Murder At Deviation Junction

Chapter Seventeen

Shillito was writing carefully. Baker and Crawford were in, and Crawford was reading a paper, evidently a comic paper, for he was saying to Baker, 'Here's a good one. What is the relation of the doorstep to the doormat?'

Shillito said, 'You and I must have words, Detective Stringer.'

'A step farther,' said Crawford. 'Do you see?'

But Baker had lost interest; all eyes were now on Shillito and me.

'I particularly wanted you in this afternoon,' said Shillito. 'You're still a good deal behind on your paperwork, and Davitt was seen earlier on at the bookstall.'

'He boarded the Pickering train,' I said, leaving off the 'sir', but looking at my boots, which I knew took away the force of leaving it off. 'I decided to have it out with him. I boarded the train, and asked to see his ticket.'

'And?'

'He showed me it.'

'He had a ticket?'

'He did.'

'And not just any old ticket? Not a last year's bicycle ticket for Poppleton with the date altered and destination disguised?'

Poppleton was the nearest station to York in any direction. A bicycle ticket for that stop was known to be the cheapest available at the York booking office.

'No,' I said. 'He had a valid ticket.'

'Davitt?' said Shillito, and his voice rose to such a pitch of disbelief that it sounded almost like a girl's. It worked on me like an electric jar, and I suddenly knew I could no longer be either the doorstep or the doormat. Well, I don't recall the moment, but only afterwards, with Shillito lying on the floor next to his desk, and skin split across my knuckles. He was looking up at me from just next to the ash pan of the stove, which somebody had half pulled out, and that was the best bit: the puzzlement on his face, the newness of the look that I saw there.

I picked up my topcoat and hat, and walked out of the office with my handkerchief over my hand. I was in search of a bottle of carbolic, and a pint of beer, but I didn't walk fast, and Shillito didn't come after me, or didn't see me in the crowds, for the station was like one colossal club now. It was five o'clock, rush hour, but there was something more. It was 16 December, and Christmas had started. There was all sorts going off in York: concerts and parties and plays, which all meant more top hats for the men and fancy bonnets for the women, fur collars and meeting off trains and kissing and laughing. I was not part of it. I had blood on my shirt, which had somehow flown there from my hand, and I was out of a job or as good as. But I had paid Shillito out, and that made up for it.

In the booking hall, the Salvation Army played and the decorated tree finally looked right. I walked on - out into the latest snowfall. I walked over the bridge that crosses the lines joining the old and new stations; even the old station looked picturesque, with its lamps all lit, and snowflakes flickering down over the crippled wagons kept there. I cut down Queen Street, heading for the Institute, where there was tinsel over the doorway, and paper chains in the corridors. I followed one of these past the reading room and the bars until I came to the caretaker's office. He was in there as usual, smoking by the hot stove. He was called Albert, and he was the idlest bugger that stepped.

'Now I know you've a bottle of carbolic in here, Albert,' I said.

He pointed with his pipe towards a cabinet, taking in my hand as he did so.

'What's up?'

'I clocked Shillito,' I said.

'Get away,' he said, but he wasn't really interested.

Albert had a nice set-up. Cleaning equipment arranged in a barricade all around him, and very seldom touched. A broken basket chair by the stove to sit on and a pint pot placed underneath that he filled up from the Institute bar—regular like.

'I've just nicely sat down,' he said. 'We've half a dozen dinners here tonight if we've one. Every function room to be swept and fire made - no two seating arrangements the same, and all to be set out by Muggins here - Passenger Clerks we've got coming in, Railway Reading Circle, League of Riflemen, Angling Club. I don't know why they don't just form the Society for Making Work for Caretakers, and have done - You crowned Shillito, did you say? He's a big lad, twice your size.'

There was an ambulance box in the cabinet. I took out the carbolic, and a roll of bandage. As I splashed on the carbolic, I made a face at the sting.

'Hurts, does it?' said Albert, grinning. 'It's Christmas that brings it on, you know - scrapping, I mean. You should be here after hours on party nights. One minute it's "Should Auld Acquaintance be Forgot", next thing they're braining each other with iron bars down in the siding.'

'I can't believe the Reading Circle acts like that,' I said.

'Them?' Albert replied. 'They're the worst of the bloody lot.'

'I'm off to the Women's Co-operative Guild annual beano,' I said.

'You'll need a drink,' said Albert. 'Two drinks - you're never going in that suit, are you?'

'Why not?'

'Because it looks like nothing on earth.'

I did not want to be reminded of that.

I asked Albert, 'Which floor are the riflemen on?'

'Top,' he said, taking another pull on his beer. 'Nice drop of punch they've got up there.'

I climbed the four flights to the top, where the room was packed. The Chief's team were in there, and the opposition. A shield was being passed around; everyone looked very happy, but only one side could have won it. A red-faced shootist came up to me, and said, 'We've finished top of the league table in number one district - fourteen points!'

I moved away (for he looked minded to kiss me) and circled the room, keeping an eye out for the Chief, and not knowing what I would say when I saw him. I'd tell him about Pickering and how Moody had fled, and then about what had happened in the office. I would give him my side of it, but what was my side of it? I'd belted the man, and that was all about it. I'd had my reasons, but the Chief knew those of old. I moved over to the tall windows. They looked down on the Lost Luggage Office and the small siding that stood next to it. The snow was streaming quickly on to both, as if to say, 'Let's get a load down while no one's looking.' I knew a young fellow who'd worked in the Lost Luggage Office, and met a bad end. I turned towards a better sight: the long table in front of the window that held the big silver punchbowl. I pushed across to it and looked inside - the stuff was orange, and there were many fruits floating in it of a kind not normally seen in York.

Somebody passed me a glass - the stuff was, or had been, hot - and then I saw the Chief, and so had to drink it. I downed the punch and things were different straightaway, which was just as well.

The Chief held the shield in his arms, and was receiving congratulations from his fellows, which meant that his lonely practice of the morning had paid off.

The Chief didn't seem surprised to see me, but then he was canned.

'Can you shoot straight?' he said, coming up to me.

'Probably not after drinking this stuff,' I said, showing him the empty glass.

He passed me another one.

'You've something to say to me,' he said, and it might have been a question or not.

'I went to Pickering to see a man connected to the Travelling Club,' I said, 'but he made off while I waited in his house. Then, later on, there was a bit of set-to with Shillito. It came to blows. Well, on my part.'

The Chief was giving me a queer look.

'There's been bad blood between the two of us, as you know sir, and-'

He continued with the queer look: he was making a decision - I could see him doing it. He would ignore what I'd said.

'Why do you not shoot?' he said.

It took me a while to adjust, but I eventually said, 'I always think I'll end in the army if I take it up.'

'It's not a bad place for a young lad to be,' said the Chief.

I began to say something, and he cut me off with 'When trouble comes, you must be master of your rifle.'

He shot me the funny look again; then he gave me the road - moved off back into the crowd.

What the hell had he meant? That Shillito would come after me with a gun, and that I ought to be ready? That the Travelling Club business would end in bullets fired? Or was he saying that, since I was done for as a copper, my only remaining hope was to take the King's Shilling?

I would take another bloody drink, at any rate.