The drunken Irishman with the red beard and slouch hat stumbled through the deserted station singing "Molly Malone." With his shuffling, flatfooted gait, he was a true soak, and as he walked along, it appeared he was so lost in his song that he might not notice the guard on the stairs.
But he did, and he eyed the guard's paper bag suspiciously before making an elaborate and wobbly bow.
"And a good evenin' to you, sir," the drunk said
"Evening," the guard said.
"And what, may I inquire," said the drunk, standing stiffer, "is your business up there, eh? Up to no good, are you?"
"I'm guarding these premises here," the guard said.
The drunk hiccuped. "So you say, my good fellow, but many a rascal has said as much."
"Here, now---"
"I think," the drunk said, waving an accusatory finger in the air, trying to point it at the guard but unable to aim accurately, "I think, sir, we shall have the police to look you over, so that we shall know if you are up to no good."
"Now, look here," the guard said.
"You look here, and lively, too," the drunk said, and abruptly began to shout, "Police! Po-lice!"
"Here, now," the guard said, coming down the stairs. "Get a grip on yourself, you scurvy soak."
"Scurvy soak?" the drunk said, raising an eyebrow and shaking his fist. "I am a Dubliner, sir."
"I palled that, right enough," the guard snorted.
At that moment, the constable came running around the corner, drawn by the shouts of the drunk.
"Ah, a criminal, officer," said the drunk. "Arrest that scoundrel," he said, pointing to the guard, who had now moved to the bottom of the stairs. "He is up to no good."
The drunk hiccuped.
The constable and the guard exchanged glances, and then open smiles.
"You find this a laughing matter, sir?" said the drunk, turning to the copper. "I see nothing risible. The man is plainly up to no good."
"Come along, now," the constable said, "or I'll have you in lumber for creatin' a nuisance."
"A nuisance?" the drunk said, twisting free of the constable's arm. "I think you and this blackguard are in cahoots, sir."
"That's enough," the constable said. "Come along smartly."
The drunk allowed himself to be led away by the copper. He was last heard to say, "You wouldn't be havin' a daffy of reeb, would you, now?" and the constable assured him he had no drink on his person.
"Dublin," the guard said, sighing, and he climbed back up the stairs to eat his dinner. The distant chimes rang eleven o'clock.
Agar had seen it all, and while he was amused by Pierces performance, he worried whether Clean Willy had taken the opportunity to open the office door. There was no way to know until he made his own mad dash, in less than half an hour now.
He looked at his watch, he looked at the door to the office, and he waited.
For Pierce, the most delicate part of his performance was the conclusion, when he was led by the constable out onto Tooley Street. Pierce did not want to disrupt the policeman's regular rhythm on the beat, so he had to disengage himself rather rapidly.
As they came into the foggy night air, he breathed deeply. "Ah," he said, "and it's a lovely evening, brisk and invigorating."
The copper looked round at the gloomy fog. "Chill enough for me," he said.
"Well, my dear fellow," Pierce said, dusting himself off and making a show of straightening up, as if the night air had sobered him, "I am most grateful for your ministrations upon this occasion, and I can assure you that I can carry on well from here."
"You're not going to be creating another nuisance?"
"My dear sir," Pierce said, standing still straighter, "what do you take me for?"
The copper looked back at the London Bridge Station. It was his business to stay on the beat; a drunk wandering in was not his responsibility once he was ejected from the premises. And London was full of drunks, especially Irish ones who talked too much.
"Stay clear of trouble, then," the cop said, and let him go.
"A good evening to you, officer," Pierce said, and bowed to the departing crusher. Then he wandered out into the fog, singing "Molly Malone."
Pierce went no farther than the end of Tooley Street, less than a block from the station entrance. There, hidden in the fog, was a cab. He looked up at the driver.
"How'd it carry off?" Barlow asked.
"Smart and tidy," Pierce said. "I gave Willy two or three minutes; it should have been enough."
"Willy's a bit glocky."
"All he has to do," Pierce said, "is twirl two locks, and he's not too glocky to bring that off." He glanced at his watch. "Well, we'll know soon enough."
And he slipped away, in the fog, back toward the station.
At eleven-thirty, Pierce had taken up a position where he could see the dispatch office stairs and the guard. The copper made his round; he waved to the jack, who waved back. The copper went on; the jack yawned, stood, and stretched.
Pierce took a breath and poised his finger on the stopwatch button.
The guard came down the stairs, yawning again, and moved off toward the W.C. He walked several paces, and then was out of sight, around a corner.
Pierce hit the button, and counted softly, "One... two... three..."
He saw Agar appear, running hard, barefooted to make no sound, and dashing up the stairs to the door.
"Four... five... six..".
Agar reached the door, twisted the knob; the door opened and Agar was inside. The door closed.