The Lost Luggage Porter (8 page)

I saluted again, although I wanted to ask: 'If something should go amiss with my investigation, how do I give the alarm?' I watched the Chief Inspector walk through the door of his own office, and the door of the main office, leaving them both open, and rocking in the freezing draught.

Then he came back. Putting his head around the main door, he said, 'Never go home straight to your village while you're on this duty - always by a roundabout route,' which set me thinking of the wife at home, typewriting alone in the cottage cut away from the street. I nodded, and he was gone again.

There was a pail next to the stove with kindling and coal in it. A billy stood on top of the stove, and I found a tea caddy, pot and cups on a window ledge. It was strange to be at large in that empty office, to hear my boots rattle on the boards, to brew up with other blokes' tea. It was as though I was the fugitive, not to be glimpsed in daylight. Beyond the door the station was coming to life, like a slow explosion of growing power. I could hear engines coming in . . . the stopcocks released, giving that great sigh of steam as if the engines' only task was to bring steam into the station, and empty it out directly. It was gone six when I'd done lighting the stove, and as I turned to the papers I'd been given, I felt I'd spent too long on the job.

The first bundle was a heap of criminal record papers, all tied together with string. There were photographic portraits and I thought: all this lot are my enemies now. Most of the subjects had queer-looking eyes like the Camerons: broken glass eyes. And you tried to read the story in the eyes - match it with what was set down in print.

The details began with 'Correct name', 'Aliases', 'Nick­name', 'Marks'. Most didn't have an alias or a nickname, but most had marks. 'Lady Godiva tattoo on shoulder', 'Tattoo of a dagger on upper arm'. The 'Last Known Address' of most of them was York or villages roundabout. 'Places Fre­quented' . . . that was all pubs. Criminals didn't frequent anywhere except pubs. The category 'MO' interested me. In the timetables of Bradshaw that meant 'Mondays Only'. Here it meant . . . what? Manner of operation? Method of operation? It was not explained. Entries under this heading were diverse: 'Smooth character'; 'Impersonates carter'; 'Card sharp knocks on doors'. I put the papers to one side, reckoning that I would need not only a different suit but a different name for the fortnight ahead. Looking down at the top board was a man whose face was tipped forwards - his face pointed down, and his hair pointed up. His offence was marked down as 'Stations, Setting Fire To' and his name was Allan Clough, which seemed about right as far as the name. Allan, any road.

I would need a profession: Thief.

And an 'MO'.

Steals anything, anytime.

No, I wouldn't need that. Criminals did not exchange record cards like the gentry with their calling cards. Very likely, most didn't know they
had
an 'MO' but just went about being themselves. I looked through the stack of cards again, and struck a man who had 'Nuisance' written as the entry for 'Offence'. He was the only one of the whole lot pictured smiling, so he was evidently a loony as well as a nuisance. This was the world I was entering: the world of nuts and double crossers.

Well, I was in queer all right.

I sat back on my chair, pictured myself on the high foot­plate of one of the Lanky's Atlantic engines, the Highflyers, and how, up there, you just soared, receiving the most won­derful return for expenditure of coal that I could think of.

The next bundle on the table before me was stuffed into an envelope that had the words 'Occurrences - Large Theft' scrawled across it. There was another word underneath, but I couldn't make it out. Inside were not more than half a dozen sheets of paper, each one fastened behind a bit of pink paste­board. At the top of each sheet were the words, 'North East­ern Railway', 'Division', 'Station', 'Date', and 'Log'. It was all written in a quite shocking hand, and I had all on to read the entries. The first recorded 'Attempted (possible actual) burglary at office of Goods Superintendent, York Yard South. Mr Cambridge (Goods Super) will endeavour to ascertain losses. No losses reported at present.' The date given was 1 December 1905. The second concerned the South Yard again: two vans had been entered by persons unauthorised and unknown. Lindsey and Jones, wine and spirit importers of Liverpool, were down three crates of whisky and a quantity I could not make out of claret. The van was not locked, but had been sealed. The seal appeared undisturbed, and yet the goods were gone. So it must have been broken, and replaced by somebody who could put their hands on the Company's seals. On the same night, 14 December 1905, a lock had been smashed on a Company van containing items belonging to the Acetylene Illuminating Company of South Lambeth. Nothing was taken, as far as could be seen.

The next gave details of a robbery at the York Station Hotel, the very spot where Chief Inspector Weatherill was putting away his eggs and bacon at just that moment - the very spot where Mariner, the night porter, had been slashed in the throat, or slashed himself. The robbery had happened on 16 December. A safe had been opened in the housekeeper's office. One hundred and fifty-five pounds, two shillings and ninepence had been removed, and a mysterious 'personal article' belonging to a Mr Davenport, a guest, together with one golden wristwatch belonging to same, and something I couldn't read.

Then came a final piece of pasteboard and a final clip, but no paper. I fretted over this for a moment, then gave it up, tied the two bundles as I'd found them, and put them back on Weatherill's desk. The only thing on the desk was a blotter, and I could read some of the words where the ink had come through. 'Firing catapults from trains,' I read, before the words broke up and faded away. I walked over to the little trophy above the blank mantelpiece, and read the inscrip­tion: 'Presented to York Division, Runners-up in Tug of War, Malton Field, 1902'. It bothered me that he should've given pride of place to a runners-up trophy.

I walked back into the main office, set the stove for slow burn, gave my tea cup a wipe and walked out of the Police Office, closing the door firmly behind me just as the Hull fish special rolled in to Platform Three dead on time. I'd heard of this train, which was famous for not being what it was sup­posed to be. It was mainly a passenger service, but half a dozen boxes of fish - special fish - would come down every morning from the guard's van, and be taken into the hotel. Little local deliveries of goods such as this could sometimes avoid being sent round the houses into the York goods station.

It was one of the new eight coupled engines that had brought it in, and the driver was leaning down looking along the platform. He moved slowly, with a tea bottle in his hands; that was his privilege after all he'd done since Hull. But the porters attending the train moved fast, rolling back the tall doors on the guard's van, taking down the fish boxes consigned for York. There was much shouting, and spilling of ice on to the platform, and mixing up of fish boxes, port­manteaus, and passengers.

The train gave off coldness; the engine heat. I stood next to the engine, and the driver gazed down at me with a look of curiosity - it was quite clear who he was, but who was I? He took off his cap, as if to scratch his head over the matter and it was just as though the hair went with it: he was quite bald, but that did not signify. I watched and waited, thinking about my last days in Halifax, as he ran round his train, then pulled it away south again, tender end first. A hundred yards beyond the station one high signal among dozens moved for his train, while a single porter remained on Plat­form Four, kicking ice down on to the tracks.

I would have given fortunes to be that driver.

It was bitter cold, and still raining as I walked over to the bike stand with my head down, revolving a new thought about the Camerons. I'd had a run-in with them, and been seen about it. The barmaid at the Institute was a watchful sort, and knew my name. It might come up in the investiga­tion. A thought checked me: I might be suspected of having done it. That would be about right, for in becoming a police­man I wasn't really doing a job so much as working out a punishment.

I walked on, thinking that if the Camerons were all they'd seemed, there'd likely be a long queue of suspects ahead of me. One had worked in the goods yard, and there'd been crimes in the goods yard. He was the second Company man to meet a violent end. The first had been Mariner, the night porter at the hotel, whose throat had been slit - by him or others. The Station Hotel was our territory, but the cinder path by the goods yard . . . Well, it seemed to me that ought to be ours as well, for not much happened on that path that didn't have something to do with the movement of goods on the railway.

I had been ordered to keep away from the station in day­light hours, and I wondered whether that included the Lost Luggage Office. At any rate, I meant to collect my missing bag once again, if it hadn't been nicked. I also wanted for some reason to set eyes on the mysterious Lund again. I looked up towards the bike stand, and my portmanteau was there, not three feet from the back wheel of the Humber. A quarter of a minute slowly dragged itself out as I stood there in the rain staring at it. It couldn't have been there at 5.55 when I'd arrived. I'd have run straight into it. Then again I'd been in a tearing hurry, so might have missed it. I looked inside: the magazines were all there, the top one a little damp. I picked up the bag, and heard a smooth Yorkshire voice saying, 'The first article is described as a brown canvas bag, about three foot in length, corded, with "Nursing Sister Harper" printed on it in white letters. It contains a bed, one black mackintosh sheet, a pair of rubber boots, one rubber pillow, one ordinary pillow, one wash basin and one collapsible basin.'

It was the assistant Stationmaster, protected from the wind and the rain by his long black coat, and his silk topper. He was holding some papers, and reading from them for the benefit of Parkinson, the morngy lost-luggage superintend­ent, who wore his overcoat and bowler, and carried an umbrella, which he was fighting to keep still in the wind. He was looking sidelong as the assistant Stationmaster addressed him.

'I will have the porter make a special search, sir,' he said.

'See that you do,' said the assistant Stationmaster. 'It's the third letter I've had about this bag. Now,' he continued, shuf­fling the papers in his hand, 'listen to this.'

'Might we stand under the portico?' said Parkinson.

'It will only take a minute,' said the assistant Station- master, who began reading from a second sheet. 'The under­mentioned luggage is missing. Large-sized wooden suitcase, brass studded, two side clips, centre lock, bearing label addressed "Williams, 60 Forest Walk, Scarborough." It may also carry labels for Chatham and Newhaven. Contents . . .

Japanese gown, nightgown, tweed golf coat, black blouse and slip, felt hat, black straw hat, woollen hat, girl's dress, four pair stockings, grey silk scarf, black crepe scarf, comb, sponge, silver-backed brush, skunk fur for neck, opossum ditto, white circular jade pendant, tiger claw and chain ...'

The rain redoubled, and Parkinson gave a sigh.

'Am I boring you, Mr Parkinson?' asked the assistant Sta- tionmaster.

'Not at all, sir,' said Parkinson.

'Two pair trousers,' the assistant Stationmaster continued, 'three petticoats, boy's shirts and vest, two nightdresses, child's war game, belt, leggings, Burberry, tennis shoes, walking boots, and toilet articles to wit toothbrush, face flan­nel, nail clippers, tweezers, soap times three, tube of Euthy- mol, hand cream . .. Have you seen this luggage?'

'No,' said Parkinson.

'Will you have the porter make a special search?'

'I will.'

Parkinson trudged on towards the Lost Luggage Office, and I watched him go, wondering: did he return my maga­zines to me? It was possible, since I'd come upon him stand­ing so near to them. Set against that, though, was the thought that returning my magazines would have involved work, something Parkinson was evidently not over-keen on. And he had not acknowledged me or even looked in my direction while being lectured by the assistant Stationmaster.

I cycled off legs akimbo, with the portmanteau balanced on the crossbar of the Humber, for I could see my way clear to using it at the Garden Gate. If anyone had returned them to me, I thought, pedalling away in the direction of town, it had surely been Lund - making, perhaps, his early round of lost-property collections - rather than his governor, Parkin­son.

I knocked about York all morning, fretting about the Camerons, Lund, the sharps at the station, and my prospects at the Garden Gate. At midday, I bought an
Evening Press
in Museum Street, and there were precious few details added to the story, only that the bodies might have been lying on the cinder track for a day or more before discovery. Other­wise it was all windy stuff: the case appeared to contain fea­tures of strong dramatic interest... a certain vicar meant to make mention of it in a sermon to be given in the Minster on the following Sunday. It was also pointed out that this was the first year in living memory in which two murders had occurred in the city. The previous year, there'd been none at all.I turned around and saw the West towers of the Minster, the great bull horns, black against the grey sky. The shilling novels on the station bookstall had three-colour wrappers, but there were only two colours in central York at that moment. I folded my paper into the pocket of my new suit. A metal panel was nailed to the scrap of city wall that over­looked Museum Street: it said 'Uzit: The Ointment for All Occasions'. Beneath it stood a rough-looking bloke, smoking a cigar in the rain, watching me. I turned tail and rode the Humber along past the rattling carts of Coney Street, turning at the end into High Ousegate, where I propped the bike beneath a board that stuck out from a tobacconists reading 'CIGARS', the letters going round almost in a circle. I was not interested in baccy but the sign signified the start of an alleyway at the bottom of which was the office of a coal mer­chant, and a tiny rag shop that was half underground. The sign above the window read 'Clark' in very small letters - whispered it. You walked through the door, and immediately down some steps, as if a floor was too pricey a luxury. Inside was a small old man who'd shaved only in parts. 'I'm after a suit’ I said, since the old fellow had said nothing but just looked at me.