“You taking responsibility?” said Paolo. He straightened up attentively. “Hell, let’s go.”
He spat on his two hands. Then he spat in my direction. The two resumed their positions at the head and back of the wagon. Now they fairly raced through the station.
“Out of the way,” Paolo shouted. “Coming through.”
The wagon thundered. Knots of people scattered like billiard balls. I ran behind.
“Hey, Shorty,” Paolo shouted over his shoulder. “You hear the one about the photographer?”
“What’s that?” said Shorty, somewhat breathlessly.
“What did the photographer say to the lady?”
“I dunno. What did he say?”
“Come into the darkroom, my dear. We’ll see what develops.”
Shorty briefly extended his tongue in mirth. “That’s a funny one,” he said. “What’s a darkroom?”
The contents of the trunk were clattering and clinking in an alarming way. The two had just taken the wagon around a corner on two wheels. I was about to say something when I saw we were approaching the gate.
“Just pulling out,” said the blur of an attendant as we raced past. Out alongside the platform, a shiver ran down the line of carriages. Far ahead, the engine exhaled loudly and began to chuff.
“Damn,” I said, slowing to a trot. “We’ll never catch it.”
“Come on, you,” Paolo shouted back at me. “We’ll get you on.”
Both porters were at the back of the wagon pushing. I ran up between them and the departing train.
“Jump on,” Paolo said. “Jump on the train.”
I reached out, grabbed a door, and swung into a compartment in the last car. Excusing myself, I climbed over the passengers and ran down the corridor toward the door at the back.
Through the back window, I saw Paolo and Shorty pushing the wagon alongside the moving train. The railcar was a Hastings III, with individual compartments opening out onto the platforms, a corridor running the length of the car, and a iron “porch” and stairway over the coupler. As I watched, they threw the two valises onto the stairway by the back door. Then Paolo, taking a running leap, made it up onto the lowest step. From there he reached down and pulled my trunk onto the train. Once it was in place, he did the same for Shorty.
And it was a near thing. For the last carriage passed the end of the platform the moment after Shorty’s foot left it. The abandoned luggage wagon was not so lucky: it kept going of its own momentum and sailed off the end of the platform and crashed into the gravel. A single wheel rolled out of the wreckage.
After fumbling with the latch, I opened the back door. Paolo and Shorty tumbled in at my feet.
Paolo looked up at me from the floor. “Your luggage, sir?”
“My good man — ” I helped pull him to his feet. Then I did the same for Shorty.
“I don’t know what to say,” I said, helping them to brush the dust from their already filthy uniforms. “What you just did there. It was truly above and beyond . . . Really. I don’t know how to express my gratitude. You didn’t really have to.”
That had certainly earned a nice tip.
“Here.” I reached into my pocket. “Let me.”
Paolo held up his hand.
“First,” he said. “Where are you going?”
“Why, I’m going to Burkinwell. It’s — ”
“No, no,” sneered Shorty. “Where do we haul this garbage?”
“Oh. Of course,” I said. “I’ve got to find a compartment. Just a moment.”
There was a likely compartment at the other end of the car. It was empty but for two women — an older and a younger. They were sitting opposite each other by the window.
“In here,” I said, opening the door and waving to the porters.
In a second, my valises had been whipped onto the seats. The trunk clattered onto the floor between the two women. The older woman gave it a look of distaste.
“So sorry.” I raised my hat to the ladies. “And now, gentlemen, this is for you,” I said, handing them both banknotes. “And believe me, you earned every penny of it.”
Paolo stared down at the note as if it were a bird dropping that had landed on his palm. “What’s this?” he asked.
“A little tip,” I whispered, giving him a smile and a wink — contemplating, but stopping short of, offering an appreciative pat on the arm.
“A what?”
“Tip,” I said less confidently.
“A tip? Is that what you call this?”
“Why, yes.”
“For what we did?”
“I don’t consider it ungenerous.”
“This? Generous? We risked our necks for this?”
“Yeah,” said Shorty. “You call this — you know?”
“Bloody disgrace, this is,” said Paolo.
“Dis-grace,” spat Shorty.
This was very embarrassing for me. Especially in front of the ladies. I smiled and lifted my hat toward the ladies again. I hoped they’d seen the denomination of the notes I’d given the two porters. If so, they would certainly see that the scruffy twosome had done quite well by me.
The porters were looking at me expectantly.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I’m not really so very well off . . .”
I had to do something to break the tension.
“Well . . .” I clapped my hands and turned my back on the two. “What say we open this trunk? See if anything got broken.”
I unlocked the trunk and swung open the lid. A few vials were smashed. A smell rose up. It was a homey and familiar scent to me; a nice darkroom smell. Of course, I realize the general public might not see eye to eye — or smell nose to nose — with me on this.
“Pheeeeeew,” Shorty said, covering his face with his elbow. “Smells like dirty knickers.”
“If you don’t mind,” I said, “there are ladies present.”
“Smells like old piss to me,” said Paolo.
“Really.” I turned around, arms akimbo. “If you don’t like the smell you can go.”
“Go where?” asked Paolo.
“Anywhere,” I said.
“That’s a laugh.”
“Can’t you go sit down somewhere?”
“Without tickets?”
“Why should you need tickets?”
“To sit down.”
“Can’t you stand someplace until the next station?”
“Person needs a ticket to stand, too.”
“You shouldn’t need a ticket at all. You work for the railroad, don’t you?”
Paolo and Shorty slowly shook their heads no.
“Do you mean you work for the station?”
They shook their heads no again.
“Who do you work for?” I asked.
“Nobody,” said Paolo.
“Aren’t you porters?” I asked.
“No,” said Shorty.
“You’re wearing porters’ uniforms,” I said.
“That’s true, but we’re not porters.”
“Then what are you?” I asked.
“We’re robbers.”
Shorty pulled out a knife. It was a long, filthy blade with a rag tied around the hilt.
I looked at his face to see if he was joking, but he wore a triumphant little leer. He was in perfect earnest.
The two women had been observing us. Prior to this, I could tell they were both upset by the unmannerliness of the proceedings. Now that things had passed from unmannerly to rude to practically murderous, they both emitted sharp “Ohs!”
The older of the two women instinctively clutched her bag. This attracted Paolo’s attention.
“I’ll have that bag, Missy,” he said.
Making a grab for the bag, he stretched over the open
trunk. The younger woman screamed defensively. It had nice duration and pitch. Paolo was distracted. He clearly felt he had to stifle that scream before going any further. He had one hand on the older woman’s purse; with his other, he tried to cover the younger woman’s mouth. The effort left him momentarily unbalanced.
The younger woman saw her chance. She reached into the open trunk and pulled out a jar. With a deft twist, she pulled off the cap. Then she hurled the jar’s liquid contents into Paolo’s face.
The robber shrieked. His sallow face went red. He fell backward, clawing at his eyes.
By this time, the far end of the compartment was a tangle of bodies. The ladies and myself were trying to put as much distance as we could between ourselves and Paolo and Shorty.
With a squeal of rage, Shorty leaped forward. He plunged his knife into the convulsing mass of arms and legs and torsos. The older woman screamed, then fell silent.
I saw the blade pierce the woman’s dress at the level of her rib cage. Cursing helplessly, I grabbed a piece of broken bottle out of the trunk. Holding it by the neck, I pushed the jagged end into Shorty’s wrist. Then, raising it over my head, I brought it down again and again.
Shorty fell back onto the bench. He grabbed one of my valises and held it up like a shield. I tried to twist it out of his grasp, but he kicked free and fell back into the corridor.
Paolo was already out there, clutching his face, smashing blindly into doors and windows. People leaned out of their compartments to see what was going on.
One old man spotted Shorty. “See here, you,” he said.
Shorty punched him in the face. Blood sprayed across the corridor. (It was from Shorty’s wounded arm, not the old man’s face.)
The corridor was suddenly very crowded.
“Stop them,” I shouted, fighting my way through the confusion of bodies. But people did not know whom they were supposed to stop or why.
I stumbled to the end of the car in time to see Shorty push Paolo off the end of the stairway. A moment later Shorty himself jumped. He was still holding my valise to his chest. Fortunately for the robbers, the train was not going very fast. Standing in the doorway, I saw them soon afoot. They made a clean escape, trampling parallel corridors through a field of rye.
Now I fought my way back through the corridor. Two men were pulling my trunk out of the compartment.
“Give her air,” someone was shouting inside.
The older woman lay propped limply in the corner of the compartment. A doctor had come forward. He and the younger woman undid the victim’s dress down the front. I could see gray undergarments — but no blood.
The doctor probed and prodded. “Not a mark,” he announced, cheerfully.
The malign intent of Shorty’s blade had been deflected by a sturdy corset.
“It’s a miracle,” the woman whispered. With trancelike slowness, she gathered her dress about her, signaling the end of her career as a public spectacle. The crowd dispersed.
I turned, but someone grabbed my hand. It was the younger woman from the compartment. She dropped my hand.
I spoke first. “I hope your mother will be all right,” I said.
“My mother?” She appeared confused. “Oh no,” she said. “Her? In the compartment? She’s not my mother. I — we’re strangers.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t — ”
“She seems to be doing fine.”
“Yes, she does, doesn’t she?”
“So fortunate, so lucky,” said the woman. “And yourself?”
“Me?”
“Yes, are you all right?”
“I? Well, I suppose I’m fine. One of them got away with one of my bags, though.”
“How unfortunate. Was it the one you stabbed?”
“Yes. The short one. I’m sure he’s not hurt badly. But you, how are you?”
She smiled brightly. “As you see me. Unmarked, but for some drops of that whatever-it-was on my dress. I’ve wiped them off with cold water already.”
“I say, that was quick thinking.”
“Was it? Well, you’ve got to catch a stain before it sets.”
“No, no. I mean throwing the chemicals in that fellow’s face.”
“I hope I didn’t hurt him.”
“I hope you did.”
“How cruel.”
“I’m sorry if I sound cruel. But those were not nice men.”
“I know,” she pouted. “I wish the world were more like a fairy tale.”
I must have started. “How is that?” I asked.
“Oh, you know. In a fairy tale, the evil villain stubs his toe, and that makes everything all right.”
“Does that make everything all right?”
“In a fairy tale.”
“Well, those two got their toes well stubbed. And if it makes you feel any better, I’m sure they’ve already recovered.”
“Really? Do you think so?”
“Yes. The last I saw of them, they were tripping through the rye. With my valise.”
The doctor and another man pushed past us, excusing themselves, “ — thought those corsets had quite gone out of fashion,” the doctor was saying to his companion. “The whalebone certainly stopped that harpoon . . .”
The younger woman turned aside to let them past. I took the opportunity to steal a glance at her finger. She wore a wedding ring. As she turned back, I’m sure she noted that I was noting.
The trunk was blocking the corridor. Its top was smashed down over the broken vials and instruments inside. I reached in and began straightening it out. The woman arranged her hat in the window glass. Then she returned to the compartment.
Chapter Eight
How I Was Given a Ride
The two ladies and I were not permitted to continue in peace to our destinations. The attack had become a high police matter. The train dropped the three of us in Devving, a district police headquarters town, where uniformed officers escorted us to the headquarters building.
The exterior of the district police headquarters was squat and ugly, but inside it was quite sunny. This was thanks to some tall, classically proportioned windows. Police personnel sat around with their feet up on chairs and desks. Some smoked. Others looked out the windows. Golden light poured in. Someone was watering the lawn outside, and every so often the spray smacked the glass.
“I’m Detective Cubb,” said a young man in civilian clothes.
I didn’t like him. For one thing, he was a lot younger than I. That’s a problem I have. I don’t like all the young policemen, soldiers, and other authority figures you see nowadays.
He also had an annoying know-all attitude. And very slick, neat hair. And a crisp, white shirt. And he fidgeted impatiently while the two ladies and I told our stories. Before the older lady was even finished, he opened his mind to us.
“Not porters, I’m afraid,” he said. “You call these men porters. Do not do so. For porters they are not.”
“No?” I said. “You could have fooled me. I mean, they took my bags.”
“Taken your bags, they may have,” he said, “but they were not porters. The porters’ union is on strike. There were no porters inside that station. They are all outside these days. Breaking windows. Rioting. Overturning buses. Whatnot.”
“Then who were they?”
“I fancy they were a couple of the riffraff the railway has hired for the duration. Desperate and unsavory types, some of them. Men without scruple. No connections to the community.”
I didn’t like his smug satisfaction. “Well, I hate to inform you, but the men told me they were in the union.”
“Why weren’t they out on the picket line? Answer me that.”
I couldn’t.
Detective Cubb stretched and sniffed. He leaned back in his chair. “Yes, I imagine they signed for work at that stat
ion,” he said. “Work was not to their taste, they then found. Never is for that type. Probably looking for an opportunity to pull a job. Could be a long-standing crime duo. They often work in pairs. Paolo and Shorty? Never heard the names. But who says those are their real names? They could be some other pair. Maybe they’re really Mangraff and Soames. There’s a pretty pair. No, no. Couldn’t be them. Mangraff’s still inside. Another twenty years before he sees daylight. Maybe they’re someone else. Cooper and Potts, maybe. No, no, no. Not possible. They went south. They’d never come back. Not after the brewery slashings. Hmmm. How about . . . Tate and Grossman? Tell me, did the younger one have a beard?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Does that matter?”
“Yes, it does.”
“He could have shaved it.”
“Never.” Detective Cubb shook his head. “Grossman was an anarchist. Wouldn’t shave on principle.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“With nothing to say.” Detective Cubb smiled.
“Are you going to try to catch them?”
“Oh yes. Catch them we will. Of fear you need have none.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Detective Cubb dangled a pencil between his fingers. “Easy,” he said. “Mistakes. They all make them. It’s in their wild spirit. It’s part of the criminal tendency. They may go for years committing little crimes and getting away with it. But one day that wild spirit takes them over. Like a storm. Then they do something violent and stupid. Agitation of the blood, I take it. Very visible, they make themselves. Start drawing attention. That’s when we get them.”
“Didn’t they just do that?” I asked.
“Yes. And I wouldn’t be surprised if they were already under arrest somewhere nearby. Their descriptions are out. Into one of these little villages they’ll stumble. Some farm lads’ll lock them in a shed.”
“What about my valise?”
“The stolen property? Anything valuable inside?”
“Some clothing. Legal papers.”
“Cast it aside, they will, in some field or ditch. Farmer’ll turn it in.”
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