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.
I gave a glance back towards the window, and saw the rising of steam and smoke from the lately passed train. I was Jack in the Giant's Castle, high in the clouds, and making away the Giant's gold.
The thought came that I could wake Sampson and tell him I'd been put up to this by his confederate – the designing fellow skulking in the doorway. It would be my word against Hopkins's. Might Sampson believe me, and then order Mike not to make his call? Mike's true governor was Sampson, after all, and he would have believed that the orders he'd had from Miles Hopkins were given on the say-so of Sampson.
My finger ends met paper, and I said out loud: 'I have my fingers on one of the bloody things.'
'Collect the tickets scissor-like,' said Hopkins from the doorway.
Sampson slept on, silent and quite still as my fingers closed over the paper, dragging it into the light. The left-lug- gage ticket was blue, and the words upon it were in English. It was the one from Charing Cross, and the colour of it gave me the beginnings of an idea.
I stood back from the couch and, looking directly across the room at Hopkins, folded the blue ticket several times over, and lowered it into my own right trouser pocket.
'Give it here,' he whispered from the doorway.
'Hold on, mate,' I said. 'I'm going in for the other. I know it's there.'
I was sweating like a bull as I started on my second finger creep. But just as my fingertips had reached the pocket entrance for the second time, another train came rattling along the line below. Its rapid approach seemed to send a secret message to Sampson's right arm, which began to rise – a snake being charmed to the tune of a train. It wavered in the air, making as if to swipe at me. I drew back, and the thick arm landed heavily on top of the right pocket entrance, sealing it up, preventing any further attempts and deciding me upon my idea.
As the train rattled away I turned to Hopkins, saying, 'We must give it up now.'
He nodded. He could see the sense of that.
'Hand over the blue one,' said Miles. 'It's the English one, en't it?'
I did not have Hopkins down as a violent man, but I knew in that instant that he would never let me go even if I gave over the ticket. Why would he, knowing I was a copper? He would guess that the moment I was free, I would ask for men to be sent to the left-luggage offices, to prevent the money being taken, and to arrest anyone trying to claim it. As he looked on, I reached into my trouser pocket, where lay two blue left-luggage tickets. One unfolded, the other folded tightly. I took out the first. It was the ticket I'd been given at York in return for the good suit after my hotel breakfast with the Chief. I placed it on Sampson's belly, and retreated from the couch, making towards the door, and Hopkins.
'You must take it yourself,' I said, drawing level with him.
The ticket rose and fell with Sampson's belly, stirring somewhat in the breeze from the open window. Hopkins did not look at me but, cursing in an under-breath, moved rapidly towards the fluttering blue paper with knife in hand. As he reached out to take it I gave a cry, something that was not even a word. But it was loud, and I saw Sampson rise in the moment before I turned and fled, screaming out with rapid rising glee. I was the brilliant sleuth hound after all. I had recovered half the stolen money, and I'd fixed Hopkins, Sampson, or the two bastards both… But most likely Hopkins, for he only had the blade where Sampson had the shooter. I saw in my mind's eye – as I crashed down those red-carpeted stairs – the bookstall at York station, with the glowing covers of the shilling novels, and all the detective heroes there depicted… But in the next instant the bookstall of my mind combusted in my rage at my own stupidity, and a terrible coldness came over me. I had won out over the ticket, and I had set the two at each other's throats, but Hopkins would not now be able to take back the order he had given. I had condemned the wife to the revenge of Mike.