Gregory Heist

He had been planning it for ages. The diamond ring of that old hag was irresistible.

She put it on the little tray on the windowsill every morning. She never wore it – her fingers were bent and bony; she just looked at how the first morning rays glimmered from it.

He had binoculars and saw it shining on the tray from his dingy flat opposite the street.

It shone like her tears. A memory of the lost love, perhaps. Her Gregory, the handsome master thief, never came. But maybe today.

He knew how to break in when the ancient rich bloodsucker went for her morning ritual. Always a glass of sherry in the little trattoria overlooking the sleepy market square.

Today was the day.

As the old lady slowly descended the creaky stairs and opened the door to the desolate street, he stood there waiting. He slipped past her and vanished in.

Nearly there.

It was too easy. The door upstairs was left ajar, and the diamond shone.

And then the disaster hit.

A magpie flew from nowhere, and there went the ring.

The old lady saw the bird flying high. Finally, Gregory had come. And she died happily.