Michael Crichton - The Great Train Robbery

by The Great Train Robbery (lit)

  In London, the Metropolitan Police, founded by Sir Robert Peel in 1829, was headquartered in a district known as Scotland Yard. Scotland Yard was originally, a geographical term, denoting an area of Whitehall that contained many government buildings. These buildings included the official residence of the surveyor of works to the crown, which was occupied by Inigo Jones, and later by Sir Christopher Wren. John Milton lived in Scotland Yard when he was working for Oliver Cromwell from 1649 to 1651, and it is apparently from this association that a slang reference for police, two hundred years later, was "miltonian."

  When Sir Robert Peel located the new Metropolitan Police in Whitehall, the correct address, for the headquarters was No. 4 Whitehall Place, but the police station there had an entrance from Scotland Yard proper, and the press always referred to the police as Scotland Yard, until the term became synonymous with the force itself.

  Scotland Yard grew rapidly in its early years; in 1829 the total force was 1,000, but a decade later it was 3,350, and by 1850 it was more than 6,000, and would increase to 10,000 by 1870. The task of the Yard was extraordinary: it was called upon to policy crime in an area of nearly seven hundred square miles, containing a population of two and a half million people.

  From the beginning, the Yard adopted a posture of deference and modesty in its manner of solving crimes; the official explanations always mentioned lucky breaks of one sort or another--- an anonymous informant, a jealous mistress, a surprise encounter--- to a degree that was hard to believe. In fact, the Yard employed informers and plainclothesmen, and these agents were the subject of heated debate for the now familiar reason that many in the public feared that an agent might easily provoke a crime and then arrest the participants. Entrapment was a hot political issue of the day, and the Yard was at pains to defend itself.

  In 1855, the principal figure in the Yard was Richard Mayne, "a sensible lawyer," who had done much to improve the public attitude toward the Metropolitan Police. Directly under him was Mr. Edward Harranby, and it was Harranby who oversaw the ticklish business of working with undercover agents and informers. Usually Mr. Harranby kept irregular hours; he avoided contact with the press, and from his office could be seen strange figures coming and going, often at night.

  In the late afternoon of May 17th, Harranby lead a conversation with his assistant, Mr. Jonathan Sharp. Mr. Harranby reconstructed the conversation in his memoirs, Days on the Force, published in 1879. The conversation must be taken with some reservations, for in that volume Harranby was attempting to explain why he did not succeed in thwarting Pierce's robbery plans before they were carried out.

  Sharp said to him, "The snakesman blew, and we have had a look at our man."

  "What sort is he?" Harranby said.

  "He appears a gentleman. Probably a cracksman or a swell mobsman. The snakesman says he's from Manchester, but he lives in a fine house in London."

  "Does he know where?"

  "He says he's been there, but he doesn't know the exact location. Somewhere in Mayfair."

  "We can't go knocking on doors in Mayfair," Harranby said. "Can we assist his powers of memory?"

  Sharp sighed. "Possibly."

  "Bring him in. I'll have a talk with him. Do we know the intended crime?"

  Sharp shook his head. "The snakesman says he doesn't know. He's afraid of being mizzled, you know, he's reluctant to blow all he knows. He says this fellow's planning a flash pull."

  Harranby turned irritable. "That is of remarkably little value to me," he said. "What, exactly, is the crime? There's our question, and it begs a proper answer. Who is on this gentleman now?"

  "Cramer and Benton, sir."

  "They're good men. Keep them on his trail, and let's have the nose in my office, and quickly."

  "I'll see to it myself, sir," the assistant said.

  Harranby later wrote in his memoirs: "There are times in any professional's life when the elements requisite for the deductive process seem almost within one's grasp, and yet they elude the touch. These are the times of greatest frustration, and such was the case of the Robbery of 1855."

  Chapter 34

  The Nose Is Crapped

  Clean Willy, very nervous, was drinking at the Hound's Tooth pub. He left there about six and headed straight for the Holy Land. He moved swiftly through the evening crowds, then ducked into an alley; he jumped a fence, slipped into a basement, crossed it, crawled through a passage into an adjoining building, climbed up the stairs, came out onto a narrow street, walked half a block, and disappeared into another house, a reeking nethersken.

  Here he ascended the stairs to the second floor, climbed out onto the roof, jumped to an adjacent roof, scrambled up a drainpipe to the third floor of a lodging house, crawled in through a window, and went down the stairs to the basement.

  Once in the basement, he crawled through a tunnel that brought him out on the opposite side of the street, where he came up into a narrow mews. By a side door, he entered a pub house, the Golden Arms, looked around, and exited from the front door.

  He walked to the end of the street, and then turned in to the entrance of another lodging house. Immediately he knew that something was wrong; normally there were children yelling and scrambling all over the stairs, but now the entrance and stairs were deserted silent. He paused at the doorway, and was just about to turn and flee when a rope snaked out and twisted around his neck, yanking him into a dark corner.

  Clean Willy had a look at Barlow, with the white scar across his forehead, as Barlow strained on the garrotting rope. Willy coughed, and struggled, but Barlow's strength was such that the little snakesman was literally lifted off the floor, his feet kicking in the air, his hands pulling at the rope.

  This struggle continued for the better part of a minute, and then Clean Willy's face was blue, and his tongue protruded gray, and his eyes bulged. He urinated down his pants leg, and then his body sagged.

  Barlow let him drop to the floor. He unwound the rope from his neck, removed the two five-pound notes from the snakesman's pocket, and slipped away into the street. Clean Willy's body lay huddled in a corner and did not move. Many minutes passed before the first of the children reemerged, and approached the corpse cautiously. Then the children stole the snakesman's shoes, and all his clothing, and scampered away.

  Chapter 35

  Plucking the Pigeon

  Sitting in the third-floor room of the accommodation house with Agar, Pierce finished his cigar and sat up in his chair. "We are very lucky," he said finally.

  "Lucky? Lucky to have jacks on our nancy five days before the pull?"

  "Yes, lucky," Pierce said. "What if Willy blew?' He'd tell them we knocked over the London Bridge Terminus."

  "I doubt he'd blow so much, right off. He'd likely tickle them for a bigger push." An informant was in the habit of letting out information bit by bit, with a bribe from the police at each step.

  "Yes," Pierce said, "but we must take the chance that he did. Now, that's why we are lucky."

  "Where's the luck, then?" Agar said.

  "In the fact that London Bridge is the only station in the city with two lines operating from it. The South Eastern, and the London & Greenwich."

  "Aye, that's so," Agar said, with a puzzled look.

  "We need a bone nose to blow on us," Pierce said.

  "You giving the crushers a slum?"

  "They must have something to keep them busy," Pierce said. "In five days' time, we'll pull the peters on that train, and I don't want the crushers around to watch."

  "Where do you want them?"

  "I was thinking of Greenwich," Pierce said. "It would be pleasant if they were in Greenwich."

  "So you're needing a bone nose to pass them the slang."

  "Yes," Pierce said.

  Agar thought for a moment. "There's a dolly-mop, Lucinda, in Seven Dials. They say she knows one or two miltonians--- dabs it up with them whenever they pinch her, which is often, seeing as how they like the dabbing."

  "No," Pi
erce said. "They wouldn't believe a woman; it'll look like a feed to them."

  "Well, there's Black Dick, the turfite. Know him? He's a Jew, to be found about the Queen's Crown of an evening."

  "I know him," Pierce nodded. "Black Dick's a lushington, too fond of his gin. I need a true bone nose, a man of the family."

  "A man of the family? Then Chokee Bill will do you proper."

  "Chokee Bill? That old mick?"

  Agar nodded. "Aye, he's a lag, did a stretch in Newgate. But not for long."

  "Oh, yes?" Pierce was suddenly interested. A shortened prison sentence often implied that the man had made a deal to turn nose, to become an informer. "Got his ticket-of-leave early, did he?"

  "Uncommon early," Agar said. "And the crushers gave him his broker's license quick-like, too. Very odd, seeing as he's a mick." Pawnbrokers were licensed by the police, who shared the usual prejudice against Irishmen.

  "So he's in the uncle trade now?" Pierce said.

  "Aye," Agar said. "But they say he deals barkers now and again. And they say he's a blower."

  Pierce considered this at length, and finally nodded. "Where is Bill now?"

  "His uncling shop is in Battersea, on Ridgeby Way."

  "I'll see him now," Pierce said, getting to his feet. "I'll have a go at plucking the pigeon."

  "Don't make it too easy," Agar warned.

  Pierce smiled. "It will take all their best efforts." He went to the door.

  "Here, now," Agar called to him, with a sudden thought. "It just came to me mind: what's there for a flash pull in Greenwich, of all places?"

  "That," Pierce said, "is the very question the crushers will be asking themselves."

  "But is there a pull?"

  "Of course."

  "A flash pull?"

  "Of course."

  "But what is it, then?"

  Pierce shook his head. He grinned at Agar's perplexed look and left the room.

  When Pierce came out of the accommodation house, it was twilight. He immediately saw the two crushers lurking at opposite corners of the street. He made a show of looking nervously about, then walked to the end of the block, where he hailed a cab.

  He rode the cab several blocks, then jumped out quickly at a busy part of Regent Street, crossed the thoroughfare, and took a hansom going in the opposite direction. To all appearances, he was operating with the utmost cunning. In fact, Pierce would never bother with the crossover fakement to dodge a tail; it was a glocky ploy that rarely worked, and when he glanced out of the small back window of the hansom cab, he saw that he had not thrown off his pursuers.

  He rode to the Regency Arms pub house, a notorious place. He entered it, exited from a side door (which was in plain view of the street), and crossed over to New Oxford Street, where he caught another cab. In the process, he lost one of the crushers, but the other was still with him. Now he proceeded directly across the Thames, to Battersea, to see Chokee Bill.

  __________

  The image of Edward Pierce, a respectable and well-dressed gentleman, entering the dingy premises of a Battersea pawnbroker may seem incongruous from a modern perspective. At the time, it was not at all uncommon, for the pawnbroker served more than the lower classes, and whomever he served, his function was essentially the same: to act as a sort of impromptu bank, operating more cheaply than established banking concerns. A person could buy an expensive article, such as a coat, and hock it one week to pay the rent; reclaim it a few days later, for wearing on Sunday; hock it again on Monday, for a smaller loan; and so on until there was no further need for the broker's services.

  The pawnbroker thus filled an important niche in the the society, and the number of licensed pawnshops doubled during the mid-Victorian period. Middle-class people were drawn to the broker more for the anonymity of the loan than the cheapness of it; many a respectable household did not wish it known that some of their silver was uncled for cash. This was, after all, an era when many people equated economic prosperity and good fiscal management with moral behavior; and conversely, to be in need of a loan implied some kind of misdeed.

  The pawnshops themselves were not really very shady, although they had that reputation. Criminals seeking fences usually turned to unlicensed, second-hand goods "translators," who were not regulated by the police and were less likely to be under surveillance. Thus, Pierce entered the door beneath the three balls with impunity.

  He found Chokee Bill, a red-faced Irishman whose complexion gave the appearance of perpetual near strangulation, sitting in a back corner. Chokee Bill jumped to his feet quickly, recognizing the dress and manner of a gentleman.

  "Evening, sir," Bill said.

  "Good evening," Pierce said.

  "How may I be serving you, sir?"

  Pierce looked around the shop. "Are we alone?"

  "We are, sir, as my name is Bill, sir." But Chokee Bill got a guarded look in his eyes.

  "I am looking to make a certain purchase," Pierce said. As he spoke, he adopted a broad Liverpool dockyard accent, though ordinarily he had no trace of it.

  "A certain purchase ..."

  "Some items you may have at hand," Pierce said.

  "You see my shop; sir," Chokee Bill said, with a wave of his arm. "All is before you."

  "This is all?"

  "Aye, sir, whatever you may see."

  Pierce shrugged. "I must have been told wrongly. Good evening to you." And he headed for the door.

  He was almost there when Chokee Bill coughed. "What is it you were told, sir?"

  Pierce looked back at him. "I need certain rare items."

  "Rare items," Chokee Bill repeated. "What manner, of rare items, sir?"

  "Objects of metal," Pierce said, looking directly at the pawnbroker. He found all this circumspection tedious, but it was necessary to convincthe genuineness of his transaction.

  "Metal, you say?"

  Pierce made a deprecating gesture with his hands. "It is a question of defense, you see.

  "Defense."

  "I have valuables, property, articles of worth... And therefore I need defense. Do you take my meaning?"

  "I take your meaning," Bill said. "And I may have v such a thing as you require."

  "Actually," Pierce said, looking around the shop again, as if to reassure himself that he was truly alone with the proprietor, "actually, I need five."

  "Five barkers?" Chokee Bill's eyes widened in astonishment.

  Now that his secret was out, Pierce became very nervous. "That's right," he said, glancing this way and that, "five is what I need."

  "Five's a goodly number," Bill said, frowning.

  Pierce immediately edged toward the door. "Well, if you can't snaffle them---"

  "Wait, now," Bill said, "I'm not saying can't. You never heard me say can't. All's I said is five is a goodly number, which it is, right enough."

  "I was told you had them at hand," Pierce said, still nervous.

  "I may."

  "Well, then, I should like to purchase them at once."

  Chokee Bill sighed. "They're not here, sir--- you can count on that--- a man doesn't keep barkers about in an uncle shop, no, sir."

  "How quickly can you get them?"

  As Pierce became more agitated, Chokee Bill became more calm, more appraising. Pierce could almost see his mind working, thinking over the meaning of a request for five pistols. It implied a major crime, and no mistake. As a blower, he might make a penny or two if he knew the details.

  "It would be some days, sir, and that's the truth," Bill said.

  "I cannot have them now?"

  "No, sir, you'd have to give me a space of time, and then I'll have them for you, right enough."

  "How much time?"

  There followed a long silence. Bill went so far as to mumble to himself, and tick off the days on his fingers. "A fortnight would be safe."

  "A fortnight!"

  "Eight days, then."

  "Impossible," Pierce said, talking aloud to himself. "In eight days, I mu
st be in Greenw---" He broke off. "No," he said. "Eight days is too long."

  "Seven?" Bill asked.

  "Seven," Pierce said, staring at the ceiling. "Seven, seven... seven days... Seven days is Thursday next?"

  "Aye, Sir"

  At what hour on Thursday next?"

  "A question of timing, is it?" Bill asked, with a casualness that was wholly unconvincing.

  Pierce just stared at him.

  "I don't mean to pry, sir," Bill said quickly.

  "Then see you do not. What hour on Thursday?"

  "Noon."

  Pierce shook his head. "We will never come to terms. It is impossible and I---"

  "Here, now--- here, now. What hour Thursday must it be?"

  "No later than ten o'clock in the morning."

  Chokee Bill reflected. "Ten o'clock here?"

  "Yes."

  "And no later?"

  "Not a minute later."

  "Will you be coming yourself, then, to collect them?"

  Once again, Pierce gave him a stern look. "That hardly need concern you. Can you supply the pieces or not?"

  "I can," Bill said. "But there's an added expense for the quick service."

  "That will not matter," Pierce said, and gave him ten gold guineas. "You may have this on account"

  Chokee Bill looked at the coins, turned them over in his palm. "I reckon this is the half of it."

  "So be it."

  "And the rest will be paid in kind?"

  "In gold, yes."

  Bill nodded. "Will you be needing shot as well?"

  "What pieces are they?"

  "Webley 48-bore, rim-fire, holster models, if my guess is right."

  "Then I will need shot."

  "Another three guineas for shot," Chokee Bill said blandly.