The Lost Luggage Porter (28 page)

I looked to my right, and Sampson was asleep.

Hopkins was looking at me:

'It must be done with the tread of a cat,' he was saying, and there was a new look to him: electrified.

'What must?'

'You are to take the left-luggage tickets from his pocket.'

He was looking towards the area of Sampson's privates.

'No fear,' I said.

'But you must,' he said.

'That calls for your skill,' I said, 'you're born to it. You said yourself I'd never make a dip.'

'Don't argue,' he said, giving me one of his grins. 'I'm down to your game.'

'What game?'

'You don't do
it...
I tell him who you are.'

'And who am I?'

Hopkins just stared at me.

"The name's Appleby,' I said, 'Allan Appleby.'

'Is it fuck,' said Hopkins, and still the smile was there. 'It doesn't want doing just now,' he said, 'but later on, when he's had one or two more gallons of wine.'

'Later on,' I said, '. . . he'll take his trews off in any case, won't he?'

Hopkins shook his head.

'He'll not,' he said. 'Not with tickets to nearly three grand in his pocket, and me hanging about.'

The artist was packing up, defeated by the rain, or maybe the fading of light.

'See, you
must
do it,' Hopkins went on, 'because one word from me to him, and you're finished. You might think you can get up now and walk off, but no. I'll give him a poke in the ribs, and I'll let on, and he'll take out that gun of his and he'll fucking have you, right here in this fucking
shar-dan.'

'You'll let on to what?' I said.

'What you are.'

'And what am I?'

I wanted him to say it, and he did:

'You're a fucking copper, en't you?'

Night was coming down fast, along with the rain, and full dark found us wondering through empty streets. We were somewhat returned - having visited plenty of bars - in the direction of our hotel. There were big, blank churches about us, and trains running out of sight behind ranks of tall crum­bling houses.

Now we were in another bar; it was the colour of illness, bright white and green. Another bottle was coming towards us; we were all smoking Sampson's cigars, and that gentry could by now barely speak English leave alone French. He had finally found his limit, but then I was at least half-cut too. As for being a copper, I'd denied it to the hilt until Samp­son had woken in the park; and the question had not come up since. A train of ideas kept starting in my mind but I couldn't follow it out. One thing seemed pretty certain: the cart was about to come off the wheel, somehow or other.

I turned about at our table, and the wife was standing at the bar.

No.

It was a woman who looked like her but blonde - like Lydia in a photograph with too much light. Sampson was chatting to a woman in a blue dress. She was chubby, rather monkey-looking but pretty with it. The dress showed all of her arms, and was low at the front. Her hair was curly and

loose. She looked as though she was practically in bed already.

'Monsieur Allan Appleby,' Sampson was trying to say, indicating me.

Hopkins looked on, smoking and grinning. This was all quite fine by him.

'Encore,' said Sampson, calling over to the barman.

'It's the wrong word is that,' said Hopkins, turning to me, 'but don't mind me.'

Sampson paid no heed. He was kissing the woman, his beard at a stretch as he worked his mouth. Hopkins was leaning towards me, and I thought for a horrible moment that he was making to give
me
a kiss. Instead he was saying:

'It must be done tonight, before midnight.'

'You're crackers,' I said.

'I'll take no slavver from you, copper.'

'He'll divvy up the money soon enough,' I said.

The doxy was half sitting, half lying over Sampson's knees, as though dropped there from a great height. They were whispering things to each other: she to him, him to her, on and on in strict alternation.

Meanwhile Hopkins was holding me with his eyes, say­ing, 'You're Stringer, detective on the railway force. You live at number 16A Thorpe-on-Ouse Main Street.'

'What?' I said.

'Look, do you want me to spin the whole bloody works? I had it all at Calais last night from Mike.'

'How?'

'He was speaking over the telephone line from the Black Swan Hotel. I called him to see what's what in York.'

'And who did
he
have it from?'

Hopkins was grinning at me, and it felt as though this grin of his might go on for ever, so I twisted away from him, look­ing behind me and towards the barkeeper, who stood with his arms folded. Behind him was a great poster for 'Bieres
...'
Bieres ... something. A proud French soldier was shown holding up a glass. They were full of pride, these Frenchers, and yet this chap behind the bar had to throw open his par­lour (for that's what the bar was really) to all sorts from any­where to make a living. He was trying to look away from the lot of us, pretend we weren't there.

My gaze fell on Sampson and the doxy, still playing their drunken whispering game.

Following my gaze, Hopkins said,'. . . You've no need to worry on that score. He knows I spoke to Mike, but he has no idea about what . . . And he'll never find out either, just as long as you lift those tickets of his . . . Only you must do it before midnight, because I've asked Mike to take a look in at 16A
...
'

I stood up, and swung my fist at Hopkins, who dodged back easily enough, saying something I could not hear for the sound of the barkeeper, who'd now been set chattering - whether to us or to himself I could not have said - blathering away like a complaining engine that couldn't be turned off. Sampson was so busy with his doxy that he barely noticed. He just took his left hand off her bosom, and made a calming gesture, saying, 'Easy, lads, easy.'

I asked Hopkins:

'When
is he going there?'

'Never you mind. I've asked him to pay a call, that's all.'

'If I'm Stringer,' I said . ..

Hopkins was grinning at me.

'If I am,' I carried on, 'and I'm
here ...'

'Oh, I think we can take it as read that you're here ...'

'Then there'll be nobody in at 16A, will
there . ..'

'I've seen your fucking wedding ring,' said Hopkins, 'so you needn't come that one. I've asked Mike to pay a visit. Only it's conditional-like. If you do the job tonight I'll tele­phone again, tell him to stay put.'

The barkeeper was still spouting, and now he was coming towards us. It was clear enough that he wanted us out. Hop­kins had been suspicious of me since the night of the Garden Gate, and he had learned my identity from Mike as soon as we arrived in France. He'd kept silent since then, revolving the information in his mind, designing away . . .

I looked back at Hopkins, thinking whether to try another swing, and he was grinning at me, saying,'.. . I'll telephone the big fucking lummox again; his place of work is right by the instrument, you know. They can make a quick connec­tion from here . . . I'll stop him in his tracks . . . honour bright!'

The barman talked on, standing over us now. I glimpsed Sampson's gun, in the waistband of his trousers. Sampson and the doxy were rising to their feet. They had their own pressing reason for wanting to quit the little bar. Hopkins stood too, leaning closer to me again, saying: 'If I don't have those tickets in my hand by midnight, then Mike'll be round there, and it'll
be . ..
It'll be the fucking clean sweep, matey .. .'

He had overheard the expression from Sampson. In my mind's eye, I saw Lydia in the parlour; I saw her at the type­writer; I saw the Opopanax and Parma Violets standing beside the machine ... I saw the copies of the investigation reports, freshly typed. She would not be able to plead igno­rance of my work.

The bill had been paid - somehow, by someone - and we were now heading back to the Hotel des Artistes. I was walk­ing next to Hopkins in silence; Sampson was just behind, one arm around the woman in a courtly way (yet also a drunken one), the other hanging loose in the vicinity of his gun. The churches, temples, abandoned theatres came and went until we entered the hotel, and the black and white man was not there, but the paintings were. I peered at the gloomy people shown in them, but they had retreated still further into the shadows.

We climbed the long staircase, and my mind went back to my first meeting with Lund at the Lost Luggage Office. I saw myself writing my name in the ledger. It was there for any­one to see.

On the silent and evidently empty fourth floor, Hopkins had somehow faded away into his own quarters, while I stepped into the opposite room with Sampson and the French doxy. I tumbled through into the bedroom on the far side of those quarters, with wine Sampson had given me in a bathroom glass. I closed the door behind me while Sampson and the doxy fell to in the main room. At first the pair of them were
quiet...
and then they weren't.

I sat staring at nothing for a space. I could hear a train run­ning along the lines below. It was timetabled, but at the same time free. A good minute after it had gone from earshot, its black smoke finally ascended to the level of my window.

In the room beyond, the French tart was giving way still further to Valentine Sampson or Joseph Howard Vincent as the case may have been. I picked out of my pocket
Paris and its Environs.
Christianity, I read, had been introduced to France by St Denis. Visitors to the Louvre who had only a short time to devote to the galleries were recommended to begin with the antique sculptures.

In the room beyond, matters reached the screaming stage just as a train went rumbling below, making a contest of it for

loudest noise. It was a wonder that Sampson could perform at all, given the amount of red wine he'd put away. Hopkins, alone of the three of us, was
not
blotto, and he would hold to his plan, I knew.

A couple of minutes later, Sampson opened the door, and beckoned me through into the sitting room. He wore his trousers and his undershirt.

I could see the doxy through the open door of the bath­room: she was painting on rouge.

'Did you hear any of that goings-on, little Allan?' Sampson asked, picking up the wine, which he'd not quite seen off.

'Maybe a bit,' I said.

'You'll have learnt something if so,' he said, and he sat down on the couch with the wine, as the doxy stepped out of the bathroom.

'You look nice,' he said.

'I 'aven't fineeshed,' she said.

'Well you should do,' said Sampson. 'Pack it in while the going's good.'

She left in the next few minutes, following a short confer­ence that took place just beyond the outer door.

'Silly cat,' Sampson said, when he walked back in.

He eyed me for a while before saying:

'Sorry, mate, did you want a ride yourself?'

Not looking for an answer - I believe he'd asked only for form's sake - he walked over to the window, lifting the sash and gazing down at the tracks.

'Where does Mike work?' I asked.

'Black Swan,' said Sampson, scratching his beard.

Coney Street. The stone swan held out over the door looked burnt, and its blackness had somehow smudged the front of the building, making
it
look burnt in turn.

'And I suppose they have a telephone there.'

No reply from Sampson, who was walking over towards the couch, as I enquired, casual as you like, 'You thinking of having a kip?'

Sampson turned and gave me one of his looks; no life, nothing in the eyes.

'Why are you asking these cuntish questions?'

'What?' I said.

'You're getting up my
flicking
arse,' said Sampson.

Was it Lund who'd given word to Mike? Was he trying to check the investigation he'd begun for fear of being run in over the lost-luggage theft? I could not believe so.

Sampson caught up a wine bottle from the floor beside the couch. He then drifted towards the bathroom, where he pissed for what seemed about half an hour. He walked towards the mantelshelf and I saw, too late, that the gun was there. Sampson picked it up.

Of course, another man might very well have seen my name in that ledger: Parkinson, the lost-luggage superin­tendent. What did he know? And who else could've passed on my address to Mike?

Sampson moved back to the couch, where he put the gun underneath a cushion, of which he made a pillow. He pulled the coverlet from the back of the sofa - and that became his over-blanket. He lay down, taking a few short pulls on the wine . . . which seemed to see him off. But he stirred again, reaching once more for the bottle, and saying to me, friendly once more: 'We'll be all right over here, little Allan . . . Live shallow for six months if need be.'