The Lost Luggage Porter Page 5

  PART TWO

  The Garden Gate

  Chapter Five

  It was 5.55 a.m and raining hard when I pedalled up to the bike stand just outside the forecourt of the station and dashed inside. I raced past the bookstall, where the placards of the Yorkshire Post (a morning paper) read 'York Horror', but also 'Terrific February Gales at Coast'. The bookstall was long and narrow like a carriage that never moved, and I didn't care for it. The stout party in charge was laying out his murder library. As a kid, I'd been warned off light literature by my dad, with the result that I read little in the way of fiction at all, having no real liking for the heavier stuff. I had read always of the railways, and railwaymen were the ones I'd looked up to, not detectives, but it would be something to settle the Cameron business, and for the first time in weeks I was entering railway premises with some of the excitement, and some of the fear, of my engine-firing days. I felt lean, forward-thinking, useful again as I strode towards the Police Office.

  One man stood at the ticket gate. He was jumping to keep warm. I showed him my warrant card, and he said, 'OK,' still jumping. I turned left at the ticket gate thinking about Chief Inspector Weatherill. It wouldn't just be me and him. There'd be others present no doubt: Shillito, the Detective Sergeant, who was to be my governor - I'd met him shortly after being taken on. Langborne was the Charge Sergeant, and then there was Wright the Chief Clerk ... I'd yet to meet this pair.

  I hurried along under the clock on Platform Four, with the Police Office now in sight. It had two main frontages in the station: one looked westerly, facing out onto Platform Four; the other faced south, and overlooked the buffers of a bay platform, number three. The door (set into the southerly facade) was unlocked, which it hadn't been the evening before; so somebody had pitched up. I walked in. The gas was lit, but not the stove. The big desks and cabinets were like islands, and no two faced the same way.

  A few feet from the cold stove stood the cold fireplace: two chances for heat spurned, making me feel colder still. Above the mantel, instead of a painting, there was 'By-Laws and Regulations of the North Eastern Railway Company', and on the mantelshelf below stood a photograph: 'Grimsby Dock Police Football Team 1905'. I thought I recognised one of the players: Shillito, the DS. It was him all right, for the names were written along the bottom. He must have transferred from Grimsby.

  Grimsby was in the Eastern Division of the Company force, whereas York was the headquarters of the Southern Division, and Chief Inspector Weatherill was the governor of the Southern Division. The only man senior to him was Superintendent somebody or other, who was quartered at Newcastle, and boss of the whole show.

  Opposite me was a solid blue door. This led to the holding cells, I knew, of which they were two. Nobody was kept in overnight. If charged and remanded they were taken over to the regular copper shop at Tower Street, in a station hansom if need be. At the far end of the office was another blue door: Chief Inspector Weatherill's office. I walked up to it, and yanked it open just to make sure that the fellow wasn't in there.

  But he was.Salute? Yes, no. Yes.

  I saluted but might as well not've. Weatherill was sitting side on to me, looking up at his cold mantelshelf. He seemed to be gazing at a little silver cup, and I could make out the words 'TUG OF WAR' engraved on it. They were nuts on sport, this lot.

  Chief Inspector Weatherill was a big, untidy man who looked as though he'd done a lot in life. He wore a long green coat - of decent cloth but none too clean - buttoned right up to his head. He had only scraps of hair; they were of an orangey colour, and swirled about his big head like a dog chasing its tail. His nose wandered down from his eyes to his mouth by a very winding route, which made me think he might've been a prize fighter in his day. He'd been through it all right.

  'It's a good suit,' he said, turning slowly about to face me, 'nicely damped and pressed, 'n' all.'

  He stood up, walked around the desk towards me. He had his hands in his pockets, which somehow gave him a look of being about to do absolutely anything. He took his hands out of his pockets and pulled open my coat, looking at the lining. Steam came from his mouth, and a sharp smell. There was all sorts wrong with his face when seen close-to: scars, lumps, burn marks maybe. His nose seemed to have tried out lots of shapes, and settled on none in particular. His one perfect feature was his moustache, which was darker than his hair, and stretched out widely like a spirit level or the governor of a steam engine. It was there for balance.

  'You put in for the allowance?'

  'I did, sir,' I said.

  What was all this blather? When would he come to the Camerons? I could hear his breaths as they came and went through the 'tache. He was still looking at the lining of my coat - he seemed easily entranced by little things.'Best Italian silk, sir,' I said.

  'Where's your Derbies?'

  I took the handcuffs out of the side coat pocket where I kept them, and he put his hand in where they'd been.

  'Too small,' he said. 'Suit coat should be extra long in the skirt pocket to stow the Derbies. You see, a detective should have plain suiting but not ordinary suiting . . . But it's a good rig-out.'

  The room smelt of carbolic and old ash. Weatherill took a cigar out of his desk, lit it.

  '. .. But you're going to have to put it away for a while.'

  I didn't like the way he kept saying 'but'.

  'Why, sir?' I said.

  'We have some bad lads in York just at present,' he said, through smoke. 'Some shocking bad ones, but we've no notion of who they are, or where they are, or what . . .'

  He broke off to stare again at the little trophy; he didn't seem able to bring to mind the third thing he didn't know. He put his hand through the remainders of his hair, pulled at his collar.

  'Sit down,' he said suddenly, 'sit down.'

  I sat down. At last we were to start talking murder . .. But nothing at all happened for a moment, except for Weatherill taking a few pulls on his cigar.

  'You've heard of a put-up job, I take it?' he said, presently.

  'I've heard the expression, sir’ I said.

  'What do you understand by it?'

  'Well...' I said. 'It's something arranged beforehand, like.'

  'No’ said Weatherill. 'I mean, most things are arranged beforehand, wouldn't you say?'

  'Most things are on the railway, sir.'

  He thought about this bit of philosophy for a long while, or maybe he just looked as though he was thinking about it.

  'A put-up job,' he said slowly, 'is an inside job. It depends on information that can only be got from inside a locked bureau of a railway office.'

  'Is this matter touching the Cameron brothers?' I asked, at which the Chief Inspector frowned while shaking his head slightly. He looked at me narrowly, and I directed my gaze away from his face and towards the wide cabinet behind his desk. The top drawer was marked 'PLANS'.

  'I want you to go out into York’ he said, holding his hands suddenly very wide. 'And I want you to trace out the bad lads in the Company who are putting up the jobs, and the bad lads outside who they're putting 'em up to.'

  Silence in the room, clock marching on loudly.

  'How?' I said at last.

  The Chief Inspector fell to smoking, and looking at the top of his desk, and after a bit of this it struck me that I was most likely not going to get an answer. So I spoke up again, as I slowly tried to get to grips with this unexpected task I'd been given.

  'You want me to wear a different suit for the work?' I said.

  'I do that. Something in cloth of a lower grade, and I want you to stay out of the city when you're not on the job. You live at a fair distance, don't you?'

  'Three miles on the bicycle . .. well, three miles anyhow.'

  'You're not known in York, are you? I mean, it's not yet widely known that you're on the force?'

  As he spoke, the Chief Inspector was producing papers from his desk, and looking at them as if he'd never seen them before.

  'You a
re to search in all directions,' he continued, 'and once you have found these fellows, you are to become their confederate.'

  'You mean give out that I'm crooked myself?'

  He nodded, saying: 'You are to play a double game.'

  I was not chasing killers, but it struck me that there was danger in this business too, and some of my earlier excitement came back, and some of the fear.

  The Chief pushed the papers over to me. There were two piles. Pointing to the first, he said, "These are cases that have been occurring along the lines I've mentioned.' Pointing to the second bundle, he said: 'These papers are quite blank.'

  I picked these last mentioned up and looked at them. They were not quite blank. At the top of the pages were the words 'North Eastern Railway Police', neatly printed. The Chief Inspector folded his arms. I looked back at him, and he nodded at me for a while. The question why I'd been given the almost-blank sheets was on my lips, but I felt I'd asked a sight too many already

  'You're to write down the progress of your investigation on those,' he said after a while. 'At the top of each page, put "Special Report", then write "Subject" and, next to that, "Persons Wanted". Write up the report at the end of every day and send it in to me.'

  'How?' I said again.

  The Chief looked down at his boots; I heard the air moving in and out across the moustache again.

  'In the post,' he said, looking up at last.

  'In the post?'

  'Reason being you are not to be seen about this office in daylight hours. Oh, and put your hands on some carbons, so you can keep a copy of each sheet for yourself.'

  'What should I do if the matter is urgent?'

  He sat back, quite amazed at the question.

  'There are four postal collections a day in this city, you know,' he said.

  'How many hours do I give to the job, sir?' I said.

  'How many hours? You can't be clocked to this kind of business with a patent time clock, lad. Do you have any notion of where you might start?'

  'Yes,' I said. 'The Garden Gate.'

  The Chief Inspector gave a puzzled smile up towards the Tug of War cup, then turned his gaze my way.

  'Wanted!' he suddenly exclaimed. 'Nice cottage, with orchard!'

  'The Garden Gate is a public house, sir' I said. 'The haunt of some low characters so I've heard. It's in Carmelite Street.'

  'Layerthorpe way’ Weatherill said, nodding, the smile quite gone now. 'The York constables go down there two at a time, you know.'

  Nice, I thought.

  I was on the point of telling Weatherill about Edwin Lund, about the Brains and the Blocker, but it had all come to naught, after all. Instead, I finally brought up the matter of the Camerons, although again leaving myself out of the picture: 'I've read that a Company workman and his brother were shot on,' I said. 'It happened in the goods yard - bodies turned up on Sunday.'

  'Wrong,' said the Chief, loudly. 'It happened on the track outside the goods yard, and that is the most important fact in the case.'

  'Is that right, sir? Why?'

  'Because it means we don't have to bloody solve it. That track is York, not the railway; therefore what happened happened in York. Therefore Tower Street can try their luck.'

  Tower Street - the main copper shop of the York Constabulary.

  The Chief Inspector stood up once again, and opened the door that led from his office to the main one.

  'I'm stepping over to the hotel for a spot of breakfast,' he said, and I took this as the signal that I should stand up, too.

  'The Hull fish special comes in to Platform Three at 6.45 every weekday,' said Weatherill. 'You can't miss hearing it, because it thunders up as if it's about to crash through the bloody door. Now, if you need to use this office, I want you out of it by then. He took a draw on his cigar and the smoke came out in rolling chaos as he said: 'You were a footplate man yourself, weren't you, over on the Lanky?'

  'Aye,' I said.

  'What happened?'

  'They say I wrecked a locomotive, and a ten-bay engine shed.'

  The Chief looked at me.

  'It wasn't my fault,' I said.

  'How come?'

  'The steam brake wasn't warmed, and I was told it had been.'

  'You're blinding me with science now, kidder. But I can credit it.'

  He continued to look at me, nearly smiling, but expressions were hard to make out from his face. What might've started out as a smile could have easily got lost on the way.

  'Let's say a fortnight's observations and becoming familiar, Detective Stringer,' he said. 'Your wages will be sent out to you by special post. Light the stove if you want, but remember: out by quarter to.'

  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.

  Chapter Six

  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.