The Great Train Robery by Crichton, Michael

But Mr. Harranby’s rage was now controlled, for the Yard’s only remaining clue was sitting before him, perspiring profusely, wringing his hands, and looking very red-faced. Harranby frowned at Chokee Bill.

“Now, Bill,” Harranby said, “this is a most serious matter.”

“I know it, sir, indeed I do,” Bill said.

“Five barkers tells me there is something afoot, and I mean to know the truth behind it.”

“He was tight with his words, he was.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Harranby said heavily. He fished a gold guinea out of his pocket and dropped it on his desk before him. “Try to recall,” he said.

“It was late in the day, sir, with all respects, and I was not at my best,” Bill said, staring pointedly at the gold piece.

Harranby would be damned if he’d give the fellow another. “Many a memory improves on the cockchafer, in my experience,” he said.

“I’ve done no wrong,” Bill protested. “I’m honest as the day is long, sir, and I’d keep nothing from you. There’s no call to put me in the stir.”

“Then try to remember,” Harranby said, “and be quick about it.”

Bill twisted his hands in his lap. “He comes into the shop near six, he does. Dressed proper, with good manner, but he speaks a wave lag from Liverpool, and he can voker romeny.”

Harranby glanced at Sharp, in the corner. From time to time, even Harranby needed some help in translation.

“He had a Liverpool sailor’s accent and he spoke criminal jargon,” Sharp said.

“Aye, sir, that’s so,” Bill said, nodding. “He’s in the family, and that’s for sure. Wants me to snaffle five barkers, and I say five’s a goodly number, and he says he wants them quick-like, and he’s nervous, and in a hurry, and he’s showing plenty of ream thickers to pay up on the spot.”

“What did you tell him?” Harranby said, keeping his eyes fixed on Bill. A skilled informant like Chokee Bill was not above playing each side against the other, and Bill could lie like an adept.

“I says to him, five’s a goodly number but I can do it in time. And he says how much time, and I says a fortnight. This makes him cool the cockum for a bit, and then he says he needs it quicker than a fortnight. I says eight days. He says eight days is too long, and he starts to say he’s off to Greenwich in eight days, but then he catches himself, like.”

“Greenwich,” Harranby said, frowning.

“Aye, sir, Greenwich was on the tip of his tongue, but he stops down and says it’s too long. So I says how long? And he says seven days. So I says I can translate in seven days. And he says what time of the day? I say noontime. And he says noontime’s too late. He says no later than ten o’clock.”

“Seven days,” Harranby said, “meaning Friday next?”

“No, sir. Thursday next. Seven days from yesterday it was.”

“Go on.”

“So I says, after a hem and a haw, I says I can have his pieces on Thursday at ten o’clock. And he says that’s fly enough, but he’s no flat, this one, and he says any gammy cockum and it will go hard on me.”

Harranby looked at Sharp again. Sharp said, “The gentleman is no fool and warned that if the guns were not ready at the arranged time, it would be hard on Bill.”

“And what did you say, Bill?” Harranby inquired.

“I says I can do it, and I promise him. And he gives me ten gold pushes, and I granny they’re ream, and he takes his leave and says he’ll be back Thursday next.”

“What else?” Harranby said.

“That’s the lot,” Bill said.

There was a long silence. Finally Harranby said, “What do you make of this, Bill?”

“It’s a flash pull and no mistake. He’s no muck-snipe, this gent, but a hykey bloke who knows his business.”

Harranby tugged at an earlobe, a nervous habit. “What in Greenwich has the makings of a proper flash pull?”

“Damn me if I know,” Chokee Bill said.

“What have you heard?” Harranby said.