Thriller (32 page)

leaving behind me a pair of corpses with their puddles of blood.

It was but a matter of weeks before I learned that the one I

pummeled never lived after. The other one, the cove yet alive, I

now heard were called Benjamin Weaver, and that he had vowed

to be revenged for what I done. So a month or two I stays on my

guard, but nothing transpired. I heard no discussion of Weaver

nor of his exploits, and I began to wonder if he might be dead

or gone into hiding. That, I told myself, were the end of it. But

it weren’t the end, and though I talked a mouthful and been

through two pints, it ain’t but the beginning of this tale.

So, a year or more later, I’m on a fresh lay. I wished I could

hole up as men was being nabbed all regular like, sent to the gallows like chickens to the butcher. I planned my lays careful, and

didn’t like to do many and take the chance of being ’peached.

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This one was no more than a month since the last because the

last ain’t quite worked as intended. I’d been led to believe that a

particular coach would contain a great fortune, and for what I

knew it did, but all were contained within a strongbox. This particular box was made by some German named Domal, said to be

the cleverest maker of such things in the world. It were too

strong for breaking, and too intricate for picking. All that work

had brought wealth, but wealth I could not reach. I still had it

hidden away, in my secret spot in my secret rooms—for I told

no one where I lived, not even my closest friends, for it’s best to

trust no one, in particular your friends.

Instead of this box, which I can’t open, I now set my eyes ’pon

a coach to return Londonward for the season from the summer

in Yorkshire. These things are ordered just so, and there would

be trunks and ladies and jewels—silver buckles and fine handkerchiefs, and linens and all manner of goods. It’s somewhat

dispiriting, as a prig can take three or four hundred pounds of

swag, and not get more than three or four pounds from the

fence, but there it is. Now, these rich folks, they would never have

been so foolish as to travel the roads without escort, and an escort they could trust, too. But what signifies that? They were to

have two, and a manly, strapping, all burly coachman besides.

This coachman was a handsome fellow named Phillip, what

name means “lover of horses.” I tell you that only so you understand I’m a scholar on top of all else.

This Phillip showed himself a liking for a kitchen girl, a pretty

little thing, slim of form but fiery in humor. Maggie, she was

called, and she loved me hot and mighty well, which was how I

entered into this lay. I convinced her to shine her favors on poor

Phillip, and so she done. Maggie worked her wicked charms, and

he come up so gasping for breath, so clouded with the stink of

love, he would do anything she might ask. So it were he consented to aid us for a share of the treasure and a share of pretty

Maggie, too. So he thought, but I’d taken to myself the role of

the double dealer.

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That’s how we begun, me with my partner by my side, for as

I said, I had not come so far and done so much without a few

good fellows to aid. Here was a spark called Farting Dan, and

aptly named he was. But beyond his farting, he was one of them

thinkers, which was the good of him. The bad was his stench.

Many’s the time I thought the men in pursuit should find us

by his fragrance, for it weren’t any ordinary farts he offered, but

the kind to make your eyes water and your head feel strange. For

all that, Dan earned his keep, he did, stench be damned. Not

quite so daring or adventuresome as old Ruddy Dick, but a dependable man, who knowed more about pistols than any other

spark I’d encountered. With his aid, I could be as certain as ever

a man could hope, that my pistols should not misfire. Besides,

once we divvied up the spoils and went looking for our fun, never

once did the choicest ladies prefer him to me, even with my face

being what it is.

So the day comes, and we wait among a copse of trees until

our mark passed us, a fine equipage ’twas, all turquoise and gold,

with black trim. It looked to me like money bags pulled by two

stout horses. Before it rode one tough, and behind it another, and

both these fellows burdened by the tedium, which was how I

liked them.

Farting Dan begins it, riding hard up to the rear guardian and

unloading a pistol directly into his chest. There’s a burst of powder and flame, and this fellow slumps over onto his horse.

This were by no means the way I was accustom to do business. No need to kill a spark who might as well be knocked

down. Still, best never to fret, and I go to take care of my guardian

to the front, but Farting Dan is on it before me, galloping hard

and now firing a second pistol right into this fellow’s back.

I’m close now, and for an instant I’m blinded by the flash, but

when it clears I see the horse with no rider, and a body ’pon the

ground.

I give him a look, and he shrugs in answer. Fair enough, I

thinks to myself.

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Screams and cries now filled the air, for the sorts of folk in the

equipage were by no means prepared for such bloodshed as now

was unleashed. In truth, these dandy highwaymen had made our

job easier, for the ladies were inclined to believe that being robbed

should be the most romantical of experiences, so when they saw

it up close, with its blood and gore and the stench of death and

shite they were all the more like to obey our commands.

Farting Dan let loose with one of those stenches for which he

was known and rode hard to the coach. I’m behind him, making ready with a pistol, wiping at the stink-full air, for the

equipage must be stopped. Phillip were supposed to make a

good show of attempting to outrun us, and he’s making wild with

the reins and the horses are at full gallop, maybe a fuller gallop

than I’d like, and by all appearance, the two dead toughs inclined

Phillip to feel all mistrustful and switch allegiance.

The way we’d planned it, I’d be the one who made as though I

was dealing with Phillip, but that Farting Dan had another scheme,

and like a trick rider at Bartholmew Fair, he’s on the back of his

horse, and then leaping in the air. Always thinking, that Farting

Dan, and now he thinks to come down ’pon that coachman Phillip,

the very one what’s supposed to aid us. Farting Dan knowed that

well, but he showed no sign of caring, for I look over and see he’s

got a pistol out and he’s using it as a club. He swings it and swings

it again. A third time and a fourth. I hear grunts and moans, but the

struggle is out of my view. When I come again into the view, the

coach is still, the coachman is slumped over, the ruins of his skull

are bathed in blood. Farting Dan has that terrible redness all over

his hands, splattered upon his shirt, sprinkled upon his face. He

grins at me something terrible and then licks the blood off his lips.

I ride now up to the still coach. A quarter mile down the road

are two bodies and two horses. I don’t like to leave a trail such

as that, but the road is not so traveled that we can’t presume a

quarter hour’s isolation. Most like we’d have an hour, but I don’t

care for presuming. A man remains cautious or he gets nabbed.

Nothing simpler.

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Farting Dan jumps down, letting loose with an arsey trumpet

blast. I breathe through my mouth and dismount. Now’s the

time to conduct the business.

Whimpers come from the guts of the equipage, but I could see

nothing with the curtains drawn, as though they might hide behind their flippery. Still, a man is wisest to exercise caution, so

I wave my pistol and point at the door. “Out, you bitches!” I

shout. “Nice and slow, with your hands high and not near nothing. Any man what don’t do as I say gets himself shot, his privy

removed, and placed in the mouth of the nearest lady.”

You shock ’em to their core. None of this pleasantry crap.
My,

what a pretty string of jewels. Would you mind ever so much plac-

ing it ’pon my hand?
I’d as soon swive a barnyard pig as say such

shite. I’ve done one in my time and not the other, and I shan’t

tell you which.

The door then opens a crack, and then all at once, and a great

man with a great belly, dressed in a suit of sky-blue cloth, all lace

and gold thread about him, stumbles out. His wig is askew, no

doubt knocked about from his terrible trembling, and his face is

slick with perspiration, despite the chill in the air. Hard by fifty

years of age, and there are tears in his eyes; he’s crying like an

infant what been ripped from its mother’s teat and hurled against

the wall.

“Please,” he says, all snotty weepful. “We’ll do as you say.

Don’t hurt anyone.”

“Don’t hurt anyone?” I bark. “Why, look about you, my blubberer. Your guardians are dead, your coachman smote. Mean

you that I should not hurt anyone above the station of a servant?”

I think to add more, but time is of the most importance, and

a man of the highway ought not to comport himself as though

he were a comedian. “Out of the coach, the rest of you,” I says.

“There’s no one in there but my wife,” the weeping fat man

tells me.

“Out with her, or there shall be no one in there but your

widow,” I answer. Mighty clever, I was in those days.

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Out she comes, as pretty a thing as I’ve ever seen. Not more

than eighteen, with white skin, a swan’s neck, eyes so green

they’re like the brightest leaves on the sunniest day of the clearest summer. She’s got one of those fancy gowns on, and the

bodice makes visible a fair portion of her massive bubbies. She

has her eyes cast downward, and, like her husband, her lips are

all atremble, but these lips are red and moist and waiting to be

kissed.

Farting Dan gives a right lascivious look, and neither the

woman nor the husband can guess if he means to blow a hole

through her or to make use of the ones she’s already got.

I toss the fat man a sack. “Start filling it. Your coins, your notes,

your jewels, aught of import. I plan a search before we go, and

I mean to cut off one of your fingers for everything I find that

you ain’t included.”

I’ve still got my pistol trained on them when Farting Dan

says, “I believe we must tarry a few minutes longer than

planned.”

He’s looking at the wife, so there is no mistaking his mind, but

I wish to make it clear that this ain’t the time for frolicks. “Spend

your share with the whores,” I say. “I’ll not take chances here.”

“I’ll wager you will.” He gets onto his horse so as say he’s no

concern for my preferences.

The sods, meanwhile, are putting into the bag what I ask. The

fat man has put in his purse and is taking the buckles off his

shoes. The lady is taking off her rings and her necklace.

I send the husband up top to throw down the trunks what’s

stationed up top, a pair of fat ones they’ve got. They crack open

egglike when they hit the dirt, and out spills a mass of clothing

and trinkets. I make the pretty lady collect the trinkets, and put

them in the bag, and as she pushes things this way and that, I

see something bright and shiny, all glistening in the sun. It can’t

help but draw my attention.

It’s a lock box, very like the one I have back in my rooms, the

one I schemed to get, the one containing a fortune which might

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as well not exist since I can’t get at it. It’s the same sort, with the

very same filigree design on the steel of it. This one is a great bit

smaller, about twice the size of my fist, but the lock seems to be

exactly the same size, looking unusual large on this piece. So now

there’s something on my mind more important than the pretty wife.

“What’s in the box?” I ask the husband.

“Banknotes,” he tells me. He clearly don’t want to, but he

does it anyway. Good fellow. Deserves a pat on the arse, he does.

“Give me here the key,” I order.

He only shakes his head, and tells me, “I don’t have it.”

“Where is it?” I demand.

“There isn’t one. The notes inside are too valuable, so I destroyed the key.”

“Then how the deuce do you get them out?” I roared, for it

was a mighty reasonable question, and worthy of being asked

loudly.

“I have the one man in the world who can pick a Domal lock,”

he says. Thus it is that he points to the crumpled heap of Phillip

the coachman, bloody, glistening in the sun almost so much as

the metal box.

This is what they call an irony. Farting Dan has bashed the

brains out of the one man who could help me get into this box,

and the one I got hidden in my rooms, too. I stare at the heap,

and then something happens that don’t look like it should.

Phillip, like as if on cue in a stage play, twitches.

With the pistols still on the happy couple, I take a closer look

at him. There’s blood all matted in his hair, but his skull ain’t