Lost baggage porter

Chapter Twenty-seven

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.'

A few more quick wine goes, then he rolled over on his side and looked at me with his violet eyes. It was very strange to see him lying down; unnatural somehow.

'Why d'you kill the Camerons, mate?' I asked him.

But his eyes shut at that moment.

I waited a quarter of an hour, then made straight for the door, opened it. Hopkins was there, with a knife in his hand.

Well, he had me three ways. He could wake Sampson, crying copper. He could do me with the knife (although I didn't think that was in him). And the third way he voiced directly: 'Think of Mike,' he said in an under-breath, pressing me back into the room. 'He'll be on his way soon, unless I give the word.'

I whispered back: 'Why the fuck don't you lift the tickets yourself?'

He said nothing, but twirled the knife in his long right hand.

I tried another tack, saying: 'He'll shoot anybody he catches at it.'

'That's your lookout, copper' he said.

I looked at Hopkins; at his curly hair stuck down at intervals by sweat. I turned and watched Sampson sleeping. I screwed myself up to it, and moved towards him.

'Right pocket' Hopkins was saying from the doorway as I peeled back the coverlet,'… right pocket. The two chits are in there, I fucking swear it. London ticket is the principle one. The larger amount was stowed there.'

Sampson was flat on his back. I had to lean across him to get to the right pocket.

'Fingers only,' Hopkins was saying, 'fingers only; don't stick your fucking fist in.'

If Sampson woke, Hopkins would dart back to his own quarters. And I'd catch it. My finger ends were creeping into the pocket now. It was all in folds, my fingers approaching mountains and valleys of silk. From beyond the window and below, I heard a train approaching. As its rocking grew louder, Sampson, too, rocked in his sleep. Back and forth he went, back and forth; but it was only a small disturbance. I leant into my work again; into the sharp wine smell that was rising off Sampson; my fingers creeping further into the mountains and valleys. The shaming thought came to me that I was like the doxy, with my hand moving ever further towards Sampson's privates.

I gave a glance back towards the window, and saw the rising of steam and smoke from the lately passed train. I was Jack in the Giant's Castle, high in the clouds, and making away the Giant's gold.

The thought came that I could wake Sampson and tell him I'd been put up to this by his confederate – the designing fellow skulking in the doorway. It would be my word against Hopkins's. Might Sampson believe me, and then order Mike not to make his call? Mike's true governor was Sampson, after all, and he would have believed that the orders he'd had from Miles Hopkins were given on the say-so of Sampson.

My finger ends met paper, and I said out loud: 'I have my fingers on one of the bloody things.'

'Collect the tickets scissor-like,' said Hopkins from the doorway.

Sampson slept on, silent and quite still as my fingers closed over the paper, dragging it into the light. The left-lug- gage ticket was blue, and the words upon it were in English. It was the one from Charing Cross, and the colour of it gave me the beginnings of an idea.

I stood back from the couch and, looking directly across the room at Hopkins, folded the blue ticket several times over, and lowered it into my own right trouser pocket.

'Give it here,' he whispered from the doorway.

'Hold on, mate,' I said. 'I'm going in for the other. I know it's there.'

I was sweating like a bull as I started on my second finger creep. But just as my fingertips had reached the pocket entrance for the second time, another train came rattling along the line below. Its rapid approach seemed to send a secret message to Sampson's right arm, which began to rise – a snake being charmed to the tune of a train. It wavered in the air, making as if to swipe at me. I drew back, and the thick arm landed heavily on top of the right pocket entrance, sealing it up, preventing any further attempts and deciding me upon my idea.

As the train rattled away I turned to Hopkins, saying, 'We must give it up now.'

He nodded. He could see the sense of that.

'Hand over the blue one,' said Miles. 'It's the English one, en't it?'

I did not have Hopkins down as a violent man, but I knew in that instant that he would never let me go even if I gave over the ticket. Why would he, knowing I was a copper? He would guess that the moment I was free, I would ask for men to be sent to the left-luggage offices, to prevent the money being taken, and to arrest anyone trying to claim it. As he looked on, I reached into my trouser pocket, where lay two blue left-luggage tickets. One unfolded, the other folded tightly. I took out the first. It was the ticket I'd been given at York in return for the good suit after my hotel breakfast with the Chief. I placed it on Sampson's belly, and retreated from the couch, making towards the door, and Hopkins.

'You must take it yourself,' I said, drawing level with him.

The ticket rose and fell with Sampson's belly, stirring somewhat in the breeze from the open window. Hopkins did not look at me but, cursing in an under-breath, moved rapidly towards the fluttering blue paper with knife in hand. As he reached out to take it I gave a cry, something that was not even a word. But it was loud, and I saw Sampson rise in the moment before I turned and fled, screaming out with rapid rising glee. I was the brilliant sleuth hound after all. I had recovered half the stolen money, and I'd fixed Hopkins, Sampson, or the two bastards both… But most likely Hopkins, for he only had the blade where Sampson had the shooter. I saw in my mind's eye – as I crashed down those red-carpeted stairs – the bookstall at York station, with the glowing covers of the shilling novels, and all the detective heroes there depicted… But in the next instant the bookstall of my mind combusted in my rage at my own stupidity, and a terrible coldness came over me. I had won out over the ticket, and I had set the two at each other's throats, but Hopkins would not now be able to take back the order he had given. I had condemned the wife to the revenge of Mike.

I flew on, and at one mid-air moment – as I bounded the final three steps of the second or third landing – I thought I heard the crack of a gun – or was it a cry? – from the floors above.

I pounded on down the red-carpeted stairs, past the doors of all the sleeping artists, until I was at the front door of the hotel, and out of it and away, flying along shuttered streets, boots rattling crazily on the cobbles, with two cabs rushing along beside me. I tried to gaze through the windows as I ran, half expecting to see Sampson in there, taking aim with his shooter. The two cabs both turned left at the end of the street, so that was a direction leading… somewhere.

I took that turning myself, and was galloping alone in a wide street with thin trees on either side. I had to believe that Hopkins had been spinning a yarn; that no order had been given to Mike, for it was a queer sort of thing to ask: do such and such a thing unless you hear from me. Or that Mike would not obey. Or then again, I might be able to beat Mike to Thorpe- on-Ouse. Would he go out in the middle of the night? If not, there was hope, for I might be able to return by morning.

But this was all a gamble, with Lydia's life as the stake.

I ran on. Why was Sampson not giving chase? (For I was taking for granted that he'd won the scrap.) Perhaps he was, but in the wrong direction. Had I thrown him off already, by taking just one turning? He must know I'd be making for the station. This street was all signs. Without slackening my pace at all, I read 'Boulangerie', 'Glaces', 'Dentiste', 'Pharmacie'… but everything was closed, it being so late.

The only thing moving in my line of sight was a clock on an archway but there at the end of the street I saw my goal: the mighty window of the Gare du Nord, the eye looking outwards this time. I ran into the station, clattering on to the circulating area where three men in uniform looked at me, as if to say: 'What do you mean by running inside this palace of ours?' One train was leaving as I looked towards the platforms; the others in the station looked dead, stabled for the night.

Feeling the weight of the guide book in my coat pocket, I took it out, and scrabbled through the pages, finally looking up and asking the three: 'A quelle heure part la premier train… for London?'

No answer. You'd have thought one of the bastards would have stirred. I turned about and a lady of middling years in a very broad white hat was standing a little way off and saying, in the most beautiful of voices (meaning an English voice): 'The next boat train for London is in half an hour's time, but it goes from Saint-Lazare. There isn't another from here until 4.30.'

One of the men said a single word, and it sank in slowly with me: 'Metro'. The Metropolitain. The underground railway. They had understood her English better than mine. The human angel was still standing behind the men, still smiling, and not speaking now but pointing with a gloved hand to a spot on the station wall. I ran over, and saw a plan showing… a tangle. I looked behind me at the station clock: midnight. I looked again at the map, which was called a plan. The three guards had gone now and so had the lady, but that meant I would be able to work it out for myself. The glass globes stretched away along the empty platforms, and they lit the way north to Calais. I turned again to the map. At the top, at the north was 'G. du Nord', but it was joined only to a thin pencil stroke of a Metro line. This was a line not yet existing. But the thick black lines were different. They were more useful, for they existed.

Saint-Lazare must also be somewhere to the north if it sent trains to London. I roved immediately right, then left from the spot marked G. du Nord, and there was Saint-Lazare. It was to the left, and connected to a thick black line. The nearest station on the thick black line to Gare du Nord was called… well, it began with 'B', and it was the longest French word I'd so far struck.

I was running again through empty streets, heading left from Gare du Nord. I had twenty-five minutes remaining at the outside. I was checked by the sight of two men walking towards me under a metal bridge: one was broad, the other thin. I watched them, putting my hand into my pocket, and touching the folded left-luggage ticket. It seemed a very poor sort of prize. I ought not to have gambled with Lydia's life, but with my own. I had not been gentlemanly.

The two men moved towards me, becoming by degrees ordinary Frenchmen; behind them, an electrical train went over the metal bridge.I ran towards the bridge – and in fact it was a station, with the ticket offices below. Electrical train, electrical station. All bright lights and a smiling Frencher at the ticket window. 'Saint-Lazare' I said, reaching into my pocket… all my pockets… but there were only the two ten-pound notes. I had no French money. I looked around, and I believe that I was searching for the Angel-lady in the broad white hat, but the ticket was there waiting on the window ledge, pushed out by the clerk.

I held up a ten-pound note.

'Just remembered,' I said, 'only English money.'

What he made of that I don't know, because I took the ticket and ran for the stairs that led to the platform. It was the Underground but you went up to reach it. The train came in: a line of boxes. It stopped in a heap, the doors flew open with a sneezing sound, and an official walked slowly out from one of the carriages. He watched me carefully as I climbed aboard into a carriage containing four men, all smoking. The train ran along level with the rooftops for a little way, before dipping down into a tunnel. At a station called Villiers I climbed down to look for another line, as I knew I must according to the plan I had seen. After charging along white tunnels following blue arrows that I didn't understand, I came onto a platform where an electrical train waited. I climbed aboard without any notion of where it was going. One station later, its doors opened on the words 'Saint-Lazare'. I ran up into the mainline station passing a ticket gate with no checker. Into the station: few people, low roof, smoke everywhere. A clock dangled in the smoke: 12.25 ~ five minutes remaining. I looked at the signs: 'Bar', 'Consigne', 'Billets Internationaux', 'Telegrammes'. I could send a telegram. Who to? The Chief. But he would be in bed asleep, or he might just be dead. It came to me then: the Chief knew my address.I looked at the signs again: 'Telephone'. I could not telephone. I was not up to it; did not know how. I looked again at the clock: 12.27. There were some electrical trains in the bays; but smoke floated over from somewhere beyond. I saw the ticket windows. Would they accept English money? 12.28. I could not see the money-changing place. I dashed to the ticket window – Billets Internationaux – and slammed down one of the tenners. 'London' I gasped out, 'boat train, second-class', and then I added for good measure, 'deck', which I'd heard Sampson say at Charing Cross. The man was writing out the ticket before I'd finished. But this writing out took an age. I looked at the clock. Dead on half past.

The ticket was pushed across to me, and the man began counting out the change. But he stopped half way because he was short of English money; he had to go off into some back room to fetch more. I was gone, flying past the ends of the electrical trains, looking for the source of the smoke and steam. It came from an engine on the furthest platform – an engine that was leaving. I ran after the last carriage; it was moving slowly, and soon I was level with the buffers. I ran on, so that I was level with the rear windows, but now it was all I could do to keep up. The passengers inside were all looking dead ahead. I yelled out, but now I was only level with the back of the rear carriage once again, and then I was staring at the strange looking red lamp on the retreating back of the train.

I came to a stop, and drew a long breath. I looked to the right, and there was the whole business over again: a long train, steam locomotive at the front, pulling forwards. I ran across the platform, and was up and inside in no time. I found a seat next to a woman in Victorian black, who said: 'You're in a rare hurry.'

'This is the boat train for England, en't it?' I asked, but it was a daft question, for the very fact we were speaking English proved that it was.