The Lost Luggage Porter (14 page)

'The underground railway,' said Hopkins, before going back to his study of the pub.

I leant a little forward, and it suddenly came to me: the sixth
Police Gazette
remained in my inside pocket.

'We'd pass messages back and forth, trying to settle on a cute scheme, Allan,' Sampson was continuing. 'We fell to talking counties and towns and Miles being a York lad, born and bred, I said to him one day: "Well, what
about
that place? What's York?" And what did you tell me, Miles?'

'Old buildings, trippers, chocolate, railways, and pubs’ Miles Hopkins replied, the distant half-smile still on his lips.

'I told him it sounded very interesting’ Sampson continued, 'all except for the old buildings, the trippers, the chocolate and the railways. But then Miles here said: "As far as York goes, the big show is the railway.'"

He leant towards me, smoke streaming from his nose and mouth like a dragon.

'Miles here,' he went on, 'said there's real possibilities there; that there's hundreds of blokes on the North Eastern Railway Company who are straight sorts, up and down, white as you like, and can't be touched for owt.'

At that word he put his cigar out with a crash, or tried to do so, but the thing burnt on, and he had to positively mur­der it, twisting and turning and dragging it back and forth.

'. . . And there are hundreds more, Allan,' he continued, still screwing down the cigar end, 'who are
not.'

He sat back, arms folded, looking all around the pub. Then his eyes were back on me, and he was smiling.

'To make a long story short, Allan, the first fix went in about a year ago today.'

'Bribery,' I said.

Sampson looked away sharply, looked back, and held me with his eyes again for a while, the smile quite gone.

'Speaks plain, does Allan,' said Miles Hopkins as the smile returned to Valentine Sampson's face.

'You speak as you find, Allan,' he said, 'and that goes pret­ty well with me, I can tell you. Miles says you put the knock on Mike.'

'I won't be made to eat dog,' I said, 'not by any bugger.'

'And the bad sod crowned you, didn't he?' said Sampson.

I put my hand up towards my eye.

'I'll give him change for that’ said Sampson, 'don't you worry, Allan. I'll give him a talking to. See, I don't go in for knocking people about, and anybody that does . . . I'll put their
fucking
lights out.'

I was scared of the man, and that was all there was to it.

He rose to his feet, collecting up his soft hat, his gloves and his
Evening Press,
saying:

'We have business in hand in Allan, a very great doing - see you right for life if it comes off. Are you with us?'

'Reckon I'll knock along,' I said, nodding, and wondering what terrible event would have happened if I'd said any­thing but.

Could I hold my own on this dangerous ground? I hung about at any rate; and I knew I must get rid of the
Police Gazette.

First off, Valentine Sampson had to go and see his layer, and this cove was evidently stationed on or beyond the street called Pavement, because that was the street he ducked into, having had a quick chat with Miles Hopkins.

'Where's the layer?' I asked Miles Hopkins as we stood at the west end of Pavement, outside Wood and Co., cutlers and surgical instrument makers.

'Oh,' he
said,'...
Layerihotpe.
Can you credit it?'

He grinned at me, and I wasn't sure whether I could cred­it it or not.

I chanced another question.

'What'll happen when he comes back?'

No answer. There was a sharp coldness to the lamplit evening. It quickened the steps of the later shoppers and working people heading for home. A steam lorry came down towards us from Pavement, its own fog riding above it. Being modern, it looked all wrong in York.

I asked my question about Sampson's return once again, feeling daft for doing so, and Hopkins said, 'Sam'll be half an hour or so - he generally takes a pint with the bookie. We'll all hook up together . . .' He looked at his watch before continuing:'... Half an hour touch at the Blue Boar in Fossgate. I'm just nipping off for a tick, myself.'

'Where to, mate?' I asked, casual like.

'Railway station,' said Miles Hopkins.

'Off to catch a train, are you?' I said, frowning.

Miles Hopkins thought for a while.

'That's it,' he said, presently, 'I'm off to catch a train.'

'But you'll be back in half an hour?'

'Now that I think on,' he said, 'it's not really me that'll be catching it, but others.'

He gave a grin and walked off, and as he did so, the light dawned.

It was getting on for half past six. I pictured the Scotch express, the line of lights shaking over Holgate Junction get­ting on for a mile away, the toffs gathering at the north end of Platform Fourteen where the first-class carriages came to rest. I pictured Miles Hopkins, landing on Platform Four­teen, like a bird, with his long hands in place of wings. I wondered whether Mike, the Blocker, would be on hand once again.

What to do? What would Chief Inspector Weatherill have recommended? I looked along Pavement. Where were all the bloody coppers - railway coppers or otherwise? Where was Shillito the detective sergeant, and all the rest of the fellows I'd thought I was on the edge of getting to know? And where was Weatherill himself? If that fellow was so hard pressed, why did he spend so much time eating breakfast?

I turned to look at the strange articles for sale in Wood's: an artificial leg stood in the window, watched from a higher shelf by an artificial eye sitting in a velvet-lined box, like a jewel. There were trusses, hosiery, all kinds of secret, shameful things; and a rack of knives. I put my hand into my coat pock­et. I meant to drop the
Police Gazette
at the foot of the window.

I began to lift it from my coat when a hand was placed on my shoulder. A beer smell came with it, and Valentine Sampson said: 'You could have some bugger's eye
out...'

'Eh?' I said, turning slowly about to face him.

'. . . Then make amends for it, you know,' he continued,
'. ..
with the
glass
eye in a nice silk presentation box.'

The remark was too strange to answer, so I said, 'Seen your layer then, mate?'

He grinned.

'That bugger's always the same,' he said. 'Always sharps me on the prices.'

He seemed glad to have got the business out of the way, just as if it was a job of work. He no longer carried the racing paper, or his copy of the
Evening Press.

'Miles has gone off to the station,' I said, as we set off for the Blue Boar.

Sampson took out a pocket watch, and looked at it, shak­ing his head.

'From what I understand, his trip ought to put him in funds later on’ I said.

'In funds or in chokey’ he said, striding on. 'Do you know, Allan, they've got bears on the fucking railway station nowadays?'

'Aye,' I said, fairly croaking out the word, 'I did know that.'

'It's just bloody well not
on,'
he said, striding on.

What was the great doing that was in prospect, and when would the doing be done? When would Weatherill think it the right time to jump in, and put the kybosh on? And what if the great doing was on the cards for this very evening? I couldn't afford to worry about that. I just had to go along, keeping my ears open and my mouth shut. I thought of the Blue Boar in Fossgate. The trouble with that street, to my mind, was that it led back in the direction of Layerthorpe, and the Garden Gate, and talk of murder.

We turned into Fossgate, where I suddenly saw my whole life standing six feet before me: the wife in her good materni­ty dress with the warm blue wrap on top, and the unknown baby seeming to ride out before her. Had she been doing her marketing? No. She did that on Wednesdays. Rather, she'd been to collect her week's typewriting, for there was a paper parcel under her arm. She was looking into the illuminated window of the shop that stood beside the Blue Boar: Dove and Crenshaw, Bespoke Tailors for Ladies and Gentlemen. She was looking at the millinery corner - no, the gloves, the fur-lined ones. I couldn't help but notice this even as I swayed out into the middle of the road, almost into the path of a bicyclist, who shouted out just as I gained the kerb at a point ten feet or so beyond the wife. I saw her turn towards me as I set foot into the Blue Boar, where Sampson was already giving his report from the parlour bar.

'No sign of Miles,' he said.

I just stared back at Sampson, struck dumb. I knew all the blood had run from my face at the sight of the
wife...
But had
she
seen
me
? The worst of it was the glasses. How to account for the peepers? Another pint was coming towards me from Valentine Sampson. He didn't play low with the drinks, and that was a fact. My mind was full of new horrors: the Camerons lying dead on the cinder track and the wife sitting quite alone in the dark parlour at home. I had never kept any­thing from her before, and now it was as though the locking pin had been pulled out from our marriage. One thing I could take comfort from: the wife would not follow me into the par­lour bar of the Blue Boar. Even Lydia would not do that.

Miles Hopkins did step into that small crowded parlour bar though, and just a moment later.

'Sorry, mates,' he said with a grin, 'my train was late.'

He swirled Sampson and myself into a tight circle of three and, saying nothing more, produced from his coat a fine pocketbook stuffed with folded banknotes. The three of us stood there breathing beer fumes onto this money, and there was not only the smell of beer, but the smell of sweat and of greed. One word was uttered as we broke, and it was Samp­son who spoke it.

'Good-o,' he said.

I looked across the bar top, where gas jets burned for cigar smokers and saw, at the foot of the back wall, that the low double doors giving on to the cellar were open. I could see into the pit of the cellar, but not to the bottom of it, and I had a picture in my mind of this tiny pub perched on top of a great hole. It was a smarter place than the Garden Gate though. A cut above. More drinks were bought, with whiskys to go with the ales, and Valentine Sampson led us over to a table. Here, the pair produced their own stolen or somehow purloined goods yard passes. They matched mine in all particulars except for the name.

'It's well minded is that place,' said Sampson, meaning the goods yard. We all nodded for a while. Then Sampson said: 'It was hardly likely we could fix all the guards on the gate.'

'. . . So we fixed the bloke who prints the passes,' said Miles, who had become not so watchful, but quite larky after his triumph at the station.

'Fixed him? How much?' I said.

'Two guineas, I think .. . That right, Miles?'

'Two
quid
is what he was promised,' said Miles. 'What he got was a different matter.'

'What
did
he get?' I asked.

'He got what was coming to him,' said Sampson, putting his glass up for more beer. The fellow drank like a pond. 'See,

Allan,' he continued, 'once you've fixed a bloke ...'

'Once you've tickled him out of the narrow path of rectitude . . .' put in Miles Hopkins, who was tossing and catching a coaster.

'Once you've done that, then you
have
him,' said Sampson.

'You have him because you can rat on him,' I said, regret­ting it directly because once again Valentine Sampson put his eyes on me with no accompanying smile.

'Not so much rat on him, mate,' Miles Hopkins said quiet­ly, 'as let on you might do.'

'You see, Allan,' said Sampson, 'if you rat on the Company blokes, who are you ratting on 'em to? Some toff, that's who. Because when it comes to
it...
who benefits? Top brass. You know who the top man on the railway is, don't you? Fellow name of Lord Grey.'

'It
was
him,' I said, 'but now he's chucked it in.'

Hopkins was looking at me; Sampson was frowning.

'Why has he chucked it in, Allan?' he asked.

'Gone off to be Chancellor of the Exchequer in the govern­ment.'

'Bloody typical is that,' said Sampson, sitting back.

Silence for a space, then Hopkins said:

'Most blokes of your stripe wouldn't be expected to know that, Allan.'

'Aye,' I said, colouring
up,'.. .
daresay.'

'Most blokes of your stripe wouldn't be expected to know anything at all, Allan,' said Sampson, 'and don't take that amiss, brother.'

'I'm a great one for reading,' I said. 'If I take a pint, I'll usu­ally read a paper at the same time. Drinking beer somehow doesn't quite seem enough in itself if you know what I mean.'