The Pit-Prop Syndicate (8 page)

“We needn't talk about it again,” Merriman said in a hard voice, looking intently at the stem of the mast, “but if it's necessary to make things clear, I want to marry her if she'll have me.”

“I thought so, old man, and I can only say—the best of luck! As you say, then, we mustn't call in the police, and as we can't leave the thing, we must go on with our own inquiry. I would suggest that if we find out their scheme is something illegal, we see Mr. Coburn and give him the chance to get out before we lodge our information.”

“I suppose that is the only way,” Merriman said doubtfully. After a pause Hilliard went on:

“I'm not very clear, but I'm inclined to think we can do no more good here at present. I think we should try the other end.”

“The other end?”

“Yes, the unloading of the ship and the disposal of the pit-props. You see, the first thing we're up against is that these people are anything but fools, and the second is that they already suspect us and will keep a watch on us. A hundred to one they make inquiries and see that we really do go through the Canal du Midi to the Riviera. We can't hang about Bordeaux without their knowing it.”

“That's true.”

“Of course,” Hilliard went on, “we can see now we made a frightful mess of things by calling on the Coburns or letting Mr. Coburn know we were about, but at the time it seemed the wisest thing.”

“It was the only thing,” Merriman asserted positively. “We didn't know then there was anything wrong, and besides, how could we have hidden the launch?”

“Well, it's done anyway. We needn't worry about it now, except that it seems to me that for the same reason the launch has served its purpose. We can't use it here because the people at the clearing know it, and we can't use it at the unloading end, for all on board the Girondin would recognize it directly they saw it.”

Merriman nodded without speaking and Hilliard continued:

“I think, therefore, that we should leave the launch at Bordeaux tonight and go back to London overland. I shall write Mr. Coburn saying we have found Poste Restante letters recalling us. You can enclose a note to Miss Coburn if you like. When we get to town we can apply at the Inquiry Office at Lloyd's to find out where the Girondin calls in England. Then let us go there and make inquiries. The launch can be worked back to England some other time. How does that strike you?”

“Seems all right. But I should leave the launch at Bordeaux. We may have to come back, and it would furnish us with an excuse for our presence if we were seen.”

Hilliard gave a little sigh of relief. Merriman's reply took a weight off his mind, not because of the value of the SUGGESTION—though in its way it was quite useful—but because of its indication of Merriman's frame of mind. He had feared that because of Miss Coburn's connection with the affair he would lose his friend's help, even that they might quarrel. And now he saw these fears were groundless. Thankfully he recognized that they would co-operate as they had originally intended.

“Jolly good notion, that,” he answered cordially.

“I confess,” Merriman went on slowly, “that I should have liked to stay in the neighborhood and see if we couldn't find out something more about the lorry numbers. It may be a trivial point, but it's the only direct and definite thing we know of. All the rest are hints or suspicions or probabilities. But here we have a bit of mystery, tangible, in our hands, as it were. Why were those number plates changed? It seems to me a good point of attack.”

“I thought of that, too, and I agree with every word you say,” Hilliard replied eagerly, “but there is the question of our being suspects. I believe we shall be watched out of the place, and I feel sure our only chance of learning anything is to satisfy them of our bona fides.”

Merriman agreed, and they continued discussing the matter in detail, at last deciding to adopt Hilliard's SUGGESTION and set to work on the English end of the mysterious traffic.

About two that afternoon they swung round the Pointe de Grave into the estuary of the Gironde. The tide, which was then flowing, turned when they were some two-thirds of the way up, and it was well on to seven o'clock when they made fast to the same decaying wharf from which they had set out. Hilliard saw the owner, and arranged with him to let the launch lie at one of his moorings until she should be required. Then the friends went up town, got some dinner, wrote their letters, and took the night train for Paris. Next evening they were in London.

“I say,” Hilliard remarked when later on that same evening they sat in his rooms discussing their plans, “I believe we can find out about the Girondin now. My neighbor on the next landing above is a shipping man. He might have a copy of Lloyd's Register. I shall go and ask him.”

In a few moments he returned with a bulky volume. “One of the wonders of the world, this, I always think,” he said, as he began to turn over the pages. “It gives, or is supposed to give, information about everything over a hundred tons that floats anywhere over the entire globe. It'll give the Girondin anyway.” He ran his finger down the columns. “Ah! what's this? Motor ship Girondin, 350 tons, built and so on. ‘The Landes Pit-Prop Syndicate, Ferriby, Hull.' Hull, my son. There we are.”

“Hull! I know Hull,” Merriman remarked laconically. “At least, I was there once.”

“We shall know it a jolly sight better than that before we're through, it seems to me,” his friend replied. “Let's hope so, anyway.”

“What's the plan, then? I'm on, provided I have a good sleep at home tonight first.”

“Same here,” Hilliard agreed as he filled his pipe. “I suppose Hull by an early train tomorrow is the scheme.”

Merriman borrowed his friend's pouch and refilled his pipe in his turn.

“You think so?” he said slowly. “Well, I'm not so sure. Seems to me we can very easily dish ourselves if we're not careful.”

“How so?”

“We agreed these folk were wide-awake and suspicious of us. Very well. Directly our visit to them is over, we change our plans and leave Bordeaux. Will it not strike them that our interest in the trip was only on their account?”

“I don't see it. We gave a good reason for leaving.”

“Quite; that's what I'm coming to. We told them you were recalled to your office. But what about that man Morton, that was to spy on us before? What's to prevent them asking him if you really have returned?”

Hilliard sat up sharply.

“By Jove!” he cried. “I never thought of that.”

“And there's another thing,” Merriman went on. “We turn up at Hull, find the syndicate's depot and hang about, the fellow in charge there sees us. Well, that's all right if he hasn't had a letter from France describing us and enclosing a copy of that group that Captain Beamish took at the chateau.”

Hilliard whistled.

“Lord! It's not going to be so simple as it looks, is it?”

“It isn't. And what's more, we can't afford to make any mistakes. It's too dangerous.”

Hilliard got up and began to pace the room.

“I don't care,” he declared savagely. “I'm going through with it now no matter what happens.”

“Oh, so am I, for the matter of that. All I say is we shall have to show a bit more intelligence this time.”

For an hour more they discussed the matter, and at last decided on a plan. On the following morning Hilliard was to go to his office, see his chief and ask for an extension of leave, then hang about and interview as many of his colleagues as possible, telling them he had been recalled, but was not now required. His chief was not very approachable, and Hilliard felt sure the subject would not be broached to him. In the evening they would go down to Hull.

This program they would have carried out, but for an unforeseen event. While Hilliard was visiting his office Merriman took the opportunity to call at his, and there learned that Edwards, his partner, had been taken ill the morning before. It appeared there was nothing seriously wrong, and Edwards expected to be back at work in three or four days, but until his return Merriman was required, and he had reluctantly to telephone the news to Hilliard. But no part of their combined holiday was lost. Hilliard by a stroke of unexpected good fortune was able to spend the same time at work, and postpone the remainder of his leave until Merriman was free. Thus it came to pass that it was not until six days later than they had intended that the two friends packed their bags for Hull.

They left King's Cross by the 5.40 p.m. train, reaching their destination a little before eleven. There they took rooms at the George, a quiet hotel in Baker Street, close to the Paragon Station.

CHAPTER 7.
THE FERRIBY DEPOT

THE TWO FRIENDS, EAGER and excited by their adventure, were early astir next morning, and after breakfast Hilliard went out and bought the best map of the city and district he could find.

“Why, Ferriby's not in the town at all,” he exclaimed after he had studied it for some moments. “It's up the river—must be seven or eight miles up by the look of it; the North-Eastern runs through it and there's a station. We'd better go out there and prospect.”

Merriman agreed, they called for a timetable, found there was a train at 10.35, and going down to Paragon Station, got on board.

After clearing the suburbs the line came down close to the river, and the two friends kept a good look-out for the depot. About four and a half miles out they stopped at a station called Hassle, then a couple of miles farther their perseverance was rewarded and they saw a small pier and shed, the latter bearing in large letters on its roof the name of the syndicate. Another mile and a half brought them to Ferriby, where they alighted.

“Now what about walking back to Hassle,” Hilliard suggested, “and seeing what we can see?”

They followed the station approach road inland until they reached the main thoroughfare, along which they turned eastwards in the direction of Hull. In a few minutes they came in sight of the depot, half a mile off across the fields. A lane led towards it, and this they followed until it reached the railway.

There it turned in the direction of Hull and ran parallel to the line for a short distance, doubling back, as they learned afterwards, until it reached the main road half-way to Hassle. The railway tracks were on a low bank, and the men could just see across them to the syndicate's headquarters.

The view was not very good, but so far as they could make out, the depot was a replica of that in the Landes clearing. A timber wharf jutted out into the stream, apparently of the same size and construction as that on the River Lesque. Behind it was the same kind of galvanized iron shed, but this one, besides having windows in the gables, seemed the smaller of the two. Its back was only about a hundred feet from the railway, and the space between was taken up by a yard surrounded by a high galvanized iron fence, above which appeared the tops of many stacks of pit-props. Into the yard ran a siding from the railway. From a door in the fence a path led across the line to a wicket in the hedge of the lane, beside which stood a “Beware of the Trains” notice. There was no sign of activity about the place, and the gates through which the siding entered the enclosure were shut.

Hilliard stopped and stood looking over.

“How the mischief are we to get near that place without being seen?” he questioned. “It's like a German pill-box. There's no cover anywhere about.”

It was true. The country immediately surrounding the depot was singularly bare. It was flat except for the low bank, four or five feet high, on which lay the railway tracks. There were clumps of trees farther inland, but none along the shore, and the nearest building, a large block like a factory with beside it a cottage, was at least three hundred yards away in the Hull direction.

“Seems an element of design in that, eh, Hilliard?” Merriman remarked as they turned to continue their walk. “Considering the populous country we're in, you could hardly find a more isolated place.”

Hilliard nodded as they turned away.

“I've just been thinking that. They could carry on any tricks they liked there and no one would be a bit the wiser.”

They moved on towards the factory-like building. It was on the inland side of the railway, and the lane swung away from the line and passed what was evidently its frontage. A siding ran into its rear, and there were connections across the main lines and a signal cabin in the distance. A few yards on the nearer side stood the cottage, which they now saw was empty and dilapidated.

“I say, Hilliard, look there!” cried Merriman suddenly.

They had passed along the lane until the facade of the building had come into view and they were able to read its signboard: “Ackroyd & Bolt, Licensed Rectifiers.”

“I thought it looked like a distillery,” continued Merriman in considerable excitement. “By Jove! Hilliard, that's a find and no mistake! Pretty suggestive, that, isn't it?”

Hilliard was not so enthusiastic.

“I'm not so sure,” he said slowly. “You mean that it supports my brandy smuggling theory? Just how?”

“Well, what do you think yourself? We suspect brandy smuggling, and here we find at the import end of the concern the nearest building in an isolated region is a distillery—a rectifying house, mind you! Isn't that a matter of design too? How better could they dispose of their stuff than by dumping it on to rectifiers?”

“You distinguish between distillers and rectifiers?”

“Certainly; there's less check on rectifiers. Am I not right in saying that while the regulations for the measurement of spirit actually produced from the stills are so thorough as to make fraud almost impossible, rectifiers, because they don't themselves produce spirit, but merely refine what other firms have produced, are not so strictly looked after? Rectifiers would surely find smuggled stuff easier to dispose of than distillers.”

Hilliard shook his head.

“Perhaps so, theoretically,” he admitted, “but in practice there's nothing in it. Neither could work a fraud like that, for both are watched far too closely by our people. I'm afraid I don't see that this place being here helps us. Surely it's reasonable to suppose that the same cause brought Messrs. Ackroyd & Bolt that attracted the syndicate? Just that it's a good site. Where in the district could you get a better? Cheap ground and plenty of it, and steamer and rail connections.”

“It's a coincidence anyway.”

“I don't see it. In any case unless we can prove that the ship brings brandy the question doesn't arise.”

Merriman shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly.

“That's a blow,” he remarked. “And I was so sure I had got hold of something good! But it just leads us back to the question that somehow or other we must inspect that depot, and if we find nothing we must watch the Girondin unloading. If we can only get near enough it would be impossible for them to discharge anything in bulk without our seeing it.”

Hilliard murmured an agreement, and the two men strolled on in silence, the thoughts of each busy with the problem Merriman had set. Both were realizing that detective work was a very much more difficult business than they had imagined. Had not each had a strong motive for continuing the investigation, it is possible they might have grown fainthearted. But Hilliard had before him the vision of the kudos which would accrue to him if he could unmask a far-reaching conspiracy, while to Merriman the freeing of Madeleine Coburn from the toils in which she seemed to have been enmeshed had become of more importance than anything else in the world.

The two friends had already left the distillery half a mile behind, when Hilliard stopped and looked at his watch.

“Ten minutes to twelve,” he announced. “As we have nothing to do let's go back and watch that place. Something may happen during the afternoon, and if not we'll look out for the workmen leaving and see if we can pick up something from them.”

They retraced their steps past the distillery and depot, then creeping into a little wood, sat down on a bank within sight of the enclosure and waited.

The day was hot and somewhat enervating, and both enjoyed the relaxation in the cool shade. They sat for the most part in silence, smoking steadily, and turning over in their minds the problems with which they were faced. Before them the country sloped gently down to the railway bank, along the top of which the polished edges of the rails gleamed in the midday sun. Beyond was the wide expanse of the river, with a dazzling track of shimmering gold stretching across it and hiding the low-lying farther shore with its brilliancy. A few small boats moved slowly near the shore, while farther out an occasional large steamer came into view going up the fairway to Goole. Every now and then trains roared past, the steam hardly visible in the dry air.

The afternoon dragged slowly but not unpleasantly away, until about five o'clock they observed the first sign of activity about the syndicate's depot which had taken place since their arrival. The door in the galvanized fence opened and five figures emerged and slowly crossed the railway. They paused for a moment after reaching the lane, then separated, four going eastwards towards the distillery, the fifth coming north towards the point at which the watchers were concealed. The latter thereupon moved out from their hiding place on to the road.

The fifth figure resolved itself into that of a middle-aged man of the laboring class, slow, heavy, and obese. In his rather bovine countenance hardly any spark of intelligence shone. He did not appear to have seen the others as he approached, but evinced neither surprise nor interest when Hilliard accosted him.

“Any place about here you can get a drink?”

The man slowly jerked his head to the left.

“Oop in village,” he answered. “Raven bar.”

“Come along and show us the way and have a drink with us,” Hilliard invited.

The man grasped this and his eyes gleamed.

“Ay,” he replied succinctly.

As they walked Hilliard attempted light conversation, but without eliciting much response from their new acquaintance, and it was not until he had consumed his third bottle of beer that his tongue became somewhat looser.

“Any chance of a job where you're working?” Hilliard went on. “My pal and I would be glad to pick up something.”

The man shook his head, apparently noticing nothing incongruous in the question.

“Don't think it.”

“No harm in asking the boss anyway. Where might we find him?”

“Down at works likely. He be there most times.”

“I'd rather go to his house. Can you tell where he lives?”

“Ay. Down at works.”

“But he doesn't sleep at the works surely?”

“Ay. Sleeps in tin hut.”

The friends exchanged glances. Their problem was even more difficult than they had supposed. A secret inspection seemed more and more unattainable. Hilliard continued the laborious conversation.

“We thought there might be some stevedoring to do. You've a steamer in now and then, haven't you?”

The man admitted it, and after a deal of wearisome questioning they learned that the Girondin called about every ten days, remaining for about forty-eight hours, and that she was due in three or four days.

Finding they could get no further information out of him, they left their bovine acquaintance with a fresh supply of beer, and returning to the station, took the first train back to Hull. As they sat smoking that evening after dinner they once more attacked the problem which was baffling them.

“It seems to me,” Hilliard asserted, “that we should concentrate on the smuggling idea first, not because I quite believe in it, but because it's the only one we have. And that brings us again to the same point—the unloading of the Girondin.”

Merriman not replying, he continued:

“Any attempt involves a preliminary visit to see how the land lies. Now we can't approach that place in the daytime; if we try to slip round secretly we shall be spotted from those windows or from the wharf; on the other hand, if we invent some tale and go openly, we give ourselves away if they have our descriptions or photographs. Therefore we must go at night.”

“Well?”

“Obviously we can only approach the place by land or water. If we go by land we have either to shin up on the pier from the shore, which we're not certain we can do, or else risk making a noise climbing over the galvanized iron fence. Besides we might leave footmarks or other traces. But if we go by water we can muffle our oars and drop down absolutely silently to the wharf. There are bound to be steps, and it would be easy to get up without making any noise.”

Merriman's emphatic nod expressed his approval.

“Good,” he cried warmly. “What about getting a boat to-morrow and having a try that night?”

“I think we should. There's another thing about it too. If there should be an alarm we could get away by the river far more easily than across the country. It's a blessing there's no moon.”

Next day the object of their search was changed. They wanted a small, handy skiff on hire. It did not turn out an easy quest, but by the late afternoon they succeeded in obtaining the desired article. They purchased also close-fitting caps and rubber-soled shoes, together with some food for the night, a couple of electric torches, and a yard of black cloth. Then, shortly before dusk began to fall, they took their places and pulled out on the great stream.

It was a pleasant evening, a fitting close to a glorious day. The air was soft and balmy, and a faint haze hung over the water, smoothing and blurring the sharp outlines of the buildings of the town and turning the opposite bank into a gray smudge. Not a breath was stirring, and the water lay like plate glass, unbroken by the faintest ripple. The spirit of adventure was high in the two men as they pulled down the great avenue of burnished gold stretching westwards towards the sinking sun.

The tide was flowing, and but slight effort was needed to keep them moving up-stream. As darkness grew they came nearer inshore, until in the fading light they recognized the railway station at Hassle. There they ceased rowing, drifting slowly onwards until the last faint haze of light had disappeared from the sky.

They had carefully muffled their oars, and now they turned north and began sculling gently inshore. Several lights had come out, and presently they recognized the railway signals and cabin at the distillery sidings.

“Two or three hundred yards more,” said Hilliard in low tones.

They were now close to the beach, and they allowed themselves to drift on until the dark mass of the wharf loomed up ahead. Then Hilliard dipped his oars and brought the boat silently alongside.