The Great Train Robbery Part 16

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 w.i.l.l.y 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 pa.s.s 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," Pierce said. "They wouldn't believe a woman; it'll look like a feed to them."

"Well, there's Black d.i.c.k, 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 d.i.c.k'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." p.a.w.nbrokers 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 p.a.w.nbroker may seem incongruous from a modern perspective. At the time, it was not at all uncommon, for the p.a.w.nbroker served more than the lower cla.s.ses, 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 p.a.w.nbroker thus filled an important niche in the the society, and the number of licensed p.a.w.nshops doubled during the mid-Victorian period. Middle-cla.s.s 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 p.a.w.nshops 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 b.a.l.l.s 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 p.a.w.nbroker. He found all this circ.u.mspection 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 rea.s.sure 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 s.p.a.ce 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 must 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?"