not have said – blathering away like a complaining engine that couldn't be turned off. Sampson was so busy with his doxy that he barely noticed. He just took his left hand off her bosom, and made a calming gesture, saying, 'Easy, lads, easy.' I asked Hopkins: 'When is he going there?' 'Never you mind. I've asked him to pay a call, that's all.' 'If I'm Stringer,' I said… Hopkins was grinning at me. 'If I am,' I carried on, 'and I'm here…' 'Oh, I think we can take it as read that you're here…' 'Then there'll be nobody in at 16A, will there…' 'I've seen your fucking wedding ring,' said Hopkins, 'so you needn't come that one. I've asked Mike to pay a visit. Only it's conditional-like. If you do the job tonight I'll telephone again, tell him to stay put.'
The barkeeper was still spouting, and now he was coming towards us. It was clear enough that he wanted us out. Hopkins had been suspicious of me since the night of the Garden Gate, and he had learned my identity from Mike as soon as we arrived in France. He'd kept silent since then, revolving the information in his mind, designing away…
I looked back at Hopkins, thinking whether to try another swing, and he was grinning at me, saying,'… I'll telephone the big fucking lummox again; his place of work is right by the instrument, you know. They can make a quick connection from here… I'll stop him in his tracks… honour bright!'
The barman talked on, standing over us now. I glimpsed Sampson's gun, in the waistband of his trousers. Sampson and the doxy were rising to their feet. They had their own pressing reason for wanting to quit the little bar. Hopkins stood too, leaning closer to me again, saying: 'If I don't have those tickets in my hand by midnight, then Mike'll be round there, and it'll be… It'll be the fucking clean sweep, matey…'
He had overheard the expression from Sampson. In my mind's eye, I saw Lydia in the parlour; I saw her at the typewriter; I saw the Opopanax and Parma Violets standing beside the machine… I saw the copies of the investigation reports, freshly typed. She would not be able to plead ignorance of my work. The bill had been paid – somehow, by someone – and we were now heading back to the Hotel des Artistes. I was walking next to Hopkins in silence; Sampson was just behind, one arm around the woman in a courtly way (yet also a drunken one), the other hanging loose in the vicinity of his gun. The churches, temples, abandoned theatres came and went until we entered the hotel, and the black and white man was not there, but the paintings were. I peered at the gloomy people shown in them, but they had retreated still further into the shadows.
We climbed the long staircase, and my mind went back to my first meeting with Lund at the Lost Luggage Office. I saw myself writing my name in the ledger. It was there for anyone to see.
On the silent and evidently empty fourth floor, Hopkins had somehow faded away into his own quarters, while I stepped into the opposite room with Sampson and the French doxy. I tumbled through into the bedroom on the far side of those quarters, with wine Sampson had given me in a bathroom glass. I closed the door behind me while Sampson and the doxy fell to in the main room. At first the pair of them were quiet… and then they weren't.
I sat staring at nothing for a space. I could hear a train running along the lines below. It was timetabled, but at the same time free. A good minute after it had gone from earshot, its black smoke finally ascended to the level of my window.
In the room beyond, the French tart was giving way still further to Valentine Sampson or Joseph Howard Vincent as the case may have been. I picked out of my pocket Paris and its Environs. Christianity, I read, had been introduced to France by St Denis. Visitors to the Louvre who had only a short time to devote to the galleries were recommended to begin with the antique sculptures.
In the room beyond, matters reached the screaming stage just as a train went rumbling below, making a contest of it for loudest noise. It was a wonder that Sampson could perform at all, given the amount of red wine he'd put away. Hopkins, alone of the three of us, was not blotto, and he would hold to his plan, I knew. A couple of minutes later, Sampson opened the door, and beckoned me through into the sitting room. He wore his trousers and his undershirt. I could see the doxy through the open door of the bathroom: she was painting on rouge. 'Did you hear any of that goings-on, little Allan?' Sampson asked, picking up the wine, which he'd not quite seen off. 'Maybe a bit,' I said. 'You'll have learnt something if so,' he said, and he sat down on the couch with the wine, as the doxy stepped out of the bathroom. 'You look nice,' he said. 'I 'aven't fineeshed,' she said. 'Well you should do,' said Sampson. 'Pack it in while the going's good.' She left in the next few minutes, following a short conference that took place just beyond the outer door. 'Silly cat,' Sampson said, when he walked back in. He eyed me for a while before saying: 'Sorry, mate, did you want a ride yourself?' Not looking for an answer – I believe he'd asked only for form's sake – he walked over to the window, lifting the sash and gazing down at the tracks. 'Where does Mike work?' I asked. 'Black Swan,' said Sampson, scratching his beard. Coney Street. The stone swan held out over the door looked burnt, and its blackness had somehow smudged the front of the building, making it look burnt in turn. 'And I suppose they have a telephone there.'
No reply from Sampson, who was walking over towards the couch, as I enquired, casual as you like, 'You thinking of having a kip?'
Sampson turned and gave me one of his looks; no life, nothing in the eyes.
'Why are you asking these cuntish questions?'
'What?' I said.
'You're getting up my flicking arse,' said Sampson.
Was it Lund who'd given word to Mike? Was he trying to check the investigation he'd begun for fear of being run in over the lost-luggage theft? I could not believe so.
Sampson caught up a wine bottle from the floor beside the couch. He then drifted towards the bathroom, where he pissed for what seemed about half an hour. He walked towards the mantelshelf and I saw, too late, that the gun was there. Sampson picked it up.
Of course, another man might very well have seen my name in that ledger: Parkinson, the lost-luggage superintendent. What did he know? And who else could've passed on my address to Mike?
Sampson moved back to the couch, where he put the gun underneath a cushion, of which he made a pillow. He pulled the coverlet from the back of the sofa – and that became his over-blanket. He lay down, taking a few short pulls on the wine… which seemed to see him off. But he stirred again, reaching once more for the bottle, and saying to me, friendly once more: 'We'll be all right over here, little Allan… Live shallow for six months if need be.'
A few more quick wine goes, then he rolled over on his side and looked at me with his violet eyes. It was very strange to see him lying down; unnatural somehow.
'Why d'you kill the Camerons, mate?' I asked him.
But his eyes shut at that moment.
I waited a quarter of an hour, then made straight for the door, opened it. Hopkins was there, with a knife in his hand.
Well, he had me three ways. He could wake Sampson, crying copper. He could do me with the knife (although I didn't think that was in him). And the third way he voiced directly: 'Think of Mike,' he said in an under- breath, pressing me back into the room. 'He'll be on his way soon, unless I give the word.'
I whispered back: 'Why the fuck don't you lift the tickets yourself?'
He said nothing, but twirled the knife in his long right hand.
I tried another tack, saying: 'He'll shoot anybody he catches at it.'
'That's your lookout, copper' he said.
I looked at Hopkins; at his curly hair stuck down at intervals by sweat. I turned and watched Sampson sleeping. I screwed myself up to it, and moved towards him.
'Right pocket' Hopkins was saying from the doorway as I peeled back the coverlet,'… right pocket. The two chits are in there, I fucking swear it. London ticket is the principle one. The larger amount was stowed there.'
Sampson was flat on his back. I had to lean across him to get to the right pocket.
'Fingers only,' Hopkins was saying, 'fingers only; don't stick your fucking fist in.'
If Sampson woke, Hopkins would dart back to his own quarters. And I'd catch it. My finger ends were creeping into the pocket now. It was all in folds, my fingers approaching mountains and valleys of silk. From beyond the window and below, I heard a train approaching. As its rocking grew louder, Sampson, too, rocked in his sleep. Back and forth he went, back and forth; but it was only a small disturbance. I leant into my work again; into the sharp wine smell that was rising off Sampson; my fingers creeping further into the mountains and valleys. The shaming thought came to me that I was like the doxy, with my hand moving ever further towards Sampson's privates.
