SV - 01 - Sergeant Verity and the Cracksman

by Francis Selwyn

  At last he saw a cropped, grizzled head, and Cazamian shouldered his way through the crowd towards the luggage office, a sheet of paper in his hand. Within a few minutes he reappeared with the clerk, Cazamian talking insistently and the other man looking puzzled. The clerk locked the office door, tested it, and then they both set off towards the end of the train, their heads bent in argument.

  A single railway policeman, easily distinguishable by his stovepipe hat and long, belted tunic, stood about forty feet away. That at least was no problem, and in any case the man was looking in the opposite direction. Dacre reached the door and faced it, his exact movement covered by his cloak. Yet this was the easiest part, so long as his silk hat, his cloak with its deep blue lining, and his clothes immaculately cut by Mr Sporrer of Bond Street, afforded their necessary protection. Even a railway constable might hesitate to challenge a man who looked and acted so obviously like a director of the railway company. Each director, in return for his investment, had the personal power to appoint, promote, and even to dismiss, such individual employees as he chose. The servants of the company were not over-anxious to quarrel with their directors.

  From his pocket, Dacre had slid a key, an exact imitation of the one brought him by Cazamian, except that the metal of this one shone bright and raw, where he had filed the last indentations to make a precise copy. But no key that was made "blind," without the chance of testing it on the lock, was ever perfect. The perfection lay in the bony, agile fingers of a man like Dacre. His key entered the door-lock easily enough, but jarred against a tumbler as he tried to turn it. If the lock were found damaged the whole scheme would be ruined. There must be no force. He drew the key back a little and turned slowly, feeling the tumblers move. It scraped lightly against the barrel of the lock, but there was no harm in that. He opened the door, stepped inside, and then carefully locked himself in. A single oil lamp by the clerk's stool still lit the bare wooden room. The windows were uncurtained, but being of frosted glass there was no danger of his being spied on. He opened the little wicket and let himself through to the clerk's side of the counter, setting eyes for the first time on the cupboard in which the keys of the bullion safe were kept.

  It was built into the counter, close to the clerk's stool, and its door was of sheet iron. Dacre folded his cloak into a rough cushion and knelt upon it, taking two small tins from his pocket and a notecase, which unfolded as a wallet of slender metal probes. Pulling off his white kid gloves by the fingertips, he examined the lock, and his heart beat faster with the knowledge that it was a difficult one, but possible for Verney Dacre.

  It was not a Chubb, but a Bramah. A few years before, at the Great Exhibition, he had watched with professional sympathy the humiliation of Mr Hobbs, an honest but nimble-fingered American locksmith. Hobbs had accepted a public challenge from Joseph Bramah to open such a lock before an audience. He had toiled for nineteen hours and merely succeeded in breaking the lock, which a common sneak-thief with a drayman's muscles could have done. But Verney Dacre must succeed where Hobbs had failed, and must succeed quickly. If he took nineteen minutes, let alone nineteen hours, he could expect to spend the rest of his life in a prison settlement.

  The Bramah offered him nothing but the tiniest mouth with an even tinier tongue of metal inside, over which the key would fit, if he had had a key. And that was all. A solid curtain of iron masked the rest of the mechanism. Dacre felt a physical tightening round his throat, the dry pressure of controlled fear, like a coarse velvet noose. The Bramah used no tumblers and was proof against any single probe or pick known to the criminal world. It worked on a simple and almost perfect principle.

  Round the central tongue, which he could see, and lying paralled to it, were eight iron "sliders." When the lock was closed, a powerful spring kept them pressed forward towards its mouth. Each slider had a tiny knob upon it. Within the cylindrical iron barrel of the lock were eight notches, cut at varying depths from the mouth. In order to open the Bramah, the eight sliders had to be pushed back simultaneously by varying distances, until each engaged in its secret and individual notch. Once that had happened, the powerful spring was no longer able to force them forwards. The twist of the key would then turn the barrel of the lock, releasing the bolt. It was easily done with a key which had been cut to push each slider back by the required distance. But the movements were calculated within fractions of a millimetre. The cracksman who could not see the inside of the lock (and the iron shield with its tiny keyhole made certain that he should see virtually nothing) might just as well give up the job.

  All this and much more went through Verney Dacre's mind, as he wiped his moist palms on his trousers. The heat of the summer day had left the little building intolerably warm under its tin roof, but he felt the exultation that came from the challenge. To enter such a lock and make it move at his command gave him an intensity of pleasure which some of his brother subalterns had claimed to find in the entry and possession of a woman's body.

  From the open wallet beside him, he took two slender half-cylinders of metal, each smaller than a hollowed half of the tiniest pencil split lengthwise. Moving cautiously towards the oil-lamp, he held each of them in turn above the flame, twisting them to and fro until they were coated with an oily black carbon from the smoke. There was no time to "smoke" the lock itself, but this was the next best thing. He drew back, mopping the water which started in his pale blue eyes at the heat and smoke of the lamp. Kneeling down again, he slid the first tiny half-cylinder into the hole of the lock, keeping it over the central tongue of metal and away from the wall of the lock barrel. When it would slide in no further, he moved it slowly but firmly into contact with the barrel wall, twisting it gently half an inch or so in either direction, in the motion of a key. Though his eyes were a little blurred once more by the nervous watering which the oil-lamp had started, his white, skeletal hands moved with the smooth sensitivity of a watch-maker's or a surgeon's. Then he withdrew the first half-cylinder and repeated the operation with its twin on the other side of the keyhole. When the two halves were placed together, they formed something like the shaft of a key.

  More important, when they had been brought briefly into contact with the barrel of the lock, it had left its markings on the oily carbon with which they were covered. To the unpractised eye, the scrapes and smears were indecipherable, but Verney Dacre read them as though they were plain as italic script. On each of the half-cylinders there were four tiny patches where the black coating had hardly been disturbed. They told him at a glance the position of the eight notches in to which the eight sliders must go.

  He took another probe from his wallet, far too thick even to enter the little keyhole, but it was merely the handle of a device, known as a "Hair Trigger" because of the delicacy and practice needed to operate it. Into this handle could be screwed a number of iron needles, adjusted at varying depths. When they were in place, the hair trigger appeared like a rough key whose shaft was split into long, uneven segments. To Dacre, this was the key to all the Bramah locks in existence.

  He checked again to ensure that the length of the iron segments corresponded to the varying depths of the marks left by the lock barrel on the carbon-coated probes. Then he eased the makeshift and fragile-looking key over the metal tongue of the lock, sliding it deeper into the barrel, until he felt it touch the metal sliders and the powerful pressure of the spring which held them forward. He pressed the hair trigger forward by no more than another eighth of an inch and gently twisted it sideways, still pressing forward, feeling the contours of the lock as they were transmitted through the pressures on his fingertips. He felt the sliders yield and there was a tiny, well-oiled click as they fell into the notches of the barrel. But for all the pressure he could put on the hair trigger, the barrel of the lock would make only a three-quarter turn, and the iron bolt remained closed.

  He took a deep gasp of air, realising that for the last half minute he had been holding his breath in anticipation. He withdrew the hair trigger, lea
ving the lock in its three-quarters position, and inserted the slenderest of probes. One slider had failed to reach its notch, by a millimetre or less. He coaxed it backwards, the whole pressure of the lock-spring driving the probe like a needle into the palm of his hand. The pain was nothing, what mattered more was that the diminutive probe should not snap under the stress. He held his breath again, angling the instrument to take all the pressure along its central axis. A single bead of blood trickled down the lifeline crease of his palm. But the probe held. He felt the slider give way and then engage the notch on the barrel. When he used the hair trigger again, the barrel of the lock completed its circle, and the bolt was drawn back with a soft thud.

  As he swung the iron-plated door open, he saw that a variety of keys hung in the cupboard. Indeed, it struck him as quaint that, after the imposing iron door, the other surfaces of the cupboard were made of wood. However, one did not discover that until the door was open. He recognised the keys of the bullion safe at once. It was a moment's work to open his two tins, each packed with soft, bile-coloured wax which smelt of cobblers' shops, and to press each key twice, keeping their impressions in separate boxes. Some men were happy with one impression of a key, but they were the men who bungled their trade. Dacre knew too well that a key which appears plain enough on one side may be bedevilled by irregularities on the other. When he had finished, he wiped the keys carefully on his silk handkerchief. In a few more weeks, the South Eastern Railway Company, and Scotland Yard, would have cause to examine them with microscopic care. When that happened, there must be no specks of soft wax there. It was such trifles which led to an examination of the cupboard lock, a strict interrogation of the traffic clerk, and a perusal of all those whose names appeared in the clerk's ledger. One of the names was Verney Dacre's, and the clerk would remember him.

  As he was putting the keys back, the wooden building vibrated with a heavy blow against the door, which froze Dacre's movements and made his heart jump to his throat. There was no more. He knew it was Ned Roper's signal that the traffic clerk had started to make his way back from the train. Two such blows meant that the man had reached the end of the platform, and that Dacre must leave then or never. After that, Ned Roper could be counted upon to scamper for the darkest alleys of Shadwell or Wapping, until his accomplice was safely chained aboard a convict hulk, with his head shaved, and a diet of oatmeal to graze and make callous his intestines, so that he might not be a burden on his captors for too long.

  Dacre replaced the bullion keys and closed the iron door of the cupboard. When he inserted the hair trigger, the barrel of the lock refused to budge. It was impossible to leave the door unfastened without having to abandon his entire scheme. He took a chance on the same obstinate slider. With a hooked probe, he lifted it clear of its notch and it sprang forward with all the power of the lock behind it, in a blow that might have broken the finger of an inexpert cracksman. Then he tried the hair trigger again and the bolt closed softly. As he was measuring with his probe to ensure that all was as it should be, Roper's heel crashed twice against the door. But Verney Dacre could no more have left his masterpiece at this moment than he could have left a woman's body at the moment of a most intense explosion of pleasure. Let them take him, if necessary, he would not abandon it all now.

  When he was satisfied that nothing would be noticed, he folded away his tools, pocketed the tins of wax, gathered up his hat and stick, and then vaulted the counter with his cloak over one arm, fixing it round his neck as he made for the door.

  The copy of Cazamian's key jammed in the door-lock, and he remembered as though from a very long time ago that one had to draw it back a little to release the catch. He opened the door a fraction. Roper still hovered a yard away, with every sign of self-conscious guilt upon his puckered face. Twenty yards away, the traffic clerk was approaching slowly, in conversation with a driver in canvas suit and oilskin cap. His head was lowered towards the other man's and he was not looking directly at the door.

  "Cut and shuffle, Mr Dacre! " Roper's mouth twisted in a backward whisper, as he almost danced heel over toe in his anxiety to be off.

  "Block their view! " said Dacre savagely, before his accomplice could begin to move away.

  Ned Roper paused, and then turned reluctantly to face the oncoming men. Dacre slipped out of the door, opening it as little as possible, and locking it under cover of his cloak and the knot of waiting passengers. As he moved away, the traffic clerk saw him, the first sign of recognition kindling in his eyes. It crossed Dacre's mind to inquire after the safety of his package, but he checked himself. That would have been Ned Roper's way of doing things. A gentleman of the Hussars did not attempt to explain his presence to a menial. He turned and strode away towards the glimmer of gaslights that now mapped the shoreline of the Marine Parade. His hat was perched at a slight angle and his malacca cane swung confidently from his gloved hand. Roper followed at a little distance. Verney Dacre could almost have dropped back and shared his good humour with the man. But then, with his brown suit and thin, whiskery smile, the damn fellow did look uncommonly like a rat-catcher gone racing.

  Verney Dacre had done it, he told himself, swinging the cane in a wider arc, and had done it almost alone. It had taken a little time and more than a little money, but the two tins in his pocket contained the secret which would enable him to open the South Eastern Railway Company's bullion safe at any time of his choosing. He thought of the Secretary of the Company, Mr Samuel Smiles and his constant harping on thrift, and self-help, and economy. Mr Smiles was about to witness self-help on a scale he had never dreamt of.

  Dacre thought with satisfaction of the busy minds in the police office, all of them working unwittingly in his favour. The detective police knew a dishonest mechanic because he could never pass as a gentleman. And they knew a dishonest gentleman because he lacked the practical abilities of a craftsman. But what if a man should be both gentleman and craftsman, and dishonest into the bargain? Might he not conquer the riches of the world? Verney Dacre thought he very probably might.

  At the door of the hotel suite, Dacre turned the key soundlessly in the lock. But even as he stood on the open threshold, he sensed something amiss. The day-room was in darkness and there was no sound of the two girls. For a few seconds he half-believed that they might have gone to sell their evidence for the highest price. But Verney Dacre's nerve was not to be shaken easily. They knew too little to be of value, and Jolie at least lived in terror of the noose for her part in McCaffery's death. No, it was nothing worse than he and Roper returning before their time to find that the witless little sluts had gone flirting their way among the sergeants of the 17th Lancers at the band concert. But how had they passed the locked door? As he grew accustomed to the dying twilight, he saw that there was not a cape nor a parasol in the room. Dacre wiped the back of his hand across pale eyes that watered with anger.

  He had almost turned and gone straight down again to the Parade Gardens, where Roper waited for Ellen. But he was detained by a sense, in the hot airless room, of the intimate animal warmth of the two young women and the overlying sweetness of perfume. He stepped further over the dark threshold and saw a long triangle of light falling on the carpet from Jolie's partly open door. By moving softly forward, he could see a whole segment of her bedroom reflected in the ornate chiffonier mirror.

  The golden-skinned girl lay on her back upon the bed, and though the lower part of her body was hidden from him, her little breasts with their pert upward tilt were quite bare. Ellen Jacoby, her back to the door, stood over her companion. Ellen still wore the patterned black stockings of her mourning costume and the short bodice in black satin, which ended in a crape trimming round the tops of her hips. Even in his anger, Dacre's blood quickened at the sight of her long firm legs, and the brilliant pallor of her smooth flesh from her waist down to her knees. The tightness of the bodice at her waist made the tall girl's hips swell in an apparently fuller, whiter nudity, her broad rear cheeks curving firmly with all th
e elasticity of her youthful body.

  As Dacre watched, Ellen stooped down, her face lowered to her partner's her mouth moving restlessly over the other girl. Jolie's fingers, slender and agile as a milliner's, moved down the white smoothness of Ellen's curved back, starting between the shoulder-blades and following the indentations of the vertebrae. The fingertips played tauntingly at the base of the spine before moving with a brusque insolence between the arched buttocks and towards the blonde girl's legs.

  Dacre watched with his anger and desire rising in conflict. Then he turned abruptly and walked from the day-room, down the grand staircase, and out into the lamplight of the Parade Gardens. Roper was standing near the rostrum, where the band of the Lancers played.

  "Where's Miss Ellen?" he asked, tucking a toothpick away.

  "Where you left her," said Dacre vindictively, "except that you've been cuckolded by that other bitch of yours."

  "Cuckolded?" said Roper, straightening up warily. "Cuckolded? By a girl? There ain't such a thing."

  "I shan't make it any plainer, Ned Roper."

  "You don't 'ave to make it plainer, Mr Dacre. I'm obliged for the hint, all the same."

  Dacre, in his narrow fury, turned away and wiped at his eyes once more, which made Roper suppose at first that his companion might be weeping. Then Dacre turned back and said levelly, "As I don't choose to be made a fool of, I leave it to you to see that your blowen gets her desserts."

  Later that night, in their weekly lodgings at Dover, Ned Roper watched Ellen strip off the cloak, veil, and bonnet of her widow's weeds. As he moved towards her, he chuckled to see that she had taken the role of bereavement so carefully that even her drawers were black with a crape bow. When he drew her down on the cheap brass bed, it seemed that the cuckolding of which Dacre had spoken had merely given her an extra erotic eagerness. She responded almost violently to Roper's handling. At length he said reproachfully,