We lost a lot of stuff in a burglary of our home in Madrid in 1967. The loss was compounded by the fact that some of the items were not replaceable. But the memory is softened somewhat by a comic opera aftermath.

My late wife, Eunice, our children and I had been out for a social evening, leaving our dog “Penny” on guard at a home that was a big, brick house with solid doors and no apparent way for casual entry. Penny was a 110 pound Great Pyrenees that loved our family dearly but was not very friendly to others, even having nipped a neighboring child who came too close to Penny’s litter of puppies.

Burglary was the last thing on our minds as we trooped back into the house in the pleasant afterglow of the party we’d attended. Penny was delighted to see us as always. I don’t remember who first discovered the theft, but Penny was soon “in the doghouse” for allowing somebody to get away with a lot of valuables. The worst loss was Eunice’s heavy 18 karat gold charm bracelet. I traveled far, wide and often in those days, and many a time brought back a charm for the bracelet. Several years of that resulted in a valuable piece of jewelry that was irreplaceable. It was among the missing items, of course. Other losses included more jewelry, trinkets from other countries, cameras, etc.

Next day I reported the theft both to my insurance company and to the police. The latter took serious notice as they would for a crime against an officer of any of the embassies in Madrid. Justice was swift but not very effective. Three or four days later a police officer came to the embassy and gave me several of the stolen items, none of much value. They had been found, he said, at various stalls in El Rostro, the Madrid flea market.. The gold bracelet? Most certainly melted down for the value of the gold.

Two o’clock the next morning, our household sound asleep, I heard a pounding on the big front door. Throwing on a robe and slippers I went to the door in a not-very-good mood, opening it to find three fairly scruffy men. “We are the police,” one said, ‘and we’d like to come in and talk with you.” When I found myself wordless, he added: “This is my partner, we’re police in plain clothes. This third man is the burglar who stole your things a few days ago. We thought you might like a chance to talk with him.”  As I let them in he mentioned that it might be nice to share some coffee and brandy, since the burglar wouldn’t have a chance to enjoy such things for quite a few years.

The scene that followed was surreal. I made a pot of coffee, found a bottle of brandy, and we sat cozily in my den. The policemen seemed to know the burglar pretty well. When I asked why that was, they explained that this wasn’t the first time he’d been caught in a crime. For his part, the burglar was very much at ease and happy to answer my questions. What about our dog, Penny? “No problem at all, she never barked and followed me around in a friendly way while I looked for valuables” What happened to the gold bracelet? It was melted down. Most of the items were given for sale to his friends with stalls in the flea market. I never got a straight answer from the police as to how they caught this fellow. It wasn’t hard to guess that a snitch among the flea market stall owners knew him and passed on the information.

It was close to four o’clock in the morning when we were finally talked out, an amazing couple of hours. Being burgled isn’t pleasant, but it surely is interesting to be able to have a casual talk with the burglar and learn the ABC’s of the profession. I’m not passing on that information because I don’t want my readers to take and use it. The police who catch you might not be as friendly as those I entertained so long ago.

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