaud (said Karmesin) was a man with whom it was impossible to feel sympathy. He was, if you will pardon the expression, a filthy pig. It is not usual to discover such men in high executive positions, in the police force of any great country, such as France. But as you know, such things happen. He had acquired a sort of hold upon a very great politician of the period. And he was using this man for all he was worth, which was plenty. This Crapaud was playing the devil. Like that other police officer, whose name, I think, was Mariani, he was using his office for purposes of personal profit. He organised burglaries, arranged the return of the loot, took rake-offs from this side and that; was responsible for many murders. He was a dangerous man to play with—a French equivalent of your own Jonathan Wild.
There is the basis of the situation: Captain Crapaud was holding a certain power, to the detriment of law and order; and his power was built upon a certain incriminating letter which he held.
You understand that? Good.
Now Crapaud had an underling, a species of stooge, a wicked little Corsican named Cherubini. This Cherubini was a bad man. He combined nearly all the vices, and, as is usual in such cases, was always short of money, although his income was far in excess of the normal. You know the type: his dependents starve, that he may bathe a couple of demi-mondaines in vintage champagne. Pfui on such wretches, I say! And pfui—and pfui! Tfoo! One spits at the very thought. Cherubini was little and rat-like. He had prominent front teeth, and no eyes worth mentioning. He would stop unhappy girls, and say “Be nice, or else…” But he had a weakness for the more elegant type of woman; and that kind of weakness costs money. Always beware, my friend, of the underling with luxurious tastes, for the time will come when he will nail you to the cross.
I met Cherubini in Cannes. He was going around like a Hungarian millionaire; with gardenias, and a gold-headed stick, and a diamond in his cravat, and an emerald like a walnut on his finger, and real Amber
perfume on his moustache; smoking a Corona-Corona nearly as long as your arm…English clothes, English boots, silk shirts, polished nails—nothing was too good for this swine of a Cherubini.
I, needless to say, was a man of superlative elegance. I believe I have mentioned that my moustache was practically unrivalled in Europe. Yes, indeed, I am not exaggerating when I tell you that, while dressing, I used to keep my moustache out of the way by hanging it behind my ears. Nearly twenty-two inches, my friend, from tip to tip! However; it did not take me long to worm all the secrets out of the wretched little soul of this species of a Cherubini. He was second in command to the unspeakable Crapaud. Yes. That, in itself, was bad enough. But he was a traitor even to his master.
I will cut it short. Crapaud had a hold upon the Minister…let us call him Monsieur Lamoureux. Follow this carefully. Crapaud also had a hold upon Cherubini. Do you get that? Good. The Minister Lamoureux wanted very much to break away from the clutches of Crapaud, and was prepared to pay heavy money for the letter which Crapaud held.
Was this letter procurable? No. But there was an alternative to procuring it, and that was, to incriminate Crapaud in such a manner that he would be glad to part with the letter incriminating the Minister.
But how could one incriminate Crapaud?
Cherubini had a plan.
There was one thing which, in France, could never be forgiven or forgotten; and that was Treason. Out of any other charge, it was possible for a man with influence to wriggle; but not Treason. There was a spy scare at the time. (It was a little before the infamous Dreyfus affair.) If one could prove that Crapaud was receiving money from German agents, in return for information, then one had him.
“But is he?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Cherubini, “Crapaud is the outlet through which so many confidential matters concerning internal policy leak through to Germany. He receives, in his apartment, Von Eberhardt of the German Embassy; and receives, in exchange for certain information, a certain sum of money. If only one could prove this…”
I asked:—“Have you means of getting into Crapaud’s flat?”
“Yes.”
“Then the whole matter is simple,” I said. “Find out the exact moment when the money is likely to change hands, and take a photograph. A good photograph of Crapaud, taking money from Von Eberhardt, would be enough to hang him ten times over.”
“Yes,” said Cherubini.
“There is only one drawback,” I said, “A camera is too cumbersome.” This, you must remember, was before the days of the Candid Camera, and the lightning snapshot.
“Not at all,” said Cherubini. “The police in Paris are beginning to use the portable camera invented by Professor Hohler. This camera can be concealed under an ordinary overcoat, and has a lens good enough to take a clear picture by strong gaslight.”
“Can you get one?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
“I am afraid,” said Cherubini.
I paused; then asked:—“How much would there be in this?”
“How much? Why, two or three hundred thousand francs,” said this rat of a man.
“Then have no fear. I will take the photograph, if you get me into Crapaud’s flat at the right time.”
Bon. It was agreed.
We arranged to go to Paris together, and settle the affair.
“I have entrée to the flat,” said Cherubini, “and I know it like the palm of my hand. It is simple.” And he added:—“But you must do the photography, mind.”
—
All right. I will skip the tiresome details concerning the house, and so forth. It was a huge place in the Avenue Victor Hugo, with rooms as large as three rooms such as are built nowadays. The salon was something like a football field—vast, I tell you, and most luxuriously carpeted. The furniture in that room alone must have been worth four or five thousand pounds. Rare stuff. This pig-dog of a Crapaud did himself well. Near the window, there was a deep alcove, with another little window, or air-vent, at the back of it.
It was from this place that I was supposed to work. Cherubini had keys, and everything necessary. He also supplied me with the camera; a nice little piece of work, not dissimilar to the Leica or Contax camera of the present-day. I believe, in fact, that the Hohler Camera was the father of the candid camera. I was smuggled into the alcove, and there I waited for four hours, not daring to move. It was not very comfortable, my friend. However, in due course Crapaud arrived, with his friend Von Eberhardt. They sat. I was admirably in line with them. They conversed. I photographed them. They drank. Again I photographed them. They patted each other on the shoulder. Click! Again. Crapaud took out an enormous gold cigar-case, and offered Von Eberhardt a cigar. Again, click! Then, at last, the German took from his pocket a large roll of banknotes, and held it between his thumb and forefinger. Crapaud grinned and produced a sheet of paper. Then, as the paper and the money changed hands—click! Perfect.
Another hour passed before Von Eberhardt left. Then, as Crapaud went to escort his visitor to the door, I was up and out of the window, and away. You would never believe, looking at me now, how very agile I used to be. I thought I saw another figure slinking away in the shadows, but the night was too dark. I got to the street, and walked quietly home, where I developed my plates.
They were beautiful. The glaring gaslight, amply reflected in a dozen mirrors, was perfect. The photographs were as clear as figures seen by strong sunlight.
The next day, Cherubini came to see me. There was something in the manner of the wretch which disturbed me a little. He looked me up and down with an insolent grin, and said:—
“Captain Crapaud’s apartment was broken into, last night.”
“So?” I said.
“Watches, rings, trinkets, and money, to the value of fifty thousand francs were stolen,” said Cherubini.
“Yes?”
“You were in the apartment, Monsieur,” said Cherubini.
“Oh?”
“Yes. You see, Monsieur, I was behind you, also with a camera.”
“Indeed?” I said.
“Indeed. And I am afraid that it will be my duty to have you arrested for the crime.”
“Oh.”
“Unless, of course, you are prepared to…”
“Pay you off, I suppose?” I said.
“Fifty thousand francs,” said Cherubini.
“And otherwise?”
“Listen my friend,” said Cherubini, throwing himself into a chair, “We are men of the world. I will put the cards on the table. The plates in your camera were duds, useless. You have no pictures. I, on the contrary, have some excellent ones of yourself in Captain Crapaud’s flat.”
“Any decent counsel could kick that case full of holes,” I said.
“Oh no. Not by the time Crapaud and I have finished with it,” said Cherubini. “Oh, my friend, my friend, you have no idea what evidence our boys would find, if once they searched your rooms.”
“So I was caught, was I?” I asked.
“Like a fish in a net.”
“But Von Eberhardt…”
Cherubini laughed. “Do you imagine that we would let you into the place with a camera? I mean, with a workable camera? With a camera loaded with proper plates? Be reasonable, Monsieur, be reasonable. There is nothing but your word, concerning Von Eberhardt. Who would believe you? No, no. You had better pay, my friend; you really had.”
“And if I thought of all that, and took the precaution of changing the plates?” I asked.
“It would still have made no difference,” said Cherubini, “The shutter of your camera would not work.”
I rose, and seized him by the throat, slapped him in the face, and threw him to the floor.
“Listen,” I said, “I would not trust you as far as I could see you. I saw through your game from the first. I had the shutter adjusted, the lens arranged, and the plates replaced. The camera was in perfect order. I will show you some pictu
res,” I said; and showed him.
He was silent. Then I said:—“And now the ace of trumps. You remember how Crapaud offered Von Eberhardt a cigar?”
“Well?”
“Look,” I said, and threw down a print. It was an excellent photo. One could see Eberhardt, Crapaud, and the unmistakable luxury of the salon. “Take that magnifying glass, and look at the cigar-case,” I said. Cherubini took the large lens which I handed him, and looked; shrieked once, and looked at me.
Clearly defined in the polished lid of the case was an image of Cherubini, lurking behind the curtains, perfectly recognisable.
“Who wins?” I asked.
And Cherubini said:—“You win.”
“And now who goes to Devil’s Island?” I asked.
Cherubini simply said:—“How much for the plate?”
And I replied:—“Tell Crapaud this:—If he does not give me that letter of the Minister Lamoureux, then the day will come when one of his superior officers will hand him a revolver containing one cartridge.”
“You are mad,” said Cherubini. Nevertheless, three days later Crapaud’s nerve broke, and I got the letter, which I returned to the Minister.
—
I asked Karmesin:—“What, you returned it free of charge?”
“Certainly,” said Karmesin. “I simply asked him to pay my expenses.”
“How much?”
“Chicken-feed. Fifty thousand francs,” said Karmesin, “But am I a blackmailer? Bah.”
“And Crapaud?”
“He left the country very suddenly, and, I believe, came to an evil end in the Belgian Congo, in the time of the Congo Atrocities. Probably some cannibal ate him. Or a lion. Who knows? Perhaps an elephant trod on him. I hope so. He was a villain. He was also a fool. He overreached himself. I was not the first person whom he had tried to blackmail in that manner. Only he was a little too clever. It should be a lesson to you: never be too clever. Also, beware of cameras. And furthermore, remember the folly of Crapaud, and if ever you come into possession of an incriminating document, you will know what to do.”
