Escape From Home

by Avi

  “All right now,” Toggs said, “how’d you like to earn some money?”

  “Money?”

  “You heard me. Money. Clink. Lolly. Interested?”

  After a moment, Laurence nodded.

  “Good. ’Cause I’ve got a job you can help me with.”

  “What—do—you mean, job?” Laurence stammered.

  Toggs reached out, put his hand about Laurence’s neck, and squeezed it painfully. “No objections, mate,” he snapped. “Just keep in mind I can pitch you into the water quick as a wink. Know when they’d find you?”

  Laurence shook his head.

  “Next week. Maybe. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right then, let’s have ourselves a deal. I’m needing money, and I’ve found a way to get some. And you’re going to do what I tell you to do. Can you follow that?”

  Thoroughly frightened, Laurence nodded.

  “Here’s the pitch. Down the ways a bit, by Coburg Dock, there’s a coastal trader easy on her moorings, the sniff of money fairly oozing from her. I watched as she came in, and I saw her crew—all five of them—when they went up to town. Thought they buttoned her down tight, but they didn’t. Left one porthole open. Are you following me?”

  “No, sir,” Laurence said.

  “You’re as thick as a log. Listen carefully then. A boy your size could wiggle in that porthole, see what they have, and pass it out to me.

  “We’ll make a deal. Nobody can say Ralph Toggs ain’t decent. You can remember that name, Ralph Toggs, because whatever we get, we’ll go shares. There might be as much as a few pounds for you. Depending. You might even make enough to ship off on your own, if you’d like. That’s what I intend to do with mine, go to America.”

  Laurence, alarmed about what he was being asked to do, stared wide-eyed at Toggs. But with the young man’s hand still tight around his neck, he could not move.

  “Yes or no?” Toggs demanded.

  Laurence could not speak.

  “Oh, come on now, don’t tell me you haven’t ever stole anything. You didn’t get that welt on your face licking up cream.”

  A deeply shamed Laurence shook his head.

  “All right then,” Toggs said, “so don’t put on no airs. Only I want an agreement so I know we’re square. ’Course, if we’re not square, I can always whittle you until you are.” From his back pocket, he pulled out a horn-handled knife. “You understand me now, don’t you, mate?”

  Laurence whispered, “Yes, sir. I’ll do what you say.”

  “Now you’ve got it,” Toggs said, releasing his grip as he put away his knife. “Come on. She’s not far from here.” He turned Laurence about and, with his hand resting heavy on the boy’s shoulder, moved them along the quay.

  Mindful of the knife that Toggs had shown him, Laurence kept walking.

  “Do you know why I’m going to America?” Toggs asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re too young for the girls, I suppose,” Toggs said, “but I’m not. And I met a fair one today.” He frowned. “Only she had nothing but pity for me. And when the girls show pity, it’s a sign you’ve gone soft and easy. When that happens, it’s best to get away.”

  The docks seemed deserted. The only sound—aside from the shifting of boats and the lap of water—was their own footsteps. Once, twice, Laurence thought he heard others following. In hopes that the dock policeman he’d seen might be there, he tried to look back. Toggs slapped the side of his face. “Eyes front, mate, or you’ll get a welt to your left cheek.”

  After fifteen minutes of walking, Toggs whispered, “Halt.” Laurence stopped immediately.

  “There she is,” the young man said. “Ready for a plucking.”

  Moored against the quay was a boat about fifty feet in length. She had two masts and a raised cabin in the stern. The deck was clear, except for carefully coiled ropes and cables. Her sails were lashed along the booms. Small lanterns glowed at bow and helm, making the wood trim glisten.

  “Turned out pretty nice, isn’t she?” Toggs said. “Let’s get ourselves a little closer.”

  They moved toward the stern cabin. “Here’s the way we do it,” Toggs whispered. “See that porthole up there?”

  Laurence could make out that the boat’s cabin had two round windows about five feet above wharf level. “Look carefully,” Toggs went on, “like I did, and you’ll see that window there is open an inch. Pull her, and she’ll swing out.

  “I’m going to boost you up. That way you can get the window open and wiggle yourself in. When you get there, you’re to cast about for a cash box. Know what they look like?”

  “No.”

  “Lord, what kind of a life you been living? It’ll be a metal box, with a lid. No more than this long.” He held his hands about a foot apart. “Half as wide. All these coastal boats use ’em. Seen ’em plenty of times. Mostly, they keep ’em in a cabinet. Find the box, throw it out to me. I’ll be waiting right here. Can you understand all that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Laurence replied. Once again he thought he heard the sound of footsteps. Perhaps there was a watchman about. He tried to look behind Toggs.

  “Eyes on me, lad,” the young man warned, pulling Laurence’s chin about sharply.

  Laurence stared up at him with wide eyes.

  “Have any questions?”

  Laurence shook his head.

  “All right then, quicklike,” Toggs ordered. “The money box, understand?”

  His hand on the boy’s neck again, Toggs edged up to the side of the boat. “I’ll make a stirrup of my hands,” he whispered. “Don’t you try to make a break for it, understand? I can run a lot faster than you. And besides—” He slapped his hand to his knife. “Don’t think about doing nothing when you get in either. I can just as well stay here till the crew comes back. I’ll tell ’em I caught a thief on their boat. So you do as I tell you.” He bent into a stooping posture and linked his fingers.

  Laurence, knowing he had no choice, placed his right foot in the hands, gripped Toggs’s shoulder, and pulled himself up. As he did, Toggs lifted. Quickly, Laurence rose even with the porthole. He took hold of it. As Toggs had predicted, it swung open.

  “That’s it!” he called up. “Now haul yourself in.”

  The porthole was nearly two feet in diameter, wide enough.

  “All right now,” Toggs said, “I’m going to give you another boost!” This one enabled Laurence to thrust his arms inside, then his head. From below, he felt another sudden push. As if he were sausage meat being stuffed into its casing, Laurence was all but forced into the cabin.

  He landed on the upper level of a bunk bed. For a moment he just lay there, trying desperately to still his heart. He looked about. The only light came from the outside helm lantern.

  The little cabin contained two double bunks, one on either side. Against the stern wall was a table, over which a cabinet hung. In the middle of the floor was a small potbellied stove facing a doorway. Laurence guessed it led to the main deck.

  “Are you there?” he heard Toggs say. “Can you hear me?”

  Laurence closed his eyes. He wondered what would happen if he did nothing, just stayed where he was. But what if this Mr. Toggs came after him? And even if Toggs could not get at him and he remained in the cabin, what would he do when the crew came back—as surely they would? How could he explain what he was doing there?

  “Did you find the box, mate?” his tormentor hissed. “Let me hear you!”

  Laurence leaned toward the porthole. “I’m looking,” he called in his high-pitched voice.

  “Be quick about it!”

  Laurence let himself down onto the floor of the cabin. From there he reached up to the cabinet door and gave a yank.

  Inside were a few dishes and cups, a Bible, and a metal box, exactly as Toggs had described.

  “Have you got it?” Laurence heard Toggs call with growing impatience.

  Not answering, the boy put the box on the
table. It was heavy. He slid back the hasp and flipped the lid open. The box was full of money, mostly coins, but with enough bills to remind Laurence of the drawer in his father’s table. Tension twisted his stomach.

  “I’ll cut your throat if you don’t get that box to me fast!” he heard from outside.

  Still Laurence did not move. “It’s wrong,” he murmured. “It’s wrong!” With a feeling of intense physical pain, he shut the lid and shoved the box back into the cabinet. Moaning with fear, he turned back to the porthole.

  Just as he did, he heard the sound of a harsh rattle. It came three times. A constable!

  In a panic, Laurence scrambled to the top bunk and peered out the porthole just in time to see Toggs fleeing down the quay. Not one but two dock policemen were in close pursuit, twirling their rattles and shouting. For a second Laurence watched, fascinated. The next moment he realized his opportunity and began to squeeze out the porthole, headfirst. So quickly did he slip through that he tumbled down, making a complete somersault onto the dock and landing with an enormous thud. Dazed, he could not see. But he could hear.

  “Get yourself up!” a voice cried into his ear. “Hurry!”

  It was late in the afternoon when Mr. Pickler stepped out of the second-class carriage in Liverpool. He stretched his legs, brushed his jacket, set his bowler securely upon his head, and, with birdlike eyes, looked about. What he observed were goodly numbers of people—some with children—traveling with trunks and bundles. Emigrants all, he presumed. Mr. Pickler bobbed his head. As far as he was concerned only failures emigrated. Their going could only make England a better place. Congratulating himself that he—and his family—were secure, he concentrated on the task at hand.

  After noting the time on the large clock against a wall, Mr. Pickler set himself to observe the flow of porters, policemen, train guards, and ticket agents, as well as the variety of those selling food.

  He began his interrogations with a ticket seller. “Can you tell me, please,” he inquired, “when the first train from London arrived this morning?”

  “The night train from London, sir? Well now, it usually gets in at about half past eight. Runs fairly to schedule too.”

  “Thank you, my good man.”

  Mr. Pickler approached a police constable. Having first determined that the man was on duty at the time of the morning train’s arrival from London, he described Laurence and presented the daguerreotype, putting particular stress on the boy’s ragged state. “Might you,” he asked, “recall seeing such a boy this morning?”

  The constable, even as he took the picture, replied, “Runaway, eh?”

  “Let us just say he is not at home.”

  “No end to ’em, sir! Come from all over, they do. Like they were running from the plague. Which is just what our Inspector Knox thinks of ’em, sir, a plague.” The constable handed the daguerreotype back. “I can’t say I saw this one. If you want the truth, sir, they all look alike to me.”

  In all, Mr. Pickler interviewed fourteen people, not one of whom had the slightest recollection of the boy he described. It was only when he spoke to a girl selling sugar buns that he met with success.

  To begin he showed her Laurence’s picture. “Did you happen to see a boy looking like this?”

  The girl squinted at the image. “Maybe, sir, a bit. Though not nearly so fine as that there. Early this morning it was, and the London train just in. It was my first sale. And the one I saw had a welt here, sir.” She touched the right side of her face.

  “A welt, you say?”

  “Looked nasty, sir. I shouldn’t like to have gotten it. Must of had himself a nasty time.”

  “Can you recall anything else particular about him?” the investigator asked.

  “Like I said, sir, he was ragged. And very hungry.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Indeed he was, sir. The man he was with ordered three buns for him. My first sale and the best of the day. That boy—he looked very pinched, he did—swallowed the first bun in a gulp.”

  Mr. Pickler felt a stir of excitement. His judgment was proving right—the boy had been abducted. “And you say this boy was with a man?”

  “Oh, yes, sir, and a very pleasant gentleman he was too. Took particular care of the boy, he did. When he saw how hungry the boy was, he ordered a third bun.”

  “Listen sharp now. Was it the man or the boy who paid?”

  “The gentleman, sir. Tipped me jolly well too.”

  “Now then,” Mr. Pickler said as he reached into his pocket and held up a shilling, “you’ve been most helpful. Can you tell me what the man looked like?”

  At the sight of the coin, the girl positively glowed. She described Mr. Clemspool eagerly. “Very jolly he was, sir, plump and full of good humor. Top hat—but he was bald, sir, like one of these buns, if you’ll forgive me saying so. Gloves and greatcoat as well as traveling bag. A gentleman.”

  “Any notion where the man and the boy were going?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir. Out of the station, I suppose. I just sell buns. I don’t knows what happens to them who eats ’em.”

  “Lastly,” Mr. Pickler concluded, still holding up the coin, “did, perchance, the boy refer to the gentleman by name?”

  “If he did so, sir, it’s nothing I can recall.”

  The investigator thanked the girl, gave her the coin, then rushed out of the station and onto the street. His first sight was of St. George Hall. For a moment he remained motionless, absorbed by its sheer size. England, he thought, at its greatest. And he was part of it! The thought made his spirits soar. Full of energy, he turned toward the commercial streets. They were thronged. Mr. Pickler was not sure what he expected to find, but when he looked about, it was difficult not to feel frustrated. Laurence, he now knew for a certainty, had reached Liverpool. What’s more, he was with his abductor. Where had they gone? They could be anywhere!

  Mr. Pickler had decided to make the rounds of ship ticket offices when he caught sight of the hansom cabs by the curb.

  Might Laurence and the man have taken a cab? To ask the question was to have an answer. Of course they would have.

  Briskly, he walked past a crowd of people to the head of the line. “Hello there!” he called up to the first driver on the line.

  “You’ll want to queue up like the others, mate,” he was told sharply.

  “I’m not looking to hire,” Mr. Pickler returned. “I’m merely looking for information.”

  “What sort?” came the suspicious rejoinder.

  Mr. Pickler described Laurence and the mysterious man. “Did you, perchance, carry those two anywhere this morning early? They came in on the first London train.”

  “Never saw ’em” was the reply.

  Two frustrating hours later, Mr. Pickler was still asking the same question. It was an older man with a gray beard and wearing a green scarf who remembered the pair well.

  “I do recollect my fares, sir, the way your preacher recollects the pages of his good book. The boy was filthy and had a red welt on his cheek. Here.” He touched the right side of his face. “Fact is, the man gave me an extra shilling to take him on.”

  “Did he?”

  “Blamed the boy’s filth on the railroad, for whatever that’s worth. You don’t want to question your passengers too closely, do you? Just enough to get an understanding.”

  “Might you remember where you took the pair?”

  “Royalton Hotel. Grove Street.”

  “Can you take me there?”

  “If you can pay the fare, sir, I’ll trot you around the world.”

  “The Royalton Hotel would be good enough,” Mr. Pickler cried as he leaped into the carriage.

  The ride was not long. On the way Mr. Pickler studied his bowler. He was quite certain that the boy had very little—if any—of the money he’d taken from his father. His tattered clothing and the fact that the man purchased the buns and hired the cab suggested that. As for the man, he was a bounder, obviously. Probably t
ook the boy’s money too. No doubt it was he who had bruised his cheek. The mere thought of it stirred Mr. Pickler’s wrath. What kind of scoundrel would strike a child!

  Upon reaching the hotel, Mr. Pickler paid and tipped the driver well. Waving aside the uniformed hotel attendant, he stood on the curb and studied the building a moment: Four stories high, it stood to the right of a private establishment of approximately the same height. To the left was another such building but one less tall and flat roofed.

  Next, Mr. Pickler took the precaution of strolling around the block to the Royalton’s rear entrance. No sooner had he turned the corner than he caught sight of an open window on the fourth floor. Dangling out of it was what appeared to be a curtain. Mr. Pickler stared at it, then abruptly returned to the hotel’s main entrance. In the lobby, he approached the man sitting behind the reception desk.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” the investigator began, trying to restrain the anxiety he felt. “I should like to speak to the person or persons who would have received guests this morning. Somewhere between the hours of nine and ten.”

  The man behind the desk looked at Mr. Pickler suspiciously. “And who might you be, sir?” he asked with some coolness.

  Mr. Pickler inclined his head slightly. “I am here,” he said, keeping his voice low, “on the authority of Lord Kirkle.” He handed over his own calling card.

  The man glanced at it, colored, and immediately came to his feet. “Mr. Pickler, sir, my name is Mr. Hudson. If there is some problem, perhaps I can be of help.” He rubbed his hands together nervously.

  “There is reason to believe,” Mr. Pickler said, “that Lord Kirkle’s son may have been abducted.”

  “Good gracious!”

  “Further, there is a likelihood that he is lodged—against his will—in this very hotel.”

  The redness in Mr. Hudson’s face drained away. “But, sir, how could that be?”

  Mr. Pickler bobbed his head. “I’m not prepared to discuss the how, sir. I first need to know if you have any knowledge of a man who arrived with a boy this morning.” He showed the daguerreotype. “Is this the boy?”

  “It—it may be,” stammered Mr. Hudson, deciding he had best cooperate. “I—I think you must be referring to … Mr. Clemspool.”