The Great Train Robery by Crichton, Michael

Pierce left the table and went downstairs to the smoking room. Burgess was standing there, twitching his blue guard’s cap in his hands. He was obviously, as nervous as Agar.

“What’s the trouble?” Pierce said.

“It’s the line,” Burgess said. “They’ve changed it all, and just today— changed everything.”

“What have they changed?” Pierce said

Burgess spoke in a headlong torrent: “I first came to know this morning, you see, I come to work proper at seven sharp, and there’s a cooper working on me van, hammering and pounding. And there’s a smith as well, and some gentlemen standing about to watch the work. And that’s how I find they’ve changed all manner of things, and just today, changed it all. I mean the running of the car the way that we do, all changed, and I didn’t know-”

“What, exactly, have they changed?” Pierce said.

Burgess took a breath. “The line,” he said. “The manner of things, the way we do, all fresh changed.”

Pierce frowned impatiently. “Tell me what is changed,” he said.

Burgess squeezed his hat in his hands until his knuckles were pale. “For one, they have a new jack the line’s put on, started today— a new bloke, young one.”

“He rides with you in the baggage van?”

“No, sir,” Burgess said. “He only works the platform at the station. Stays at the station, he does.”

Pierce shot a glance at Agar. It didn’t matter if there were more guards at the platform. There could be a dozen guards, for all Pierce cared “VVhat of it?” he said.

“Well, it’s the new rule, you see.”

“What new rule?”

“Nobody rides in the baggage car, save me as guard,” Burgess said. “That’s the new rule, and there’s this new jack to keep it proper.”

“I see,” Pierce said. That was indeed a change.

“There’s more,” Agar said gloomily.

“Yes?”

Burgess nodded. “They’ve gone and fitted a lock to the luggage-van door. Outside lock, it is. Now they lock up in London Bridge, and unlock in Folkestone.”

“Damn,” Pierce said. He began to pace back and forth in the room. “What about the other stops? That train stops in Redhill, and at—”

“They’ve changed the rules,” Burgess said. “That van is never unlocked till Folkestone.”

Pierce continued to pace. “Why have they changed the routine?”

“It’s on account of the afternoon fast train,” Burgess explained. “There’s two fast trains, morning train and afternoon train. Seems the afternoon van was robbed last week. Gentleman was robbed of a valuable parcel somehow— collection of rare wine, I hear it to be. Anyhow, he puts a claim to the line or some such. The other guard’s been fired, and there’s all bloody hell to pay. Dispatcher his very self called me in this morning and dressed me down proper, warning me of this and that. Near cuffed me, he did. And the new jack at the platform’s the station dispatcher’s nephew. He’s the one locks up in London Bridge, just before the train pulls out.”

“Rare wines,” Pierce said. “God in heaven, rare wines. Can we get Agar aboard in a trunk?”

Burgess shook his head “Not if they do like today. Today, this nephew, his name’s McPherson, he’s a Scotsman and eager— badly wanting a job, as I look at it— this McPherson makes the passengers open every trunk or parcel large enough to hold a man. Caused a considerable fray, I’ll say. This nephew is a stickler. New to the work, you see, and wanting to do it all proper, and that’s the way it is.”

“Can we distract him and slip Agar in while he’s not looking—”

“Not looking? Never’s he not looking. He looks like a starved rat after a flake of cheese, looks here and there and everywhere. And when all the baggage’s loaded, he climbs in, pokes about in all the corners seeing there’s no lurkers. Then he climbs off and lock up.”

Pierce plucked his pocket watch from his waistcoat. It was now ten o’clock at night. They had ten hours before the Folkestone train left the next morning. Pierce could think of a dozen clever ways to get Agar past a watchful Scotsman, but nothing that could be quickly arranged.

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