The Great Train Robbery - Crichton Michael (книги без регистрации .TXT) 📗

"That's enough," the constable said. "Come along smartly."

The drunk allowed himself to be led away by the copper. He was last heard to say, "You wouldn't be havin' a daffy of reeb, would you, now?" and the constable assured him he had no drink on his person.

"Dublin," the guard said, sighing, and he climbed back up the stairs to eat his dinner. The distant chimes rang eleven o'clock.

Agar had seen it all, and while he was amused by Pierces performance, he worried whether Clean Willy had taken the opportunity to open the office door. There was no way to know until he made his own mad dash, in less than half an hour now.

He looked at his watch, he looked at the door to the office, and he waited.

____________________

For Pierce, the most delicate part of his performance was the conclusion, when he was led by the constable out onto Tooley Street. Pierce did not want to disrupt the policeman's regular rhythm on the beat, so he had to disengage himself rather rapidly.

As they came into the foggy night air, he breathed deeply. "Ah," he said, "and it's a lovely evening, brisk and invigorating."

The copper looked round at the gloomy fog. "Chill enough for me," he said.

"Well, my dear fellow," Pierce said, dusting himself off and making a show of straightening up, as if the night air had sobered him, "I am most grateful for your ministrations upon this occasion, and I can assure you that I can carry on well from here."

"You're not going to be creating another nuisance?"

"My dear sir," Pierce said, standing still straighter, "what do you take me for?"

The copper looked back at the London Bridge Station. It was his business to stay on the beat; a drunk wandering in was not his responsibility once he was ejected from the premises. And London was full of drunks, especially Irish ones who talked too much.

"Stay clear of trouble, then," the cop said, and let him go.

"A good evening to you, officer," Pierce said, and bowed to the departing crusher. Then he wandered out into the fog, singing "Molly Malone."

Pierce went no farther than the end of Tooley Street, less than a block from the station entrance. There, hidden in the fog, was a cab. He looked up at the driver.

"How'd it carry off?" Barlow asked.

"Smart and tidy," Pierce said. "I gave Willy two or three minutes; it should have been enough."

"Willy's a bit glocky."

"All he has to do," Pierce said, "is twirl two locks, and he's not too glocky to bring that off." He glanced at his watch. "Well, we'll know soon enough."

And he slipped away, in the fog, back toward the station.

____________________

At eleven-thirty, Pierce had taken up a position where he could see the dispatch office stairs and the guard. The copper made his round; he waved to the jack, who waved back. The copper went on; the jack yawned, stood, and stretched.

Pierce took a breath and poised his finger on the stopwatch button.

The guard came down the stairs, yawning again, and moved off toward the W.C. He walked several paces, and then was out of sight, around a corner.

Pierce hit the button, and counted softly, "One… two… three…"

He saw Agar appear, running hard, barefooted to make no sound, and dashing up the stairs to the door.

"Four… five… six…".

Agar reached the door, twisted the knob; the door opened and Agar was inside. The door closed.

"Seven… eight… nine…"

____________________

"Ten," Agar said, panting, looking around the office. Clean Willy, grinning in the shadows in the corner, took up the count.

"Eleven… twelve… thirteen…"

Agar crossed to the already opened cabinet. He removed the first of the wax blanks from his pocket, and then looked at the keys in the cabinet.

"Crikey!" he whispered.

"Fourteen… fifteen… sixteen…"

Dozens of keys hung in the cabinet, keys of all sorts, large and small, labeled and unlabeled, all hanging on hooks. He broke into a sweat in an instant.

"Crikey!"

"Seventeen… eighteen… nineteen…"

Agar was going to fall behind. He knew it with sickening suddenness: he was already behind on the count. He stared helplessly at the keys. He could not wax them all; which were the ones to do?

"Twenty… twenty-one… twenty-two…"

Clean Willy's droning voice infuriated him; Agar wanted to run across the room and strangle the little bastard. He stared at the cabinet in a rising panic. He remembered what the other two keys looked like; perhaps these two keys were similar. He peered close at the cabinet, squinting, straining: the light in the office was bad.

"Twenty-three… twenty-four… twenty-five…"

"It's no bloody use," he whispered to himself. And then he realized something odd: each hook had only one key, except for a single hook, which had two. He quickly lifted them off. They looked like the others he had done.

"Twenty-six… twenty-seven… twenty-eight…"

He set out the first blank, and pressed one side of the first key into the blank, holding it neatly, plucking it out with his fingernail; the nail on the little finger was long, one of the hallmarks of a screwsman.

"Twenty-nine… thirty… thirty-one…"

He took the second blank, flipped the key over, and pressed it into the wax to get the other side. He held it firmly, then scooped it out.

"Thirty-two… thirty-three… thirty-four…"

Now Agar's professionalism came into play. He was falling behind-- at least five seconds off his count now, maybe more-- but he knew that at all costs he must avoid confusing the keys. It was common enough for a screwsman under pressure to make two impressions of the same side of a single key; with two keys, the chance of confusion was doubled. Quickly but carefully, he hung up the first finished key.

"Thirty-five… thirty-six… thirty-seven, Lordy," Clean Willy said. Clean Willy was looking out the glass windows, down to where the guard would be returning in less than thirty seconds.

"Thirty-eight… thirty-nine… forty…"

Swiftly, Agar pressed the second key into his third blank. He held it there just an instant, then lifted it out. There was a decent impression.

"Forty-one… forty-two… forty-three…"

Agar pocketed the blank, and plucked up his fourth wax plate. He pressed the other side of the key into the soft material.

"Forty-four… forty-five… forty-six… forty-seven…"

Abruptly, while Agar was peeling the key free of the wax, the blank cracked in two.

"Damn!"

"Forty-eight… forty-nine… fifty…"

He fished in his pocket for another blank. His fingers were steady, but there was sweat dripping from his forehead.

"Fifty-one… fifty-two… fifty-three…"

He drew out a fresh blank and did the second side again.

"Fifty-four… fifty-five…"

He plucked the key out, hung it up, and dashed for the door, still holding the final blank in his fingers. He left the office without another look at Willy.

"Fifty-six," Willy said, immediately moving to the door to lock it up.

Pierce saw Agar exit, behind schedule by five full seconds. His face was flushed with exertion.

"Fifty-seven… fifty-eight…"

Agar sprinted down the stairs, three at a time.

"Fifty-nine… sixty… sixty-one…"

Agar streaked across the station to his hiding place.

"Sixty-two… sixty-three…"

Agar was hidden.

The guard, yawning, came around the corner, still buttoning up his trousers. He walked toward the steps.

"Sixty-four," Pierce said, and flicked his watch.

The guard took up his post at the stairs. After a moment, he began humming to himself, very softly, and it was awhile until Pierce realized it was "Molly Malone."

"The distinction between base avarice and honest ambition may be exceeding fine," warned the Reverend Noel Blackwell in his 1853 treatise, On the Moral Improvement of the Human Race. No one knew the truth of his words better than Pierce, who arranged his next meeting at the Casino de Venise, on Windmill Street. This was a large and lively dance hall, brightly lit by myriad gas lamps. Young men spun and wheeled girls colorfully dressed and gay in their manner. Indeed, the total impression was one of fashionable splendor, which belied a reputation as a wicked and notorious place of assignation for whores and their clientele.

Pierce went directly to the bar, where a burly man in a blue uniform with silver lapel markings sat hunched over a drink. The man appeared distinctly uncomfortable in the casino. "Have you been here before?" Pierce asked.

The man turned. "You Mr. Simms?"

"That's right."

The burly man looked around the room, at the women, the finery, the bright lights. "No," he said, "never been before."

"Lively, don't you think?"

The man shrugged. "Bit above me," he said finally, and turned back to stare at his glass.

"And expensive," Pierce said.

The man raised his drink. "Two shillings a daffy? Aye, it's expensive."

"Let me buy you another," Pierce said, raising a gray-gloved hand to beckon the bartender. "Where do you live, Mr. Burgess?"

"I got a room on Moresby Road," the burly man said.

"I hear the air is bad there:"

Burgess shrugged. "It'll do."

"You married?"

"Aye."

The bartender came, and Pierce indicated two more drinks. "What's your wife do?"

"She sews." Burgess showed a flash of impatience. "What's this all about, then?"

"Just a little conversation," Pierce said, "to see if you want to make more money."

"Only a fool doesn't," Burgess said shortly.

"You work the Mary Blaine," Pierce said.

Burgess, with still more impatience, nodded and flicked the silver SER letters on his collar: the insignia of the South Eastern Railway.

Pierce was not asking these questions to obtain information; he already knew a good deal about Richard Burgess, a Mary Blaine scrob, or guard on the railway. He knew where Burgess lived; he knew what his wife did; he knew that they had two children, aged two and four, and he knew that the four-year-old was sickly and needed the frequent attentions of a doctor, which Burgess and his wife could not afford. He knew that their room on Moresby Road was a sgualid, peeling, narrow chamber that was ventilated by the sulfurous fumes of an adjacent gasworks.