The Real Thief Read online

  THE REAL THIEF

  STORY AND PICTURES BY

  WILLIAM STEIG

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  To Maggie, Melinda, and Francesca

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Start Reading

  Copyright

  Gawain stood on guard outside the new Royal Treasury, his dangerous halberd gleaming in the bright sun. The pavement was a bit hot for his feet and he raised first one, ever so slightly, and then the other. Some tourists came by. Gawain held his head proudly on his long neck and his chest expanded in his red and gold uniform as they photographed him.

  When the tourists had moved on, Gawain found himself wishing for his old way of life—swimming in his pond, tilling his bed of herbs, raising prize cabbages and string beans, and drafting plans for strikingly original buildings. He had always dreamed of becoming a great architect and he had visions of a new palace he was sure the King would love. It would be oviform—that is, it would have the ideal shape of the egg.

  Being Chief Guard of the newly built Royal Treasury made him an important goose, but the job bored him. Then why had he accepted it? He had been chosen for the post by King Basil the bear because of his upright, trustworthy character, and he had accepted because he couldn’t possibly have refused. He loved the rough, gruff, fatherly King. His heart warmed in the King’s presence. He admired his strength. He loved the smell of honey on him, on his fur, on his robes, on his breath. He wanted to please him, to stay forever in his gruff, good graces. Everyone did. Basil was a popular king.

  For the sake of uniformity, three other geese—Harvey, Garvey, and Wetmore—had been chosen to take turns with Gawain standing guard in front of the treasury, but only Gawain and the King had keys. The geese had worked out and carefully rehearsed a brief and unpretentious ceremony for the changing of the guard. At the appointed time the two guards would honk twice and the one being relieved would waddle out as his alternate sidled in.

  Once a day Gawain had to unlock the massive door, shove it open with his shoulder, and go into the treasure house to make sure that all was in apple-pie order. Then he would lock up again.

  The King himself now and then went to the treasure house, and he opened the massive door with a mere touch. He put things in, or he took things out—jewels, medallions, precious crowns of historical interest, money garnered as taxes for running the government. Whenever he was too harried with irksome affairs of state, or on nights when he couldn’t stop the stream of his thoughts and fall asleep, he would go there and count gold pieces and whatever else he felt needed counting. It soothed his nerves and he always slept well afterward.

  Naturally, whenever the King removed anything from the treasury, or added anything to it, he informed Gawain of the changes. Gawain always enjoyed these short conferences with the King; he looked forward to them.

  For a long time, nothing was amiss. All was peaceful, though boring. But one day, in his routine checkup, it seemed to Gawain that the pile of rubies was smaller than it should have been. He counted hastily and went flapping and running to the King to report that something was missing. King Basil calmed him. He put down his pot of honey, wiped his fingers, and together they went back to the treasury.

  By the light of a lamp they carefully counted the rubies, both calling out the numbers. Sure enough, there were only 8,643 of the red gems when there should have been 8,672. Twenty-nine rubies had disappeared!

  King Basil and his Chief Guard of the Royal Treasury looked at each other. The King lifted the lamp and held it to Gawain’s face. “How could anyone have gotten in here?” he asked. “Only you and I have keys. Could you possibly have left the door open by mistake?”

  “Oh, no, your highness,” said Gawain, “I’m always careful. I check, I double-check, and I re-double-check. Sometimes my mind may wander, but my eyes are always wide open. I see left and I see right at the same time. I don’t see so well forward, but no one can get by me without passing either my left eye or my right one.”

  Harvey, Garvey, and Wetmore were summoned and each came running, holding his halberd, and stood at attention in front of the King. They were questioned in turn. No, they said, if anything out of the ordinary had happened, they would surely have reported it, for that was their duty. Those who usually passed by had passed. There had been an occasional foreign sightseer. Nothing else. No one had come near the door.

  The locks were examined by expert locksmiths. They were sound. Gawain assured the King that he would be doubly careful after this. And doubly careful he was, even triply. He kept constantly alert, avoided daydreams, bearing in mind his great responsibility to his king and the kingdom, and he scrutinized every creature that passed, even if it was only a haphazard, meandering butterfly. He cautioned Harvey, Garvey, and Wetmore to do the same. Whenever the guard was changed and he waddled out as another sidled in, he warned: “Be watchful!”

  And they were watchful. But in the next several days, first a great many gold pieces were missing, and after that some precious silver ornaments, and then the prize of the treasury, the world-famous Kalikak diamond!

  King Basil was frantic. He strode up and down, his purple robe dragging behind him. He had Gawain and his helpers on the carpet in front of his throne and he questioned them closely over and over. Their answers were always the same. They had been on constant duty. At night the guard had been doubled to make certain there was no nodding or dozing. And certainly no sleeping—their heads were never under their wings. Gawain, the Chief, had made his round not once daily but twice, checking the treasures with scrupulous care. There was no way to account for the disappearances.

  Once during the questioning, his webbed feet deep in the pile of the King’s red carpet, Gawain had the impression that the King looked at him a bit too searchingly, a bit suspiciously in fact. He quivered, and returned a clear, unblinking gaze with his button-like eyes. He loved this large, warm, furry king with the fat furry ears who wore his royal purple so casually. He understood his being upset, but he was offended.

  “Begging your honorable indulgence,” he said with a tinge of irony in his tone, “isn’t it in the realm of possibility that your regal self made a royal mistake? I humbly kiss your warm and furry feet and I hope you don’t think me disrespectful if I suggest that mayhap you yourself removed some of those treasured objects and, preoccupied as you are with the lofty responsibilities of a monarch, have forgotten you did so.”

  This tactless statement seemed to Basil wholly uncalled for. He stared at the insolent goose and the brown fur bristled on his nape. “I know what I’m doing, Gawain,” he roared. “The King makes no mistakes!”

  “Excuse me,” said Gawain, changing his tone. “How dared I!” And he snapped his bill shut and hung his head.

  The unaccountable turn of events had King Basil flabbergasted. He hated this problem that had no solution. He called a special meeting of his Royal Cabinet and asked for their opinion.

  “Who has keys?” asked his Prime Minister, Adrian the cat, though he already knew the answer.

  “Only my royal self and Gawain,” answered Basil.

  “The treasury is built of solid stones, well fitted and a foot thick,” said the Prime Minister, “and it has inner walls of good heavy oak. The floor is also of stone, and the building has no windows, no chimney, and no cellarway. The thick wooden door is banded with riveted iron and l
ocked with four sturdy locks. None of the locks is broken or shows signs of having been tampered with. They’ve been examined by the best locksmiths. Since your highness would never rob his extraordinary self, who else could it have been but Gawain? No one here believes in ghosts.”

  “It was not Gawain,” said the King firmly. “He is an honorable goose, as everyone knows. I trust him as much as I do myself. The fact is, I love him as I would a son.”

  “Love him like a son, if you will,” said Adrian with visible envy, “but as Prime Minister I cannot be guided by such irrational sentiments. Treasure is missing from the treasury—of that there is no question. There is no access or egress except through the door; no locks have been broken, and only you and your beloved goose have keys. These are facts. The culprit has to be either Gawain or, begging your lofty forgiveness, yourself. Since you have no reason to despoil your own treasury, and since it is unthinkable for you to be wrong about any earthly thing, Gawain is the only logical answer to the question of who did it.” Adrian made an obsequious bow, and his tail rose, wavered, and arched over as he added in official Latin, “Quod erat demonstrandum.”

  The King didn’t know what to say in response to the Prime Minister’s flawless reasoning. He trusted the operations of Adrian’s mind more than he did his own instinct. He sent his councilors away and slumped in his throne, dejected. Having listened to an opinion he didn’t really believe but was forced to respect, he grew confused and fell into muddled ponderings. His mind was crossed with wayward shadows and he brooded, and the more he brooded the more he became darkly convinced that his beloved Gawain, no matter his bright, innocent eyes, and despite his untarnished record, was a thief, and trusting him had been a doltish error.

  Gawain, at home, in a sleep troubled by worries, was rousted out of bed at midnight, allowed one minute to get dressed, and dragged to the castle dungeon. There he was stripped of his red and gold uniform and given the drab garb of a prisoner. His halberd and his keys were taken away and he was flung into a damp cell by rude wardens. He sat in the cell on the cold stone floor in a state of shock, wondering why a good goose who had done his duty was now confined in a dirty dungeon.

  In the gray, sunless morning a search of his house and his land was made. Experts went through his papers—his diaries, his letters, his blueprints—studying them for clues. The bottom of his pond was gone over by divers. Nothing that shouldn’t have been there was found anywhere on Gawain’s property.

  “He’s hidden the loot somewhere,” said the Prime Minister. “I know he has. I recommend that we bring him to trial and find out where.”

  King Basil agreed.

  A trial was held a few days later. Gawain was brought to the courthouse between two wardens. The familiar town looked the same as always, with its friendly houses and its wide, tidy streets; but to Gawain, being hauled through these gracious streets by officers of the law, it was strange that it should look the same.

  In court Gawain declined the help of a lawyer. He felt he needed none since he was innocent. The trial was ridiculous, as everyone would soon see. He sat waiting for the nonsense to begin.

  The whole town crowded into the courthouse. They all knew Gawain. They were his friends, his admirers. Some had known him his whole lifetime and understood his character well. He had gone to school with some of them. They had romped together, shared, enjoyed things. They were all dear to him and he was a favorite with them. The town was aghast at the charges that had been laid against their beloved goose and had been muttering about it for the past few days, ever since the trial had been announced. Gawain a thief? How utterly out of the question! However he had come to be accused of this dastardly crime, the luster of his name would surely be preserved.

  King Basil sat in the judge’s seat, a tired look on his face. Over his head hung the big brass scales, brightly polished, that symbolized justice. Gawain stood alone in a cleared space before him. Many of the spectators had no seats.

  After Ezra, the bailiff, called the court to order, King Basil got right down to the business at hand. He looked at Gawain and asked, “Do you swear to tell only the truth?”

  “I do,” said Gawain indignantly.

  “Are you the Chief Guard of the Royal Treasury?”

  “You know I am,” said Gawain, “you appointed me yourself.”

  “Is it a fact,” shouted the King, “that twenty-nine rubies, one hundred three gold ducats, several silver ornaments, and the Kalikak diamond are missing from the treasury?”

  “It is,” said Gawain. “No need to shout.” He had spent a sleepless and agitated night and he was exhausted, but he managed to hold his head high. He glanced at his friends and they looked back reassuringly. He saw the beaver John, Martin the goat, Louisa May the bulldog, who had named her first son after him, his fellow geese—Harvey, Garvey, Wetmore, Jarvis, and Jeb—and many others; and their kind looks gave him courage.

  “Are you aware,” said the King, “that the Kalikak diamond alone is worth millions, and that because of this thieving we will not be able to build the opera house we had planned, and that, furthermore, taxes will have to be raised?”

  “No, I wasn’t aware of that,” said Gawain. “I’ve had other things to think about.” Everyone was attentive. They hadn’t considered the consequences of the thefts.

  “Who else guards the Royal Treasury?” asked the King.

  “My good friends Harvey, Garvey, and Wetmore.”

  “Do they have keys to the treasury?” Basil asked.

  “No,” said Gawain.

  “Could anyone get into the treasury without keys?”

  “No,” said Gawain. “The door is the only way in or out and it is always locked.”

  “Who besides myself had keys to the treasury?” asked Basil.

  “I did,” said Gawain.

  “Did anyone else have keys?”

  “No,” said Gawain. There were astonished murmurs among the spectators and King Basil had to rap for order. “Tell the court this,” he said. “Did you ever give your keys to anyone else? Were they ever out of your possession?”

  “Never,” said Gawain. “They were always hanging at my belt by day, and at night they were under my pillow.”

  “Do you think it possible that in some mysterious way the treasure left the treasure house by itself?” A few involuntary titters were heard at the King’s question.

  “No!” said Gawain heatedly.

  “Did you ever forget to lock the door?”

  “Absolutely no,” answered Gawain.

  “You agree with me then,” the King went on, “that only you and I had access to the royal treasures since only we had keys. Do you think it likely that I stole those things, thereby robbing myself and my own subjects?”

  Tense silence in the crowd.

  “I no longer know what to think,” said Gawain. “I only know that I stand here falsely accused. I cannot vouch for your highness, only for myself. It wasn’t I!”

  Gawain could hear the spectators gasp. He understood that his audacity had shocked them. King Basil himself was furious. “Much of our wealth is missing,” he roared, “and there are only two who could have taken it, you or your king. You stand there boldly denying you did it, and to cover up your own guilt you are willing to imply that your king might be the thief!”

  Gawain could smell the honey on the King’s breath. “I am innocent,” he said.

  The King pointed at Gawain and addressed the crowd. “You see before you a goose who has deceived us all. We trusted him and he violated our trust. No one could possibly be the thief but he.” He looked at Gawain with contempt and said, “I hereby accuse you of stealing royal treasure, and I further lay a charge of perjury upon you! You swore to tell the truth.”

  “I am an honest goose,” said Gawain, and he turned to his friends for confirmation. They failed to meet his eye. They looked embarrassed. He was horrified at what he read on their faces. It was clear they had stopped believing in him. The evidence brought out b
y the King had convinced them that he was guilty!

  “You are a disgrace to this kingdom!” said Basil, snarling with disgust. That simple statement, so cruelly delivered, froze in Gawain’s head. He grew confused. Were these things really happening, or was he imagining them? “Why are they all looking at me with such aversion?” he asked himself. “Perhaps I actually am guilty, but of what? No! I didn’t do it. I didn’t. This is some scheme to drive me crazy; later they will all come out and say it was a joke. No, they really think I am guilty.” Gawain looked at them one by one and let them see how they’d wounded him.

  “Before I pass sentence,” said King Basil, “do you have anything more to say for yourself?”

  Gawain didn’t feel like speaking. “What’s the use?” he wondered. “They’ve made up their minds. Why waste words?”

  “Well?” said the King.

  Gawain hesitated some long seconds. Then he looked proudly into Basil’s eyes and turned and looked at all the others and said in a ringing voice, “I am an honorable goose. How you could judge me otherwise, I do not know. Perhaps our Maker knows. Certainly He knows how much I once loved you. But now I HATE each and every living one of you, and with all my heart, for seeing evil in me that is not there. Shame on the lot of you!”

  “Is that all?” asked the King.

  “That is all,” said Gawain.

  “I hereby sentence you to imprisonment in the castle dungeon until you have the goodness to tell us where you have hidden the treasure you stole,” said the King. Then to the guards: “Put him in irons!”

  Gawain stared at the ground and saw his own yellow feet. They, at least, seemed real. He could feel no compassion from anyone around him. He felt leaden, benumbed. Vaguely he heard the bell in the tower strike three times. When the guards approached him carrying chains, a sudden rage fired his spirit. He saw the wide blue sky outside the courtroom. “I will be rid of you all forever!” he honked loudly. He beat his wings and with a furious short run he was off the floor and flying out of a big open window.