Lost baggage porter

Chapter Thirteen

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.' Sampson was frowning at me again.

Hopkins, leaning forwards and grinning at me, said: 'So the more you drink, the more you read?'

'Well… up to a point,' I said.

'Point is, Allan,' said Sampson, 'you put the fix on a bloke, you buy his silence at the very same time, and very little further action needs to be taken as regards that.'

'Except in the odd case,' said Hopkins, with a distant look.

We talked on, and I was half pleased, half worried that I seemed to be getting along well with Sampson in particular who, come nine o'clock, rose to his feet saying, 'Hadn't we better be off, mates?'

I half expected the wife to be still standing outside the door of the Blue Boar. She wasn't of course, and I didn't like to think of the moment at which she must have turned away to go home.

In Fossgate, Miles Hopkins hung slightly behind – watchful again – and I fell in with Sampson, who walked just as fast as before despite all the beer he'd taken, and looked just as spruce and kingly in his salt and pepper suit. The only thing that let him down was the sharp and sour smell coming off him, and an over-eager look to his walk. He was like a fine steamer that was shipping sea secretly, out of sight, far below the water line. He led us along Pavement, through Parliament Street, through Davygate, our boots clinking on the cobbles. It was cold, and the streets were mainly empty, except for the buried noise coming from pubs along the way. I could feel the Police Gazette in my coat pocket, burning away there, as it seemed to me. As we pushed on, the Minster bells struck nine, sounding soft and yet loud, filling the whole city, and when they'd finished, a new sound took their place: an echoing rattling and clanking. We were in Leeman Road; the passenger station was to our left, and the goods station stood directly before us with light blazing at all their windows.