Free The Wicked Mr Hall by Roy Archibald Hall Page B

storage. I felt behind the folds in the gathered curtains that framed the Georgian windows. I looked in food tins. I used all the tricks I had learned during my many prison terms. The airing cupboard was the last place I looked. In between the folded blankets, I found the jewel case. I had just earned myself another few thousand pounds.
    I was under no pressure to sell, because I still had plenty of money. I took my latest little earner to Harrods, where I deposited it in my safety deposit box. Afterwards, I went to what is essentially the store’s own pub, the Green Man Bar. I was in a good mood, I was free, earning money hand over fist and enjoying the thrill and excitement of being a good thief. All I wanted now, besides the brandies that were giving me a nice warm glow, was sex. Either gender would do. As the brandies slid down my throat, I looked around the bar. They were met, and held, by a well-groomed , quite handsome, middle-aged man. We looked at each other, both knowing, or hopefully knowing, what the other wanted. He raised his glass and, using body language, signalled would I care to join him for a drink. I walked over. After the initial ritual, he asked me whether I’d like to go to his flat for drinks. I said yes. We ended up in bed together.
    He was a nice man, a brilliant conversationalist. This was hardly surprising, for he was Bob Boothby, later to be made a Lord and one of Europe’s most noted political speakers.He was a close friend of Harold and Dorothy MacMillan and was rumoured to have been Dorothy’s lover. This could well be true, there were photographs of her in his bedroom. There were also photographs of the Kray twins. Again, it was alleged that he and Ronnie had been lovers. Boothby had been private secretary and friend to Winston Churchill. His photograph was next to one of Ronnie Kray, which seemed a strange combination. The class barriers that separate us are not as strong as some people might imagine. After sex, we lay in bed and talked. I mentioned that I was thinking of taking a holiday abroad. I wanted a break from England. Bob said a friend of his had a beautiful villa in Antibes. The owner was a man called Peter Seals, Somerset Maugham’s gay lover. Throughout the summer, Seals would take in selected house guests. The villa was exclusively male. After making a phone call I flew out. The Mediterranean sunshine was just what I needed. There were five luxurious bedrooms, two handsome young houseboys whose duties were more than just domestic, and three other guests. We ate delicious food, drank the finest wines, and enjoyed the young boys and each other. Some nights we went out to the Eden Rock Hotel to gamble and drink. I was on my most honest behaviour. With a lifestyle where so many other senses were being satisfied, I had no need to rob. This decadent two-week orgy perfectly suited my true sexuality and my true nature. We fitted like hand and glove. I felt like an Emperor, with drink, food and flesh at my indulgence.
    I flew back to London on my own. After a few days I flew out to the Channel Islands and, staying in a nicehotel, just soaked up the sun for a week. From there I popped over to France. I have loved Paris since my youth, when Jackobosky would tell me tales of Europe’s cultural capital. I visited museums and art galleries. For weeks now, my life had been one of pure pleasure. In the past, the prison time I’ve done has been hard and to my way of thinking, this evened things up a bit. After a decent summer break, I knew I must consider working again so I returned to London and, sitting in my Knightsbridge flat, I began to think about my next scam.
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    Bernstein’s was a West End theatrical costumers that could supply you with any kind of dress imaginable. I ordered a Sheik’s headdress and bought some iodine to darken my skin. In Regent Street, I purchased twelve high-quality leather suitcases. Then back at my flat, I got on the phone and started to put things into