thirty sharp,' he said, passing me the key. 'Should I lock up when I'm finished?' 'Leave the door open and put the key in my desk,' he said, 'Shillito will be in at nine.' He was calling for more coffee as I walked away.
Chapter Eighteen
The breakfast had fairly dazed me, and I walked back into the station wondering who I ought to be: myself or Allan Appleby. I worked it out by degrees as I strolled along Platform Four, and I saw the Lad, the telegraph boy, watching me from the footbridge, as if he was trying to puzzle it out at the same time. I stopped before the Left Luggage Office, where I collected my bad suit. I changed into it in the gentlemen's, and took my good one back, receiving the ticket in lieu, which I placed in my trouser pocket.
In the Police Office, I picked the 'Occurrences – Large Theft' file out of the cabinet near the door. I read again the first one: 'Attempted (possible actual) burglary at office of goods superintendent, York Yard South… Mr Cambridge (Goods Super) will endeavour to ascertain losses.' The writer of that was a great one for brackets. When would Mr Cambridge make that endeavour? Or was the setting down of the intention the end of the matter? I wondered which of the absent sportsmen had written this: Shillito? Langborne? Wright? If I hung on, I'd be able to ask Shillito directly, but no, that was not permitted; I must be kept from him, and all the other railway coppers of York.
I turned over the leaf, and read again of the assault on the wagons – also in the South Yard. I knew all about that, and had a fair idea who'd replaced the broken seals – Valentine Sampson's tame little goods clerk. They'd tried the Acetylene company van on the same night but given up because they couldn't put their hands on the right cylinder, as I supposed. Well, they had it now. I turned over again, and read of the robbery at the Station Hotel on 16 December, only this time the list of missing items went on to another sheet, and seemed to run on too long. I was reading of 'silver cigarette cases (two), silver snuff boxes (two), gold Alberts (three), good jewelled bracelets (two), cash (estimated?200)', and more besides until the penny dropped. This latest sheet did not belong to the account of the hotel robbery. I went backwards through the pages, and saw that there was another stray mixed in with the papers to do with the burglary at the office of the Goods Super. The two went together and the second one I'd found was meant to be read as the first of the two. I looked to the top of this page: the date was 21 December 1905, the occurrence detailed as follows: 'Theft from Lost Luggage Office'.
I stared at the words while an engine pulled out of the station, somewhere on the down side. The rising bark from its cylinders ought by rights to have ended in some mighty explosion, but instead the engine simply left the station. Silence returned, and I had the great perplexity of this new occurrence before me. There were no more details – only the list of items stolen. Had no statements been taken for this or any of the thefts?
If this matter was part of the series then it was an inside job, and there were only two blokes on the inside of the Lost Luggage Office: Parkinson and Lund. I bundled up the file again, and returned it to its cabinet. Why had I not seen those papers before? Had I simply missed them? It was not out of the question. I'd first looked at them on my first day in the job, and I'd been in a tearing hurry. It was very important to find out how Lund was connected to Valentine Sampson and his band – and that before I met Sampson at the Grapes. I could do with knowing about Parkinson too but I had no address for him whereas I had a street name at least for Lund: Ward Street, Layerthorpe. The sun was doing its work, even in Layerthorpe. The shadow of a cloud moved faster than me along Fossgate and, running on ahead, it rolled easily up and over the silos of Leetham's Mill. The same breeze made cigar and cigarette stumps tumble along the cobbles at my feet. Although I wore the Appleby suit, I did not sport the fake spectacles. Some of the pubs had their windows open; they were getting an airing, and the voices that floated out of them were still at this time of the day normal voices, kept low. In between the pubs were the tiny alleyways and side-streets where the constables walked in twos. Ward Street was one of them, or connected to one.
I turned into one of the entries, and saw two men standing in the doorway of a little broken-down hotel called Hem- ming's. One was peeling an orange, and throwing the peel at the other as he did so. It might have been a lark, but neither one was laughing. I turned again, and was facing the curved wall with the posters on it – the one I'd seen after quitting the Garden Gate on my first meeting with Miles Hopkins and Mike. The gas lamp was there but, not being lit, looked different. The advertisements for the pantomime remained, and if they'd survived this far, I reckoned, they'd probably see out the year.
On this occasion I obeyed the order: 'Turn right for Capstan's Cigarettes', and I was now into a new part of Layerthorpe, walking along a terrace where there was not enough window, so that the people in the houses had not been accommodated so much as bricked up. From somewhere, one voice was screaming out 'Dad!' over and over, and a dog barked after every cry. Eventually the voice gave up, but the barking continued, the loneliness of the sound driving the dog itself crackers. I didn't know the number of Lund's place and, as I walked, I realised that the matter was complicated by the fact that the dull, brown doors came irregularly. Some in the terrace were shuttered so that two houses were turned into one, and there were intervals of wall in between the houses, as though the builder's meagre supplies of glass had run out completely while his abundance of bricks had continued or increased. But the real surprise came at the end of the terrace where the last two houses had collapsed, or been demolished, with the rubble remaining, so that the terrace was like a cigar which had been smoked up to a certain point. On the facing terrace, the opposite numbers of the fallen houses remained and one carried a sign, not proudly but against its will as it seemed to me: 'Ward Street.'
But which was Lund's place? I turned around, and there was a man approaching one of the doors. I walked towards the man.
'How do?' I said, and he smiled.
He'd looked all right until he did that, but the inside of his mouth was a calamity: too-many-teeth and no- teeth all at once.
'How do?' I said again, for the sight of the mouth had knocked me. 'I'm looking for a fellow called Lund.'
The man pushed at the door, and walked in, motioning me to follow, which I did with no time to prepare for the second shock: the reek of the room. The man did not explain himself, but just sat down on a broken-down sofa next to a broken- down woman. Half a single curtain at the window, no fire; poker in the middle of the bare wooden floor, tab rug hard up against the wall. It was as though a wind had lately blown through. The pair in the room were canned, and I was somehow sure they were drinking at that moment, too but I could see no bottles. The man leant forwards, slowly revealing a worn spot on the top of his cap, like a bald patch.
Silence until the woman spoke up:
'You must take us for what we are,' she said.
Was this Lund's mother? The person in want of a linoleum?
'I'm after a word with Lund,' I said, 'Edwin Lund.'
It was as if the man had forgotten what I was about but, now remembering, he rose to his feet, and caught up the poker that lay in the middle of the floor.
'Cold is cruel, en't it?' said the woman as he did so.
The man continued forwards, holding out the poker, making towards the fireplace, where something smoked in the blackness of the grate. He pushed the poker up the chimney, and rattled it against the flue. As he leant over to perform the action, a ripped part of his coat slipped, taking with it a portion of ripped shirt, so that I could see clear through to his white, washboard ribs, and what might have been the beginnings of a scar. Soot came down into the grate as the poker rattled, and then, behind me, something else that was coloured black settled quietly into the room: Lund. He wore a black suit, old and not pressed. His kerchief was something special, but not elegant; he held two black books in his hand. He nodded slowly at me; he didn't seem put-out, as I'd hoped, and he suddenly looked to me like a crafty, secretive fellow. He might have been about to say something – it was impossible to guess what – when the man holding the poker righted himself with a loud groan. The woman on the sofa was looking towards him; she then nodded at me, saying, 'Weakened insides, Mister.' 'I went under an operation,' said the man, sitting back down on the sofa. 'He has a want of strength on the insides,' said the woman, as if that added anything to the general understanding. All the Lunds had this in common: riddled with illness, and very vague about it. The man was smiling at me again, as though he knew I was looking without success for the spirit bottle that lay somewhere to hand. Lund, at the foot of the stairs, was holding his hand in an
