The Pit-Prop Syndicate (24 page)

“That means there are two tank lorries,” Willis went on, continuing his own line of thought. “I say, Laroche, let's mark this one so that we may know it again.”

They made tiny scratches on the paint at each corner of the big vehicle, then Willis turned back to the office.

“I'd like to find that cellar while we're here,” he remarked. “We know there is a cellar, for those Customs men saw the Girondin loaded from it. We might have a look round for the entrance.”

Then ensued a search similar to that which Willis had carried out in the depot at Ferriby, except that in this case they found what they were looking for in a much shorter time. In the office was a flat roll-topped desk, with the usual set of drawers at each side of the central knee well, and when Willis found it was clamped to the floor he felt he need go no further. On the ground in the knee well, and projecting out towards the revolving chair in front, was a mat. Willis raised it, and at once observed a joint across the boards where in ordinary circumstances no joint should be. He fumbled and pressed and pulled, and in a couple of minutes he had the satisfaction of seeing the floor under the well rise and reveal the head of a ladder leading down into the darkness below.

“Here we are,” he called softly to Laroche, who was searching at the other side of the room.

The cellar into which the two detectives descended was lined with timber like that at Ferriby. Indeed the two were identical, except that only one passage—that under the wharf—led out of this one. It contained a similar large tun with a pipe leading down the passage under the wharf, on which was a pump. The only difference was in the connection of the pipes. At Ferriby the pump conveyed from the wharf to the tun, here it was from the tun to the wharf. The pipe from the garage came down through the ceiling and ran direct into the tun.

The two men walked down the passage towards the river. Here also the arrangement was the same as at Ferriby, and they remained only long enough for Willis to point out to the Frenchman how the loading apparatus was worked.

“Well,” said the former, as they returned to the office, “that's not so bad for one day. I suppose it's all we can do here. If we can learn as much at that distillery we shall soon have all we want.”

Laroche pointed to a chair.

“Sit down a moment,” he invited. “I have been thinking over that plan we discussed in the train, of searching the distillery at night, and I don't like it. There are too many people about, and we are nearly certain to be seen. It's quite different from working a place like this.”

“Quite,” Willis answered rather testily. “I don't like it either, but what can we do?”

“I'll tell you what I should do.” Laroche leaned forward and checked his points on his fingers. “That lorry had just been unloaded. It's empty now, and if our theory is correct it will be taken to the distillery tomorrow and left there over-night to be filled up again. Isn't that so?”

Willis nodded impatiently and the other went on:

“Now, it is clear that no one can fill up that tank without leaving finger-prints on the pipe connections in that secret box. Suppose we clean those surfaces now, and suppose we come back here the night after tomorrow, before the man here unloads, we could get the prints of the person who filled up in the distillery.”

“Well,” Willis asked sharply, “and how would that help us?”

“This way. Tomorrow you will be an English distiller with a forest you could get cheap near your works. You have an idea of running your stills on wood fires. You naturally call to see how M. Raymond does it, and you get shown over his works. You have prepared a plan of your proposals. You hand it to him when he can't put it down on a desk. He holds it between his fingers and thumb, and eventually returns it to you. You go home and use powder. You have his finger-prints. You compare the two sets.”

Willis was impressed. The plan was simple, and it promised to gain for them all the information they required without recourse to a hazardous nocturnal visit to the distillery. But he wished he had thought of it himself.

“We might try it,” he admitted, without enthusiasm. “It couldn't do much harm anyway.”

They returned to the garage, opened the secret lid beneath the lorry, and with a cloth moistened with petrol cleaned the fittings. Then after a look round to make sure that nothing had been disturbed, they let themselves out of the shed, regained the lane and their machine, and some forty minutes later were in Bordeaux.

On reconsideration they decided that as Raymond might have obtained Willis's description from Captain Beamish, it would be wiser for Laroche to visit the distillery. Next morning, therefore, the latter bought a small writing block, and taking an inside leaf, which he carefully avoided touching with his hands, he drew a cross-section of a wood-burning fire-box copied from an illustration in a book of reference in the city library, at the same time reading up the subject so as to be able to talk on it without giving himself away. Then he set out on his mission.

In a couple of hours he returned.

“Got that all right,” he exclaimed, as he rejoined the inspector. “I went and saw the fellow; said I was going to start a distillery in the Ardennes where there was plenty of wood, and wanted to see his plant. He was very civil, and took me round and showed me everything. There is a shed there above the still furnaces with hoppers for the firewood to go down, and in it was standing the lorry—the lorry, I saw our marks on the corner. It was loaded with firewood, and he explained that it would be emptied last thing before the day-shift left, so as to do the stills during the night. Well, I got a general look round the concern, and I found that the large tuns which contain the finished brandy were just at the back of the wall of the shed where the lorry was standing. So it is easy to see what happens. Evidently there is a pipe through the wall, and Raymond comes down at night and fills up the lorry.”

“And did you get his finger-prints?”

“Have 'em here.”

Locking the door of their private room, Laroche took from his pocket the sketch he had made.

“He held this up quite satisfactorily,” he went on, “and there should be good prints.”

Willis had meanwhile spread a newspaper on the table and taken from his suitcase a small bottle of powdered lamp-black and a camel's-hair brush. Laying the sketch on the newspaper he gently brushed some of the black powder over it, blowing off the surplus. To the satisfaction of both men, there showed up near the left bottom corner the distinct mark of a left thumb.

“Now the other side.”

Willis turned the paper and repeated the operation on the back. There he got prints of a left fore and second finger.

“Excellent, clear prints, those,” Willis commented, continuing: “And now I have something to tell you. While you were away I have been thinking over this thing, and I believe I've got an idea.”

Laroche looked interested, and the other went on slowly:

“There are two brandy-carrying lorries. Every night one of these lies at the distillery and the other at the clearing; one is being loaded and the other unloaded; and every day the two change places. Now we may take it that neither of those lorries is sent to any other place in the town, lest the brandy tanks might be discovered. For the same reason, they probably only make the one run mentioned per day. Is that right so far?”

“I should think so,” Laroche replied cautiously.

“Very well. Let us suppose these two lorries are Nos. 1 and 2. No. 1 goes to the distillery say every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, and returns on the other three days, while No. 2 does vice versa, one trip each day remember. And this goes on day after day, week after week, month after month. Now is it too much to assume that sooner or later someone is bound to notice this—some worker at the clearing or the distillery, some policeman on his beat, some clerk at a window over-looking the route? And if anyone notices it will he not wonder why it always happens that these two lorries go to this one place and to no other, while the syndicate has six lorries altogether trading into the town? And if this observer should mention his discovery to someone who could put two and two together, suspicion might be aroused, investigation undertaken, and presently the syndicate is up a tree. Now do you see what I'm getting at?”

Laroche had been listening eagerly, and now he made a sudden gesture.

“But of course!” he cried delightedly. “The changing of the numbers!”

“The changing of the numbers,” Willis repeated. “At least, it looks like that to me. No. 1 does the Monday run to the distillery. They change the number plate, and No. 4 does it on Wednesday, while No. 1 runs to some other establishment, where it can be freely examined by anyone who is interested. How does it strike you?”

“You have got it. You have certainly got it.” Laroche was more enthusiastic than the inspector had before seen him. “It's what you call a cute scheme, quite on par with the rest of the business. They didn't leave much to chance, these! And yet it was this very precaution that gave them away.”

“No doubt, but that was an accident.”

“You can't,” said the Frenchman sententiously, “make anything completely watertight.”

The next night they went out to the clearing, and as soon as it was dark once more entered the shed. There with more powder—white this time-they tested the tank lorry for finger-marks. As they had hoped, there were several on the secret fittings, among others a clear print of a left thumb on the rivet head of the spring.

A moment's examination only was necessary. The prints were those of M. Pierre Raymond.

Once again Inspector Willis felt that he ought to have completed his case, and once again second thoughts showed him that he was as far away from that desired end as ever. He had been trying to find accomplices in the murder of Coburn, and by a curious perversity, instead of finding them he had bit by bit solved the mystery of the Pit-Prop Syndicate. He had shown, firstly, that they were smuggling brandy, and, secondly, how they were doing it. For that he would no doubt get a reward, but such was not his aim. What he wanted was to complete his own case and get the approval of his own superiors and bring promotion nearer. And in this he had failed.

For hours he pondered over the problem, then suddenly an idea which seemed promising flashed into his mind. He thought it over with the utmost care, and finally decided that in the absence of something better he must try it.

In the morning the two men travelled to Paris, and Willis, there taking leave of his colleague, crossed to London, and an hour later was with his chief at the Yard.

CHAPTER 19.
WILLIS SPREADS HIS NET

THOUGH INSPECTOR WILLIS HAD spent so much time out of London in his following up of the case, he had by no means lost sight of Madeleine Coburn and Merriman. The girl, he knew, was still staying with her aunt at EASTBOURNE, and the local police authorities, from whom he got his information, believed that her youth and health were reasserting themselves, and that she was rapidly recovering from the shock of her father's tragic death. Merriman haunted the town. He practically lived at the George, going up and down daily to his office, and spending as many of his evenings and his Sundays at Mrs. Luttrell's as he dared.

But though the young man had worn himself almost to a shadow by his efforts, he felt that the realization of his hopes was as far off as ever. Madeleine had told him that she would not marry him until the mystery of her father's murder was cleared up and the guilty parties brought to justice, and he was becoming more and more afraid that she would keep her word. In vain he implored her to consider the living rather than the dead, and not to wreck his life and her own for what, after all, was but a sentiment.

But though she listened to his entreaties and was always kind and gentle, she remained inflexible in her resolve. Merriman felt that his only plan, failing the discovery of Mr. Coburn's assassin, was unobtrusively to keep as much as possible in her company, in the hope that she would grow accustomed to his presences and perhaps in time come to need it.

Under these circumstances his anxiety as to the progress of the case was very great, and on several occasions he had written to Willis asking him how his inquiry was going on. But the inspector had not been communicative, and Merriman had no idea how matters actually stood.

It was therefore with feelings of pleasurable anticipation that he received a telephone call from Willis at Scotland Yard.

“I have just returned from Bordeaux,” the inspector said, “and I am anxious to have a chat with Miss Coburn on some points that have arisen. I should be glad of your presence also, if possible. Can you arrange an interview?”

“Do you want her to come to town?”

“Not necessarily; I will go to EASTBOURNE if more convenient. But our meeting must be kept strictly secret. The syndicate must not get to know.”

Merriman felt excitement and hope rising within him.

“Better go to EASTBOURNE then,” he advised. “Come down with me tonight by the 5.20 from Victoria.”

“No,” Willis answered, “we mustn't be seen together. I shall meet you at the corner of the Grand Parade and Carlisle Road at nine o'clock.”

This being agreed on, both men began to make their arrangements. In Merriman's case these consisted in throwing up his work at the office and taking the first train to EASTBOURNE. At five o'clock he was asking for Miss Coburn at Mrs. Luttrell's door.

“Dear Madeleine,” he said, when he had told her his news, “you must not begin to expect things. It may mean nothing at all. Don't build on it.”

But soon he had made her as much excited as he was himself. He stayed for dinner, leaving shortly before nine to keep his appointment with Willis. Both men were to return to the house, when Madeleine would see them alone.

Inspector Willis did not travel by Merriman's train. Instead he caught the 5.35 to Brighton, dined there, and then slipping out of the hotel, motored over to EASTBOURNE. Dismissing his vehicle at the Grand Hotel, he walked down the Parade and found Merriman at the rendezvous. In ten minutes they were in Mrs. Luttrell's drawing-room.

“I am sorry, Miss Coburn,” Willis began politely, “to intrude on you in this way, but the fact is, I want your help and indirectly the help of Mr. Merriman. But it is only fair, I think, to tell you first what has transpired since we last met. I must warn you, however, that I can only do so in the strictest confidence. No whisper of what I am going to say must pass the lips of either of you.”

“I promise,” said Merriman instantly.

“And I,” echoed Madeleine.

“I didn't require that assurance,” Willis went on. “It is sufficient that you understand the gravity of the situation. Well, after the inquest I set to work,” and he briefly related the story of his investigations in London and in Hull, his discoveries at Ferriby, his proof that Archer was the actual murderer, the details of the smuggling organization and, finally, his suspicion that the other members of the syndicate were privy to Mr. Coburn's death, together with his failure to prove it.

His two listeners heard him with eager attention, in which interest in his story was mingled with admiration of his achievement.

“So Hilliard was right about the brandy after all!” Merriman exclaimed. “He deserves some credit for that. I think he believed in it all the time, in spite of our conclusion that we had proved it impossible. By Jove! How you can be had!”

Willis turned to him.

“Don't be disappointed about your part in it, sir,” he advised. “I consider that you and Mr. Hilliard did uncommonly well. I may tell you that I thought so much of your work that I checked nothing of what you had done.”

Merriman colored with pleasure.

“Jolly good of you to say so, I'm sure, inspector,” he said; “but I'm afraid most of the credit for that goes to Hilliard.”

“It was your joint work I was speaking of,” Willis insisted. “But now to get on to business. As I said, my difficulty is that I suspect the members of the syndicate of complicity in Mr. Coburn's death, but I can't prove it. I have thought out a plan which may or may not produce this proof. It is in this that I want your help.”

“Mr. Inspector,” cried Madeleine reproachfully, “need you ask for it?”

Willis laughed.

“I don't think so. But I can't very well come in and command it, you know.”

“Of course you can,” Madeleine returned. “You know very well that in such a cause Mr. Merriman and I would do anything.”

“I believe it, and I am going to put you to the test. I'll tell you my idea. It has occurred to me that these people might be made to give themselves away. Suppose they had one of their private meetings to discuss the affairs of the syndicate, and that, unknown to them, witnesses could be present to overhear what was said. Would there not at least be a sporting chance that they would incriminate themselves?”

“Yes!” said Merriman, much interested. “Likely enough. But I don't see how you could arrange that.”

Willis smiled slightly.

“I think it might be managed,” he answered. “If a meeting were to take place we could easily learn where it was to be held and hear what went on. But the first point is the difficulty—the question of the holding of the meeting. In the ordinary course there might be none for months. Therefore we must take steps to have one summoned. And that,” he turned to Madeleine, “is where I want your help.”

His hearers stared, mystified, and Willis resumed.

“Something must happen of such importance to the welfare of the syndicate that the leaders will decide that a full conference of the members is necessary. So far as I can see, you alone can cause that something to happen. I will tell you how. But I must warn you that I fear it will rake up painful memories.”

Madeleine, her lips parted, was hanging on his words.

“Go on,” she said quickly, “we have settled all that.”

“Thank you,” said Willis, taking a sheet of paper from his pocket. “I have here the draft of a letter which I want you to write to Captain Beamish. You can phrase it as you like; in fact I want it in your own words. Read it over and you will understand.”

The draft ran as follows:

“SILVERDALE ROAD, “EASTBOURNE.

“DEAR CAPTAIN BEAMISH,—In going over some papers belonging to my late father, I learn to my surprise that he was not a salaried official of your syndicate, but a partner. It seems to me, therefore, that as his heir I am entitled to his share of the capital of the concern, or at all events to the interest on it. I have to express my astonishment that no recognition of this fact has as yet been made by the syndicate.

“I may say that I have also come on some notes relative to the business of the syndicate, which have filled me with anxiety and dismay, but which I do not care to refer to in detail in writing.

“I think I should like an interview with you to hear your explanation of these two matters, and to discuss what action is to be taken with regard to them. You could perhaps find it convenient to call on me here, or I could meet you in London if you preferred it.

“Yours faithfully,

“MADELEINE COBURN.”

Madeleine made a grimace as she read this letter.

“Oh,” she cried, “but how could I do that? I didn't find any notes, you know, and besides—it would be so dreadful—acting as a decoy—”

“There's something more important than that,” Merriman burst in indignantly. “Do you realize, Mr. Inspector, that if Miss Coburn were to send that letter she would put herself in very real danger?”

“Not at all,” Willis answered quietly. “You have not heard my whole scheme. My idea is that when Beamish gets that letter he will lay it before Archer, and they will decide that they must find out what Miss Coburn knows, and get her quieted about the money. They will say: ‘We didn't think she was that kind, but it's evident she is out for what she can get. Let's pay her a thousand or two a year as interest on her father's alleged share—it will be a drop in the bucket to us, but it will seem a big thing to her—and that will give us a hold on her keeping silence, if she really does know anything.' Then Beamish will ask Miss Coburn to meet him, probably in London. She will do so, not alone, but with some near friend, perhaps yourself, Mr. Merriman, seeing you were at the clearing and know something of the circumstances. You will be armed, and in addition I shall have a couple of men from the Yard within call—say, disguised as waiters, if a restaurant is chosen for the meeting. You, Miss Coburn, will come out in a new light at that meeting. You will put up a bluff. You will tell Captain Beamish you know he is smuggling brandy, and that the money he offers won't meet the case at all. You must have 25,000 pounds down paid as the value of your father's share in the concern, and in such a way as will raise no suspicion that you knew what was in progress. The interview we can go into in detail later, but it must be so arranged that Beamish will see Mr. Merriman's hand in the whole thing. On the 25,000 pounds being paid the incriminating notes will be handed over. You will explain that as a precautionary measure you have sent them in a sealed envelope to your solicitor, together with a statement of the whole case, with instructions to open the same that afternoon if not reclaimed before that by yourself in person. Now with regard to your objection, Miss Coburn. I quite realize what an exceedingly nasty job this will be for you. In ordinary circumstances I should not suggest it. But the people against whom I ask you to act did not hesitate to lure your father into the cab in which they intended to shoot him. They did this by a show of friendliness, and by playing on the trust he reposed in them, and they did it deliberately and in cold blood. You need not hesitate from nice feeling to act as I suggest in order to get justice for your father's memory.”

Madeleine braced herself up.

“I know you are right, and if there is no other way I shall not hesitate,” she said, but there was a piteous look in her eyes. “And you will help me, Seymour?” She looked appealingly at her companion.

Merriman demurred on the ground that, even after taking all Willis's precautions, the girl would still be in danger, but she would not consider that aspect of the question at all, and at last he was overborne. Madeleine with her companion's help then rewrote the letter in her own phraseology, and addressed it to Captain Beamish, c/o Messrs. The Landes Pit-Prop Syndicate, Ferriby, Hull. Having arranged that he would receive immediate telephonic information of a reply, Willis left the house and was driven back to Brighton. Next morning he returned to London.

The Girondin, he reckoned, would reach Ferriby on the following Friday, and on the Thursday he returned to Hull. He did not want to be seen with Hunt, as he expected the latter's business would by this time be too well known. He therefore went to a different hotel, ringing up the Excise man and arranging a meeting for that evening.

Hunt turned up about nine, and the two men retired to Willis's bedroom, where the inspector described his doings at Bordeaux. Then Hunt told of his discoveries since the other had left.

“I've got all I want at last,” he said. “You remember we both realized that those five houses were getting in vastly more brandy than they could possibly sell? Well, I've found out how they are getting rid of the surplus.”

Willis looked his question.

“They are selling it round to other houses. They have three men doing nothing else. They go in and buy anything from a bottle up to three or four kegs, and there is always a good reason for the purchase. Usually it is that they represent a publican whose stock is just out, and who wants a quantity to keep him going. But the point is that all the purchases are perfectly in order. They are openly made and the full price is paid. But, following it up, I discovered that there is afterwards a secret rebate. A small percentage of the price is refunded. This pays everyone concerned and ensures secrecy.”

Willis nodded.

“It's well managed all through,” he commented. “They deserved to succeed.”

“Yes, but they're not going to. All the same my discoveries won't help you. I'm satisfied that none of these people know anything of the main conspiracy.”

Early on the following morning Willis was once more at work. Dawn had not completely come when he motored from the city to the end of the Ferriby lane. Ten minutes after leaving his car he was in the ruined cottage. There he unearthed his telephone from the box in which he had hidden it, and took up his old position at the window, prepared to listen in to whatever messages might pass.