Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage (17 page)

‘
Damn it!’ he
seethed. He took a deep breath, tried to calm down. Three or four
more weeks, he told himself. Just be patient.

The following day, Perry went
to church. It was standing room only at the back. Rain pattered on
the roof and dripped from the eaves. The priest’s voice was deep
and it was hard to gather up his words, but it hardly mattered, he
had nowhere better to be.

That afternoon he visited three
other lodging houses on America Street. They were all more or less
in the same state of disrepair as his. One had a proper toilet but
was an extra peso a week. The next was marginally cheaper but had
an unnerving number of flies and mosquitos. Begrudgingly he had to
accept that his current lodgings were probably best for his current
means.

In the evening he took his turn
to bathe. The bathroom was shared with the lodging house next door.
It was cramped the air clammy with rot; but it did have a tin bath
- just like the one he’d used at Mrs Donnegan’s. He’d washed in the
river a week ago, but it was a fortnight since he’d had a proper
bath and he was black as a beetle. He folded himself up; knees
tucked to his chin and scrubbed his skin hard with a brush. He
cleaned himself thorough. He wasn’t like the other lodgers, scabbed
by pox and reddened with infected callouses. When he got out he
towelled down until his skin was pink and raw. The tin bath lapped
with water, black and oily.

The next day,
he had oatmeal for breakfast and headed to
Julio
station for work. The summer
shower had left few puddles of evidence as he approached the
freight station. A couple of labourers were standing at the
gate.

‘
Buen
día,
’ Perry greeted, but the men glared at
him, giving no reply. He didn’t know what their problem was. Dozens
of dockworkers filled the platform, chatting about their weekends.
He picked out Vázquez talking to the Italians. Perry grinned at him
and walked over.

‘
Buenos…’ he
trailed off, aware of his own voice. Had he said it too loud? All
of the workers on the platform were silent and they were all
looking directly at him.

‘
What’s going
on?’

Vázquez grabbed him by the arm
and pulled him away from the others.

‘
What the hell
are you doing coming back here?’ he hissed.

‘
Campi gave me
the work, why is everyone staring at me?’

‘
You should
get out of here. Run!’ Vázquez’s eyes were wild.

Perry shook his arm free, ‘Run?
I’m not running from anyone. And anyway, why the hell should
I?’

‘
Don’t act
stupid, it won’t help. You’re a fool to come back. They know it was
you.’

He had no idea what Vázquez was
talking about, but it was clearly no joke. The staring men tipped
him into panic. He sized up the exit, a few feet away.

‘
What am I
supposed to have done?’

A whistle sounded. Vázquez took
a few steps back, as if Perry had The Sick.

‘
Vázquez?’
Perry pleaded. ‘What is it?’ he looked around the other men on the
platform.

The whistle sounded again,
accompanied by the march of heavy boots and a rough hand landed on
his shoulder.

1
9

Two guards yanked him along the
platform. Perry was too confused to struggle; what could he have
done to deserve this? His feet scuffed along the concourse, he
racked his brains. He didn’t have any papers; technically he’d
arrived in Argentina as a stowaway - but why now? He’d been here
nine months without any bother.

The guards shoved him in the
station office. Perry regained his footing and noted Campi, the
foreman; sat with his arms crossed, a dark frown burying his
features. Leaning on a filing cabinet was someone he didn’t
recognise: a tall bespectacled man in a black coat. He sensed the
silence of a conversation interrupted.

‘
So this is
Señor Scrimshaw?’ the tall fellow addressed foreman Campi, his
accent strange.

‘
Yes Inspector
Saldrup. It was him.’

‘
Inspector?
What was me?’ said Perry, exasperated.

The inspector took off his
spectacles, breathed on each lens in turn, rubbed them with his
shirt and put them on to better appraise Perry.

‘
Were you the
last person to visit the warehouse on Friday?’ he asked in
English,

Perry felt all eyes in the room
appraising him, looking for some sort of give away. But there was
nothing to give away. There was just the truth of it.

‘
Aye,’ he said
slowly. ‘And what of it?’

‘
You see! He
admits it!’ burst Campi.

The inspector held up a hand.
‘He admits to being the last at the warehouse. No more.’

‘
What’s
happened to the warehouse then?’

‘
Come with
me,’ the inspector said.

Campi also rose from his chair
but the inspector motioned for him to sit down. ‘Not you, I’ll take
him alone.’

Perry followed him outside. The
workers were at the other end of the platform, lining up the
barrows for the 8 o'clock. He was glad he didn't have to face them
again.

The inspector led him onto the
trackside pathway, Perry kept close behind. He tracked the rail
line to the horizon and saw what looked like a black coat button in
the distance. It was the face of the 8 o’clock locomotive coming
in.

‘
Mister?’
Perry said, ‘I have no idea what this is about, so how could it be
me?’

‘
Mister?
It’s
Inspector
Niels Saldrup if you please. And I don’t know what to think
yet. I’m still gathering the facts.’

Perry traipsed after him. A
long hoot piped out from the train.

‘
Saldrup.
Where are you from then?’

‘
Denmark,’ the
inspector called back.

The first of the warehouses
opened up ahead. The train was a football pitch away. Perry glanced
back. The guards were on the platform, not watching. He couldn’t
believe his luck.

‘
Denmark?’
Perry raised his voice over the din of the approaching train.
‘Where’s that then?’

There were
tufts of overgrown grass around the tracks. On the far side, he
made out some small outbuildings. If he could make it that far
there were plenty of hiding places; some factories, a stable and
more warehouses. If things were really desperate he could always
take his chances swimming in the
Rio de la
Plata
.

‘
Europe,’ the
Inspector turned to face him. ‘Really, you’ve never heard of
Denmark?’

‘
No.’

The train was metres away. The
trailing hoppers must have been a kilometre long. Head starts
didn't get much better. Perry reckoned he was fast enough to make
it across the tracks before the train passed and cut off the gangly
Inspector. His knees twitched under his trousers. He shifted his
weight onto the balls of his feet, ready to spring across the
tracks.

‘
Perry?’

If they caught him he'd surely
be done for, but the way he had come in that morning, the way the
men had looked at him, the way Campi had insisted that it was him
all felt like he was being set up for a fall. It was now or
never.

‘
Perry? Are
you coming?’

He didn’t move, and then the
locomotive was there, rumbling past. The air billowed out of him.
He’d missed his chance. Inwardly he cursed himself, with the train
now blocking him - it felt like the wrong choice. He gulped and met
the Inspector’s scrutiny.

‘
Yes, I’m
coming.’

Perry and Inspector Saldrup
approached the warehouse door.

‘
So, what do
you see?’

The padlock was fastened, the
swing door shut. ‘Just as I left it on Friday.’

Inspector Niels Saldrup
sniffed, took out a set of keys.

‘
And is this
the same padlock used on Friday?’

Perry grabbed it, weighed it in
his palm. ‘I think so. I mean I didn't really look that
closely.’

‘
How sure are
you that you locked it?’

‘
Not an ounce
of doubt. I checked it twice. It was the first time I'd ever done
it you see.’

‘
Really?’

Perry jumped on the curiosity.
‘I was surprised too. I'm a casual worker, not permanent like some
of these. I was last picking up my wages and foreman Campi offered
me another week's work, said what a good worker I was and asked me
to lock up.’

‘
Curious,’ the
inspector said and unlocked the padlock, ‘Let’s take a look
inside.’

Perry pushed his way in. ‘What
the-? Is this some sort of joke?’

The place was stacked high with
lemon crates.

‘
What do you
mean boy?’

‘
Well, I was
thinking to myself, why would anyone nick a load of lemons? It must
be a nightmare to shift that lot, hardly worth all that much. And
we come in here and the lemon crates are all in here. So what’s
with the interrogation, the guards? Nothing’s been nicked! I locked
the bloody padlock, but even if I hadn’t there’s nothing
gone!’

The inspector’s arms were
crossed.

‘
That’s where
you’re wrong.’

Perry swept the room again.
‘We’d have to do a count to be sure I guess, but it doesn’t look
like we’re missing much if any.’

‘
Eight crates.
We’re missing eight crates.’

Perry grabbed a tuft of his
hair and pulled it in exasperation. ‘Has someone lost their
marbles? They called in an inspector for eight measly crates!
That’s barely a hopper. All this fuss for a few lemons? It…’

And then he realised. He was
right. It didn’t make sense. ‘This can’t really be about lemons.
What was in those crates?’

The inspector’s eyes narrowed.
‘I don’t know. But they were of great value to Sr. Villanueva.’

‘
Well if I’m
being accused of something, I’ve got a right to know what it is I’m
supposed to have done.’

Saldrup looked at him flatly,
‘You have no rights.’

His mind fizzed - the more he
thought about it, the more the whole thing didn’t add up. The
padlock hadn’t been tampered with. He knew he’d locked it.

‘
Who else has
a key?’ Perry asked.

‘
Señor
Villanueva and foreman Campi have the only two. It was Sr.
Villanueva who brought me in and Campi has an alibi for the whole
weekend.’

Which left what? Just the word
of a young, foreign casual worker with no papers. An easy
scapegoat.

They left the warehouse and
returned up the path. Perry tried to gauge whether the inspector
suspected him or not, but he was a difficult man to read.

‘
If I was
involved, why would I turn up for work this morning?’

‘
Either a
clever bluff. Or you’re innocent,’ said Saldrup, ‘I think I can
rule out the third option: stupidity.’

‘
A flatterer.
I could be thick as a plank for all you know.’

‘
Well when I
walked you along the path you chose not to run. That was a test. A
guilty man tends to run.’

Perry blushed. Had it really
been that obvious? He was suddenly celestially glad he had not made
a break for it.

Back in the station office,
Campi looked like he’d barely moved since they’d left. Perry felt
better, but Campi’s hostile stare put him back on edge. It was
clear where he laid the blame.

In clipped Spanish, the
inspector said:

‘
Creo que
dice la verdad.’

I believe he’s telling the
truth.

No words had ever sounded so
sweet. But the foreman was firmly shaking his head in
disagreement.

Perry felt he had to defend
himself, ‘Why do you think it was me?’

‘
I had the key
all weekend. It had to be you. Someone must have paid you to leave
the padlock unclasped. The thieves got in and then they sealed the
padlock when they got what they wanted.’

‘
But who would
have known that I was locking the warehouse? I’d never done it
before and
you
asked
me
to
lock it on the spur of the moment.’

Campi’s expression slackened an
instant as the point landed. Perry smiled triumphantly at the
inspector. Saldrup had a quizzical look on his face; Perry hoped he
was seeing the foreman in a new light.

Campi’s face darkened, ‘Have
you even searched this smartmouth?’ he barked at Saldrup.

The inspector shook his
head.

‘
Don’t you
think you ought to?’

Saldrup looked at him
apologetically. ‘If you wouldn’t mind Perry? I imagine you have
nothing to hide.’

‘
No. Go
ahead,’ Perry said.

Saldrup called in the guards.
They patted him down, and felt in his pockets. A few coins, a piece
of string, a handkerchief.

Campi watched on, a
dissatisfied grimace on his face.

‘
When are you
going to get it? I’ve not done anything wrong.’

‘
I think we
may let him go now,’ the inspector said.

‘
Take off your
shirt and trousers,’ commanded Campi.

‘
For God’s
sake, haven’t we put this poor lad through enough
today?’

‘
It’s fine,’
Perry slid off his braces and unbuttoned his shirt. He lifted his
arms up and twirled around. ‘See, not hiding anything.’