The Great Train Robbery Part 12

"It's no b.l.o.o.d.y 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 w.i.l.l.y said. Clean w.i.l.l.y was looking out the gla.s.s 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.

"d.a.m.n!"

"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 w.i.l.l.y.

"Fifty-six," w.i.l.l.y 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 b.u.t.toning 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."

Chapter 26.

Crossing the Mary Blaine Scrob

"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 fas.h.i.+onable splendor, which belied a reputation as a wicked and notorious place of a.s.signation for wh.o.r.es 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 gla.s.s.

"And expensive," Pierce said.

The man raised his drink. "Two s.h.i.+llings 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.

He knew that Burgess fell into the lowest-paid category of railway employee. An engine driver was paid 35 s.h.i.+llings a week; a conductor 25 s.h.i.+llings; a coachman 20 or 21; but a guard was paid 15 s.h.i.+llings a week and counted himself lucky it was not a good deal less.

Burgess's wife made ten s.h.i.+llings a week, which meant that the family lived on a total of about sixty-five pounds a year. Out of this came certain expenses--- Burgess had to provide his own uniforms--- so that the true income was probably closer to fifty-five pounds a year, and for a family of four it was a very rough go.

Many Victorians had incomes at that level, but most contrived supplements of one sort or another: extra work, tips, and a child in industry were the most common. The Burgess household had none of these. They were compelled to live on their income, and it was little wonder that Burgess felt uncomfortable in a place that charged two s.h.i.+llings a drink. It was very far beyond his means.

"What's it to be?" Burgess said, not looking at Pierce.

"I was wondering about your vision."

"My vision?"

"Yes, your eyesight."

"My eyes are good enough."

"I wonder," Pierce said, "what it would take for them to go bad."

Burgess sighed, and did not speak for a moment. Finally he said in a weary voice, "I done a stretch in Newgate a few years back. I'm not wanting to see the c.o.c.kchafer again."

"Perfectly sensible," Pierce said. "And I don't want anybody to blow my lay. We both have our fears."

Burgess gulped his drink. "What's the sweetener?"

"Two hundred quid," Pierce said.

Burgess coughed, and pounded his chest with a thick fist. "Two hundred quid," he repeated.

"That's right," Pierce said. "Here's ten now, on faith." He removed his wallet and took out two fivepound notes; he held the wallet in such a way that Burgess could not fail to notice it was bulging. He set the money on the bar top.

"Pretty a sight as a hot nancy," Burgess said, but he did not touch it. "What's the lay?"

"You needn't worry over the lay. All you need to do is worry over your eyesight."

"What is it I'm not to see, then?"

"Nothing that will get you into trouble. You'll never see the inside of a lockup again, I promise you that."

Burgess turned stubborn. "Speak plain," he said.

Pierce sighed. He reached for the money. "I'm sorry," he said,. "I fear I must take my business elsewhere."

Burgess caught his hand. "Not overquick," he said. "I'm just asking."

"I can't tell you."

"You think I'll blow on you to the crushers?"

"Such things," Pierce said, "have been known to happen."

"I wouldn't blow."

Pierce shrugged.

There was a moment of silence. Finally, Burgess reached over with his other hand and plucked away the two five-pound notes. "Tell me what I do," he said.

"It's very simple," Pierce said. "Soon you will be approached by a man who will ask you whether your wife sews your uniforms. When you meet that man, you simply... look away."

"That's all?"

"That's all."

"For two hundred quid?"

"For two hundred quid."

Burgess frowned for a moment, and then began to laugh.

"What's funny?" Pierce said.

"You'll never pull it," Burgess said. "It's not to be done, that one. There's no cracking those safes, wherever I look. Few months past, there's a kid, works into the baggage car, wants to do those safes. Have a go, I says to him, and he has a go for half an hour, and he gets no further than the tip of my nose. Then I threw him off smartly, bounced him on his noggin."

"I know that," Pierce said. "I was watching."

Burgess stopped laughing.

Pierce withdrew two gold guineas from his pocket and dropped them on the counter. "There's a dolly-mop in the corner--- pretty thing, wearing pink. I believe she's waiting for you," Pierce said, and then he got up and walked off.

Chapter 27.