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There is no one more shocked by life's injustice than a criminal who finds himself the victim of crime. It's especially unfair, because he can hardly call the police.
You can't help but laugh at the indignation of petty crook Michael Perry, a London tealeaf at the tail end of the 1960s.
He attracted the attention of a couple of CID detectives, Robson and Harris, who paid him a little visit at his home. There, they noted some innocent items, jemmies and the like, which might be useful to a safecracker in his professional capacity.
Perry protested that he didn't do safes. Robson and Harris agreed he was a good lad, and offered to shake hands. When they came away, they had Perry's fingerprints all over a lump of gelignite.