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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Pit-Prop Syndicate, by Freeman Wills Crofts

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Title: The Pit-Prop Syndicate

Author: Freeman Wills Crofts

Release Date: December, 1999 [eBook #2013]
[Most recently updated: October 14, 2021]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

Produced by: An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PIT-PROP SYNDICATE ***




The Pit-Prop Syndicate

By Freeman Wills Crofts


Contents

 PART ONE. THE AMATEURS
 CHAPTER I. THE SAWMILL ON THE LESQUE
 CHAPTER II. AN INTERESTING SUGGESTION
 CHAPTER III. THE START OF THE CRUISE
 CHAPTER IV. A COMMERCIAL PROPOSITION
 CHAPTER V. THE VISIT OF THE “GIRONDIN”
 CHAPTER VI. A CHANGE OF VENUE
 CHAPTER VII. THE FERRIBY DEPOT
 CHAPTER VIII. THE UNLOADING OF THE “GIRONDIN”
 CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND CARGO
 CHAPTER X. MERRIMAN BECOMES DESPERATE
 CHAPTER XI. AN UNEXPECTED ALLY

 PART TWO. THE PROFESSIONALS
 CHAPTER XII. MURDER!
 CHAPTER XIII. A PROMISING CLUE
 CHAPTER XIV. A MYSTIFYING DISCOVERY
 CHAPTER XV. INSPECTOR WILLIS LISTENS IN
 CHAPTER XVI. THE SECRET OF THE SYNDICATE
 CHAPTER XVII. “ARCHER PLANTS STUFF”
 CHAPTER XVIII. THE BORDEAUX LORRIES
 CHAPTER XIX. WILLIS SPREADS HIS NET
 CHAPTER XX. THE DOUBLE CROSS




PART ONE.
THE AMATEURS




CHAPTER I.
THE SAWMILL ON THE LESQUE


Seymour Merriman was tired; tired of the jolting saddle of his motor
bicycle, of the cramped position of his arms, of the chug of the
engine, and most of all, of the dreary, barren country through which he
was riding. Early that morning he had left Pau, and with the exception
of an hour and a half at Bayonne, where he had lunched and paid a short
business call, he had been at it ever since. It was now after five
o’clock, and the last post he had noticed showed him he was still
twenty-six kilometers from Bordeaux, where he intended to spend the
night.

“This confounded road has no end,” he thought. “I really must stretch
my legs a bit.”

A short distance in front of him a hump in the white ribbon of the road
with parapet walls narrowing in at each side indicated a bridge. He cut
off his engine and, allowing the machine to coast, brought it to a
stand at the summit. Then dismounting, he slid it back on its bracket;
stretched himself luxuriously, and looked around.

In both directions, in front of him and behind, the road stretched,
level and monotonous as far as the eye could reach, as he had seen it
stretch, with but few exceptions, during the whole of the day’s run.
But whereas farther south it had led through open country, desolate,
depressing wastes of sand and sedge, here it ran through the heart of a
pine forest, in its own way as melancholy. The road seemed isolated,
cut off from the surrounding country, like to be squeezed out of
existence by the overwhelming barrier on either flank, a screen,
aromatic indeed, but dark, gloomy, and forbidding. Nor was the prospect
improved by the long, unsightly gashes which the resin collectors had
made on the trunks, suggesting, as they did, that the trees were
stricken by some disease. To Merriman the country seemed utterly
uninhabited. Indeed, since running through Labouheyre, now two hours
back, he could not recall having seen a single living creature except
those passing in motor cars, and of these even there were but few.

He rested his arms on the masonry coping of the old bridge and drew at
his cigarette. But for the distant rumble of an approaching vehicle,
the spring evening was very still. The river curved away gently towards
the left, flowing black and sluggish between its flat banks, on which
the pines grew down to the water’s edge. It was delightful to stay
quiet for a few moments, and Merriman took off his cap and let the cool
air blow on his forehead, enjoying the relaxation.

He was a pleasant-looking man of about eight-and-twenty, clean shaven
and with gray, honest eyes, dark hair slightly inclined to curl, and a
square, well-cut jaw. Business had brought him to France. Junior
partner in the firm of Edwards & Merriman, Wine Merchants, Gracechurch
Street, London, he annually made a tour of the exporters with whom his
firm dealt. He had worked across the south of the country from Cette to
Pau, and was now about to recross from Bordeaux to near Avignon, after
which his round would be complete. To him this part of his business was
a pleasure, and he enjoyed his annual trip almost as much as if it had
been a holiday.

The vehicle which he had heard in the distance was now close by, and he
turned idly to watch it pass. He did not know then that this slight
action, performed almost involuntarily, was to change his whole life,
and not only his, but the lives of a number of other people of whose
existence he was not then aware, was to lead to sorrow as well as
happiness, to crime as well as the vindication of the law, to... in
short, what is more to the point, had he not then looked round, this
story would never have been written.

The vehicle in itself was in no way remarkable. It was a motor lorry of
about five tons capacity, a heavy thing, travelling slowly. Merriman’s
attention at first focused itself on the driver. He was a man of about
thirty, good-looking, with thin, clear-cut features, an aquiline nose,
and dark, clever-looking eyes. Dressed though he was in rough working
clothes, there was a something in his appearance, in his pose, which
suggested a man of better social standing than his occupation
warranted.

“Ex-officer,” thought Merriman as his gaze passed on to the lorry
behind. It was painted a dirty green, and was empty except for a single
heavy casting, evidently part of some large and massive machine. On the
side of the deck was a brass plate bearing the words in English “The
Landes Pit-Prop Syndicate, No. 4.” Merriman was somewhat surprised to
see a nameplate in his own language in so unexpected a quarter, but the
matter really did not interest him and he soon dismissed it from his
mind.

The machine chuffed ponderously past, and Merriman, by now rested,
turned to restart his bicycle. But his troubles for the day were not
over. On the ground below his tank was a stain, and even as he looked,
a drop fell from the carburetor feed pipe, followed by a second and a
third.

He bent down to examine, and speedily found the cause of the trouble.
The feed pipe was connected to the bottom of the tank by a union, and
the nut, working slack, had allowed a small but steady leak. He
tightened the nut and turned to measure the petrol in the tank. A
glance showed him that a mere drain only remained.

“Curse it all,” he muttered, “that’s the second time that confounded
nut has left me in the soup.”

His position was a trifle awkward. He was still some twenty-five
kilometers from Bordeaux, and his machine would not carry him more than
perhaps two. Of course, he could stop the first car that approached,
and no doubt borrow enough petrol to make the city, but all day he had
noticed with surprise how few and far between the cars were, and there
was no certainty that one would pass within a reasonable time.

Then the sound of the receding lorry, still faintly audible, suggested
an idea. It was travelling so slowly that he might overtake it before
his petrol gave out. It was true he was going in the wrong direction,
and if he failed he would be still farther from his goal, but when you
are twenty-five kilometers from where you want to be, a few hundred
yards more or less is not worth worrying about.

He wheeled his machine round and followed the lorry at full speed. But
he had not more than started when he noticed his quarry turning to the
right. Slowly it disappeared into the forest.

“Funny I didn’t see that road,” thought Merriman as he bumped along.

He slackened speed when he reached the place where the lorry had
vanished, and then he saw a narrow lane just wide enough to allow the
big vehicle to pass, which curved away between the tree stems. The
surface was badly cut up with wheel tracks, so much so that Merriman
decided he could not ride it. He therefore dismounted, hid his bicycle
among the trees, and pushed on down the lane on foot. He was convinced
from his knowledge of the country that the latter must be a cul-de-sac,
at the end of which he would find the lorry. This he could hear not far
away, chugging slowly on in front of him.

The lane twisted incessantly, apparently to avoid the larger trees. The
surface was the virgin soil of the forest only, but the ruts had been
filled roughly with broken stones.

Merriman strode on, and suddenly, as he rounded one of the bends, he
got the surprise of his life.

Coming to meet him along the lane was a girl. This in itself was
perhaps not remarkable, but this girl seemed so out of place amid such
surroundings, or even in such a district, that Merriman was quite taken
aback.

She was of medium height, slender and graceful as a lily, and looked
about three-and-twenty. She was a study in brown. On her head was a
brown tam, a rich, warm brown, like the brown of autumn bracken on the
moor. She wore a brown jumper, brown skirt, brown stockings and little
brown brogued shoes. As she came closer, Merriman saw that her eyes,
friendly, honest eyes, were a shade of golden brown, and that a hint of
gold also gleamed in the brown of her hair. She was pretty, not
classically beautiful, but very charming and attractive-looking. She
walked with the free, easy movement of one accustomed to an out-of-door
life.

As they drew abreast Merriman pulled off his cap.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he said in his somewhat halting French, “but
can you tell me if I could get some petrol close by?” and in a few
words he explained his predicament.

She looked him over with a sharp, scrutinizing glance. Apparently
satisfied, she smiled slightly and replied:

“But certainly, monsieur. Come to the mill and my father will get you
some. He is the manager.”

She spoke even more haltingly than he had, and with no semblance of a
French accent—the French rather of an English school. He stared at her.

“But you’re English!” he cried in surprise.

She laughed lightly.

“Of course I’m English,” she answered. “Why shouldn’t I be English? But
I don’t think you’re very polite about it, you know.”

He apologized in some confusion. It was the unexpectedness of meeting a
fellow-countryman in this out of the way wood... It was... He did not
mean....

“You want to say my French is not really so bad after all?” she said
relentlessly, and then: “I can tell you it’s a lot better than when we
came here.”

“Then you are a newcomer?”

“We’re not out very long. It’s rather a change from London, as you may
imagine. But it’s not such a bad country as it looks. At first I
thought it would be dreadful, but I have grown to like it.”

She had turned with him, and they were now walking together between the
tall, straight stems of the trees.

“I’m a Londoner,” said Merriman slowly. “I wonder if we have any mutual
acquaintances?”

“It’s hardly likely. Since my mother died some years ago we have lived
very quietly, and gone out very little.”

Merriman did not wish to appear inquisitive. He made a suitable reply
and, turning the conversation to the country, told her of his day’s
ride. She listened eagerly, and it was borne in upon him that she was
lonely, and delighted to have anyone to talk to. She certainly seemed a
charming girl, simple, natural and friendly, and obviously a lady.

But soon their walk came to an end. Some quarter of a mile from the
wood the lane debouched into a large, D-shaped clearing. It had
evidently been recently made, for the tops of many of the tree-stumps
dotted thickly over the ground were still white. Round the semicircle
of the forest trees were lying cut, some with their branches still
intact, others stripped clear to long, straight poles. Two small gangs
of men were at work, one felling, the other lopping.

Across the clearing, forming its other boundary and the straight side
of the D, ran a river, apparently from its direction that which
Merriman had looked down on from the road bridge. It was wider here, a
fine stretch of water, though still dark colored and uninviting from
the shadow of the trees. On its bank, forming a center to the cleared
semicircle, was a building, evidently the mill. It was a small place,
consisting of a single long narrow galvanized iron shed, and placed
parallel to the river. In front of the shed was a tiny wharf, and
behind it were stacks and stacks of tree trunks cut in short lengths
and built as if for seasoning. Decauville tramways radiated from the
shed, and the men were running in timber in the trucks. From the mill
came the hard, biting screech of a circular saw.

“A sawmill!” Merriman exclaimed rather unnecessarily.

“Yes. We cut pit-props for the English coal mines. Those are they you
see stacked up. As soon as they are drier they will be shipped across.
My father joined with some others in putting up the capital,
and—voila!” She indicated the clearing and its contents with a
comprehensive sweep of her hand.

“By Jove! A jolly fine notion, too, I should say. You have everything
handy—trees handy, river handy—I suppose from the look of that wharf
that sea-going ships can come up?”

“Shallow draughted ones only. But we have our own motor ship specially
built and always running. It makes the round trip in about ten days.”

“By Jove!” Merriman said again. “Splendid! And is that where you live?”

He pointed to a house standing on a little hillock near the edge of the
clearing at the far or down-stream side of the mill. It was a rough,
but not uncomfortable-looking building of galvanized iron, one-storied
and with a piazza in front. From a brick chimney a thin spiral of blue
smoke was floating up lazily into the calm air.

The girl nodded.

“It’s not palatial, but it’s really wonderfully comfortable,” she
explained, “and oh, the fires! I’ve never seen such glorious wood fires
as we have. Cuttings, you know. We have more blocks than we know what
to do with.”

“I can imagine. I wish we had ’em in London.”

They were walking not too rapidly across the clearing towards the mill.
At the back of the shed were a number of doors, and opposite one of
them, heading into the opening, stood the motor lorry. The engine was
still running, but the driver had disappeared, apparently into the
building. As the two came up, Merriman once more ran his eye idly over
the vehicle. And then he felt a sudden mild surprise, as one feels when
some unexpected though quite trivial incident takes place. He had felt
sure that this lorry standing at the mill door was that which had
passed him on the bridge, and which he had followed down the lane. But
now he saw it wasn’t. He had noted, idly but quite distinctly, that the
original machine was No. 4. This one had a precisely similar plate, but
it bore the legend “The Landes Pit-Prop Syndicate, No. 3.”

Though the matter was of no importance, Merriman was a little
intrigued, and he looked more closely at the vehicle. As he did so his
surprise grew and his trifling interest became mystification. The lorry
was the same. At least there on the top was the casting, just as he had
seen it. It was inconceivable that two similar lorries should have two
identical castings arranged in the same way, and at the same time and
place. And yet, perhaps it was just possible.

But as he looked he noticed a detail which settled the matter. The
casting was steadied by some rough billets of wood. One of these
billets was split, and a splinter of curious shape had partially
entered a bolt hole. He recalled now, though it had slipped from his
memory, that he had noticed that queer-shaped splinter as the lorry
passed him on the bridge. It was therefore unquestionably and beyond a
shadow of doubt the same machine.

Involuntarily he stopped and stood staring at the number plate,
wondering if his recollection of that seen at the bridge could be at
fault. He thought not. In fact, he was certain. He recalled the shape
of the 4, which had an unusually small hollow in the middle. There was
no shadow of doubt of this either. He remained motionless for a few
seconds, puzzling over the problem, and was just about to remark on it
when the girl broke in hurriedly.

“Father will be in the office,” she said, and her voice was sharpened
as from anxiety. “Won’t you come and see him about the petrol?”

He looked at her curiously. The smile had gone from her lips, and her
face was pale. She was frowning, and in her eyes there showed
unmistakable fear. She was not looking at him, and his gaze followed
the direction of hers.

The driver had come out of the shed, the same dark, aquiline-featured
man as had passed him on the bridge. He had stopped and was staring at
Merriman with an intense regard in which doubt and suspicion rapidly
changed to hostility. For a moment neither man moved, and then once
again the girl’s voice broke in.

“Oh, there is father,” she cried, with barely disguised relief in her
tones. “Come, won’t you, and speak to him.”

The interruption broke the spell. The driver averted his eyes and
stooped over his engine; Merriman turned towards the girl, and the
little incident was over.

It was evident to Merriman that he had in some way put his foot in it,
how he could not imagine, unless there was really something in the
matter of the number plate. But it was equally clear to him that his
companion wished to ignore the affair, and he therefore expelled it
from his mind for the moment, and once again following the direction of
her gaze, moved towards a man who was approaching from the far end of
the shed.

He was tall and slender like his daughter, and walked with lithe,
slightly feline movements. His face was oval, clear skinned, and with a
pallid complexion made still paler by his dark hair and eyes and a tiny
mustache, almost black and with waxed and pointed ends. He was
good-looking as to features, but the face was weak and the expression a
trifle shifty.

His daughter greeted him, still with some perturbation in her manner.

“We were just looking for you, daddy,” she called a little
breathlessly. “This gentleman is cycling to Bordeaux and has run out of
petrol. He asked me if there was any to be had hereabouts, so I told
him you could give him some.”

The newcomer honored Merriman with a rapid though searching and
suspicious glance, but he replied politely, and in a cultured voice:

“Quite right, my dear.” He turned to Merriman and spoke in French. “I
shall be very pleased to supply you, monsieur. How much do you want?”

“Thanks awfully, sir,” Merriman answered in his own language. “I’m
English. It’s very good of you, I’m sure, and I’m sorry to be giving so
much trouble. A liter should run me to Bordeaux, or say a little more
in case of accidents.”

“I’ll give you two liters. It’s no trouble at all.” He turned and spoke
in rapid French to the driver.

“Oui, monsieur,” the man replied, and then, stepping up to his chief,
he said something in a low voice. The other started slightly, for a
moment looked concerned, then instantly recovering himself, advanced to
Merriman.

“Henri, here, will send a man with a two-liter can to where you have
left your machine,” he said, then continued with a suave smile:

“And so, sir, you’re English? It is not often that we have the pleasure
of meeting a fellow-countryman in these wilds.”

“I suppose not, sir, but I can assure you your pleasure and surprise is
as nothing to mine. You are not only a fellow-countryman but a friend
in need as well.”

“My dear sir, I know what it is to run out of spirit. And I suppose
there is no place in the whole of France where you might go farther
without finding any than this very district. You are on pleasure bent,
I presume?”

Merriman shook his head.

“Unfortunately, no,” he replied. “I’m travelling for my firm, Edwards &
Merriman, Wine Merchants of London. I’m Merriman, Seymour Merriman, and
I’m going round the exporters with whom we deal.”

“A pleasant way to do it, Mr. Merriman. My name is Coburn. You see I am
trying to change the face of the country here?”

“Yes, Miss”—Merriman hesitated for a moment and looked at the
girl—“Miss Coburn told me what you were doing. A splendid notion, I
think.”

“Yes, I think we are going to make it pay very well. I suppose you’re
not making a long stay?”

“Two days in Bordeaux, sir, then I’m off east to Avignon.”

“Do you know, I rather envy you. One gets tired of these tree trunks
and the noise of the saws. Ah, there is your petrol.” A workman had
appeared with a red can of Shell. “Well, Mr. Merriman, a pleasant
journey to you. You will excuse my not going farther with you, but I am
really supposed to be busy.” He turned to his daughter with a smile.
“You, Madeleine, can see Mr. Merriman to the road?”

He shook hands, declined Merriman’s request to be allowed to pay for
the petrol and, cutting short the other’s thanks with a wave of his
arm, turned back to the shed.

The two young people strolled slowly back across the clearing, the girl
evidently disposed to make the most of the unwonted companionship, and
Merriman no less ready to prolong so delightful an interview. But in
spite of the pleasure of their conversation, he could not banish from
his mind the little incident which had taken place, and he determined
to ask a discreet question or two about it.

“I say,” he said, during a pause in their talk, “I’m afraid I upset
your lorry man somehow. Did you notice the way he looked at me?”

The girl’s manner, which up to this had been easy and careless, changed
suddenly, becoming constrained and a trifle self-conscious. But she
answered readily enough.

“Yes, I saw it. But you must not mind Henri. He was badly
shell-shocked, you know, and he has never been the same since.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Merriman apologized, wondering if the man could be a
relative. “Both my brothers suffered from it. They were pretty bad, but
they’re coming all right. It’s generally a question of time, I think.”

“I hope so,” Miss Coburn rejoined, and quietly but decisively changed
the subject.

They began to compare notes about London, and Merriman was sorry when,
having filled his tank and pushed his bicycle to the road, he could no
longer with decency find an excuse for remaining in her company. He
bade her a regretful farewell, and some half-hour later was mounting
the steps of his hotel in Bordeaux.

That evening and many times later, his mind reverted to the incident of
the lorry. At the time she made it, Miss Coburn’s statement about the
shell-shock had seemed entirely to account for the action of Henri, the
driver. But now Merriman was not so sure. The more he thought over the
affair, the more certain he felt that he had not made a mistake about
the number plate, and the more likely it appeared that the driver had
guessed what he, Merriman, had noticed, and resented it. It seemed to
him that there was here some secret which the man was afraid might
become known, and Merriman could not but admit to himself that all Miss
Coburn’s actions were consistent with the hypothesis that she also
shared that secret and that fear.

And yet the idea was grotesque that there could be anything serious in
the altering of the number plate of a motor lorry, assuming that he was
not mistaken. Even if the thing had been done, it was a trivial matter
and, so far as he could see, the motives for it, as well as its
consequences, must be trivial. It was intriguing, but no one could
imagine it to be important. As Merriman cycled eastward through France
his interest in the affair gradually waned, and when, a fortnight
later, he reached England, he had ceased to give it a serious thought.

But the image of Miss Coburn did not so quickly vanish from his
imagination, and many times he regretted he had not taken an
opportunity of returning to the mill to renew the acquaintanceship so
unexpectedly begun.




CHAPTER II.
AN INTERESTING SUGGESTION


About ten o’clock on a fine evening towards the end of June, some six
weeks after the incident described in the last chapter, Merriman formed
one of a group of young men seated round the open window of the smoking
room in the Rovers’ Club in Cranbourne Street. They had dined together,
and were enjoying a slack hour and a little desultory conversation
before moving on, some to catch trains to the suburbs, some to their
chambers in town, and others to round off the evening with some
livelier form of amusement. The Rovers had premises on the fourth floor
of a large building near the Hippodrome. Its membership consisted
principally of business and professional men, but there was also a
sprinkling of members of Parliament, political secretaries, and minor
government officials, who, though its position was not ideal, were
attracted to it because of the moderation of its subscription and the
excellence of its cuisine.

The evening was calm, and the sounds from the street below seemed to
float up lazily to the little group in the open window, as the smoke of
their pipes and cigars floated up lazily to the ceiling above. The
gentle hum of the traffic made a pleasant accompaniment to their
conversation, as the holding down of a soft pedal fills in and supports
dreamy organ music. But for the six young men in the bow window the
room was untenanted, save for a waiter who had just brought some fresh
drinks, and who was now clearing away empty glasses from an adjoining
table.

The talk had turned on foreign travel, and more than one member had
related experiences which he had undergone while abroad. Merriman was
tired and had been rather silent, but it was suddenly borne in on him
that it was his duty, as one of the hosts of the evening, to contribute
somewhat more fully towards the conversation. He determined to relate
his little adventure at the sawmill of the Pit-Prop Syndicate. He
therefore lit a fresh cigar, and began to speak.

“Any of you fellows know the country just south of Bordeaux?” he asked,
and, as no one responded, he went on: “I know it a bit, for I have to
go through it every year on my trip round the wine exporters. This year
a rather queer thing happened when I was about half an hour’s run from
Bordeaux; absolutely a trivial thing and of no importance, you
understand, but it puzzled me. Maybe some of you could throw some light
on it?”

“Proceed, my dear sir, with your trivial narrative,” invited Jelfs, a
man sitting at one end of the group. “We shall give it the weighty
consideration which it doubtless deserves.”

Jelfs was a stockbroker and the professional wit of the party. He was a
good soul, but boring. Merriman took no notice of the interruption.

“It was between five and six in the evening,” he went on, and he told
in some detail of his day’s run, culminating in his visit to the
sawmill and his discovery of the alteration in the number of the lorry.
He gave the facts exactly as they had occurred, with the single
exception that he made no mention of his meeting with Madeleine Coburn.

“And what happened?” asked Drake, another of the men, when he had
finished.

“Nothing more happened,” Merriman returned. “The manager came and gave
me some petrol, and I cleared out. The point is, why should that number
plate have been changed?”

Jelfs fixed his eyes on the speaker, and gave the little sidelong nod
which indicated to the others that another joke was about to be
perpetrated.

“You say,” he asked impressively, “that the lorry was at first 4 and
then 3. Are you sure you haven’t made a mistake of 41?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean that it’s a common enough phenomenon for a No. 4 lorry to
change, after lunch, let us say, into No. 44. Are you sure it wasn’t
44?”

Merriman joined in the laughter against him.

“It wasn’t forty-anything, you old blighter,” he said good-humoredly.
“It was 4 on the road, and 3 at the mill, and I’m as sure of it as that
you’re an amiable imbecile.”

“Inconclusive,” murmured Jelfs, “entirely inconclusive. But,” he
persisted, “you must not hold back material evidence. You haven’t told
us yet what you had at lunch.”

“Oh, stow it, Jelfs,” said Hilliard, a thin-faced, eager-looking young
man who had not yet spoken. “Have you no theory yourself, Merriman?”

“None. I was completely puzzled. I would have mentioned it before, only
it seemed to be making a mountain out of nothing.”

“I think Jelfs’ question should be answered, you know,” Drake said
critically, and after some more good-natured chaff the subject dropped.

Shortly after one of the men had to leave to catch his train, and the
party broke up. As they left the building Merriman found Hilliard at
his elbow.

“Are you walking?” the latter queried. “If so I’ll come along.”

Claud Hilliard was the son of a clergyman in the Midlands, a keen, not
to say brilliant student who had passed through both school and college
with distinction, and was already at the age of eight-and-twenty making
a name for himself on the headquarters staff of the Customs Department.
His thin, eager face, with its hooked nose, pale blue eyes and light,
rather untidy-looking hair, formed a true index of his nimble, somewhat
speculative mind. What he did, he did with his might. He was keenly
interested in whatever he took up, showing a tendency, indeed, to ride
his hobbies to death. He had a particular penchant for puzzles of all
kinds, and many a knotty problem brought to him as a last court of
appeal received a surprisingly rapid and complete solution. His
detractors, while admitting his ingenuity and the almost uncanny
rapidity with which he seized on the essential facts of a case, said he
was lacking in staying power, but if this were so, he had not as yet
shown signs of it.

He and Merriman had first met on business, when Hilliard was sent to
the wine merchants on some matter of Customs. The acquaintanceship thus
formed had ripened into a mild friendship, though the two had not seen
a great deal of each other.

They passed up Coventry Street and across the Circus into Piccadilly.
Hilliard had a flat in a side street off Knightsbridge, while Merriman
lived farther west in Kensington. At the door of the flat Hilliard
stopped.

“Come in for a last drink, won’t you?” he invited. “It’s ages since
you’ve been here.”

Merriman agreed, and soon the two friends were seated at another open
window in the small but comfortable sitting-room of the flat.

They chatted for some time, and then Hilliard turned the conversation
to the story Merriman had told in the club.

“You know,” he said, knocking the ash carefully off his cigar, “I was
rather interested in that tale of yours. It’s quite an intriguing
little mystery. I suppose it’s not possible that you could have made a
mistake about those numbers?”

Merriman laughed.

“I’m not exactly infallible, and I have, once or twice in my life, made
mistakes. But I don’t think I made one this time. You see, the only
question is the number at the bridge. The number at the mill is
certain. My attention was drawn to it, and I looked at it too often for
there to be the slightest doubt. It was No. 3 as certainly as I’m
alive. But the number at the bridge is different. There was nothing to
draw my attention to it, and I only glanced at it casually. I would say
that I was mistaken about it only for one thing. It was a black figure
on a polished brass ground, and I particularly remarked that the black
lines were very wide, leaving an unusually small brass triangle in the
center. If I noticed that, it must have been a 4.”

Hilliard nodded.

“Pretty conclusive, I should say.” He paused for a few moments, then
moved a little irresolutely. “Don’t think me impertinent, old man,” he
went on with a sidelong glance, “but I imagined from your manner you
were holding something back. Is there more in the story than you told?”

It was now Merriman’s turn to hesitate. Although Madeleine Coburn had
been in his thoughts more or less continuously since he returned to
town, he had never mentioned her name, and he was not sure that he
wanted to now.

“Sorry I spoke, old man,” Hilliard went on. “Don’t mind answering.”

Merriman came to a decision.

“Not at all” he answered slowly. “I’m a fool to make any mystery of it.
I’ll tell you. There is a girl there, the manager’s daughter. I met her
in the lane when I was following the lorry, and asked her about petrol.
She was frightfully decent; came back with me and told her father what
I wanted, and all that. But, Hilliard, here’s the point. She knew!
There’s something, and she knows it too. She got quite scared when that
driver fixed me with his eyes, and tried to get me away, and she was
quite unmistakably relieved when the incident passed. Then later her
father suggested she should see me to the road, and on the way I
mentioned the thing—said I was afraid I had upset the driver
somehow—and she got embarrassed at once, told me the man was
shell-shocked, implying that he was queer, and switched off on to
another subject so pointedly I had to let it go at that.”

Hilliard’s eyes glistened.

“Quite a good little mystery,” he said. “I suppose the man couldn’t
have been a relation, or even her fiancee?”

“That occurred to me, and it is possible. But I don’t think so. I
believe she wanted to try to account for his manner, so as to prevent
my smelling a rat.”

“And she did not account for it?”

“Perhaps she did, but again I don’t think so. I have a pretty good
knowledge of shell-shock, as you know, and it didn’t look like it to
me. I don’t suggest she wasn’t speaking the truth. I mean that this
particular action didn’t seem to be so caused.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Merriman continued:

“There was another thing which might bear in the same direction, or
again it may only be my imagination—I’m not sure of it. I told you the
manager appeared just in the middle of the little scene, but I forgot
to tell you that the driver went up to him and said something in a low
tone, and the manager started and looked at me and seemed annoyed. But
it was very slight and only for a second; I would have noticed nothing
only for what went before. He was quite polite and friendly immediately
after, and I may have been mistaken and imagined the whole thing.”

“But it works in,” Hilliard commented. “If the driver saw what you were
looking at and your expression, he would naturally guess what you had
noticed, and he would warn his boss that you had tumbled to it. The
manager would look surprised and annoyed for a moment, then he would
see he must divert your suspicion, and talk to you as if nothing had
happened.”

“Quite. That’s just what I thought. But again, I may have been
mistaken.”

They continued discussing the matter for some time longer, and then the
conversation turned into other channels. Finally the clocks chiming
midnight aroused Merriman, and he got up and said he must be going.

Three days later he had a note from Hilliard.

“Come in tonight about ten if you are doing nothing,” it read. “I have
a scheme on, and I hope you’ll join in with me. Tell you when I see
you.”

It happened that Merriman was not engaged that evening, and shortly
after ten the two men were occupying the same arm-chairs at the same
open window, their glasses within easy reach and their cigars well
under way.

“And what is your great idea?” Merriman asked when they had conversed
for a few moments. “If it’s as good as your cigars, I’m on.”

Hilliard moved nervously, as if he found a difficulty in replying.
Merriman could see that he was excited, and his own interest quickened.

“It’s about that tale of yours,” Hilliard said at length. “I’ve been
thinking it over.”

He paused as if in doubt. Merriman felt like Alice when she had heard
the mock-turtle’s story, but he waited in silence, and presently
Hilliard went on.

“You told it with a certain amount of hesitation,” he said. “You
suggested you might be mistaken in thinking there was anything in it.
Now I’m going to make a suggestion with even more hesitation, for it’s
ten times wilder than yours, and there is simply nothing to back it up.
But here goes all the same.”

His indecision had passed now, and he went on fluently and with a
certain excitement.

“Here you have a trade with something fishy about it. Perhaps you think
that’s putting it too strongly; if so, let us say there is something
peculiar about it; something, at all events, to call one’s attention to
it, as being in some way out of the common. And when we do think about
it, what’s the first thing we discover?”

Hilliard looked inquiringly at his friend. The latter sat listening
carefully, but did not speak, and Hilliard answered his own question.

“Why, that it’s an export trade from France to England—an export trade
only, mind you. As far as you learned, these people’s boat runs the
pit-props to England, but carries nothing back. Isn’t that so?”

“They didn’t mention return cargoes,” Merriman answered, “but that
doesn’t mean there aren’t any. I did not go into the thing
exhaustively.”

“But what could there be? What possible thing could be shipped in bulk
from this country to the middle of a wood near Bordeaux? Something,
mind you, that you, there at the very place, didn’t see. Can you think
of anything?”

“Not at the moment. But I don’t see what that has to do with it.”

“Quite possibly nothing, and yet it’s an interesting point.”

“Don’t see it.”

“Well, look here. I’ve been making inquiries, and I find most of our
pit-props come from Norway and the Baltic. But the ships that bring
them don’t go back empty. They carry coal. Now do you see?”

It was becoming evident that Hilliard was talking of something quite
definite, and Merriman’s interest increased still further.

“I daresay I’m a frightful ass,” he said, “but I’m blessed if I know
what you’re driving at.”

“Costs,” Hilliard returned. “Look at it from the point of view of
costs. Timber in Norway is as plentiful and as cheap to cut as in the
Landes, indeed, possibly cheaper, for there is water there available
for power. But your freight will be much less if you can get a return
cargo. Therefore, _a priori_, it should be cheaper to bring props from
Norway than from France. Do you follow me so far?”

Merriman nodded.

“If it costs the same amount to cut the props at each place,” Hilliard
resumed, “and the Norwegian freight is lower, the Norwegian props must
be cheaper in England. How then do your friends make it pay?”

“Methods more up to date perhaps. Things looked efficient, and that
manager seemed pretty wide-awake.”

Hilliard shook his head.

“Perhaps, but I doubt it. I don’t think you have much to teach the
Norwegians about the export of timber. Mind you, it may be all right,
but it seems to me a question if the Bordeaux people have a paying
trade.”

Merriman was puzzled.

“But it must pay or they wouldn’t go on with it. Mr. Coburn said it was
paying well enough.”

Hilliard bent forward eagerly.

“Of course he would say so,” he cried. “Don’t you see that his saying
so is in itself suspicious? Why should he want to tell you that if
there was nothing to make you doubt it?”

“There is nothing to make me doubt it. See here, Hilliard, I don’t for
the life of me know what you’re getting at. For the Lord’s sake explain
yourself.”

“Ah,” Hilliard returned with a smile, “you see you weren’t brought up
in the Customs. Do you know, Merriman, that the thing of all others
we’re keenest on is an import trade that doesn’t pay?” He paused a
moment, then added slowly: “Because if a trade which doesn’t pay is
continued, there must be something else to make it pay. Just think,
Merriman. What would make a trade from France to this country pay?”

Merriman gasped.

“By Jove, Hilliard! You mean smuggling?”

Hilliard laughed delightedly.

“Of course I mean smuggling, what else?”

He waited for the idea to sink into his companion’s brain, and then
went on:

“And now another thing. Bordeaux, as no one knows better than yourself,
is just the center of the brandy district. You see what I’m getting at.
My department would naturally be interested in a mysterious trade from
the Bordeaux district. You accidentally find one. See? Now what do you
think of it?”

“I don’t think much of it,” Merriman answered sharply, while a wave of
unreasoning anger passed over him. The suggestion annoyed him
unaccountably. The vision of Madeleine Coburn’s clear, honest eyes
returned forcibly to his recollection. “I’m afraid you’re out of it
this time. If you had seen Miss Coburn you would have known she is not
the sort of girl to lend herself to anything of that kind.”

Hilliard eyed his friend narrowly and with some surprise, but he only
said:

“You think not? Well, perhaps you are right. You’ve seen her and I
haven’t. But those two points are at least interesting—the changing of
the numbers and the absence of a return trade.”

“I don’t believe there’s anything in it.”

“Probably you’re right, but the idea interests me. I was going to make
a proposal, but I expect now you won’t agree to it.”

Merriman’s momentary annoyance was subsiding.

“Let’s hear it anyway, old man,” he said in conciliatory tones.

“You get your holidays shortly, don’t you?”

“Monday week. My partner is away now, but he’ll be back on Wednesday. I
go next.”

“I thought so. I’m going on mine next week—taking the motor launch, you
know. I had made plans for the Riviera—to go by the Seine, and from
there by canal to the Rhone and out at Marseilles. Higginson was coming
with me, but as you know he’s crocked up and won’t be out of bed for a
month. My proposal is that you come in his place, and that instead of
crossing France in the orthodox way by the Seine, we try to work
through from Bordeaux by the Garonne. I don’t know if we can do it, but
it would be rather fun trying. But anyway the point would be that we
should pay a call at your sawmill on the way, and see if we can learn
anything more about the lorry numbers. What do you say?”

“Sounds jolly fascinating.” Merriman had quite recovered his good
humor. “But I’m not a yachtsman. I know nothing about the business.”

“Pooh! What do you want to know? We’re not sailing, and motoring
through these rivers and canals is great sport. And then we can go on
to Monte and any of those places you like. I’ve done it before and had
no end of a good time. What do you say? Are you on?”

“It’s jolly decent of you, I’m sure, Hilliard. If you think you can put
up with a hopeless landlubber, I’m certainly on.”

Merriman was surprised to find how much he was thrilled by the
proposal. He enjoyed boating, though only very mildly, and it was
certainly not the prospect of endless journeyings along the canals and
rivers of France that attracted him. Still less was it the sea, of
which he hated the motion. Nor was it the question of the lorry
numbers. He was puzzled and interested in the affair, and he would like
to know the solution, but his curiosity was not desperately keen, and
he did not feel like taking a great deal of trouble to satisfy it. At
all events he was not going to do any spying, if that was what Hilliard
wanted, for he did not for a moment accept that smuggling theory. But
when they were in the neighborhood he supposed it would be permissible
to call and see the Coburns. Miss Coburn had seemed lonely. It would be
decent to try to cheer her up. They might invite her on board, and have
tea and perhaps a run up the river. He seemed to visualize the launch
moving easily between the tree-clad banks, Hilliard attending to the
engine and steering, he and the brown-eyed girl in the taffrail, or the
cockpit, or the well, or whatever you sat in on a motor boat. He
pictured a gloriously sunny afternoon, warm and delightful, with just
enough air made by the movement to prevent it being too hot. It
would...

Hilliard’s voice broke in on his thoughts, and he realized his friend
had been speaking for some time.

“She’s over-engined, if anything,” he was saying, “but that’s all to
the good for emergencies. I got fifteen knots out of her once, but she
averages about twelve. And good in a sea-way, too. For her size, as dry
a boat as ever I was in.”

“What size is she?” asked Merriman.

“Thirty feet, eight feet beam, draws two feet ten. She’ll go down any
of the French canals. Two four-cylinder engines, either of which will
run her. Engines and wheel amidships, cabin aft, decked over. Oh, she’s
a beauty. You’ll like her, I can tell you.”

“But do you mean to tell me you would cross the Bay of Biscay in a boat
that size?”

“The Bay’s maligned. I’ve been across it six times and it was only
rough once. Of course, I’d keep near the coast and run for shelter if
it came on to blow. You need not worry. She’s as safe as a house.”

“I’m not worrying about her going to the bottom,” Merriman answered.
“It’s much worse than that. The fact is,” he went on in a burst of
confidence, “I can’t stand the motion. I’m ill all the time. Couldn’t I
join you later?”

Hilliard nodded.

“I had that in my mind, but I didn’t like to suggest it. As a matter of
fact it would suit me better. You see, I go on my holidays a week
earlier than you. I don’t want to hang about all that time waiting for
you. I’ll get a man and take the boat over to Bordeaux, send the man
home, and you can come overland and join me there. How would that suit
you?”

“A1, Hilliard. Nothing could be better.”

They continued discussing details for the best part of an hour, and
when Merriman left for home it had been arranged that he should follow
Hilliard by the night train from Charing Cross on the following Monday
week.




CHAPTER III.
THE START OF THE CRUISE


Dusk was already falling when the 9 p.m. Continental boat-train pulled
out of Charing Cross, with Seymour Merriman in the corner of a
first-class compartment. It had been a glorious day of clear atmosphere
and brilliant sunshine, and there was every prospect of a spell of good
weather. Now, as the train rumbled over the bridge at the end of the
station, sky and river presented a gorgeous color scheme of crimson and
pink and gold, shading off through violet and gray to nearly black.
Through the latticing of the girders the great buildings on the
northern bank showed up for a moment against the light beyond, dark and
somber masses with nicked and serrated tops, then, the river crossed,
nearer buildings intervened to cut off the view, and the train plunged
into the maze and wilderness of South London.

The little pleasurable excitement which Merriman had experienced when
first the trip had been suggested had not waned as the novelty of the
idea passed. Not since he was a boy at school had he looked forward so
keenly to holidays. The launch, for one thing, would be a new
experience. He had never been on any kind of cruise. The nearest
approach had been a couple of days’ yachting on the Norfolk Broads, but
he had found that monotonous and boring, and had been glad when it was
over. But this, he expected, would be different. He delighted in poking
about abroad, not in the great cosmopolitan hotels, which after all are
very much the same all the world over, but where he came in contact
with actual foreign life. And how better could a country be seen than
by slowly motoring through its waterways? Merriman was well pleased
with the prospect.

And then there would be Hilliard. Merriman had always enjoyed his
company, and he felt he would be an ideal companion on a tour. It was
true Hilliard had got a bee in his bonnet about this lorry affair.
Merriman was mildly interested in the thing, but he would never have
dreamed of going back to the sawmill to investigate. But Hilliard
seemed quite excited about it. His attitude, no doubt, might be partly
explained by his love of puzzles and mysteries. Perhaps also he half
believed in his absurd suggestion about the smuggling, or at least felt
that if it _were_ true there was the chance of his making some _coup_
which would also make his name. How a man’s occupation colors his mind!
thought Merriman. Here was Hilliard, and because he was in the Customs
his ideas ran to Customs operations, and when he came across anything
he did not understand he at once suggested smuggling. If he had been a
soldier he would have guessed gun-running, and if a politician, a means
of bringing anarchist literature into the country. Well, he had not
seen Madeleine Coburn! He would soon drop so absurd a notion when he
had met her. The idea of her being party to such a thing was too
ridiculous even to be annoying.

However, Hilliard insisted on going to the mill, and he, Merriman,
could then pay that call on the Coburns. It would not be polite to be
in the neighborhood and not do so. And it would be impossible to call
without asking Miss Coburn to come on the river. As the train rumbled
on through the rapidly darkening country Merriman began once again to
picture the details of that excursion. No doubt they could have tea on
board.... He mustn’t forget to buy some decent cakes in Bordeaux....
Perhaps she would help him to get it ready while Hilliard steered and
pottered over his old engines.... He could just imagine her bending
over a tea tray, her graceful figure, the little brown tendrils of her
hair at the edge of her tam-o’-shanter, her brown eyes flashing up to
meet his own....

Dover came unexpectedly soon and Merriman had to postpone the further
consideration of his plans until he had gone on board the boat and
settled down in a corner of the smoker room. There, however, he fell
asleep, not awaking until roused by the bustle of the arrival in
Calais.

He reached Paris just before six and drove to the Gare d’-Orsay, where
he had time for a bath and breakfast before catching the 7.50 a.m.
express for Bordeaux. Again it was a perfect day, and as the hours
passed and they ran steadily southward through the pleasing but
monotonous central plain of France, the heat grew more and more
oppressive. Poitiers was hot, Angouleme an oven, and Merriman was not
sorry when at a quarter to five they came in sight of the Garonne at
the outskirts of Bordeaux and a few moments later pulled up in the
Bastide Station.

Hilliard was waiting at the platform barrier.

“Hallo, old man,” he cried. “Jolly to see you. Give me one of your
handbags. I’ve got a taxi outside.”

Merriman handed over the smaller of the two small suitcases he carried,
having, in deference to Hilliard’s warnings, left behind most of the
things he wanted to bring. They found the taxi and drove out at once
across the great stone bridge leading from the Bastide Station and
suburb on the east bank to the main city on the west. In front of them
lay the huge concave sweep of quays fronting the Garonne, here a river
of over a quarter of a mile in width, with behind the massed buildings
of the town, out of which here and there rose church spires and,
farther down-stream, the three imposing columns of the Place des
Quinconces.

“Some river, this,” Merriman said, looking up and down the great sweep
of water.

“Rather. I have the _Swallow_ ’longside a private wharf farther
up-stream. Rather tumble-down old shanty, but it’s easier than mooring
in the stream and rowing out. We’ll go and leave your things aboard,
and then we can come up town again and get some dinner.”

“Right-o,” Merriman agreed.

Having crossed the bridge they turned to the left, upstream, and ran
along the quays towards the south. After passing the railway bridge the
taxi swung down towards the water’s edge, stopping at a somewhat
decrepit enclosure, over the gate of which was the legend “Andre
Leblanc, Location de Canots.” Hilliard jumped out, paid the taxi man,
and, followed by Merriman, entered the enclosure.

It was a small place, with a wooden quay along the river frontage and a
shed at the opposite side. Between the two lay a number of boats. Trade
appeared to be bad, for there was no life about the place and
everything was dirty and decaying.

“There she is,” Hilliard cried, with a ring of pride in his voice.
“Isn’t she a beauty?”

The _Swallow_ was tied up alongside the wharf, her bow upstream, and
lay tugging at her mooring ropes in the swift run of the ebb tide.
Merriman’s first glance at her was one of disappointment. He had
pictured a graceful craft of well-polished wood, with white deck
planks, shining brasswork and cushioned seats. Instead he saw a
square-built, clumsy-looking boat, painted, where the paint was not
worn off, a sickly greenish white, and giving a general impression of
dirt and want of attention. She was flush-decked, and sat high in the
water, with a freeboard of nearly five feet. A little forward of
amidships was a small deck cabin containing a brass wheel and binnacle.
Aft of the cabin, in the middle of the open space of the deck, was a
skylight, the top of which formed two short seats placed back to back.
Forward rose a stumpy mast carrying a lantern cage near the top, and
still farther forward, almost in the bows, lay an unexpectedly massive
anchor, housed in grids, with behind it a small hand winch for pulling
in the chain.

“We had a bit of a blow coming round the Coubre into the river,”
Hilliard went on enthusiastically, “and I tell you she didn’t ship a
pint. The cabin bone dry, and green water coming over her all the
time.”

Merriman could believe it. Though his temporary home was not beautiful,
he could see that she was strong; in fact, she was massive. But he
thanked his stars he had not assisted in the test. He shuddered at the
very idea, thinking gratefully that to reach Bordeaux the Paris-Orleans
Railway was good enough for him.

But, realizing it was expected of him, he began praising the boat,
until the unsuspecting Hilliard believed him as enthusiastic as
himself.

“Yes, she’s all of that,” he agreed. “Come aboard and see the cabin.”

They descended a flight of steps let into the front of the wharf, wet,
slippery, ooze-covered steps left bare by the receding tide, and
stepping over the side entered the tiny deckhouse.

“This is the chart-house, shelter, and companion-way all in one,”
Hilliard explained. “All the engine controls come up here, and I can
reach them with my left hand while steering with my right.” He
demonstrated as he spoke, and Merriman could not but agree that the
arrangements were wonderfully compact and efficient.

“Come below now,” went on the proud owner, disappearing down a steep
flight of steps against one wall of the house.

The hull was divided into three compartments; amidships the engine room
with its twin engines, forward a store containing among other things a
collapsible boat, and aft a cabin with lockers on each side, a folding
table between them, and a marble-topped cupboard on which was a Primus
stove.

The woodwork was painted the same greenish white as the outside, but it
was soiled and dingy, and the whole place looked dirty and untidy.
There was a smell of various oils, paraffin predominating.

“You take the port locker,” Hilliard explained. “You see, the top of it
lifts and you can stow your things in it. When there are only two of us
we sleep on the lockers. You’ll find a sheet and blankets inside.
There’s a board underneath that turns up to keep you in if she’s
rolling; not that we shall want it until we get to the Mediterranean.
I’m afraid,” he went on, answering Merriman’s unspoken thought, “the
place is not very tidy. I hadn’t time to do much squaring—I’ll tell you
about that later. I suppose”—reluctantly—“we had better turn to and
clean up a bit before we go to bed. But”—brightening up again—“not now.
Let’s go up town and get some dinner as soon as you are ready.”

He fussed about, explaining with the loving and painstaking minuteness
of the designer as well as the owner, the various contraptions the boat
contained, and when he had finished, Merriman felt that, could he but
remember his instructions, there were few situations with which he
could not cope or by which he could be taken unawares.

A few minutes later the two friends climbed once more up the slippery
steps, and, strolling slowly up the town, entered one of the large
restaurants in the Place de la Comedie.

Since Merriman’s arrival Hilliard had talked vivaciously, and his thin,
hawk-like face had seemed even more eager than the wine merchant had
ever before seen it. At first the latter had put it down to the natural
interest of his own arrival, the showing of the boat to a new-comer,
and the start of the cruise generally, but as dinner progressed he
began to feel there must be some more tangible cause for the excitement
his friend was so obviously feeling. It was not Merriman’s habit to
beat about the bush.

“What is it?” he asked during a pause in the conversation.

“What is what?” returned Hilliard, looking uncomprehendingly at his
friend.

“Wrong with you. Here you are, jumping about as if you were on pins and
needles and gabbling at the rate of a thousand words a minute. What’s
all the excitement about?”

“I’m not excited,” Hilliard returned seriously, “but I admit being a
little interested by what has happened since we parted that night in
London. I haven’t told you yet. I was waiting until we had finished
dinner and could settle down. Let’s go and sit in the Jardin and you
shall hear.”

Leaving the restaurant, they strolled to the Place des Quinconces,
crossed it, and entered the Jardin Public. The band was not playing
and, though there were a number of people about, the place was by no
means crowded, and they were able to find under a large tree set back a
little from one of the walks, two vacant chairs. Here they sat down,
enjoying the soft evening air, warm but no longer too warm, and
watching the promenading Bordelais.

“Yes,” Hilliard resumed as he lit a cigar, “I have had quite an
interesting time. You shall hear. I got hold of Maxwell of the
telephones, who is a yachtsman, and who was going to Spain on holidays.
Well, the boat was laid up at Southampton, and we got down about midday
on Monday week. We spent that day overhauling her and getting in
stores, and on Tuesday we ran down Channel, putting into Dartmouth for
the night and to fill with petrol. Next day was our big day—across to
Brest, something like 170 miles, mostly open sea, and with Ushant at
the end of it—a beastly place, generally foggy and always with bad
currents. We intended to wait in the Dart for good weather, and we
wired the Meteorological Office for forecasts. It happened that on
Tuesday night there was a first-rate forecast, so on Wednesday we
decided to risk it. We slipped out past the old castle at Dartmouth at
5 a.m., had a topping run, and were in Brest at seven that evening.
There we filled up again, and next day, Thursday, we made St. Nazaire,
at the mouth of the Loire. We had intended to make a long day of it on
Friday and come right here, but as I told you it came on to blow a bit
off the Coubre, and we could only make the mouth of the river. We put
into a little place called Le Verdon, just inside the Pointe de
Grave—that’s the end of that fork of land on the southern side of the
Gironde estuary. On Saturday we got here about midday, hunted around,
found that old wharf and moored. Maxwell went on the same evening to
Spain.”

Hilliard paused, while Merriman congratulated him on his journey.

“Yes, we hadn’t bad luck,” he resumed. “But that really wasn’t what I
wanted to tell you about. I had brought a fishing rod and outfit, and
on Sunday I took a car and drove out along the Bayonne Road until I
came to your bridge over that river—the Lesque I find it is. I told the
chap to come back for me at six, and I walked down the river and did a
bit of prospecting. The works were shut, and by keeping the mill
building between me and the manager’s house, I got close up and had a
good look round unobserved—at least, I think I was unobserved. Well, I
must say the whole business looked genuine. There’s no question those
tree cuttings are pit-props, and I couldn’t see a single thing in the
slightest degree suspicious.”

“I told you there could be nothing really wrong,” Merriman interjected.

“I know you did, but wait a minute. I got back to the forest again in
the shelter of the mill building, and I walked around through the trees
and chose a place for what I wanted to do next morning. I had decided
to spend the day watching the lorries going to and from the works, and
I naturally wished to remain unobserved myself. The wood, as you know,
is very open. The trees are thick, but there is very little
undergrowth, and it’s nearly impossible to get decent cover. But at
last I found a little hollow with a mound between it and the lane and
road—just a mere irregularity in the surface like what a Tommy would
make when he began to dig himself in. I thought I could lie there
unobserved, and see what went on with my glass. I have a very good
prism monocular—twenty-five diameter magnification, with a splendid
definition. From my hollow I could just see through the trees vehicles
passing along the main road, but I had a fairly good view of the lane
for at least half its length. The view, of course, was broken by the
stems, but still I should be able to tell if any games were tried on. I
made some innocent looking markings so as to find the place again, and
then went back to the river and so to the bridge and my taxi.”

Hilliard paused and drew at his cigar. Merriman did not speak. He was
leaning forward, his face showing the interest he felt.

“Next morning, that was yesterday, I took another taxi and returned to
the bridge, again dressed as a fisherman. I had brought some lunch, and
I told the man to return for me at seven in the evening. Then I found
my hollow, lay down and got out my glass. I was settled there a little
before nine o’clock.

“It was very quiet in the wood. I could hear faintly the noise of the
saws at the mill and a few birds were singing, otherwise it was
perfectly still. Nothing happened for about half an hour, then the
first lorry came. I heard it for some time before I saw it. It passed
very slowly along the road from Bordeaux, then turned into the lane and
went along it at almost walking pace. With my glass I could see it
distinctly and it had a label plate same as you described, and was No.
6. It was empty. The driver was a young man, clean-shaven and
fairhaired.

“A few minutes later a second empty lorry appeared coming from
Bordeaux. It was No. 4, and the driver was, I am sure, the man you saw.
He was like your description of him at all events. This lorry also
passed along the lane towards the works.

“There was a pause then for an hour or more. About half-past ten the
No. 4 lorry with your friend appeared coming along the lane outward
bound. It was heavily loaded with firewood and I followed it along,
going very slowly and bumping over the inequalities of the lane. When
it got to a point about a hundred yards from the road, at, I afterwards
found, an S curve which cut off the view in both directions, it stopped
and the driver got down. I need not tell you that I watched him
carefully and, Merriman, what do you, think I saw him do?”

“Change the number plate?” suggested Merriman with a smile.

“Change the number plate!” repeated Hilliard. “As I’m alive, that’s
exactly what he did. First on one side and then on the other. He
changed the 4 to a 1. He took the 1 plates out of his pocket and put
the 4 plates back instead, and the whole thing just took a couple of
seconds, as if the plates slipped in and out of a holder. Then he
hopped up into his place again and started off. What do you think of
that?”

“Goodness only knows,” Merriman returned slowly. “An extraordinary
business.”

“Isn’t it? Well, that lorry went on out of sight. I waited there until
after six, and four more passed. About eleven o’clock No. 6 with the
clean-shaven driver passed out, loaded, so far as I could see, with
firewood. That was the one that passed in empty at nine. Then there was
a pause until half past two, when your friend returned with his lorry.
It was empty this time, and it was still No. 1. But I’m blessed,
Merriman, if he didn’t stop at the same place and change the number
back to 4!”

“Lord!” said Merriman tersely, now almost as much interested as his
friend.

“It only took a couple of seconds, and then the machine lumbered on
towards the mill. I was pretty excited, I can tell you, but I decided
to sit tight and await developments. The next thing was the return of
No. 6 lorry and the clean-shaven driver. You remember it had started
out loaded at about eleven. It came back empty shortly after the other,
say about a quarter to three. It didn’t stop and there was no change
made with its number. Then there was another pause. At half past three
your friend came out again with another load. This time he was driving
No. 1, and I waited to see him stop and change it. But he didn’t do
either. Sailed away with the number remaining 1. Queer, isn’t it?”

Merriman nodded and Hilliard resumed.

“I stayed where I was, still watching, but I saw no more lorries. But I
saw Miss Coburn pass about ten minutes later—at least I presume it was
Miss Coburn. She was dressed in brown, and was walking smartly along
the lane towards the road. In about an hour she passed back. Then about
five minutes past five some workmen went by—evidently the day ends at
five. I waited until the coast was clear, then went down to the lane
and had a look round where the lorry had stopped and saw it was a
double bend and therefore the most hidden point. I walked back through
the wood to the bridge, picked up my taxi and got back here about half
past seven.”

There was silence for some minutes after Hilliard ceased speaking, then
Merriman asked:

“How long did you say those lorries were away unloading?”

“About four hours.”

“That would have given them time to unload in Bordeaux?”

“Yes; an hour and a half, the same out, and an hour in the city. Yes,
that part of it is evidently right enough.”

Again silence reigned, and again Merriman broke it with a question.

“You have no theory yourself?”

“Absolutely none.”

“Do you think that driver mightn’t have some private game of his own
on—be somehow doing the syndicate?”

“What about your own argument?” answered Hilliard. “Is it likely Miss
Coburn would join the driver in anything shady? Remember, your
impression was that she knew.”

Merriman nodded.

“That’s right,” he agreed, continuing slowly: “Supposing for a moment
it was smuggling. How would that help you to explain this affair?”

“It wouldn’t. I can get no light anywhere.”

The two men smoked silently, each busy with his thoughts. A certain
aspect of the matter which had always lain subconsciously in Merriman’s
mind was gradually taking concrete form. It had not assumed much
importance when the two friends were first discussing their trip, but
now that they were actually at grips with the affair it was becoming
more obtrusive, and Merriman felt it must be faced. He therefore spoke
again.

“You know, old man, there’s one thing I’m not quite clear about. This
affair that you’ve discovered is extraordinarily interesting and all
that, but I’m hanged if I can see what business of ours it is.”

Hilliard nodded swiftly.

“I know,” he answered quickly. “The same thing has been bothering me. I
felt really mean yesterday when that girl came by, as if I were spying
on her, you know. I wouldn’t care to do it again. But I want to go on
to this place and see into the thing farther, and so do you.”

“I don’t know that I do specially.”

“We both do,” Hilliard reiterated firmly, “and we’re both justified.
See here. Take my case first. I’m in the Customs Department, and it is
part of my job to investigate suspicious import trades. Am I not
justified in trying to find out if smuggling is going on? Of course I
am. Besides, Merriman, I can’t pretend not to know that if I brought
such a thing to light I should be a made man. Mind you, we’re not out
to do these people any harm, only to make sure they’re not harming us.
Isn’t that sound?”

“That may be all right for you, but I can’t see that the affair is any
business of mine.”

“I think it is.” Hilliard spoke very quietly. “I think it’s your
business and mine—the business of any decent man. There’s a chance that
Miss Coburn may be in danger. We should make sure.”

Merriman sat up sharply.

“In Heaven’s name, what do you mean, Hilliard?” he cried fiercely.
“What possible danger could she be in?”

“Well, suppose there is something wrong—only suppose, I say,” as the
other shook his head impatiently. “If there is, it’ll be on a big
scale, and therefore the men who run it won’t be over squeamish. Again,
if there’s anything, Miss Coburn knows about it. Oh, yes, she does,” he
repeated as Merriman would have dissented, “there is your own evidence.
But if she knows about some large, shady undertaking, she undoubtedly
may be in both difficulty and danger. At all events, as long as the
chance exists it’s up to us to make sure.”

Merriman rose to his feet and began to pace up and down, his head bent
and a frown on his face. Hilliard took no notice of him and presently
he came back and sat down again.

“You may be right,” he said. “I’ll go with you to find that out, and
that only. But I’ll not do any spying.”

Hilliard was satisfied with his diplomacy. “I quite see your point,” he
said smoothly, “and I confess I think you are right. We’ll go and take
a look round, and if we find things are all right we’ll come away again
and there’s no harm done. That agreed?”

Merriman nodded.

“What’s the program then?” he asked.

“I think tomorrow we should take the boat round to the Lesque. It’s a
good long run and we mustn’t be late getting away. Would five be too
early for you?”

“Five? No, I don’t mind if we start now.”

“The tide begins to ebb at four. By five we shall get the best of its
run. We should be out of the river by nine, and in the Lesque by four
in the afternoon. Though that mill is only seventeen miles from here as
the crow flies, it’s a frightful long way round by sea, most of 130
miles, I should say.” Hilliard looked at his watch. “Eleven o’clock.
Well, what about going back to the _Swallow_ and turning in?”

They left the Jardin, and, sauntering slowly through the well-lighted
streets, reached the launch and went on board.




CHAPTER IV.
A COMMERCIAL PROPOSITION


Merriman was roused next morning by the feeling rather than the sound
of stealthy movements going on not far away. He had not speedily slept
after turning in. The novelty of his position, as well as the cramped
and somewhat knobby bed made by the locker, and the smell of oils, had
made him restless. But most of all the conversation be had had with
Hilliard had banished sleep, and he had lain thinking over the
adventure to which they had committed themselves, and listening to the
little murmurings and gurglings of the water running past the piles and
lapping on the woodwork beside his head. The launch kept slightly on
the move, swinging a little backwards and forwards in the current as it
alternately tightened and slackened its mooring ropes, and occasionally
quivering gently as it touched the wharf. Three separate times Merriman
had heard the hour chimed by the city clocks, and then at last a
delightful drowsiness crept over him, and consciousness had gradually
slipped away. But immediately this shuffling had begun, and with a
feeling of injury he roused himself to learn the cause. Opening his
eyes he found the cabin was full of light from the dancing reflections
of sunlit waves on the ceiling, and that Hilliard, dressing on the
opposite locker, was the author of the sounds which had disturbed him.

“Good!” cried the latter cheerily. “You’re awake? Quarter to five and a
fine day.”

“Couldn’t be,” Merriman returned, stretching himself luxuriously. “I
heard it strike two not ten seconds ago.”

Hilliard laughed.

“Well, it’s time we were under way anyhow,” he declared. “Tide’s
running out this hour. We’ll get a fine lift down to the sea.”

Merriman got up and peeped out of the porthole above his locker.

“I suppose you tub over the side?” he inquired. “Lord, what sunlight!”

“Rather. But I vote we wait an hour or so until we’re clear of the
town. I fancy the water will be more inviting lower down. We could stop
and have a swim, and then we should be ready for breakfast.”

“Right-o. You get way on her, or whatever you do, and I shall have a
shot at clearing up some of the mess you keep here.”

Hilliard left the cabin, and presently a racketing noise and vibration
announced that the engines had been started. This presently subsided
into a not unpleasing hum, after which a hail came from forward.

“Lend a hand to cast off, like a stout fellow.”

Merriman hurriedly completed his dressing and went on deck, stopping in
spite of himself to look around before attending to the ropes. The sun
was low down over the opposite bank, and transformed the whole river
down to the railway bridge into a sheet of blinding light. Only the
southern end of the great structure was visible stretching out of the
radiance, as well as the houses on the western bank, but these showed
out with incredible sharpness in high lights and dark shadows. From
where they were lying they could not see the great curve of the quays,
and the town in spite of the brilliancy of the atmosphere looked drab
and unattractive.

“Going to be hot,” Hilliard remarked. “The bow first, if you don’t
mind.”

He started the screw, and kept the launch alongside the wharf while
Merriman cast off first the bow and then the stern ropes. Then,
steering out towards the middle of the river, he swung round and they
began to slip rapidly downstream with the current.

After passing beneath the huge mass of the railway bridge they got a
better view of the city, its rather unimposing buildings clustering on
the great curve of the river to the left, and with the fine stone
bridge over which they had driven on the previous evening stretching
across from bank to bank in front of them. Slipping through one of its
seventeen arches, they passed the long lines of quays with their
attendant shipping, until gradually the houses got thinner and they
reached the country beyond.

About a dozen miles below the town Hilliard shut off the engines, and
when the launch had come to rest on the swift current they had a
glorious dip—in turn. Then the odor of hot ham mingled in the cabin
with those of paraffin and burned petrol, and they had an even more
glorious breakfast. Finally the engines were restarted, and they
pressed steadily down the ever-widening estuary.

About nine they got their first glimpse of the sea horizon, and,
shortly after, a slight heave gave Merriman a foretaste of what he must
soon expect. The sea was like a mill pond, but as they came out from
behind the Pointe de Grave they began to feel the effect of the long,
slow ocean swell. As soon as he dared Hilliard turned southwards along
the coast. This brought the swells abeam, but so large were they in
relation to the launch that she hardly rolled, but was raised and
lowered bodily on an almost even keel. Though Merriman was not actually
ill, he was acutely unhappy and experienced a thrill of thanksgiving
when, about five o’clock, they swung round east and entered the estuary
of the Lesque.

“Must go slowly here,” Hilliard explained, as the banks began to draw
together. “There’s no sailing chart of this river, and we shall have to
feel our way up.”

For some two miles they passed through a belt of sand dunes, great
yellow hillocks shaded with dark green where grasses had seized a
precarious foothold. Behind these the country grew flatter, and small,
blighted-looking shrubs began to appear, all leaning eastwards in
witness of the devastating winds which blew in from the sea. Farther on
these gave place to stunted trees, and by the time they had gone ten or
twelve miles they were in the pine forest. Presently they passed under
a girder bridge, carrying the railway from Bordeaux to Bayonne and the
south.

“We can’t be far from the mill now,” said Hilliard a little later. “I
reckoned it must be about three miles above the railway.”

They were creeping up very slowly against the current. The engines,
running easily, were making only a subdued murmur inaudible at any
considerable distance. The stream here was narrow, not more than about
a hundred yards across, and the tall, straight-stemmed pines grew down
to the water’s edge on either side. Already, though it was only seven
o’clock, it was growing dusk in the narrow channel, and Hilliard was
beginning to consider the question of moorings for the night.

“We’ll go round that next bend,” he decided, “and look for a place to
anchor.”

Some five minutes later they steered close in against a rapidly
shelving bit of bank, and silently lowered the anchor some twenty feet
from the margin.

“Jove! I’m glad to have that anchor down,” Hilliard remarked,
stretching himself. “Here’s eight o’clock, and we’ve been at it since
five this morning. Let’s have supper and a pipe, and then we’ll discuss
our plans.”

“And what are your plans?” Merriman asked, when an hour later they were
lying on their lockers, Hilliard with his pipe and Merriman with a
cigar.

“Tomorrow I thought of going up in the collapsible boat until I came to
the works, then landing on the other bank and watching what goes on at
the mill. I thought of taking my glass and keeping cover myself. After
what you said last night you probably won’t care to come, and I was
going to suggest that if you cared to fish you would find everything
you wanted in that forward locker. In the evening we could meet here
and I would tell you if I saw anything interesting.”

Merriman took his cigar from his lips and sat up on the locker.

“Look here, old man,” he said, “I’m sorry I was a bit ratty last night.
I don’t know what came over me. I’ve been thinking of what you said,
and I agree that your view is the right one. I’ve decided that if
you’ll have me, I’m in this thing until we’re both satisfied there’s
nothing going to hurt either Miss Coburn or our own country.”

Hilliard sprang to his feet and held out his hand.

“Cheers!” he cried. “I’m jolly glad you feel that way. That’s all I
want to do too. But I can’t pretend my motives are altogether
disinterested. Just think of the kudos for us both if there _should_ be
something.”

“I shouldn’t build too much on it.”

“I’m not, but there is always the possibility.”

Next morning the two friends got out the collapsible boat, locked up
the launch, and paddling gently up the river until the galvanized gable
of the Coburns’ house came in sight through the trees, went ashore on
the opposite bank. The boat they took to pieces and hid under a fallen
trunk, then, screened by the trees, they continued their way on foot.

It was still not much after seven, another exquisitely clear morning
giving promise of more heat. The wood was silent though there was a
faint stir of life all around them, the hum of invisible insects, the
distant singing of birds as well as the murmur of the flowing water.
Their footsteps fell soft on the carpet of scant grass and decaying
pine needles. There seemed a hush over everything, as if they were
wandering amid the pillars of some vast cathedral with, instead of
incense, the aromatic smell of the pines in their nostrils. They walked
on, repressing the desire to step on tiptoe, until through the trees
they could see across the river the galvanized iron of the shed.

A little bit higher up-stream the clearing of the trees had allowed
some stunted shrubs to cluster on the river bank. These appearing to
offer good cover, the two men crawled forward and took up a position in
their shelter.

The bank they were on was at that point slightly higher than on the
opposite side, giving them an excellent view of the wharf and mill as
well as of the clearing generally. The ground, as has already been
stated, was in the shape of a D, the river bounding the straight side.
About half-way up this straight side was the mill, and about half-way
between it and the top were the shrubs behind which the watchers were
seated. At the opposite side of the mill from the shrubs, at the bottom
of the D pillar, the Coburns’ house stood on a little knoll.

“Jolly good observation post, this,” Hilliard remarked as he stretched
himself at ease and laid his glass on the ground beside him. “They’ll
not do much that we shall miss from here.”

“There doesn’t seem to be much to miss at present,” Merriman answered,
looking idly over the deserted space.

About a quarter to eight a man appeared where the lane from the road
debouched into the clearing. He walked towards the shed, to disappear
presently behind it. Almost immediately blue smoke began issuing from
the metal chimney in the shed roof. It was evident he had come before
the others to get up steam.

In about half an hour those others arrived, about fifteen men in all, a
rough-looking lot in laborers’ kit. They also vanished behind the shed,
but most of them reappeared almost immediately, laden with tools, and,
separating into groups, moved off to the edge of the clearing. Soon
work was in full swing. Trees were being cut down by one gang, the
branches lopped off fallen trunks by another, while a third was loading
up and running the stripped stems along a Decauville railway to the
shed. Almost incessantly the thin screech of the saws rose
penetratingly above the sounds of hacking and chopping and the calls of
men.

[Illustration]

“There doesn’t seem to be much wrong here,” Merriman said when they had
surveyed the scene for nearly an hour.

“No,” Hilliard agreed, “and there didn’t seem to be much wrong when I
inspected the place on Sunday. But there can’t be anything _obviously_
wrong. If there is anything, in the nature of things it won’t be easy
to find.”

About nine o’clock Mr. Coburn, dressed in gray flannel, emerged from
his house and crossed the grass to the mill. He remained there for a
few minutes, then they saw him walking to the workers at the forest
edge. He spent some moments with each gang, afterwards returning to his
house. For nearly an hour things went on as before, and then Mr. Coburn
reappeared at his hall door, this time accompanied by his daughter.
Both were dressed extraordinarily well for such a backwater of
civilization, he with a gray Homburg hat and gloves, she as before in
brown, but in a well-cut coat and skirt and a smart toque and motoring
veil. Both were carrying dust coats. Mr. Coburn drew the door to, and
they walked towards the mill and were lost to sight behind it. Some
minutes passed, and between the screaming of the saws the sound of a
motor engine became audible. After a further delay a Ford car came out
from behind the shed and moved slowly over the uneven sward towards the
lane. In the car were Mr. and Miss Coburn and a chauffeur.

Hilliard had been following every motion through his glass, and he now
thrust the instrument into his companion’s hand, crying softly:

“Look, Merriman. Is that the lorry driver you saw?” Merriman focused
the glass on the chauffeur and recognized him instantly. It was the
same dark, aquiline-featured man who had stared at him so resentfully
on the occasion of his first visit to the mill, some two months
earlier.

“By Jove, what an extraordinary stroke of luck!” Hilliard went on
eagerly. “All three of them that know you out of the way! We can go
down to the place now and ask for Mr. Coburn, and maybe we shall have a
chance to see inside that shed. Let’s go at once, before they come
back.”

They crawled away from their point of vantage into the wood, and
retracing their steps to the boat, put it together and carried it to
the river. Then rowing up-stream, they reached the end of the wharf,
where a flight of wooden steps came down into the stream. Here they
went ashore, after making the painter fast to the woodwork.

The front of the wharf, they had seen from the boat, was roughly though
strongly made. At the actual edge, there was a row of almost vertical
piles, pine trees driven unsquared. Behind these was a second row,
inclined inwards. The feet of both rows seemed to be pretty much in the
same line, but the tops of the raking row were about six feet behind
the others, the arrangement, seen from the side, being like a V of
which one leg is vertical. These tops were connected by beams,
supporting a timber floor. Behind the raking piles rough tree stems had
been laid on the top of each other horizontally to hold back the earth
filled behind them. The front was about a hundred feet long, and was
set some thirty feet out in the river.

Parallel to the front and about fifty feet behind it was the wall of
the shed. It was pierced by four doors, all of which were closed, but
out of each of which ran a line of narrow gauge railway. These lines
were continued to the front of the wharf and there connected up by
turn-tables to a cross line, evidently with the idea that a continuous
service of loaded trucks could be sent out of one door, discharged, and
returned as empties through another. Stacks of pit-props stood ready
for loading between the lines.

“Seems a sound arrangement,” Hilliard commented as they made their
inspection.

“Quite. Anything I noticed before struck me as being efficient.”

When they had seen all that the wharf appeared to offer, they walked
round the end of the shed. At the back were a number of doors, and
through these also narrow gauge lines were laid which connected with
those radiating to the edge of the clearing. Everywhere between the
lines were stacks of pit-props as well as blocks and cuttings. Three or
four of the doors were open, and in front of one of them, talking to
someone in the building, stood a man.

Presently he turned and saw them. Immediately they advanced and
Hilliard accosted him.

“Good-morning. We are looking for Mr. Coburn. Is he about?”

“No, monsieur,” the man answered civilly, “he has gone into Bordeaux.
He won’t be back until the afternoon.”

“That’s unfortunate for us,” Hilliard returned conversationally. “My
friend and I were passing up the river on our launch, and we had hoped
to have seen him. However, we shall get hold of him later. This is a
fine works you have got here.”

The man smiled. He seemed a superior type to the others and was
evidently a foreman.

“Not so bad, monsieur. We have four saws, but only two are running
today.” He pointed to the door behind him as he spoke, and the two
friends passed in as if to have an idle look round.

The interior was fitted up like that of any other sawmill, but the same
element of design and efficiency seemed apparent here as elsewhere. The
foreman explained the process. The lopped trunks from the wood came in
by one of two roads through a large door in the center of the building.
Outside each road was a saw, its axle running parallel to the roads.
The logs were caught in grabs, slung on to the table of the saws and,
moving automatically all the time, were cut into lengths of from seven
to ten feet. The pieces passed for props were dumped on to a conveyor
which ran them out of the shed to be stacked for seasoning and export.
The rejected pieces by means of another conveyor moved to the third and
fourth saws, where they were cut into blocks for firewood, being
finally delivered into two large bins ready for loading on to the
lorries.

The friends exhibited sufficient non-technical interest to manage to
spend a good deal of time over their survey, drawing out the foreman in
conversation and seeing as much as they could. At one end of the shed
was the boiler house and engine room, at the other the office, with
between it and the mill proper a spacious garage in which, so they were
told, the six lorries belonging to the syndicate were housed. Three
machines were there, two lying up empty, the third, with engine running
and loaded with blocks, being ready to start. They would have liked to
examine the number plate, but in the presence of the foreman it was
hardly possible. Finally they walked across the clearing to where
felling and lopping was in progress, and inspected the operations. When
they left shortly after with a promise to return to meet Mr. Coburn,
there was not much about the place they had missed.

“That business is just as right as rain,” Merriman declared when they
were once more in the boat. “And that foreman’s all right too. I’d
stake my life he wasn’t hiding anything. He’s not clever enough for one
thing.”

“So I think too,” Hilliard admitted. “And yet, what about the game with
the number plates? What’s the idea of that?”

“I don’t know. But all the same I’ll take my oath there’s nothing wrong
about the timber trade. It’s no go, Hilliard. Let’s drop chasing wild
geese and get along with our trip.”

“I feel very like it,” the other replied as he sucked moodily at his
pipe. “We’ll watch for another day or so, and if we see nothing
suspicious we can clear out.”

But that very evening an incident occurred which, though trifling,
revived all their suspicions and threw them at once again into a sea of
doubt.

Believing that the Coburns would by that time have returned, they left
the launch about five o’clock to call. Reaching the edge of the
clearing almost directly behind the house, they passed round the latter
and rang.

The door was opened by Miss Coburn herself. It happened that the sun
was shining directly in her eyes, and she could not therefore see her
visitors’ features.

“You are the gentlemen who wished to see Mr. Coburn, I presume?” she
said before Merriman could speak. “He is at the works. You will find
him in his office.”

Merriman stepped forward, his cap off.

“Don’t you remember me, Miss Coburn?” he said earnestly. “I had the
pleasure of meeting you in May, when you were so kind as to give me
petrol to get me to Bordeaux.”

Miss Coburn looked at him more carefully, and her manner, which had up
to then been polite, but coolly self-contained, suddenly changed. Her
face grew dead white and she put her hand sharply to her side, as
though to check the rapid beating of her heart. For a moment she seemed
unable to speak, then, recovering herself with a visible effort, she
answered in a voice that trembled in spite of herself:

“Mr. Merriman, isn’t it? Of course I remember. Won’t you come in? My
father will be back directly.”

She was rapidly regaining self-control, and by the time Merriman had
presented Hilliard her manner had become almost normal. She led the way
to a comfortably furnished sitting-room looking out over the river.

“Hilliard and I are on a motor launch tour across France,” Merriman
went on. “He worked from England down the coast to Bordeaux, where I
joined him, and we hope eventually to cross the country to the
Mediterranean and do the Riviera from the sea.”

“How perfectly delightful,” Miss Coburn replied. “I envy you.”

“Yes, it’s very jolly doing these rivers and canals,” Hilliard
interposed. “I have spent two or three holidays that way now, and it
has always been worth while.”

As they chatted on in the pleasant room the girl seemed completely to
have recovered her composure, and yet Merriman could not but realize a
constraint in her manner, and a look of anxiety in her clear brown
eyes. That something was disturbing her there could be no doubt, and
that something appeared to be not unconnected with himself. But, he
reasoned, there was nothing connected with himself that could cause her
anxiety, unless it really was that matter of the number plates. He
became conscious of an almost overwhelming desire to share her trouble
whatever it might be, to let her understand that so far from willingly
causing a shadow to fall across her path there were few things he would
not do to give her pleasure; indeed, he began to long to take her in
his arms, to comfort her....

Presently a step in the hall announced Mr. Coburn’s return. “In here,
daddy,” his daughter called, and the steps approached the door.

Whether by accident or design it happened that Miss Coburn was seated
directly opposite the door, while her two visitors were placed where
they were screened by the door itself from the view of anyone entering.
Hilliard, his eyes on the girl’s face as her father came in,
intercepted a glance of what seemed to be warning. His gaze swung round
to the new-comer, and here again he noticed a start of surprise and
anxiety as Mr. Coburn recognized his visitor. But in this case it was
so quickly over that had he not been watching intently he would have
missed it. However, slight though it was, it undoubtedly seemed to
confirm the other indications which pointed to the existence of some
secret in the life of these two, a secret shared apparently by the
good-looking driver and connected in some way with the lorry number
plates.

Mr. Coburn was very polite, suave and polished as an accomplished man
of the world. But his manner was not really friendly; in fact, Hilliard
seemed to sense a veiled hostility. A few deft questions put him in
possession of the travelers ostensible plans, which he discussed with
some interest.

“But,” he said to Hilliard, “I am afraid you are in error in coming up
this River Lesque. The canal you want to get from here is the Midi, it
enters the Mediterranean not far from Narbonne. But the connection from
this side is from the Garonne. You should have gone up-stream to
Langon, nearly forty miles above Bordeaux.”

“We had hoped to go from still farther south,” Hilliard answered. “We
have penetrated a good many of the rivers, or rather I have, and we
came up here to see the sand-dunes and forests of the Landes, which are
new to me. A very desolate country, is it not?”

Mr. Coburn agreed, continuing courteously:

“I am glad at all events that your researches have brought you into our
neighborhood. We do not come across many visitors here, and it is
pleasant occasionally to speak one’s own language to someone outside
one’s household. If you will put up with pot-luck I am sure we should
both be glad—” he looked at his daughter”—if you would wait and take
some dinner with us now. Tomorrow you could explore the woods, which
are really worth seeing though monotonous, and if you are at all
interested I should like to show you our little works. But I warn you
the affair is my hobby, as well as my business for the time being, and
I am apt to assume others have as great an interest in it as myself.
You must not let me bore you.”

Hilliard, suspicious and critically observant, wondered if he had not
interrupted a second rapid look between father and daughter. He could
not be sure, but at all events the girl hastened to second her father’s
invitation.

“I hope you will wait for dinner,” she said. “As he says, we see so few
people, and particularly so few English, that it would be doing us a
kindness. I’m afraid that’s not very complimentary”—she laughed
brightly—“but it’s at least true.”

They stayed and enjoyed themselves. Mr. Coburn proved himself an
entertaining host, and his conversation, though satirical, was worth
listening to. He and Hilliard talked, while Merriman, who was something
of a musician, tried over songs with Miss Coburn. Had it not been for
an uneasy feeling that they were to some extent playing the part of
spies, the evening would have been a delight to the visitors.

Before they left for the launch it was arranged that they should stay
over the following day, lunch with the Coburns, and go for a tramp
through the forest in the afternoon. They took their leave with cordial
expressions of good will.

“I say, Merriman,” Hilliard said eagerly as they strolled back through
the wood, “did you notice how your sudden appearance upset them both?
There can be no further doubt about it, there’s something. What it may
be I don’t know, but there is something.”

“There’s nothing wrong at all events,” Merriman asserted doggedly.

“Not wrong in the sense you mean, no,” Hilliard agreed quickly, “but
wrong for all that. Now that I have met Miss Coburn I can see that your
estimate of her was correct. But anyone with half an eye could see also
that she is frightened and upset about something. There’s something
wrong, and she wants a helping hand.”

“Damn you, Hilliard, how you talk,” Merriman growled with a sudden wave
of unreasoning rage. “There’s nothing wrong and no need for our
meddling. Let us clear out and go on with our trip.”

Hilliard smiled under cover of darkness.

“And miss our lunch and excursion with the Coburns to-morrow?” he asked
maliciously.

“You know well enough what I mean,” Merriman answered irritably. “Let’s
drop this childish tomfoolery about plots and mysteries and try to get
reasonably sane again. Here,” he went on fiercely as the other
demurred, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do if you like. I’ll have no more
suspicions or spying, but I’ll ask her if there is anything wrong: say
I thought there was from her manner and ask her the direct question.
Will that please you?”

“And get well snubbed for your pains?” Hilliard returned. “You’ve tried
that once already. Why did you not persist in your inquiries about the
number plate when she told you about the driver’s shell-shock?”

Merriman was silent for a few moments, then burst out:

“Well, hang it all, man, what do you suggest?”

During the evening an idea had occurred to Hilliard and he returned to
it now.

“I’ll tell you,” he answered slowly, and instinctively he lowered his
voice. “I’ll tell you what we must do. We must see their steamer
loaded. I’ve been thinking it over. We must see what, if anything, goes
on board that boat beside pit-props.”

Merriman only grunted in reply, but Hilliard, realizing his condition,
was satisfied.

And Merriman, lying awake that night on the port locker of the
_Swallow_, began himself to realize his condition, and to understand
that his whole future life and happiness lay between the dainty hands
of Madeleine Coburn.




CHAPTER V.
THE VISIT OF THE “GIRONDIN”


Next morning found both the friends moody and engrossed with their own
thoughts.

Merriman was lost in contemplation of the new factor which had come
into his life. It was not the first time he had fancied himself in
love. Like most men of his age he had had affairs of varying
seriousness, which in due time had run their course and died a natural
death. But this, he felt, was different. At last he believed he had met
the one woman, and the idea thrilled him with awe and exultation, and
filled his mind to the exclusion of all else.

Hilliard’s preoccupation was different. He was considering in detail
his idea that if a close enough watch could be kept on the loading of
the syndicate’s ship it would at least settle the smuggling question.
He did not think that any article could be shipped in sufficient bulk
to make the trade pay, unnoticed by a skilfully concealed observer.
Even if the commodity were a liquid—brandy, for example—sent aboard
through a flexible pipe, the thing would be seen.

But two unexpected difficulties had arisen since last night. Firstly,
they had made friends with the Coburns. Excursions with them were in
contemplation, and one had actually been arranged for that very day.
While in the neighborhood they had been asked virtually to make the
manager’s house their headquarters, and it was evidently expected that
the two parties should see a good deal of each other. Under these
circumstances how were the friends to get away to watch the loading of
the boat?

And then it occurred to Hilliard that here, perhaps, was evidence of
design; that this very difficulty had been deliberately caused by Mr.
Coburn with the object of keeping himself and Merriman under
observation and rendering them harmless. This, he recognized, was
guesswork, but still it might be the truth.

He racked his brains to find some way of meeting the difficulty, and at
last, after considering many plans, he thought he saw his way. They
would as soon as possible take leave of their hosts and return to
Bordeaux, ostensibly to resume their trip east. From there they would
come out to the clearing by road, and from the observation post they
had already used keep a close eye on the arrival of the ship and
subsequent developments. At night they might be even able to hide on
the wharf itself. In any case they could hardly fail to see if anything
other than pit-props was loaded.

So far, so good, but there was a second and more formidable difficulty.
Would Merriman consent to this plan and agree to help? Hilliard was
doubtful. That his friend had so obviously fallen in love with this
Madeleine Coburn was an unexpected and unfortunate complication. He
could, of course, play on the string that the girl was in danger and
wanted help, but he had already used that with disappointing results.
However, he could see nothing for it but to do his best to talk
Merriman round.

Accordingly, when they were smoking their after-breakfast pipes, he
broached the subject. But as he had feared, his friend would have none
of it.

“I tell you I won’t do anything of the kind,” he said angrily. “Here we
come, two strangers, poking our noses into what does not concern us,
and we are met with kindness and hospitality and invited to join a
family party. Good Lord, Hilliard, I can’t believe that it is really
you that suggests it! You surely don’t mean that you believe that the
Coburns are smuggling brandy?”

“Of course not, you old fire-eater,” Hilliard answered good-humoredly,
“but I do believe, and so must you, that there is something queer going
on. We want to be sure there is nothing sinister behind it. Surely, old
man, you will help me in that?”

“If I thought there was anything wrong you know I’d help you,” Merriman
returned, somewhat mollified by the other’s attitude. “But I don’t. It
is quite absurd to suggest the Coburns are engaged in anything illegal,
and if you grant that your whole case falls to the ground.”

Hilliard saw that for the moment at all events he could get no more. He
therefore dropped the subject and they conversed on other topics until
it was time to go ashore.

Lunch with their new acquaintances passed pleasantly, and after it the
two friends went with Mr. Coburn to see over the works. Hilliard
thought it better to explain that they had seen something of them on
the previous day, but notwithstanding this assurance Mr. Coburn
insisted on their going over the whole place again. He showed them
everything in detail, and when the inspection was complete both men
felt more than ever convinced that the business was genuine, and that
nothing was being carried on other than the ostensible trade. Mr.
Coburn, also, gave them his views on the enterprise, and these seemed
so eminently reasonable and natural that Hilliard’s suspicions once
more became dulled, and he began to wonder if their host’s peculiar
manner could not have been due to some cause other than that he had
imagined.

“There is not so much money in the pit-props as I had hoped,” Mr.
Coburn explained. “When we started here the Baltic trade, which was, of
course, the big trade before the war, had not revived. Now we find the
Baltic competition growing keener, and our margin of profit is
dwindling. We are handicapped also by having only a one-way traffic.
Most of the Baltic firms exporting pit-props have an import trade in
coal as well. This gives them double freights and pulls down their
overhead costs. But it wouldn’t pay us to follow their example. If we
ran coal it could only be to Bordeaux, and that would take up more of
our boat’s time than it would be worth.”

Hilliard nodded and Mr. Coburn went on:

“On the other hand, we are doing better in what I may call ‘sideshows.’
We’re getting quite a good price for our fire-wood, and selling more
and more of it. Three large firms in Bordeaux have put in wood-burning
fireboxes and nothing else, and two others are thinking of following
suit. Then I am considering two developments; in fact, I have decided
on the first. We are going to put in an air compressor in our
engine-room, and use pneumatic tools in the forest for felling and
lopping. I estimate that will save us six men. Then I think there would
be a market for pine paving blocks for streets. I haven’t gone into
this yet, but I’m doing so.”

“That sounds very promising,” Hilliard answered. “I don’t know much
about it, but I believe soft wood blocks are considered better than
hard.”

“They wear more evenly, I understand. I’m trying to persuade the Paris
authorities to try a piece of it, and if that does well it might
develop into a big thing. Indeed, I can imagine our giving up the
pit-props altogether in the future.”

After a time Miss Coburn joined them, and, the Ford car being brought
out, the party set off on their excursion. They visited a part of the
wood where the trees were larger than near the sawmill, and had a
pleasant though uneventful afternoon. The evening they spent as before
at the Coburns’ house.

Next day the friends invited their hosts to join them in a trip up the
river. Hilliard tactfully interested the manager in the various
“gadgets” he had fitted up in the launch, and Merriman’s dream of
making tea with Miss Coburn materialized. The more he saw of the
gentle, brown-eyed girl, the more he found his heart going out to her,
and the more it was borne in on him that life without her was becoming
a prospect more terrible than he could bring himself to contemplate.

They went up-stream on the flood tide for some twenty miles, until the
forest thinned away and they came on vineyards. There they went ashore,
and it was not until the shades of evening were beginning to fall that
they arrived back at the clearing.

As they swung round the bend in sight of the wharf Mr. Coburn made an
exclamation.

“Hallo!” he cried. “There’s the _Girondin_. She has made a good run. We
weren’t expecting her for another three or four hours.”

At the wharf lay a vessel of about 300 tons burden, with bluff, rounded
bows sitting high up out of the water, a long, straight waist, and a
bridge and cluster of deckhouses at the stern.

“Our motor ship,” Mr. Coburn explained with evident pride. “We had her
specially designed for carrying the pit-props, and also for this river.
She only draws eight feet. You must come on board and have a look over
her.”

This was of all things what Hilliard most desired. He recognized that
if he was allowed to inspect her really thoroughly, it would finally
dispel any lingering suspicion he might still harbor that the syndicate
was engaged in smuggling operations. The two points on which that
suspicion had been founded—the absence of return cargoes and the
locality of the French end of the enterprise—were not, he now saw,
really suspicious at all. Mr. Coburn’s remark met the first of these
points, and showed that he was perfectly alive to the handicap of a
oneway traffic. The matter had not been material when the industry was
started, but now, owing to the recovery of the Baltic trade after the
war, it was becoming important, and the manager evidently realized that
it might easily grow sufficiently to kill the pit-prop trade
altogether. And the locality question was even simpler. The syndicate
had chosen the pine forests of the Landes for their operations because
they wanted timber close to the sea. On the top of these considerations
came the lack of secrecy about the ship. It could only mean that there
really was nothing aboard to conceal.

On reaching the wharf all four crossed the gangway to the deck of the
_Girondin_. At close quarters she seemed quite a big boat. In the bows
was a small forecastle, containing quarters for the crew of five men as
well as the oil tanks and certain stores. Then amidships was a long
expanse of holds, while aft were the officers’ cabins and tiny
mess-room, galley, navigating bridge, and last, but not least, the
engine-room with its set of Diesel engines. She seemed throughout a
well-appointed boat, no money having apparently been spared to make her
efficient and comfortable.

“She carries between six and seven thousand props every trip,” Mr.
Coburn told them, “that is, without any deck cargo. I dare say in
summer we could put ten thousand on her if we tried, but she is rather
shallow in the draught for it, and we don’t care to run any risks.
Hallo, captain! Back again?” he broke off, as a man in a blue pilot
cloth coat and a peaked cap emerged from below.

The newcomer was powerfully built and would have been tall, but for
rather rounded shoulders and a stoop. He was clean shaven, with a heavy
jaw and thin lips which were compressed into a narrow line. His
expression was vindictive as well as somewhat crafty, and he looked a
man who would not be turned from his purpose by nice points of morality
or conscience.

Though Hilliard instinctively noted these details, they did not
particularly excite his interest. But his interest was nevertheless
keenly aroused. For he saw the man, as his gaze fell on himself and
Merriman, give a sudden start, and then flash a quick, questioning
glance at Mr. Coburn. The action was momentary, but it was enough to
bring back with a rush all Hilliard’s suspicions. Surely, he thought,
there must be _something_ if the sight of a stranger upsets all these
people in this way.

But he had not time to ponder the problem. The captain instantly
recovered himself, pulled off his cap to Miss Coburn and shook hands
all round, Mr. Coburn introducing the visitors.

“Good trip, captain?” the manager went on. “You’re ahead of schedule.”

“Not so bad,” the newcomer admitted in a voice and manner singularly
cultivated for a man in his position. “We had a good wind behind us
most of the way.”

They chatted for a few moments, then started on their tour of
inspection. Though Hilliard was once again keenly on the alert, the
examination, so far as he could see, left nothing to be desired. They
visited every part of the vessel, from the forecastle storerooms to the
tunnel of the screw shaft, and from the chart-house to the bottom of
the hold, and every question either of the friends asked was replied to
fully and without hesitation.

That evening, like the preceding, they passed with the Coburns. The
captain and the engineer—a short, thick-set man named Bulla—strolled up
with them and remained for dinner, but left shortly afterwards on the
plea of matters to attend to on board. The friends stayed on, playing
bridge, and it was late when they said good-night and set out to walk
back to the launch.

During the intervals of play Hilliard’s mind had been busy with the
mystery which he believed existed in connection with the syndicate, and
he had decided that to try to satisfy his curiosity he would go down to
the wharf that night and see if any interesting operations went on
under cover of darkness. The idea of a midnight loading of contraband
no longer appealed to his imagination, but vaguely he wished to make
sure that no secret activities were in progress.

He was at least certain that none had taken place up to the
present—that Mr. Coburn was personally concerned in, at all events.
From the moment they had first sighted the ship until they had left the
manager’s house at the conclusion of the game of bridge, not five
minutes ago, he had been in Mr. Coburn’s company. Next day it was
understood they were to meet again, so that if the manager wished to
carry out any secret operations they could only be done during the
night.

Accordingly when they reached the launch he turned to Merriman.

“You go ahead, old man. I’m going to have a look round before turning
in. Don’t wait up for me. Put out the light when you’ve done with it
and leave the companion unlatched so that I can follow you in.”

Merriman grunted disapprovingly, but offered no further objection. He
clambered on board the launch and disappeared below, while Hilliard,
remaining in the collapsible boat, began to row silently up-stream
towards the wharf.

The night was dark and still, but warm. The moon had not risen, and the
sky was overcast, blotting out even the small light of the stars. There
was a faint whisper of air currents among the trees, and the subdued
murmur of the moving mass of water was punctuated by tiny splashes and
gurgles as little eddies formed round the stem of the boat or wavelets
broke against the banks. Hilliard’s eyes had by this time become
accustomed to the gloom, and he could dimly distinguish the serrated
line of the trees against the sky on either side of him, and later, the
banks of the clearing, with the faint, ghostly radiance from the
surface of the water.

He pulled on with swift, silent strokes, and presently the dark mass of
the _Girondin_ loomed in sight. The ship, longer than the wharf,
projected for several feet above and below it. Hilliard turned his boat
inshore with the object of passing between the hull and the bank and so
reaching the landing steps. But as he rounded the vessel’s stern he saw
that her starboard side was lighted up, and he ceased rowing, sitting
motionless and silently holding water, till the boat began to drift
back into the obscurity down-stream. The wharf was above the level of
his head, and he could only see, appearing over its edge, the tops of
the piles of pit-props. These, as well as the end of the ship’s
navigating bridge and the gangway, were illuminated by, he imagined, a
lamp on the side of one of the deckhouses. But everything was very
still, and the place seemed deserted.

Hilliard’s intention had been to land on the wharf and, crouching
behind the props, await events. But now he doubted if he could reach
his hiding place without coming within the radius of the lamp and so
exposing himself to the view of anyone who might be on the watch on
board. He recollected that the port or river side of the ship was in
darkness, and he thought it might therefore be better if he could get
directly aboard there from the boat.

Having removed his shoes he rowed gently round the stern and examined
the side for a possible way up. The ship being light forward was
heavily down in the stern, and he found the lower deck was not more
than six or seven feet above water level. It occurred to him that if he
could get hold of the mooring rope pawls he might be able to climb
aboard. But this after a number of trials he found impossible, as in
the absence of someone at the oars to steady the boat, the latter
always drifted away from the hull before he could grasp what he wanted.

He decided he must risk passing through the lighted area, and, having
for the third time rowed round the stern, he brought the boat up as
close to the hull as possible until he reached the wharf. Then passing
in between the two rows of piles and feeling his way in the dark, he
made the painter fast to a diagonal, so that the boat would lie hidden
should anyone examine the steps with a light. The hull lay touching the
vertical piles, and Hilliard, edging along a waling to the front of the
wharf, felt with his foot through the darkness for the stern belting.
The tide was low and he found this was not more than a foot above the
timber on which he stood. He could now see the deck light, an electric
bulb on the side of the captain’s cabin, and it showed him the top of
the taffrail some little distance above the level of his eyes. Taking
his courage in both hands and stepping upon the belting, he succeeded
in grasping the taffrail. In a moment he was over it and on deck, and
in another moment he had slipped round the deckhouse and out of the
light of the lamp. There he stopped, listening for an alarm, but the
silence remained unbroken, and he believed he had been unobserved.

He recalled the construction of the ship. The lower deck, on which he
was standing, ran across the stern and formed a narrow passage some
forty feet long at each side of the central cabin. This cabin contained
the galley and mess room as well as the first officer’s quarters.
Bulla’s stateroom, Hilliard remembered, was down below beside the
engine-room.

From the lower deck two ladders led to the bridge deck at the forward
end of which was situated the captain’s stateroom. Aft of this building
most of the remaining bridge deck was taken up by two lifeboats,
canvas-covered and housed in chocks. On the top of the captain’s cabin
was the bridge and chart-house, reached by two ladders which passed up
at either side of the cabin.

Hilliard, reconnoitering, crept round to the port side of the ship. The
lower deck was in complete darkness, and he passed the range of cabins
and silently ascended the steps to the deck above. Here also it was
dark, but a faint light shone from the window of the captain’s cabin.
Stealthily Hilliard tiptoed to the porthole. The glass was hooked back,
but a curtain hung across the opening. Fortunately, it was not drawn
quite tight to one side, and he found that by leaning up against the
bridge ladder he could see into the interior. A glance showed him that
the room was empty.

As he paused irresolutely, wondering what he should do next, he heard a
door open. There was a step on the deck below, and the door slammed
sharply. Someone was coming to the ladder at the top of which he stood.

Like a shadow Hilliard slipped aft, and, as he heard the unknown
ascending the steps, he looked round for cover. The starboard boat and
a narrow strip of deck were lighted up, but the port boat was in
shadow. He could distinguish it merely as a dark blot on the sky.
Recognizing that he must be hidden should the port deck light be turned
on, he reached the boat, felt his way round the stern, and, crouching
down, crept as far underneath it as he could. There he remained
motionless.

The newcomer began slowly to pace the deck, and the aroma of a good
cigar floated in the still air. Up and down he walked with leisurely,
unhurried footsteps. He kept to the dark side of the ship, and
Hilliard, though he caught glimpses of the red point of the cigar each
time the other reached the stern, could not tell who he was.

Presently other footsteps announced the approach of a second
individual, and in a moment Hilliard heard the captain’s voice.

“Where are you, Bulla?”

“Here,” came in the engineer’s voice from the first-comer. The captain
approached and the two men fell to pacing up and down, talking in low
tones. Hilliard could catch the words when the speakers were near the
stern, but lost them when they went forward to the break of the poop.

“Confound that man Coburn,” he heard Captain Beamish mutter. “What on
earth is keeping him all this time?”

“The young visitors, doubtless,” rumbled Bulla with a fat chuckle, “our
friends of the evening.”

“Yes, confound them, too,” growled Beamish, who seemed to be in an
unenviable frame of mind. “Damned nuisance their coming round. I should
like to know what they are after.”

“Nothing particular, I should fancy. Probably out doing some kind of a
holiday.”

They passed round the deckhouse and Hilliard could not hear the reply.
When they returned Captain Beamish was speaking.

“—thinks it would about double our profits,” Hilliard heard him say.
“He suggests a second depot on the other side, say at Swansea. That
would look all right on account of the South Wales coalfields.”

“But we’re getting all we can out of the old hooker as it is,” Bulla
objected. “I don’t see how she could do another trip.”

“Archer suggests a second boat.”

“Oh.” The engineer paused, then went on: “But that’s no new suggestion.
That was proposed before ever the thing was started.”

“I know, but the circumstances have changed. Now we should—”

Again they passed out of earshot, and Hilliard took the opportunity to
stretch his somewhat cramped limbs. He was considerably interested by
what he had heard. The phrase Captain Beamish had used in reference to
the proposed depôt at Swansea—“it would look all right on account of
the coalfields”—was suggestive. Surely that was meaningless unless
there was some secret activity—unless the pit-prop trade was only a
blind to cover some more lucrative and probably more sinister
undertaking? At first sight it seemed so, but he had not time to think
it out then. The men were returning.

Bulla was speaking this time, and Hilliard soon found he was telling a
somewhat improper story. As the two men disappeared round the deckhouse
he heard their hoarse laughter ring out. Then the captain cried: “That
you, Coburn?” The murmur of voices grew louder and more confused and
immediately sank. A door opened, then closed, and once more silence
reigned.

To Hilliard it seemed that here was a chance which he must not miss.
Coming out from his hiding place, he crept stealthily along the deck in
the hope that he might find out where the men had gone, and learn
something from their conversation.

The captain’s cabin was the probable meeting place, and Hilliard
slipped silently back to the window through which he had glanced
before. As he approached he heard a murmur of voices, and he cautiously
leaned back against the bridge ladder and peeped in round the partly
open curtain.

Three of the four seats the room contained were now occupied. The
captain, engineer, and Mr. Coburn sat round the central table, which
bore a bottle of whisky, a soda siphon and glasses, as well as a box of
cigars. The men seemed preoccupied and a little anxious. The captain
was speaking.

“And have you found out anything about them?” he asked Mr. Coburn.

“Only what I have been able to pick up from their own conversation,”
the manager answered. “I wrote Morton asking him to make inquiries
about them, but of course there hasn’t been time yet for a reply. From
their own showing one of them is Seymour Merriman, junior partner of
Edwards & Merriman, Gracechurch Street, Wine Merchants. That’s the
dark, square-faced one—the one who was here before. The other is a man
called Hilliard. He is a clever fellow, and holds a good position in
the Customs Department. He has had this launch for some years, and
apparently has done the same kind of trip through the Continental
rivers on previous holidays. But I could not find out whether Merriman
had ever accompanied him before.”

“But you don’t think they smell a rat?”

“I don’t think so,” he said slowly, “but I’m not at all sure. Merriman,
we believe, noticed the number plate that day. I told you, you
remember. Henri is sure that he did, and Madeleine thinks so too. It’s
just a little queer his coming back. But I’ll swear they’ve seen
nothing suspicious this time.”

“You can’t yourself account for his coming back?”

Again Mr. Coburn hesitated.

“Not with any certainty,” he said at last, then with a grimace he
continued: “But I’m a little afraid that it’s perhaps Madeleine.”

Bulla, the engineer, made a sudden gesture.

“_I_ thought so,” he exclaimed. “Even in the little I saw of them this
evening I thought there was something in the wind. I guess that
accounts for the whole thing. What do you say, skipper?”

The big man nodded.

“I should think so,” he admitted, with a look of relief. “I think it’s
a mare’s nest, Coburn. I don’t believe we need worry.”

“I’m not so sure,” Coburn answered slowly. “I don’t think we need worry
about Merriman, but I’m hanged if I know what to think about Hilliard.
He’s pretty observant, and there’s not much about this place that he
hasn’t seen at one time or another.”

“All the better for us, isn’t it?” Bulla queried.

“So far as it goes, yes,” the manager agreed, “and I’ve stuffed him
with yarns about costs and about giving up the props and going in for
paving blocks and so on which I think he swallowed. But why should he
want to know what we are doing? What possible interest can the place
have for him—unless he suspects?”

“They haven’t done anything suspicious themselves?”

“Not that I have seen.”

“Never caught them trying to pump any of the men?”

“Never.”

Captain Beamish moved impatiently.

“I don’t think we need worry,” he repeated with a trace of aggression
in his manner. “Let’s get on to business. Have you heard from Archer?”

Mr. Coburn drew a paper from his pocket, while Hilliard instinctively
bent forward, believing he was at last about to learn something which
would throw a light on these mysterious happenings. But alas for him!
Just as the manager began to speak he heard steps on the gangway which
passed on board and a man began to climb the starboard ladder to the
upper deck.

Hilliard’s first thought was to return to his hiding place under the
boat, but he could not bring himself to go so far away from the center
of interest, and before he had consciously thought out the situation he
found himself creeping silently up the ladder to the bridge. There he
believed he would be safe from observation while remaining within
earshot of the cabin, and if anyone followed him up the ladder he could
creep round on the roof of the cabin to the back of the chart-house,
out of sight.

The newcomer tapped at the captain’s door and, after a shout of “Come
in,” opened it. There was a moment’s silence, then Coburn’s voice said:

“We were just talking of you, Henri. The skipper wants to know—” and
the door closed.

Hilliard was not long in slipping back to his former position at the
porthole.

“By Jove!” Bulla was saying. “And to think that two years ago I was
working a little coaster at twenty quid a month! And you, Coburn; two
years ago you weren’t much better fixed, if as well, eh?”

Coburn ignored the question.

“It’s good, but it’s not good enough,” he declared. “This thing can’t
run for ever. If we go on too long somebody will tumble to it. What we
want is to try to get our piles made and close it down before anything
happens. We ought to have that other ship running. We could double our
income with another ship and another depot. And Swansea seems to me the
place.”

“Bulla and I were just talking of that before you came aboard,” the
captain answered. “You know we have considered that again and again,
and we have always come to the conclusion that we are pushing the thing
strongly enough.”

“Our organization has improved since then. We can do more now with less
risk. It ought to be reconsidered. Will you go into the thing,
skipper?”

“Certainly. I’ll bring it before our next meeting. But I won’t promise
to vote for it. In our business it’s not difficult to kill the goose,
etcetera.”

The talk drifted to other matters, while Hilliard, thrilled to the
marrow, remained crouching motionless beneath the porthole,
concentrating all his attention on the conversation in the hope of
catching some word or phrase which might throw further light on the
mysterious enterprise under discussion. While the affair itself was
being spoken of he had almost ceased to be aware of his surroundings,
so eagerly had he listened to what was being said, but now that the
talk had turned to more ordinary subjects he began more or less
subconsciously to take stock of his own position.

He realized in the first place that he was in very real danger. A quick
movement either of the men in the cabin or of some member of the crew
might lead to his discovery, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that
he might pay the forfeit for his curiosity with his life. He could
imagine the manner in which the “accident” would be staged. Doubtless
his body, showing all the appearance of death from drowning, would be
found in the river with alongside it the upturned boat as evidence of
the cause of the disaster.

And if he should die, his secret would die with him. Should he not then
be content with what he had learned and clear out while he could, so as
to ensure his knowledge being preserved? He felt that he ought, and yet
the desire to remain in the hope of doing still better was
overpowering. But as he hesitated the power of choice was taken away.
The men in the cabin were making a move. Coburn finished his whisky,
and he and Henri rose to their feet.

“Well,” the former said, “There’s one o’clock. We must be off.”

The others stood up also, and at the same moment Hilliard crept once
more up the ladder to the bridge and crouched down in the shadow of the
chart-house. Hardly was he there when the men came out of the cabin to
the deck beneath the bridge, then with a brief exchange of
“Good-nights,” Coburn and the lorry driver passed down the ladder,
crossed the gangway and disappeared behind a stack of pit-props on the
wharf. Bulla with a grunted “’Night” descended the port steps and
Hilliard heard the door leading below open and shut; the starboard deck
lamp snapped off, and finally the captain’s door shut and a key turned
in the lock. Some fifteen minutes later the faint light from the
porthole vanished and all was dark and silent.

But for more than an hour Hilliard remained crouching motionless on the
bridge, fearing lest some sound that he might make in his descent
should betray him if the captain should still be awake. Then, a faint
light from the rising moon appearing towards the east, he crept from
his perch, and crossing the gangway, reached the wharf and presently
his boat.

Ten minutes later he was on board the launch.




CHAPTER VI.
A CHANGE OF VENUE


Still making as little noise as possible, Hilliard descended to the
cabin and turned in. Merriman was asleep, and the quiet movement of the
other did not awaken him.

But Hilliard was in no frame of mind for repose. He was too much
thrilled by the adventure through which he had passed, and the
discovery which he had made. He therefore put away the idea of sleep,
and instead gave himself up to consideration of the situation.

He began by trying to marshal the facts he had already learned. In the
first place, there was the great outstanding point that his suspicions
were well founded, that some secret and mysterious business was being
carried on by this syndicate. Not only, therefore, was he justified in
all he had done up to the present, but it was clear he could not leave
the matter where it stood. Either he must continue his investigations
further, or he must report to headquarters what he had overheard.

Next, it seemed likely that the syndicate consisted of at least six
persons; Captain Beamish (probably from his personality the leader),
Bulla, Coburn, Henri, and the two men to whom reference had been made,
Archer, who had suggested forming the depot at Swansea, and Morton, who
had been asked to make inquiries as to himself and Merriman. Madeleine
Coburn’s name had also been mentioned, and Hilliard wondered whether
she could be a member. Like his companion he could not believe that she
would be willingly involved, but on the other hand Coburn had stated
that she had reported her suspicion that Merriman had noticed the
changed number plate. Hilliard could come to no conclusion about her,
but it remained clear that there were certainly four members, and
probably six or more.

But if so, it followed that the operations must be on a fairly large
scale. Educated men did not take up a risky and presumably illegal
enterprise unless the prize was worth having. It was unlikely that
£1,000  a year would compensate any one of them for the risk. But that
would mean a profit of from £4,000 to £6,000 a year. Hilliard realized
that he was here on shaky ground, though the balance of probability was
in his favor.

It also seemed certain that the whole pit-prop business was a sham, a
mere blind to cover those other operations from which the money came.
But when Hilliard came to ask himself what those operations were, he
found himself up against a more difficult proposition.

His original brandy smuggling idea recurred to him with renewed force,
and as he pondered it he saw that there really was something to be said
for it. Three distinct considerations were consistent with the theory.

There was first of all the size of the fraud. A theft of £4,000 to
£6,000 or more a year implied as victim a large corporation. The sum
would be too big a proportion of the income of a moderate-sized firm
for the matter to remain undiscovered, and, other things being equal,
the larger the corporation the more difficult to locate the leakage.

But what larger corporation was there than a nation, and what so easy
to defraud as a government? And how could a government be more easily
defrauded than by smuggling? Here again Hilliard recognized he was only
theorizing; still the point had a certain weight.

The second consideration was also inconclusive. It was that all the
people who, he had so far learned, were involved were engaged in
transport operations. The ostensible trade also, the blind under which
the thing was worked, was a transport trade. If brandy smuggling were
in progress something of precisely this kind would have to be devised.
In fact anything more suitable than the pit-prop business would be hard
to discover.

The third point he had thought of before. If brandy were to be
smuggled, no better locality could have been found for the venture than
this country round about Bordeaux. As one of the staple products of the
district, brandy could be obtained here, possibly more easily than
anywhere else.

The converse argument was equally inconclusive. What hypothesis other
than that of brandy smuggling could meet the facts? Hilliard could not
think of any, but he recognized that his failure did not prove that
none existed.

On the other hand, in spite of these considerations, he had to admit
that he had seen nothing which in the slightest degree supported the
theory, nor had he heard anything which could not equally well have
referred to something else.

But whatever their objective, he felt sure that the members of the
syndicate were desperate men. They were evidently too far committed to
hesitate over fresh crime to keep their secret. If he wished to pursue
his investigations, it was up to him to do so without arousing their
suspicions.

As he pondered over the problem of how this was to be done he became
more and more conscious of its difficulty. Such an inquiry to a trained
detective could not be easy, but to him, an amateur at the game, it
seemed well-nigh impossible. And particularly he found himself
handicapped by the intimate terms with the Coburns on which he and
Merriman found themselves. For instance, that very morning an excursion
had been arranged to an old chateau near Bordeaux. How could he refuse
to go? And if he went how could he watch the loading of the _Girondin?_

He had suspected before that the Coburns’ hospitality was due to
something other than friendliness, and now he was sure of it. No longer
had he any doubt that the object was to get him out of the way, to
create that very obstacle to investigation which it had created. And
here again Miss Coburn had undoubtedly lent herself to the plot.

He was not long in coming to the conclusion that the sooner he and
Merriman took leave of the Coburns the better. Besides this question of
handicap, he was afraid with so astute a man as Coburn he would sooner
or later give himself away.

The thought led to another. Would it not be wise to keep Merriman in
ignorance of what he had learned at least for the present? Merriman was
an open, straightforward chap, transparently honest in all his
dealings. Could he dissemble sufficiently to hide his knowledge from
his hosts? In particular could he deceive Madeleine? Hilliard doubted
it. He felt that under the special circumstances his friend’s
discretion could not be relied on. At all events Merriman’s appearance
of ignorance would be more convincing if it were genuine.

On the whole, Hilliard decided, it would be better not to tell him. Let
them once get away from the neighborhood, and he could share his
discoveries and they could together decide what was to be done. But
first, to get away.

Accordingly next morning he broached the subject. He had expected his
friend would strenuously oppose any plan involving separation from
Madeleine Coburn, but to his relief Merriman immediately agreed with
him.

“I’ve been thinking we ought to clear out too,” he declared
ungrammatically. “It’s not good enough to be accepting continuous
hospitality which you can’t return.”

Hilliard assented carelessly, remarked that if they started the
following morning they could reach the Riviera by the following Friday,
and let it go at that. He did not refer again to the subject until they
reached the Coburns’ door, when he asked quickly: “By the way, will you
tell them we’re leaving tomorrow or shall I?”

“I will,” said Merriman, to his relief.

The _Girondin_ was loading props as they set out in the Ford car, and
the work was still in progress on their return in the late afternoon.
Mr. Coburn had excused himself from joining the party on the ground of
business, but Captain Beamish had taken his place, and had proved
himself a surprisingly entertaining companion. At the old chateau they
had a pleasant alfresco lunch, after which Captain Beamish took a
number of photographs of the party with his pocket Kodak.

Merriman’s announcement of his and Hilliard’s impending departure had
been met with a chorus of regrets, but though these sounded hearty
enough, Hilliard noticed that no definite invitation to stay longer was
given.

The friends dined with the Coburns for the last time that evening. Mr.
Coburn was a little late for the meal, saying he had waited on the
wharf to see the loading completed, and that all the cargo was now
aboard, and that the _Girondin_ would drop down to sea on the flood
tide in the early morning.

“We shall have her company so far,” Hilliard remarked. “We must start
early, too, so as to make Bordeaux before dark.”

When the time came to say good-bye, Mr. Coburn and his daughter went
down to the launch with their departing visitors. Hilliard was careful
to monopolize the manager’s attention, so as to give Merriman his
innings with the girl. His friend did not tell him what passed between
them, but the parting was evidently affecting, as Merriman retired to
his locker practically in silence.

Five o’clock next morning saw the friends astir, and their first sight
on reaching the deck was the _Girondin_ coming down-stream. They
exchanged hand waves with Captain Beamish on the bridge, then, swinging
their own craft, followed in the wake of the other. A couple of hours
later they were at sea.

Once again they were lucky in their weather. A sun of molten glory
poured down from the clearest of blue skies, burnishing a track of
intolerable brilliance across the water. Hardly a ripple appeared on
the smooth surface, though they rose and fell gently to the flat ocean
swell. They were running up the coast about four miles out, and except
for the _Girondin_, now almost hull down to the north-west, they had
the sea to themselves. It was hot enough to make the breeze caused by
the launch’s progress pleasantly cool, and both men lay smoking on the
deck, lazily watching the water and enjoying the easy motion. Hilliard
had made the wheel fast, and reached up every now and then to give it a
slight turn.

“Jolly, I call this,” he exclaimed, as he lay down again after one of
these interruptions. “Jolly sun, jolly sea, jolly everything, isn’t
it?”

“Rather. Even a landlubber like me can appreciate it. But you don’t
often have it like this, I bet.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hilliard answered absently, and then, swinging
round and facing his friend, he went on:

“I say, Merriman, I’ve something to tell you that will interest you,
but I’m afraid it won’t please you.”

Merriman laughed contentedly.

“You arouse my curiosity anyway,” he declared. “Get on and let’s hear
it.”

Hilliard answered quietly, but he felt excitement arising in him as he
thought of the disclosure he was about to make.

“First of all,” he began, speaking more and more earnestly as he
proceeded, “I have to make you an apology. I quite deliberately
deceived you up at the clearing, or rather I withheld from you
knowledge that I ought to have shared. I had a reason for it, but I
don’t know if you’ll agree that it was sufficient.”

“Tell me.”

“You remember the night before last when I rowed up to the wharf after
we had left the Coburns? You thought my suspicions were absurd or
worse. Well, they weren’t. I made a discovery.”

Merriman sat up eagerly, and listened intently as the other recounted
his adventure aboard the _Girondin_. Hilliard kept nothing back; even
the reference to Madeleine he repeated as nearly word for word as
possible, finally giving a bowdlerized version of his reasons for
keeping his discoveries to himself while they remained in the
neighborhood.

Merriman received the news with a dismay approaching positive horror.
He had but one thought—Madeleine. How did the situation affect her? Was
she in trouble? In danger? Was she so entangled that she could not get
out? Never for a moment did it enter his head that she could be
willingly involved.

“My goodness! Hilliard,” he cried hoarsely, “whatever does it all mean?
Surely it can’t be criminal? They,”—he hesitated slightly, and Hilliard
read in a different pronoun—“they never would join in such a thing.”

Hilliard took the bull by the horns.

“That _Miss_ Coburn would take part in anything shady I don’t for a
moment believe,” he declared, “but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be so sure of
her father.”

Merriman shook his head and groaned.

“I know you’re right,” he admitted to the other’s amazement. “I saw—I
didn’t mean to tell you, but now I may as well. That first evening,
when we went up to call, you probably don’t remember, but after he had
learned who we were he turned round to pull up a chair. He looked at
you; I saw his face in a mirror. Hilliard, it was the face of a—I was
going to say, a devil—with hate and fear. But the look passed
instantly. When he turned round he was smiling. It was so quick I half
thought I was mistaken. But I know I wasn’t.”

“I saw fear on his face when he recognized you that same evening,”
Hilliard replied. “We needn’t blink at it, Merriman. Whether willingly
or unwillingly, Mr. Coburn’s in the thing. That’s as certain as that
we’re here.”

“But what is it? Have you any theory?”

“No, not really. There was that one of brandy smuggling that I
mentioned before. I suggest it because I can suggest nothing else, but
I admit I saw no evidence of it.”

Merriman was silent for several minutes as the boat slid over the
smooth water. Then with a change of manner he turned once more to his
friend.

“I suppose we couldn’t leave it alone? Is it our business after all?”

“If we don’t act we become accessories, and besides we leave that girl
to fight her own battles.”

Merriman clenched his fists and once more silence reigned. Presently he
spoke again:

“You had something in your mind?”

“I think we must do one of two things. Either continue our
investigations until we learn what is going on, or else clear out and
tell the police what we have learned.”

Merriman made a gesture of dissent.

“Not that, not that,” he cried. “Anything rather than the police.”

Hilliard gazed vacantly on the long line of the coast.

“Look here, old man,” he said, “Wouldn’t it be better if we discussed
this thing quite directly? Don’t think I mean to be impertinent—God
knows I don’t—but am I not right in thinking you want to save Miss
Coburn all annoyance, and her father also, for her sake?”

“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 VII.
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.

[Illustration]

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.

As they had imagined from their distant view of it, the wharf was
identically similar in construction to that on the River Lesque. Here
also were the two lines of piles like the letter _V_, one, in front
vertical, the other raking to support the earthwork behind. Here in the
same relative position were the steps, and to these Hilliard made fast
the painter with a slip hitch that could be quickly released. Then with
the utmost caution both men stepped ashore, and slowly mounting the
steps, peeped out over the deck of the wharf.

As far as they could make out in the gloom, the arrangement here also
was similar to that in France. Lines of narrow gauge tramway, running
parallel from the hut towards the water, were connected along the front
of the wharf by a cross road and turn-tables. Between the lines were
stacks of pit-props, and Decauville trucks stood here and there. But
these details they saw afterwards. What first attracted their attention
was that lights shone in the third and fourth windows from the left
hand end of the shed. The manager evidently was still about.

“We’ll go back to the boat and wait,” Hilliard whispered, and they
crept down the steps.

At intervals of half an hour one or other climbed up and had a look at
the windows. On the first two occasions the light was unchanged, on the
third it had moved to the first and second windows, and on the fourth
it had gone, apparently indicating that the manager had moved from his
sitting-room to his bedroom and retired.

“We had better wait at least an hour more,” Hilliard whispered again.

Time passed slowly in the darkness under the wharf, and in a silence
broken only by the gentle lapping of the water among the piles. The
boat lay almost steady, except when a movement of one of its occupants
made it heel slightly over and started a series of tiny ripples. It was
not cold, and had the men not been so full of their adventure they
could have slept. At intervals Hilliard consulted his luminous-dialed
watch, but it was not until the hands pointed to the half-hour after
one that they made a move. Then once more they softly ascended to the
wharf above.

The sides of the structure were protected by railings which ran back to
the gables of the tin house, the latter stretching entirely across the
base of the pier. Over the space thus enclosed the two friends passed,
but it speedily became apparent that here nothing of interest was to be
found. Beyond the stacks of props and wagons there was literally
nothing except a rusty steam winch, a large water butt into which was
led the down spout from the roof, a tank raised on a stand and fitted
with a flexible pipe, evidently for supplying crude oil for the ship’s
engines, and a number of empty barrels in which the oil had been
delivered. With their torch carefully screened by the black cloth the
friends examined these objects, particularly the oil tank which,
forming as it did a bridge between ship and shore, naturally came in
for its share of suspicion. But, they were soon satisfied that neither
it nor any of the other objects were connected with their quest, and
retreating to the edge of the wharf, they held a whispered
consultation.

Hilliard was for attempting to open one of the doors in the shed at the
end away from the manager’s room, but Merriman, obsessed with the idea
of seeing the unloading of the _Girondin_, urged that the contents of
the shed were secondary, and that their efforts should be confined to
discovering a hiding place from which the necessary observations could
be made.

“If there was any way of getting inside one of these stacks of props,”
he said, “we could keep a perfect watch. I could get in now, for
example; you relieve me tomorrow night; I relieve you the next night,
and so on. Nothing could be unloaded that we wouldn’t see. But,” he
added regretfully, “I doubt even if we could get inside that we should
be hidden. Besides, they might take a notion to load the props up.”

“Afraid that is hardly the scheme,” Hilliard answered, then went on
excitedly: “But, there’s that barrel! Perhaps we could get into that.”

“The barrel! That’s the ticket.” Merriman was excited in his turn.
“That is, if it has a lid.”

They retraced their steps. With the tank they did not trouble; it was a
galvanized iron box with the lid riveted on, and moreover was full of
oil; but the barrel looked feasible.

It was an exceptionally large cask or butt, with a lid which projected
over its upper rim and which entirely protected the interior from view.
It was placed in the corner beside the right hand gable of the shed,
that is, the opposite end of the manager’s rooms, and the wooden down
spout from the roof passed in through a slot cut in the edge of the
lid. A more ideal position for an observation post could hardly have
been selected.

“Try to lift the lid,” whispered Hilliard.

They found it was merely laid on the rim, cleats nailed on below
preventing it from slipping off. They raised it easily and Hilliard
flashed in a beam from his electric torch. The cask was empty,
evidently a result of the long drought.

“That’ll do,” Merriman breathed. “That’s all we want to see. Come
away.”

They lowered the cover and stood for a moment. Hilliard still wanted to
try the doors of the shed, but Merriman would not hear of it.

“Come away,” he whispered again. “We’ve done well. Why spoil it?”

They returned to the boat and there argued it out. Merriman’s proposal
was to try to find out when the _Girondin_ was expected, then come the
night before, bore a few eyeholes in the cask, and let one of them,
properly supplied with provisions, get inside and assume watch. The
other one would row away, rest and sleep during the day, and return on
the following night, when they would exchange roles, and so on until
the _Girondin_ left. In this way, he asserted, they must infallibly
discover the truth, at least about the smuggling.

“Do you think we could stand twenty-four hours in that barrel?”
Hilliard questioned.

“Of course we could stand it. We’ve got to. Come on, Hilliard, it’s the
only way.”

It did not require much persuasion to get Hilliard to fall in with the
proposal, and they untied their painter and pulled silently away from
the wharf. The tide had turned, and soon they relaxed their efforts and
let the boat drift gently downstream. The first faint light appeared in
the eastern sky as they floated past Hassle, and for an hour afterwards
they lay in the bottom of the boat, smoking peacefully and entranced by
the gorgeous pageant of the coming day.

Not wishing to reach Hull too early, they rowed inshore and, landing in
a little bay, lay down in the lush grass and slept for three or four
hours. Then re-embarking, they pulled and drifted on until, between
seven and eight o’clock, they reached the wharf at which they had hired
their boat. An hour later they were back at their hotel, recuperating
from the fatigues of the night with the help of cold baths and a
substantial breakfast.




CHAPTER VIII.
THE UNLOADING OF THE “GIRONDIN”


After breakfast Hilliard disappeared. He went out ostensibly to post a
letter, but it was not until nearly three o’clock that he turned up
again.

“Sorry, old man,” he greeted Merriman, “but when I was going to the
post office this morning an idea struck me, and it took me longer to
follow up than I anticipated. I’ll tell you. I suppose you realize that
life in that barrel won’t be very happy for the victim?”

“It’ll be damnable,” Merriman agreed succinctly, “but we needn’t worry
about that; we’re in for it.”

“Oh, quite,” Hilliard returned. “But just for that reason we don’t want
more of it than is necessary. We could easily bury ourselves
twenty-four hours too soon.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that we mustn’t go back to the wharf until the night before
the _Girondin_ arrives.”

“Don’t see how we can be sure of that.”

“Nor did I till I posted my letter. Then I got my idea. It seemed worth
following up, so I went round the shipping offices until I found a file
of Lloyd’s List. As you know it’s a daily paper which gives the
arrivals and departures of all ships at the world’s ports. My notion
was that if we could make a list of the _Girondin’s_ Ferriby arrivals
and departures, say, during the last three months, and if we found she
ran her trip regularly, we could forecast when she would be next due.
Follow me?”

“Rather.”

“I had no trouble getting out my list, but I found it a bit
disappointing. The trip took either ten, eleven, or twelve days, and
for a long time I couldn’t discover the ruling factor. Then I found it
was Sunday. If you omit each Sunday the _Girondin_ is in port, the
round trip always takes the even ten days. I had the Lesque arrival and
departure for that one trip when we were there, so I was able to make
out the complete cycle. She takes two days in the Lesque to load, three
to run to Hull, two at Ferriby to discharge, and three to return to
France. Working from that and her last call here, she should be due
back early on Friday morning.”

“Good!” Merriman exclaimed. “Jolly good! And today is Thursday. We’ve
just time to get ready.”

They went out and bought a one-inch auger and a three-sixteenths
bradawl, a thick footstool and a satchel. This latter they packed with
a loaf, some cheese, a packet of figs, a few bottles of soda water and
a flask of whisky. These, with their caps, rubber shoes, electric
torches and the black cloth, they carried to their boat; then returning
to the hotel, they spent the time resting there until eleven o’clock.
Solemnly they drew lots for the first watch, recognizing that the
matter was by no means a joke, as, if unloading were carried on by
night, relief might be impossible during the ship’s stay. But Merriman,
to whom the fates were propitious, had no fear of his ability to hold
out even for this period.

By eleven-thirty they were again sculling up the river. The weather was
as perfect as that of the night before, except that on this occasion a
faint westerly breeze had covered the surface of the water with myriads
of tiny wavelets, which lapped and gurgled round the stem of their boat
as they drove it gently through them. They did not hurry, and it was
after one before they moored to the depot steps.

All was dark and silent above, as, carrying their purchases, they
mounted to the wharf and crept stealthily to the barrel. Carefully they
raised the lid, and Merriman, standing on the footstool, with some
difficulty squeezed himself inside. Hilliard then lifted the footstool
on to the rim and lowered the lid on to it, afterwards passing in
through the opening thus left the satchel of food and the one-inch
auger.

A means of observation now remained to be made. Two holes, they
thought, should afford all the view necessary, one looking towards the
front of the wharf, and the other at right angles, along the side of
the shed. Slowly, from the inside, Merriman began to bore. He made a
sound like the nibbling of a mouse, but worked at irregular speeds so
as not to suggest human agency to anyone who might be awake and
listening. Hilliard, with his hand on the outside of the barrel,
stopped the work when he felt the point of the auger coming through,
and he himself completed the hole from the outside with his bradawl.
This gave an aperture imperceptible on the rough exterior, but large
within, and enabled the watcher to see through a much wider angle than
he could otherwise have done. Hilliard then once more raised the lid,
allowing Merriman to lift the footstool within, where it was destined
to act as a seat for the observer.

All was now complete, and with a whispered exchange of good wishes,
Hilliard withdrew, having satisfied himself by a careful look round
that no traces had been left. Regaining the boat, he loosed the painter
and pulled gently away into the night.

Left to himself in the confined space and inky blackness of the cask,
Merriman proceeded to take stock of his position. He was anxious if
possible to sleep, not only to pass some of the time, which at the best
would inevitably be terribly long, but also that he might be the more
wakeful when his attention should be required. But his unusual
surroundings stimulated his imagination, and he could not rest.

He was surprised that the air was so good. Fortunately, the hole
through the lid which received the down spout was of large dimensions,
so that even though he might not have plenty of air, he would be in no
danger of asphyxiation.

The night was very still. Listening intently, he could not hear the
slightest sound. The silence and utter darkness indeed soon became
overpowering, and he took his watch from his pocket that he might have
the companionship of its ticking and see the glimmering hands and ring
of figures.

He gave himself up for the thousandth time to the consideration of the
main problem. What were the syndicate people doing? Was Mr. Coburn
liable to prosecution, to penal servitude? Was it possible that by some
twist of the legal mind, some misleading circumstantial evidence, Miss
Coburn—Madeleine—could be incriminated? Oh, if he but knew what was
wrong, that he might be able to help! If he could but get her out of
it, and for her sake Mr. Coburn! If they were once safe he could pass
on his knowledge to the police and be quit of the whole business. But
always there was this enveloping cloak of ignorance baffling him at
every turn. He did not know what was wrong, and any step he attempted
might just precipitate the calamity he most desired to avoid.

Suppose he went and asked her? This idea had occurred to him many times
before, and he had always rejected it as impracticable. But suppose he
did? The danger was that she might be alarmed or displeased, that she
might refuse to admit there was anything wrong and forbid him to refer
to the matter again or even send him away altogether. And he felt he
was not strong enough to risk that. No, he must know where he stood
first. He must understand his position, so as not to bungle the thing.
Hilliard was right. They must find out what the syndicate was doing.
There was no other way.

So the hours dragged slowly away, but at last after interminable ages
had gone by, Merriman noticed two faint spots of light showing at his
eyeholes. Seating himself on his footstool, he bent forward and put his
eye first to one and then to the other.

It was still the cold, dead light of early dawn before the sun had come
to awaken color and sharpen detail, but the main outlines of objects
were already clear. As Merriman peered out he saw with relief that no
mistake had been made as to his outlooks. From one hole or the other he
could see the entire area of the wharf.

It was about five a.m., and he congratulated himself that what he hoped
was the most irksome part of his vigil was over. Soon the place would
awaken to life, and the time would then pass more quickly in
observation of what took place.

But the three hours that elapsed before anything happened seemed even
longer than those before dawn. Then, just as his watch showed eight
o’clock, he heard a key grind in a lock, a door opened, and a man
stepped out of the shed on the wharf.

He was a young fellow, slight in build, with an extremely alert and
intelligent face, but a rather unpleasant expression. The sallowness of
his complexion was emphasized by his almost jet black hair and dark
eyes. He was dressed in a loose gray Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers,
but wore no hat. He moved forward three or four feet and stood staring
downstream towards Hull.

“I see her, Tom,” he called out suddenly to someone in the shed behind.
“She’s just coming round the point.”

There was another step and a second man appeared. He was older and
looked like a foreman. His face was a contrast to that of the other. In
it the expression was good—kindly, reliable, honest—but ability was not
marked. He looked a decent, plodding, stupid man. He also stared
eastward.

“Ay,” he said slowly. “She’s early.”

“Two hours,” the first agreed. “Didn’t expect her till between ten and
eleven.”

The other murmured something about “getting things ready,” and
disappeared back into the shed. Presently came the sounds of doors
being opened, and some more empty Decauville trucks were pushed out on
to the wharf. At intervals both men reappeared and looked down-stream,
evidently watching the approach of the ship.

Some half an hour passed, and then an increase of movement seemed to
announce her arrival. The manager walked once more down the wharf,
followed by the foreman and four other men—apparently the whole
staff—among whom was the bovine-looking fellow whom the friends had
tried to pump on their first visit to the locality. Then came a long
delay during which Merriman could catch the sound of a ship’s telegraph
and the churning of the screw, and at last the bow of the _Girondin_
appeared, slowly coming in. Ropes were flung, caught, slipped over
bollards, drawn taut, made fast—and she was berthed.

Captain Beamish was on the bridge, and as soon as he could, the manager
jumped aboard and ran up the steps and joined him there. In a few
seconds both men disappeared into the captain’s cabin.

The foreman and his men followed on board and began in a leisurely way
to get the hatches open, but for at least an hour no real activity was
displayed. Then work began in earnest. The clearing of the hatches was
completed, the ship’s winches were started, and the unloading of the
props began.

This was simply a reversal of the procedure they had observed at the
clearing. The props were swung out in bundles by the _Girondin’s_ crew,
lowered on to the Decauville trucks, and pushed by the depot men back
through the shed, the empty trucks being returned by another road, and
brought by means of the turn-tables to the starting point. The young
manager watched the operations and took a tally of the props.

Merriman kept a close eye on the proceedings, and felt certain he was
witnessing everything that was taking place. Every truckload of props
passed within ten feet of his hiding place, and he was satisfied that
if anything other than props were put ashore he would infallibly see
it. But the close watching was a considerable strain, and he soon began
to grow tired. He had some bread and fruit and a whisky and soda, and
though he would have given a good deal for a smoke, he felt greatly
refreshed.

The work kept on without intermission until one o’clock, when the men
knocked off for dinner. At two they began again, and worked steadily
all through the afternoon until past seven. During all that time only
two incidents, both trifling, occurred to relieve the monotony of the
proceedings. Early in the forenoon Bulla appeared, and under his
instructions the end of the flexible hose from the crude oil tank was
carried aboard and connected by a union to a pipe on the lower deck. A
wheel valve at the tank was turned, and Merriman could see the hose
move and stiffen as the oil began to flow through it. An hour later the
valve was turned off, the hose relaxed, the union was uncoupled and the
hose, dripping black oil, was carried back and left in its former place
on the wharf. The second incident was that about three o’clock Captain
Beamish and Bulla left the ship together and went out through the shed.

Merriman was now horribly tired, and his head ached intolerably from
the strain and the air of the barrel, which had by this time become
very impure. But he reflected that now when the men had left was the
opportunity of the conspirators. The time for which he had waited was
approaching, and he nerved himself to resist the drowsiness which was
stealing over him and which threatened the success of his vigil.

But hour after hour slowly dragged past and nothing happened. Except
for the occasional movement of one of the crew on the ship, the whole
place seemed deserted. It was not till well after ten, when dusk had
fallen, that he suddenly heard voices.

At first he could not distinguish the words, but the tone was Bulla’s,
and from the sounds it was clear the engineer and some others were
approaching. Then Beamish spoke:

“You’d better keep your eyes open anyway,” he said. “Morton says they
only stayed at work about a week. They’re off somewhere now. Morton
couldn’t discover where, but he’s trying to trace them.”

“I’m not afraid of them,” returned the manager’s voice. “Even if they
found this place, which of course they might, they couldn’t find out
anything else. We’ve got too good a site.”

“Well, don’t make the mistake of underestimating their brains,”
counseled Beamish, as the three men moved slowly down the wharf.
Merriman, considerably thrilled, watched them go on board and disappear
into the captain’s cabin.

So it was clear, then, that he and Hilliard were seriously suspected by
the syndicate and were being traced by their spy! What luck would the
spy have? And if he succeeded in his endeavor, what would be their
fortune? Merriman was no coward, but he shivered slightly as he went
over in his mind the steps of their present quest, and realized how far
they had failed to cover their traces, how at stage after stage they
had given themselves away to anyone who cared to make a few inquiries.
What fools, he thought, they were not to have disguised themselves!
Simple disguises would have been quite enough. No doubt they would not
have deceived personal friends, but they would have made all the
difference to a stranger endeavoring to trace them from descriptions
and those confounded photographs. Then they should not have travelled
together to Hull, still less have gone to the same hotel. It was true
they had had the sense to register under false names, but that would be
but a slight hindrance to a skillful investigator. But their crowning
folly, in Merriman’s view, was the hiring of the boat and the starting
off at night from the docks and arriving back there in the morning.
What they should have done, he now thought bitterly, was to have taken
a boat at Grimsby or some other distant town and kept it continuously,
letting no one know when they set out on or returned from their
excursions.

But there was no use in crying over spilt milk. Merriman repeated to
himself the adage, though he did not find it at all comforting. Then
his thoughts passed on to the immediate present, and he wondered
whether he should not try to get out of the barrel and emulate
Hilliard’s exploit in boarding the _Girondin_ and listening to the
conversation in the captain’s cabin. But he soon decided he must keep
to the arranged plan, and make sure nothing was put ashore from the
ship under cover of darkness.

Once again ensued a period of waiting, during which the time dragged
terribly heavily. Everything without was perfectly still, until at
about half past eleven the door of the captain’s cabin opened and its
three occupants came out into the night. The starboard deck light was
on and by its light Merriman could see the manager take his leave,
cross the gangway, pass up the wharf and enter the shed. Bulla went
down towards his cabin door and Beamish, snapping off the deck light,
returned to his. In about fifteen minutes his light also went out and
complete darkness and silence reigned.

Some two hours later Merriman, who had kept awake and on guard only by
the most determined effort, heard a gentle tap on the barrel and a
faint “Hist!” The lid was slowly raised, and to his intense relief he
was able to stand upright and greet Hilliard crouching without.

“Any news?” queried the latter in the faintest of whispers. “Absolutely
none. Not a single thing came out of that boat but props. I had a
splendid view all the time. Except this, Hilliard”—Merriman’s whisper
became more intense—“They suspect us and are trying to trace us.”

“Let them try,” breathed Hilliard. “Here, take this in.”

He handed over the satchel of fresh food and took out the old one. Then
Merriman climbed out, held up the lid until Hilliard had taken his
place, wished his friend good luck, and passing like a shadow along the
wharf, noiselessly descended the steps and reached the boat. A few
seconds later he had drifted out of sight of the depot, and was pulling
with long, easy strokes down-stream.

The air and freedom felt incredibly good after his long confinement,
and it was a delight to stretch his muscles at the oars. So hard did he
row that it was barely three when he reached the boat slip in Hull.
There he tied up the skiff and walked to the hotel. Before four he was
sound asleep in his room.

That evening about seven as he strolled along the waterfront waiting
until it should be time to take out his boat, he was delighted to
observe the _Girondin_ pass out to sea. He had dreaded having to take
another twenty-four hours’ trick in the cask, which would have been
necessary had the ship not left that evening. Now all that was needed
was a little care to get Hilliard out, and the immediate job would be
done.

He took out the boat about eleven and duly reached the wharf. All was
in darkness, and he crept to the barrel and softly raised the lid.

Hilliard was exhausted from the long strain, but with his friend’s help
he succeeded in clambering out, having first examined the floor of the
barrel to see that nothing had been overlooked, as well as plugging the
two holes with corks. They regained the boat in silence, and it was not
until they were some distance from the wharf that either spoke.

“My goodness! Merriman,” Hilliard said at last, “but that was an awful
experience! You left the air in that cursed barrel bad, and it got
steadily worse until I thought I should have died or had to lift the
lid and give the show away. It was just everything I could do to keep
going till the ship left.”

“But did you see anything?” Merriman demanded eagerly.

“See anything? Not a blessed thing! We are barking up the wrong tree,
Merriman. I’ll stake my life nothing came out of that boat but props.
No; what those people are up to I don’t know, but there’s one thing a
dead cert, and that is that they’re not smuggling.”

They rowed on in silence, Hilliard almost sick with weariness and
disappointment, Merriman lost in thought over their problem. It was
still early when they reached their hotel, and they followed Merriman’s
plan of the morning before and went straight to bed.

Next day they spent in the hotel lounge, gloomily smoking and at
intervals discussing the affair. They had admitted themselves
outwitted—up to the present at all events. And neither could suggest
any further step. There seemed to be no line of investigation left
which might bear better fruit. They agreed that the brandy smuggling
theory must be abandoned, and they had nothing to take its place.

“We’re fairly up against it as far as I can see,” Hilliard admitted
despondently. “It’s a nasty knock having to give up the only theory we
were able to think of, but it’s a hanged sight worse not knowing how we
are going to carry on the inquiry.”

“That is true,” Merriman returned, Madeleine Coburn’s face rising
before his imagination, “but we can’t give it up for all that. We must
go on until we find something.”

“That’s all very well. What are we to go on doing?”

Silence reigned for several minutes and then Hilliard spoke again.

“I’m afraid it means Scotland Yard after all.”

Merriman sat up quickly.

“Not that, not that!” he protested, as he had protested in similar
terms on a previous occasion when the same suggestion had been made.
“We must keep away from the police at all costs.” He spoke earnestly.

“I know your views,” Hilliard answered, “and agree with them. But if
neither of us can suggest an alternative, what else remains?”

This was what Merriman had feared and he determined to play the one
poor trump in his hand.

“The number plates,” he suggested. “As I said before, that is the only
point at which we have actually come up against this mystery. Why not
let us start in on it? If we knew why those plates were changed, the
chances are we should know enough to clear up the whole affair.”

Hilliard, who was suffering from the reaction of his night of stress,
took a depressed view and did not welcome the suggestion. He seemed to
have lost heart in the inquiry, and again urged dropping it and passing
on their knowledge to Scotland Yard. But this course Merriman
strenuously opposed, pressing his view that the key to the mystery was
to be found in the changing of the lorry numbers. Finally they decided
to leave the question over until the following day, and to banish the
affair from their minds for that evening by a visit to a music hall.




CHAPTER IX.
THE SECOND CARGO


Merriman was awakened in the early hours of the following morning by a
push on the shoulder and, opening his eyes, he was amazed to see
Hilliard, dressed only in his pajamas, leaning over him. On his
friend’s face was an expression of excitement and delight which made
him a totally different man from the gloomy pessimist of the previous
day.

“Merriman, old man,” he cried, though in repressed tones—it was only a
little after five—“I’m frightfully sorry to stir you up, but I just
couldn’t help it. I say, you and I are a nice pair of idiots!”

Merriman grunted.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he murmured sleepily.

“Talking about?” Hilliard returned eagerly. “Why, this affair, of
course! I see it now, but what I don’t see is how we missed it before.
The idea struck me like a flash. Just while you’d wink I saw the whole
thing!”

Merriman, now thoroughly aroused, moved with some annoyance.

“For Heaven’s sake, explain yourself,” he demanded. “What whole thing?”

“How they do it. We thought it was brandy smuggling but we couldn’t see
how it was done. Well, I see now. It’s brandy smuggling right enough,
and we’ll get them this time. We’ll get them, Merriman, we’ll get them
yet.”

Hilliard was bubbling over with excitement. He could not remain still,
but began to pace up and down the room. His emotion was infectious, and
Merriman began to feel his heart beat quicker as he listened.

Hilliard went on:

“We _thought_ there might be brandy, in fact we couldn’t suggest
anything else. But we didn’t _see_ any brandy; we saw pit-props. Isn’t
that right?”

“Well?” Merriman returned impatiently. “Get on. What next?”

“That’s all,” Hilliard declared with a delighted laugh. “That’s the
whole thing. Don’t you see it now?”

Merriman felt his anger rising.

“Confound it all, Hilliard,” he protested. “If you haven’t anything
better to do than coming round wakening—”

“Oh, don’t get on your hind legs,” Hilliard interrupted with another
ecstatic chuckle. “What I say is right-enough. Look here, it’s
perfectly simple. We thought brandy would be unloaded! And what’s more,
we both sat in that cursed barrel and watched it being done! But all we
saw coming ashore was pit-props, Merriman, _pit-props!_ Now don’t you
see?”

Merriman suddenly gasped.

“Lord!” he cried breathlessly. “It was _in_ the props?”

“Of course it was in the props!” Hilliard repeated triumphantly.
“Hollow props; a few hollow ones full of brandy to unload in their
shed, many genuine ones to sell! What do you think of that, Merriman?
Got them at last, eh?”

Merriman lay still as he tried to realize what this idea involved.
Hilliard, moving jerkily about the room as if he were a puppet
controlled by wires, went on speaking.

“I thought it out in bed before I came along. All they’d have to do
would be to cut the props in half and bore them out, attaching a
screwed ring to one half and a screwed socket to the other so that
they’d screw together like an ordinary gas thimble. See?”

Merriman nodded.

“Then they’d get some steel things like oxygen gas cylinders to fit
inside. They’d be designed of such a thickness that their weight would
be right; that their weight plus the brandy would be equal to the
weight of the wood bored out.”

He paused and looked at Merriman. The latter nodded again.

“The rest would be as easy as tumbling off a log. At night Coburn and
company would screw off the hollow ends, fill the cylinders with
brandy, screw on the end again, and there you have your props—harmless,
innocent props—ready for loading up on the _Girondin_. Of course,
they’d have them marked. Then when they’re being unloaded that manager
would get the marked ones put aside—they could somehow be defective,
too long or too short or too thin or too anything you like—he would
find some reason for separating them out—and then at night he would
open the things and pour out the brandy, screw them up again and—there
you are!”

Hilliard paused dramatically, like a conjurer who has just drawn a
rabbit from a lady’s vanity bag.

“That would explain that Ferriby manager sleeping in the shed,”
Merriman put in.

“So it would. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“And,” Merriman went on, “there’d be enough genuine props carried on
each trip to justify the trade.”

“Of course. A very few faked ones would do all they wanted—say two or
three per cent. My goodness, Merriman, it’s a clever scheme; they
deserve to win. But they’re not going to.” Again he laughed
delightedly.

Merriman was thinking deeply. He had recovered his composure, and had
begun to weigh the idea critically.

“They mightn’t empty the brandy themselves at all,” he said slowly.
“What’s to prevent them running the faked props to the firm who plants
the brandy?”

“That’s true,” Hilliard returned. “That’s another idea. My eyes, what
possibilities the notion has!”

They talked on for some moments, then Hilliard, whose first excitement
was beginning to wane, went back to his room for some clothes. In a few
minutes he returned full of another side of the idea.

“Let’s just work out,” he suggested, “how much you could put into a
prop. Take a prop say nine inches in diameter and nine feet long. Now
you can’t weaken it enough to risk its breaking if it accidentally
falls. Suppose you bored a six-inch hole down its center. That would
leave the sides one and half inches thick, which should be ample. What
do you think?”

“Take it at that anyway,” answered Merriman.

“Very well. Now how long would it be? If we bore too deep a hole we may
split the prop. What about two feet six inches into each end? Say a
five-foot tube?”

“Take it at that,” Merriman repeated.

“How much brandy could you put into a six-inch tube, five feet long?”
He calculated aloud, Merriman checking each step. “That works out at a
cubic foot of brandy, six and a quarter gallons, fifty pints or four
hundred glasses-four hundred glasses per prop.”

He paused, looked at his friend, and resumed:

“A glass of brandy in France costs you sixpence; in England it costs
you half-a-crown. Therefore, if you can smuggle the stuff over you make
a profit of two shillings a glass. Four hundred glasses at two
shillings. There’s a profit of £40 a prop, Merriman!”

Merriman whistled. He was growing more and more impressed. The longer
he considered the idea, the more likely it seemed. He listened eagerly
as Hilliard, once again excitedly pacing the room, resumed his
calculations.

“Now you have a cargo of about seven thousand props. Suppose you assume
one per cent of them are faked, that would be seventy. We don’t know
how many they have, of course, but one out of every hundred is surely a
conservative figure. Seventy props means £2,800 profit per trip. _And_
they have a trip every ten days—say thirty trips a year to be on the
safe side—£84,000 a year profit! My eyes, Merriman, it would be worth
running some risks for £84,000 a year!”

“Risks?” cried Merriman, now as much excited as his friend. “They’d
risk hell for it! I bet, Hilliard, you’ve got it at last. £84,000 a
year! But look here,”—his voice changed—“you have to divide it among
the members.”

“That’s true, you have,” Hilliard admitted, “but even so—how many are
there? Beamish, Bulla, Coburn, Henri, the manager here, and the two men
they spoke of, Morton and Archer—that makes seven. That would give them
£12,000 a year each. It’s still jolly well worth while.”

“Worth while? I should just say so.” Merriman lay silently pondering
the idea. Presently he spoke again.

“Of course those figures of yours are only guesswork.”

“They’re only guesswork,” Hilliard agreed with a trace of impatience in
his manner, “because we don’t know the size of the tubes and the number
of the props, but it’s not guesswork that they can make a fortune out
of smuggling in that way. We see now that the thing can be done, and
_how_ it can be done. That’s something gained anyway.”

Merriman nodded and sat up in bed.

“Hand me my pipe and baccy out of that coat pocket like a good man,” he
asked, continuing slowly:

“It’ll be some job, I fancy, proving it. We shall have to see first if
the props are emptied at that depot, and if not we shall have to find
out where they’re sent, and investigate. I seem to see a pretty long
program opening out. Have you any plans?”

“Not a plan,” Hilliard declared cheerfully. “No time to make ’em yet.
But we shall find a way somehow.”

They went on discussing the matter in more detail. At first the testing
of Hilliard’s new theory appeared a simple matter, but the more they
thought it over the more difficult it seemed to become. For one thing
there would be the investigations at the depot. Whatever unloading of
the brandy was carried on there would probably be done inside the shed
and at night. It would therefore be necessary to find some hiding place
within the building from which the investigations could be made. This
alone was an undertaking bristling with difficulties. In the first
place, all the doors of the shed were locked and none of them opened
without noise. How were they without keys to open the doors in the
dark, silently and without leaving traces? Observations might be
required during the entire ten-day cycle, and that would mean that at
some time each night one of these doors would have to be opened and
shut to allow the watcher to be relieved. And if the emptying of the
props were done at night how were they to ensure that this operation
should not coincide with the visit of the relief? And this was all
presupposing that a suitable hiding place could be found inside the
building in such a position that from it the operations in question
could be overlooked.

Here no doubt were pretty serious obstacles, but even were they all
successfully overcome it did not follow that they would have solved the
problem. The faked props might be loaded up and forwarded to some other
depot, and, if so, this other depot might be by no means easy to find.
Further, if it were found, nocturnal observation of what went on within
would then become necessary.

It seemed to the friends that all they had done up to the present would
be the merest child’s play in comparison to what was now required.
During the whole of that day and the next they brooded over the
problem, but without avail. The more they thought about it the more
hopeless it seemed. Even Hilliard’s cheery optimism was not proof
against the wave of depression which swept over him.

Curiously enough it was to Merriman, the plodding rather than the
brilliant, that light first came. They were seated in the otherwise
empty hotel lounge when he suddenly stopped smoking, sat motionless for
nearly a minute, and then turned eagerly to his companion.

“I say, Hilliard,” he exclaimed. “I wonder if there mightn’t be another
way out after all—a scheme for making them separate the faked and the
genuine props? Do you know Leatham—Charlie Leatham of Ellerby,
somewhere between Selby and Boughton? No? Well, he owns a group of
mines in that district. He’s as decent a soul as ever breathed, and is
just rolling in money. Now,—how would it do if we were to go to Charlie
and tell him the whole thing, and ask him to approach these people to
see if they would sell him a cargo of props—an entire cargo. I should
explain that he has a private wharf for lighters on one of those rivers
up beyond Goole, but the approach is too shallow for a sea-going boat.
Now, why shouldn’t he tell these people about his wharf, saying he had
heard the _Girondin_ was shallow in the draught, and might get up? He
would then say he would take an entire cargo on condition that he could
have it at his own place and so save rail carriage from Ferriby. That
would put the syndicate in a hole. They couldn’t let any of the faked
props out of their possession, and if they agreed to Leatham’s proposal
they’d have to separate out the faked props from the genuine, and keep
the faked aboard. On their way back from Leatham’s they would have to
call at Ferriby to put these faked ones ashore, and if we are not utter
fools we should surely be able to get hold of them then. What do you
think, Hilliard?”

Hilliard smote his thigh.

“Bravo!” he cried with enthusiasm. “I think it’s just splendid. But is
there any chance your friend would take a cargo? It’s rather a large
order, you know. What would it run into? Four or five thousand pounds?”

“Why shouldn’t he? He has to buy props anyway, and these are good props
and they would be as cheap as any he could get elsewhere. Taking them
at his own wharf would be good business. Besides, 7,000 props is not a
big thing for a group of mines. There are a tremendous lot used.”

“That’s true.”

“But the syndicate may not agree,” Merriman went on. “And yet I think
they will. It would look suspicious for them to refuse so good an
offer.”

Hilliard nodded. Then a further idea seemed to strike him and he sat up
suddenly.

“But, Merriman, old man,” he exclaimed, “you’ve forgotten one thing. If
they sent a cargo of that kind they’d send only genuine props. They
wouldn’t risk the others.”

But Merriman was not cast down.

“I dare say you’re right,” he admitted, “but we can easily prevent
that. Suppose Leatham arranges for a cargo for some indefinite date
ahead, then on the day after the _Girondin_ leaves France he goes to
Ferriby and says some other consignment has failed him, and could they
let him have the next cargo? That would meet the case, wouldn’t it?”

“By Jove, Merriman, but you’re developing the detective instinct and no
mistake! I think the scheme’s worth trying anyway. How can you get in
touch with your friend?”

“I’ll phone him now that we shall be over tomorrow to see him.”

Leatham was just leaving his office when Merriman’s call reached him.

“Delighted to see you and meet your friend,” he answered. “But couldn’t
you both come over now and stay the night? You would be a perfect
godsend to me, for Hilda’s in London and I have the house to myself.”

Merriman thanked him, and later on the two friends took the 6.35 train
to Ellerby. Leatham’s car was waiting for them at the station, and in a
few minutes they had reached the mineowner’s house.

Charles Leatham was a man of about five-and-thirty, tall, broad, and of
muscular build. He had a strong, clean-shaven face, a kindly though
direct manner, and there was about him a suggestion of decision and
efficiency which inspired the confidence of those with whom he came in
contact.

“This is very jolly,” he greeted them. “How are you, old man? Glad to
meet you, Hilliard. This is better than the lonely evening I was
expecting.”

They went into dinner presently, but it was not until the meal was over
and they were stretched in basket chairs on the terrace in the cool
evening air that Merriman reverted to the subject which had brought
them together.

“I’m afraid,” he began, “it’s only now when I am right up against it
that I realize what appalling cheek we show in coming to you like this,
and when you hear what we have in our minds, I’m afraid you will think
so too. As a matter of fact, we’ve accidentally got hold of information
that a criminal organization of some kind is in operation. For various
reasons our hands are tied about going to the police, so we’re trying
to play the detectives ourselves, and now we’re up against a difficulty
we don’t see our way through. We thought if we could interest you
sufficiently to induce you to join us, we might devise a scheme.”

Amazement had been growing on Leatham’s face while Merriman was
speaking.

“Sounds like the _New Arabian Nights!_” he exclaimed. “You’re not by
any chance pulling my leg?”

Merriman reassured him.

“The thing’s really a bit serious,” he continued. “If what we suspect
is going on, the parties concerned won’t be squeamish about the means
they adopt to keep their secret. I imagine they’d have a short way with
meddlers.”

Leatham’s expression of astonishment did not decrease, but “By Jove!”
was all he said.

“For that reason we can only tell you about it in confidence.”

Merriman paused and glanced questioningly at the other, who nodded
without replying.

“It began when I was cycling from Bayonne to Bordeaux,” Merriman went
on, and he told his host about his visit to the clearing, his voyage of
discovery with Hilliard and what they had learned in France, their trip
to Hull, the Ferriby depot and their adventures thereat, ending up by
explaining their hollow pit-prop idea, and the difficulty with which
they found themselves faced.

Leatham heard the story with an interest which could hardly fail to
gratify its narrator. When it was finished he expressed his feelings by
giving vent to a long and complicated oath. Then he asked how they
thought he could help. Merriman explained. The mineowner rather gasped
at first, then he laughed and slapped his thigh.

“By the Lord Harry!” he cried, “I’ll do it! As a matter of fact I want
the props, but I’d do it anyway to see you through. If there’s anything
at all in what you suspect it’ll make the sensation of the year.”

He thought for a moment, then went on:

“I shall go down to that depot at Ferriby tomorrow, have a look at the
props, and broach the idea of taking a cargo. It’ll be interesting to
have a chat with that manager fellow, and you may bet I’ll keep my eyes
open. You two had better lie low here, and in the evening we’ll have
another talk and settle what’s to be done.”

The next day the friends “lay low,” and evening saw them once more on
the terrace with their host. It seemed that he had motored to Ferriby
about midday. The manager had been polite and even friendly, had seemed
pleased at the visit of so influential a customer, and had shown him
over the entire concern without the slightest hesitation. He had
appeared delighted at the prospect of disposing of a whole cargo of
props, and had raised no objection to the _Girondin_ unloading at
Leatham’s wharf. The price was moderate, but not exceptionally so.

“I must admit,” Leatham concluded, “that everything appeared very sound
and businesslike. I had a look everywhere in that shed and enclosure,
and I saw nothing even remotely suspicious. The manager’s manner, too,
was normal and it seems to me that either he’s a jolly good actor or
you two chaps are on a wild goose chase.”

“We may be about the hollow props,” Merriman returned, “and we may be
about the brandy smuggling. But there’s no mistake at all about
something being wrong. That’s certain from what Hilliard overheard.”

Leatham nodded.

“I know all that,” he said, “and when we’ve carried out this present
scheme we shall know something more. Now let’s see. When does that
blessed boat next leave France?”

“Thursday morning, we reckon,” Hilliard told him.

“Then on Friday afternoon I shall call up those people and pitch my
yarn about my consignment of props having gone astray, and ask if they
can send their boat direct here. How’s that?”

“Nothing could be better.”

“Then I think for the present you two had better clear out. Our
connection should not be known. And don’t go near London either. That
chap Morton has lost you once, but he’ll not do it a second time. Go
and tramp the Peak District, or something of that kind. Then you’ll be
wanted back in Hull on Saturday.”

“What’s that for?” both men exclaimed in a breath.

“That blessed barrel of yours. You say the _Girondin_ will leave France
on Thursday night. That means she will be in the Humber on Sunday night
or Monday morning. Now you reckoned she would unload here and put the
faked props ashore and load up oil at Ferriby on her way out. But she
mightn’t. She might go into Ferriby first. It would be the likely thing
to do, in fact, for then she’d get here with nothing suspicious aboard
and could unload everything. So I guess you’ll have to watch in your
barrel on Sunday, and that means getting into it on Saturday night.”

The two friends swore and Leatham laughed.

“Good heavens,” Hilliard cried, “it means about four more nights of the
damned thing. From Saturday night to Sunday night for the arrival;
maybe until Monday night if she lies over to discharge the faked props
on Monday. Then another two nights or maybe three to cover her
departure. I tell you it’s a tall order.”

“But think of the prize,” Leatham smiled maliciously. “As a matter of
fact I don’t see any other way.”

“There is no other way,” Merriman declared with decision. “We may just
set our teeth and go through with it.”

After further discussion it was arranged that the friends would leave
early next day for Harrogate. There Leatham would wire them on Friday
the result of his negotiations about the _Girondin_. They could then
return to Hull and get out their boat on Saturday should that be
necessary. When about midnight they turned in, Leatham was quite as
keen about the affair as his guests, and quite as anxious that their
joint experiment should be crowned with success.

The two friends spent a couple of lazy days amusing themselves in
Harrogate, until towards evening on the Friday Merriman was called to
the telephone.

“That’ll be Leatham,” he exclaimed. “Come on, Hilliard, and hear what
he has to say.”

It was the mineowner speaking from his office.

“I’ve just rung up our friends,” he told them, “and that business is
all right. There was some delay about it at first, for Benson—that’s
the manager—was afraid he hadn’t enough stock of props for current
orders. But on looking up his records he found he could manage, so he
is letting the ship come on.”

“Jolly good, Leatham.”

“The _Girondin_ is expected about seven tomorrow evening. Benson then
asked about a pilot. It seems their captain is a certified pilot of the
Humber up to Ferriby, but he could not take the boat farther. I told
him I’d lend him the man who acted for me, and what I’ve arranged is
this, I shall send Angus Menzies, the master of one of my river tugs,
to the wharf at Ferriby about six on Saturday evening. When the
_Girondin_ comes up he can go aboard and work her on here. Menzies is a
good man, and I shall drop a hint that I’ve bought the whole cargo, and
to keep his eyes open that nothing is put ashore that I don’t get.
That’ll be a still further check.”

The friends expressed their satisfaction at this arrangement, and it
was decided that as soon as the investigation was over all three should
meet and compare results at Leatham’s house.

Next evening saw the two inquirers back at their hotel in Hull. They
had instructed the owner of their hired boat to keep it in readiness
for them, and about eleven o’clock, armed with the footstool and the
satchel of food, they once more got on board and pulled out on to the
great stream. Merriman not wishing to spend longer in the barrel than
was absolutely necessary, they went ashore near Hassle and had a couple
of hours’ sleep, and it was well past four when they reached the depot.
The adventure was somewhat more risky than on the previous occasion,
owning to the presence of a tiny arc of moon. But they carried out
their plans without mishap, Merriman taking his place in the cask, and
Hilliard returning to Hull with the boat.

If possible, the slow passage of the heavily weighted hours until the
following evening was even more irksome to the watcher than on the
first occasion. Merriman felt he would die of weariness and boredom
long before anything happened, and it was only the thought that he was
doing it for Madeleine Coburn that kept him from utter collapse.

At intervals during the morning, Benson, the manager, or one of the
other men came out for a moment or two on the wharf, but no regular
work went on there. During the interminable hours of the afternoon no
one appeared at all, the whole place remaining silent and deserted, and
it was not until nearly six that the sound of footsteps fell on
Merriman’s weary ears. He heard a gruff voice saying: “Ah’m no so
sairtain o’ it mesel’,” which seemed to accord with the name of
Leatham’s skipper, and then came Benson’s voice raised in agreement.

The two men passed out of the shed and moved to the edge of the wharf,
pursuing a desultory discussion, the drift of which Merriman could not
catch. The greater part of an hour passed, when first Benson and then
Menzies began to stare eastwards down the river. It seemed evident to
Merriman that the _Girondin_ was in sight, and he began to hope that
something more interesting would happen. But the time dragged wearily
for another half-hour, until he heard the bell of the engine-room
telegraph and the wash of the screw. A moment later the ship appeared,
drew alongside, and was berthed, all precisely as had happened before.

As soon as the gangway was lowered, Benson sprang aboard, and running
up the ladder to the bridge, eagerly addressed Captain Beamish.
Merriman could not hear what was said, but he could see the captain
shaking his head and making little gestures of disapproval. He watched
him go to the engine room tube and speak down it. It was evidently a
call to Bulla, for almost immediately the engineer appeared and
ascended to the bridge, where all three joined in a brief discussion.
Finally Benson came to the side of the ship and shouted something to
Menzies, who at once went on board and joined the group on the bridge.
Merriman saw Benson introduce him to the others, and then apparently
explain something to him. Menzies nodded as if satisfied and the
conversation became general.

Merriman was considerably thrilled by this new development. He imagined
that Benson while, for the benefit of Menzies, ostensibly endeavoring
to make the arrangements agreed on, had in reality preceded the pilot
on board in order to warn the captain of the proposal, and arrange with
him some excuse for keeping the ship where she was for the night. Bulla
had been sent for to acquaint him with the situation, and it was not
until all three were agreed as to their story that Menzies was invited
to join the conclave. To Merriman it certainly looked as if the men
were going to fall into the trap which he and his friends had prepared,
and he congratulated himself on having adhered to his program and
hidden himself in the barrel, instead of leaving the watching to be
done by Menzies, as he had been so sorely tempted to do. For it was
clear to him that if any secret work was to be done Menzies would be
got out of the way until it was over. Merriman was now keenly on the
alert, and he watched every movement on the ship or wharf with the
sharpness of a lynx. Bulla presently went below, leaving the other
three chatting on the bridge, then a move was made and, the engineer
reappearing, all four entered the cabin. Apparently they were having a
meal, for in about an hour’s time they emerged, and bringing canvas
chairs to the boat deck, sat down and began to smoke—all except Bulla,
who once again disappeared below. In a few moments he emerged with one
of the crew, and began to superintend the coupling of the oil hose. The
friends had realized the ship would have to put in for oil, but they
had expected that an hour’s halt would have sufficed to fill up. But
from the delay in starting and the leisurely way the operation was
being conducted, it looked as if she was not proceeding that night.

In about an hour the oiling was completed, and Bulla followed his
friends to the captain’s cabin, where the latter had retired when dusk
began to fall. An hour later they came out, said “Good-night,” and
separated, Benson coming ashore, Bulla and Menzies entering cabins on
the main deck, and Captain Beamish snapping off the deck light and
re-entering his own room.

“Now or never,” thought Merriman, as silence and darkness settled down
over the wharf.

But apparently it was to be never. Once again the hours crept slowly by
and not a sign of activity became apparent. Nothing moved on either
ship or wharf, until about two in the morning he saw dimly in the faint
moonlight the figure of Hilliard to relieve him.

The exchange was rapidly effected, and Hilliard took up his watch,
while his friend pulled back into Hull, and following his own
precedent, went to the hotel and to bed.

The following day Merriman took an early train to Goole, returning
immediately. This brought him past the depot, and he saw that the
_Girondin_ had left.

That night he again rowed to the wharf and relieved Hilliard. They had
agreed that in spite of the extreme irksomeness of a second night in
the cask it was essential to continue their watch, lest the _Girondin_
should make another call on her way to sea and then discharge the faked
props.

The remainder of the night and the next day passed like a hideous
dream. There being nothing to watch for in the first part of his vigil,
Merriman tried to sleep, but without much success. The hours dragged by
with an incredible deliberation, and during the next day there was but
slight movement on the wharf to occupy his attention. And then just
before dark he had the further annoyance of learning that his
long-drawn-out misery had been unnecessary. He saw out in the river the
_Girondin_ passing rapidly seawards.

Their plan then had failed. He was too weary to think consecutively
about it, but that much at least was clear. When Hilliard arrived some
five hours later, he had fallen into a state of partial coma, and his
friend had considerable trouble in rousing him to make the effort
necessary to leave his hiding place with the requisite care and
silence.

The next evening the two friends left Hull by a late train, and
reaching Leatham’s house after dusk had fallen, were soon seated in his
smoking-room with whiskies and sodas at their elbows and Corona Coronas
in their mouths. All three were somewhat gloomy, and their
disappointment and chagrin were very real. Leatham was the first to put
their thoughts into words.

“Well,” he said, drawing at his cigar, “I suppose we needn’t say one
thing and think another. I take it our precious plan has failed?”

“That’s about the size of it,” Hilliard admitted grimly.

“Your man saw nothing?” Merriman inquired.

“He saw you,” the mineowner returned. “He’s a very dependable chap, and
I thought it would be wise to give him a hint that we suspected
something serious, so he kept a good watch. It seems when the ship came
alongside at Ferriby, Benson told the captain not to make fast as he
had to go further up the river. But the captain said he thought they
had better fill up with oil first, and he sent to consult the engineer,
and it was agreed that when they were in they might as well fill up as
it would save a call on the outward journey. Besides, no one concerned
was on for going up in the dark—there are sandbanks, you know, and the
navigation’s bad. They gave Menzies a starboard deck cabin—that was on
the wharf side—and he sat watching the wharf through his porthole for
the entire night. There wasn’t a thing unloaded, and there wasn’t a
movement on the wharf until you two changed your watch. He saw that,
and it fairly thrilled him. After that not another thing happened until
the cook brought him some coffee and they got away.”

“Pretty thorough,” Hilliard commented. “It’s at least a blessing to be
sure beyond a doubt nothing was unloaded.”

“We’re certain enough of that,” Leatham went on, “and we’re certain of
something else too. I arranged to drop down on the wharf when the
discharging was about finished, and I had a chat with the captain;
superior chap, that. I told him I was interested in his ship, for it
was the largest I have ever seen up at my wharf, and that I had been
thinking of getting one something the same built. I asked him if he
would let me see over her, and he was most civil and took me over the
entire boat. There was no part of her we didn’t examine, and I’m
prepared to swear there were no props left on board. So we may take it
that whatever else they’re up to, they’re not carrying brandy in faked
pit-props. Nor, so far as I can see, in anything else either.”

The three men smoked in silence for some time and then Hilliard spoke.

“I suppose, Leatham, you can’t think of any other theory, or suggest
anything else that we should do.”

“I can’t suggest what you should do,” returned Leatham, rising to his
feet and beginning to pace the room. “But I know what I should do in
your place. I’d go down to Scotland Yard, tell them what I know, and
then wash my hands of the whole affair.”

Hilliard sighed.

“I’m afraid we shall have no option,” he said slowly, “but I needn’t
say we should much rather learn something more definite first.”

“I dare say, but you haven’t been able to. Either these fellows are a
deal too clever for you, or else you are on the wrong track altogether.
And that’s what _I_ think. I don’t believe there’s any smuggling going
on there at all. It’s some other game they’re on to. I don’t know what
it is, but I don’t believe it’s anything so crude as smuggling.”

Again silence fell on the little group, and then Merriman, who had for
some time been lost in thought, made a sudden movement.

“Lord!” he exclaimed, “but we have been fools over this thing! There’s
another point we’ve all missed, which alone proves it couldn’t have
been faked props. Here, Hilliard, this was your theory, though I don’t
mean to saddle you with more imbecility than myself. But anyway,
according to your theory, what happened to the props after they were
unloaded?”

Hilliard stared at this outburst.

“After they were unloaded?” he repeated. “Why, returned of course for
the next cargo.”

“But that’s just it,” cried Merriman. “That’s just what wasn’t done.
We’ve seen that boat unloaded twice, and on neither occasion were any
props loaded to go back.”

“That’s a point, certainly; yes,” Leatham interposed. “I suppose they
would have to be used again and again? Each trip’s props couldn’t be
destroyed after arrival, and new ones made for the next cargo?”

Hilliard shook his head reluctantly.

“No,” he declared. “Impossible. Those things would cost a lot of money.
You see, no cheap scheme, say of shipping bottles into hollowed props,
would do. The props would have to be thoroughly well made, so that they
wouldn’t break and give the show away if accidentally dropped. They
wouldn’t pay unless they were used several times over. I’m afraid
Merriman’s point is sound, and we may give up the idea.”

Further discussion only strengthened this opinion, and the three men
had to admit themselves at a total loss as to their next move. The only
suggestion in the field was that of Leatham, to inform Scotland Yard,
and that was at last approved by Hilliard as a counsel of despair.

“There’s nothing else for it that I can see,” he observed gloomily.
“We’ve done our best on our own and failed, and we may let someone else
have a shot now. My leave’s nearly up anyway.”

Merriman said nothing at the time, but next day, when they had taken
leave of their host and were in train for King’s Cross, he reopened the
subject.

“I needn’t say, Hilliard,” he began, “I’m most anxious that the police
should not be brought in, and you know the reason why. If she gets into
any difficulty about the affair, you understand my life’s at an end for
any good it’ll do me. Let’s wait a while and think over the thing
further, and perhaps we’ll see daylight before long.”

Hilliard made a gesture of impatience.

“If you can suggest any single thing that we should do that we haven’t
done, I’m ready to do it. But if you can’t, I don’t see that we’d be
justified in keeping all that knowledge to ourselves for an indefinite
time while we waited for an inspiration. Is not that reasonable?”

“It’s perfectly reasonable,” Merriman admitted, “and I don’t suggest we
should wait indefinitely. What I propose is that we wait for a month.
Give me another month, Hilliard, and I’ll be satisfied. I have an idea
that something might be learned from tracing that lorry number
business, and if you have to go back to work I’ll slip over by myself
to Bordeaux and see what I can do. And if I fail I’ll see her, and try
to get her to marry me in spite of the trouble. Wait a month, Hilliard,
and by that time I shall know where I stand.”

Hilliard was extremely unwilling to agree to this proposal. Though he
realized that he could not hand over to his superiors a complete case
against the syndicate, he also saw that considerable kudos was still
possible if he supplied information which would enable their detectives
to establish one. And every day he delayed increased the chance of
someone else finding the key to the riddle, and thus robbing him of his
reward. Merriman realized the position, and he therefore fully
appreciated the sacrifice Hilliard was risking when after a long
discussion that young man gave his consent.

Two days later Hilliard was back at his office, while Merriman, after
an argument with his partner not far removed from a complete break, was
on his way once more to the south of France.




CHAPTER X.
MERRIMAN BECOMES DESPERATE


The failure of the attempt to learn the secret of the Pit-Prop
Syndicate affected Merriman more than he could have believed possible.
His interest in the affair was not that of Hilliard. Neither the
intellectual joy of solving a difficult problem for its own sake, nor
the kudos which such a solution might bring, made much appeal to him.
His concern was simply the happiness of the girl he loved, and though,
to do him justice, he did not think overmuch of himself, he recognized
that any barrier raised between them was the end for him of all that
made life endurable.

As he lay back with closed eyes in the corner seat of a first-class
compartment in the boat train from Calais he went over for the
thousandth time the details of the problem as it affected himself. Had
Mr. Coburn rendered himself liable to arrest or even to penal
servitude, and did his daughter know it? The anxious, troubled look
which Merriman had on different occasions surprised on the girl’s
expressive face made him fear both these possibilities. But if they
were true did it stop there? Was her disquietude due merely to
knowledge of her father’s danger, or was she herself in peril also?
Merriman wondered could she have such knowledge and not be in peril
herself. In the eyes of the law would it not be a guilty knowledge?
Could she not be convicted as an accessory?

If it were so he must act at once if he were to save her. But how? He
writhed under the terrible feeling of impotence produced by his
ignorance of the syndicate’s real business. If he were to help
Madeleine he must know what the conspirators were doing.

And he had failed to learn. He had failed, and Hilliard had failed, and
neither they nor Leatham had been able to suggest any method by which
the truth might be ascertained.

There was, of course, the changing of the number plates. A trained
detective would no doubt be able to make something of that. But
Merriman felt that without even the assistance of Hilliard, he had
neither the desire nor the ability to tackle it.

He pondered the question, as he had pondered it for weeks, and the more
he thought, the more he felt himself driven to the direct course—to see
Madeleine, put the problem to her, ask her to marry him and come out of
it all. But there were terrible objections to this plan, not the least
of which was that if he made a blunder it might be irrevocable. She
might not hear him at all. She might be displeased by his suggestion
that she and her father were in danger from such a cause. She might
decide not to leave her father for the very reason that he was in
danger. And all these possibilities were, of course, in addition to the
much more probable one that she would simply refuse him because she did
not care about him.

Merriman did not see his way clearly, and he was troubled. Once he had
made up his mind he was not easily turned from his purpose, but he was
slow in making it up. In this case, where so much depended on his
decision, he found his doubt actually painful.

Mechanically he alighted at the Gare du Nord, crossed Paris, and took
his place in the southern express at the Quai d’Orsay. Here he
continued wrestling with his problem, and it was not until he was near
his destination that he arrived at a decision. He would not bother
about further investigations. He would go out and see Madeleine, tell
her everything, and put his fate into her hands.

He alighted at the Bastide Station in Bordeaux, and driving across to
the city, put up at the Gironde Hotel. There he slept the night, and
next day after lunch he took a taxi to the clearing.

Leaving the vehicle on the main road, he continued on foot down the
lane and past the depot until he reached the manager’s house.

The door was opened by Miss Coburn in person. On seeing her visitor she
stood for a moment quite motionless while a look of dismay appeared in
her eyes and a hot flush rose on her face and then faded, leaving it
white and drawn.

“Oh!” she gasped faintly. “It’s you!” She still stood holding the door,
as if overcome by some benumbing emotion.

Merriman had pulled off his hat.

“It is I, Miss Coburn,” he answered gently. “I have come over from
London to see you. May I not come in?”

She stepped back.

“Come in, of course,” she said, making an obvious effort to infuse
cordiality into her tone. “Come in here.”

He fumbled with his coat in the hall, and by the time he followed her
into the drawing-room she had recovered her composure.

She began rather breathlessly to talk commonplaces. At first he
answered in the same strain, but directly he made a serious attempt to
turn the conversation to the subject of his call she adroitly
interrupted him.

“You’ll have some tea?” she said presently, getting up and moving
towards the door.

“Er-no-no, thanks, Miss Coburn, not any. I wanted really—”

“But _I_ want some tea,” she persisted, smiling. “Come, you may help me
to get it ready, but you must have some to keep me company.”

He had perforce to obey, and during the tea-making she effectually
prevented any serious discussion. But when the meal was over and they
had once more settled down in the drawing-room he would no longer be
denied.

“Forgive me,” he entreated, “forgive me for bothering you, but it’s so
desperately important to me. And we may be interrupted. _Do_ hear what
I’ve got to say.”

Without waiting for permission he plunged into the subject. Speaking
hoarsely, stammering, contradicting himself, boggling over the words,
he yet made himself clear. He loved her; had loved her from that first
day they had met; he loved her more than anything else in the world;
he—She covered her face with her hands.

“Oh!” she cried wildly. “Don’t go on! Don’t say it!” She made a
despairing gesture. “I can’t listen. I tried to stop you.”

Merriman felt as if a cold weight was slowly descending upon his heart.

“But I will speak,” he cried hoarsely. “It’s my life that’s at stake.
Don’t tell me you can’t listen. Madeleine! I love you. I want you to
marry me. Say you’ll marry me. Madeleine! Say it!”

He dropped on his knees before her and seized her hands in his own.

“My darling,” he whispered fiercely. “I love you enough for us both.
Say you’ll marry me. Say—”

She wrenched her hands from him. “Oh!” she cried as if heartbroken, and
burst into an uncontrollable flood of tears.

Merriman was maddened beyond endurance by the sight

“What a brute I am!” he gasped. “Now I’ve made you cry.”

“For pity’s sake! Do stop it! Nothing matters about anything else if
only you stop!”

He was almost beside himself with misery as he pleaded with her. But
soon he pulled himself together and began to speak more rationally.

“At least tell me the reason,” he besought. “I know I’ve no right to
ask, but it matters so much. Have pity and tell me, is it someone
else?”

She shook her head faintly between her sobs.

“Thank goodness for that anyway. Tell me once again. Is it that you
don’t like me?”

Again she shook her head.

“You _do_ like me!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “You do, Madeleine. Say
it! Say that you do!”

She made a resolute effort for self-control.

“You know I do, but—” she began in a tremulous whisper. In a paroxysm
of overwhelming excitement he interrupted her.

“Madeleine,” he cried wildly, again seizing her hands, “you don’t—it
couldn’t be possible that you—that you _love_ me?”

This time she did not withdraw her hands. Slowly she raised her eyes to
his, and in them he read his answer. In a moment she was in his arms
and he was crushing her to his heart.

For a breathless space she lay, a happy little smile on her lips, and
then the moment passed. “Oh!” she cried, struggling to release herself,
“what have I done? Let me go! I shouldn’t have—”

“Darling,” he breathed triumphantly. “I’ll never let you go as long as
I live! You love me! What else matters?”

“No, no,” she cried again, her tears once more flowing. “I was wrong. I
shouldn’t have allowed you. It can never be.”

He laughed savagely.

“Never be?” he repeated. “Why, dear one, it _is_. I’d like to know the
person or thing that could stop it now!”

“It can never be,” she repeated in a voice of despair. “You don’t
understand. There are obstacles.”

She argued. He scoffed first, then he pleaded. He demanded to be told
the nature of the barrier, then he besought, but all to no purpose. She
would say no more than that it could never be.

And then—suddenly the question of the syndicate flashed into his mind,
and he sat, almost gasping with wonder as he realized that he had
entirely forgotten it! He had forgotten this mysterious business which
had occupied his thoughts to the exclusion of almost all else for the
past two months! It seemed to him incredible. Yet so it was.

There surged over him a feeling of relief, so that once more he all but
laughed. He turned to Madeleine.

“I know,” he cried triumphantly, “the obstacle. And it’s just nothing
at all. It’s this syndicate business that your father has got mixed up
in. Now tell me! Isn’t that it?”

The effect of his words on the girl was instantaneous. She started and
then sat quite still, while the color slowly drained from her face,
leaving it bleached and deathlike. A look of fear and horror grew in
her eyes, and her fingers clasped until the knuckles showed white.

“Oh!” she stammered brokenly, “what do you mean by that?”

Merriman tried once more to take her hand.

“Dear one,” he said caressingly, “don’t let what I said distress you.
We know the syndicate is carrying on something that—well, perhaps
wouldn’t bear too close investigation. But that has nothing to do with
us. It won’t affect our relations.”

The girl seemed transfixed with horror.

“_We_ know?” she repeated dully. “Who are we?”

“Why, Hilliard; Hilliard and I. We found out quite by accident that
there was something secret going on. We were both interested; Hilliard
has a mania for puzzles, and besides he thought he might get some kudos
if the business was illegal and he could bring it to light, while I
knew that because of Mr. Coburn’s connection with it the matter might
affect you.”

“Yes?” She seemed hardly able to frame the syllable between her dry
lips.

Merriman was profoundly unhappy. He felt it was out of the question for
him to tell her anything but the exact truth. Whether she would
consider he had acted improperly in spying on the syndicate he did not
know, but even at the risk of destroying his own chance of happiness he
could not deceive her.

“Dear one,” he said in a low tone, “don’t think any worse of me than
you can help, and I will tell you everything. You remember that first
day that I was here, when you met me in the lane and we walked to the
mill?”

She nodded.

“You may recall that a lorry had just arrived, and that I stopped and
stared at it? Well, I had noticed that the number plate had been
changed.”

“Ah,” she exclaimed, “I was afraid you had.”

“Yes, I saw it, though it conveyed nothing to me. But I was interested,
and one night in London, just to make conversation in the club, I
mentioned what I had seen. Hilliard was present, and he joined me on
the way home and insisted on talking over the affair. As I said, he has
a mania for puzzles, and the mystery appealed to him. He was going on
that motorboat tour across France, and he suggested that I should join
him and that we should call here on our way, so as to see if we could
find the solution. Neither of us thought then, you understand, that
there was anything wrong; he was merely interested. I didn’t care about
the mystery, but I confess I leaped at the idea of coming back in order
to meet you again, and on the understanding that there was to be
nothing in the nature of spying, I agreed to his proposal.”

Merriman paused, but the girl, whose eyes were fixed intently on his
face, made no remark, and he continued:

“While we were here, Hilliard, who is very observant and clever, saw
one or two little things which excited his suspicion, and without
telling me, he slipped on board the _Girondin_ and overheard a
conversation between Mr. Coburn, Captain Beamish, Mr. Bulla, and Henri.
He learned at once that something serious and illegal was in progress,
but he did not learn what it was.”

“Then there _was_ spying,” she declared accusingly.

“There was,” he admitted. “I can only say that under the circumstances
he thought himself justified.”

“Go on,” she ordered shortly.

“We returned then to England, and were kept at our offices for about a
week. But Hilliard felt that we could not drop the matter, as we should
then become accomplices. Besides, he was interested. He proposed we
should try to find out more about it. This time I agreed, but I would
ask you, Madeleine, to believe me when I tell you my motive, and to
judge me by it. He spoke of reporting what he had learned to the
police, and if I hadn’t agreed to help him he would have done so. I
wanted at all costs to avoid that, because if there was going to be any
trouble I wanted Mr. Coburn to be out of it first. Believe me or not,
that was my only reason for agreeing.”

“I do believe you,” she said, “but finish what you have to tell me.”

“We learned from Lloyd’s List that the _Girondin_ put into Hull. We
went there and at Ferriby, seven miles up-stream, we found the depot
where she discharged the props. You don’t know it?”

She shook her head.

“It’s quite like this place; just a wharf and shed, with an enclosure
between the river and the railway. We made all the inquiries and
investigations we could think of, but we learned absolutely nothing.
But that, unfortunately, is the worst of it. Hilliard is disgusted with
our failure and appears determined to tell the police.”

“Oh!” cried the girl with an impatient gesture. “Why can’t he let it
alone? It’s not his business.”

Merriman shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s what he said at all events. I had the greatest difficulty in
getting him to promise even to delay. But he has promised, and we have
a month to make our plans. I came straight over to tell you, and to ask
you to marry me at once and come away with me to England.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” she cried, putting up her hand as if to shield
herself from the idea. “Besides, what about my father?”

“I’ve thought about him too,” Merriman returned. “We will tell him the
whole thing, and he will be able to get out before the crash comes.”

For some moments she sat in silence; then she asked had Hilliard any
idea of what was being done.

“He suggested brandy smuggling, but it was only a theory. There was
nothing whatever to support it.”

“Brandy smuggling? Oh, if it only were!”

Merriman stared in amazement.

“It wouldn’t be so bad as what I had feared,” the girl added, answering
his look.

“And that was—? Do trust me, Madeleine.”

“I do trust you, and I will tell you all I know; it isn’t much. I was
afraid they were printing and circulating false money.”

Merriman was genuinely surprised.

“False money?” he repeated blankly.

“Yes; English Treasury notes. I thought they were perhaps printing them
over here, and sending some to England with each trip of the
_Girondin_. It was a remark I accidentally overheard that made me think
so. But, like you, it was only a guess. I had no proof.”

“Tell me,” Merriman begged.

“It was last winter when the evenings closed in early. I had had a
headache and I had gone to rest for a few minutes in the next room, the
dining-room, which was in darkness. The door between it and this room
was almost but not quite closed. I must have fallen asleep, for I
suddenly became conscious of voices in here, though I had heard no one
enter. I was going to call out when a phrase arrested my attention. I
did not mean to listen, but involuntarily I stayed quiet for a moment.
You understand?”

“Of course. It was the natural thing to do.”

“Captain Beamish was speaking. He was just finishing a sentence and I
only caught the last few words. ‘So that’s a profit of six thousand,
seven hundred and fifty pounds,’ he said; ‘fifty pounds loss on the
props, and six thousand seven hundred netted over the other. Not bad
for one trip!’”

“Lord!” Merriman exclaimed in amazement. “No wonder you stopped!”

“I couldn’t understand what was meant, and while I sat undecided what
to do I heard my father say, ‘No trouble planting the stuff?’ Captain
Beamish answered, ‘Archer said not, but then Archer is—Archer. He’s
planting it in small lots—ten here, twenty there, fifty in t’other
place; I don’t think he put out more than fifty at any one time. And he
says he’s only learning his way round, and that he’ll be able to form
better connections to get rid of it.’ Then Mr. Bulla spoke, and this
was what upset me so much and made me think, ‘Mr. Archer is a wonderful
man,’ he said with that horrible fat chuckle of his, ‘he would plant
stuff on Old Nick himself with the whole of the C.I.D. looking on.’ I
was bewildered and rather horrified, and I did not wait to hear any
more. I crept away noiselessly, and I didn’t want to be found as it
were listening. Even then I did not understand that anything was wrong,
but it happened that the very next day I was walking through the forest
near the lane, and I noticed Henri changing the numbers on the lorry.
He didn’t see me, and he had such a stealthy surreptitious air, that I
couldn’t but see it was not a joke. Putting two and two together I felt
something serious was going on, and that night I asked my father what
it was.”

“Well done!” Merriman exclaimed admiringly.

“But it was no use. He made little of it at first, but when I pressed
him he said that against his will he had been forced into an enterprise
which he hated and which he was trying to get out of. He said I must be
patient and we should get away from it as quickly as possible. But
since then,” she added despondently, “though I have returned to the
subject time after time he has always put me off, saying that we must
wait a little longer.”

“And then you thought of the false notes?”

“Yes, but I had no reason to do so except that I couldn’t think of
anything else that would fit the words I had overheard. Planting stuff
by tens or twenties or fifties seemed to—”

There was a sudden noise in the hall and Madeleine broke off to listen.

“Father,” she whispered breathlessly. “Don’t say anything.”

Merriman had just time to nod when the door opened and Mr. Coburn
appeared on the threshold. For a moment he stood looking at his
daughter’s visitor, while the emotions of doubt, surprise and annoyance
seemed to pass successively through his mind. Then he advanced with
outstretched hand and a somewhat satirical smile on his lips.

“Ah, it is the good Merriman,” he exclaimed. “Welcome once more to our
humble abode. And where is brother Hilliard? You don’t mean to say you
have come without him?”

His tone jarred on Merriman, but he answered courteously: “I left him
in London. I had business bringing me to this neighborhood, and when I
reached Bordeaux I took the opportunity to run out to see you and Miss
Coburn.”

The manager replied suitably, and the conversation became general. As
soon as he could with civility, Merriman rose to go. Mr. Coburn cried
out in protest, but the other insisted.

Mr. Coburn had become more cordial, and the two men strolled together
across the clearing. Merriman had had no opportunity of further private
conversation with Madeleine, but he pressed her hand and smiled at her
encouragingly on saying good-bye.

As the taxi bore him swiftly back towards Bordeaux, his mind was
occupied with the girl to the exclusion of all else. It was not so much
that he thought definitely about her, as that she seemed to fill all
his consciousness. He felt numb, and his whole being ached for her as
with a dull physical pain. But it was a pain that was mingled with
exultation, for if she had refused him, she had at least admitted that
she loved him. Incredible thought! He smiled ecstatically, then, the
sense of loss returning, once more gazed gloomily ahead into vacancy.
As the evening wore on his thoughts turned towards what she had said
about the syndicate. Her forged note theory had come to him as a
complete surprise, and he wondered whether she really had hit on the
true solution of the mystery. The conversation she had overheard
undoubtedly pointed in that direction. “Planting stuff” was, he
believed, the technical phrase for passing forged notes, and the
reference to “tens,” “twenties,” and “fifties,” tended in the same
direction. Also “forming connections to get rid of it” seemed to
suggest the finding of agents who would take a number of notes at a
time, to be passed on by ones and twos, no doubt for a consideration.

But there was the obvious difficulty that the theory did not account
for the operations as a whole. The elaborate mechanism of the pit-prop
industry was not needed to provide a means of carrying forged notes
from France to England. They could be secreted about the person of a
traveller crossing by any of the ordinary routes. Hundreds of notes
could be sewn into the lining of an overcoat, thousands carried in the
double bottom of a suitcase. Of course, so frequent a traveller would
require a plausible reason for his journeys, but that would present no
difficulty to men like those composing the syndicate. In any case, by
crossing in rotation by the dozen or so well-patronized routes between
England and the Continent, the continuity of the travelling could be
largely hidden. Moreover, thought Merriman, why print the notes in
France at all? Why not produce them in England and so save the need for
importation?

On the whole there seemed but slight support for the theory and several
strong arguments against it, and he felt that Madeleine must be
mistaken, just as he and Hilliard had been mistaken.

Oh! how sick of the whole business he was! He no longer cared what the
syndicate was doing. He never wanted to hear of it again. He wanted
Madeleine, and he wanted nothing else. His thoughts swung back to her
as he had seen her that afternoon; her trim figure, her daintiness, her
brown eyes clouded with trouble, her little shell-like ears escaping
from the tendrils of her hair, her tears.... He broke out once more
into a cold sweat as he thought of those tears.

Presently he began wondering what his own next step should be, and he
soon decided he must see her again, and with as little delay as
possible.

The next afternoon, therefore, he once more presented himself at the
house in the clearing. This time the door was opened by an elderly
servant, who handed him a note and informed him that Mr. and Miss
Coburn had left home for some days.

Bitterly disappointed he turned away, and in the solitude of the lane
he opened the note. It read:

“_Friday_.


“Dear Mr. Merriman,—I feel it is quite impossible that we should part
without a word more than could be said at our interrupted interview
this afternoon, so with deep sorrow I am writing to you to say to you,
dear Mr. Merriman, ‘Good-bye.’ I have enjoyed our short friendship, and
all my life I shall be proud that you spoke as you did, but, my dear,
it is just because I think so much of you that I could not bring your
life under the terrible cloud that hangs over mine. Though it hurts me
to say it, I have no option but to ask you to accept the answer I gave
you as final, and to forget that we met.
    “I am leaving home for some time, and I beg of you not to give both
    of us more pain by trying to follow me. Oh, my dear, I cannot say
    how grieved I am.


“Your sincere friend,
“Madeleine Coburn.”


Merriman was overwhelmed utterly by the blow. Mechanically he regained
the taxi, where he lay limply back, gripping the note and unconscious
of his position, while his bloodless lips repeated over and over again
the phrase, “I’ll find her. I’ll find her. If it takes me all my life
I’ll find her and I’ll marry her.”

Like a man in a state of coma he returned to his hotel in Bordeaux, and
there, for the first time in his life, he drank himself into
forgetfulness.




CHAPTER XI.
AN UNEXPECTED ALLY


For several days Merriman, sick at heart and shaken in body, remained
on at Bordeaux, too numbed by the blow which had fallen on him to take
any decisive action. He now understood that Madeleine Coburn had
refused him because she loved him, and he vowed he would rest neither
day nor night till he had seen her and obtained a reversal of her
decision. But for the moment his energy had departed, and he spent his
time smoking in the Jardin and brooding over his troubles.

It was true that on three separate occasions he had called at the
manager’s house, only to be told that Mr. and Miss Coburn were still
from home, and neither there nor from the foreman at the works could he
learn their addresses or the date of their return. He had also written
a couple of scrappy notes to Hilliard, merely saying he was on a fresh
scent, and to make no move in the matter until he heard further. Of the
Pit-Prop Syndicate as apart from Madeleine he was now profoundly
wearied, and he wished for nothing more than never again to hear its
name mentioned.

But after a week of depression and self-pity his natural good sense
reasserted itself, and he began seriously to consider his position. He
honestly believed that Madeleine’s happiness could best be brought
about by the fulfilment of his own, in other words by their marriage.
He appreciated the motives which had caused her to refuse him, but he
hoped that by his continued persuasion he might be able, as he put it
to himself, to talk her round. Her very flight from him, for such he
believed her absence to be, seemed to indicate that she herself was
doubtful of her power to hold out against him, and to this extent he
drew comfort from his immediate difficulty.

He concluded before trying any new plan to call once again at the
clearing, in the hope that Mr. Coburn at least might have returned. The
next afternoon, therefore, saw him driving out along the now familiar
road. It was still hot, with the heavy enervating heat of air held
stagnant by the trees. The freshness of early summer had gone, and
there was a hint of approaching autumn in the darker greenery of the
firs, and the overmaturity of such shrubs and wild flowers as could
find along the edge of the road a precarious roothold on the patches of
ground not covered by pine needles. Merriman gazed unceasingly ahead at
the straight white ribbon of the road, as he pondered the problem of
what he should do if once again he should be disappointed in his quest.
Madeleine could not, he thought, remain indefinitely away. Mr. Coburn
at all events would have to return to his work, and it would be a
strange thing if he could not obtain from the father some indication of
his daughter’s whereabouts.

But his call at the manager’s house was as fruitless on this occasion
as on those preceding. The woman from whom he had received the note
opened the door and repeated her former statement. Mr. and Miss Coburn
were still from home.

Merriman turned away disconsolately, and walked slowly back across the
clearing and down the lane. Though he told himself he had expected
nothing from the visit, he was nevertheless bitterly disappointed with
its result. And worse than his disappointment was his inability to see
his next step, or even to think of any scheme which might lead him to
the object of his hopes.

He trudged on down the lane, his head sunk and his brows knitted, only
half conscious of his surroundings. Looking up listlessly as he rounded
a bend, he stopped suddenly as if turned to stone, while his heart
first stood still, then began thumping wildly as if to choke him. A few
yards away and coming to meet him was Madeleine!

She caught sight of him at the same instant and stopped with a low cry,
while an expression of dread came over her face. So for an appreciable
time they stood looking at one another, then Merriman, regaining the
power of motion, sprang forward and seized her hands.

“Madeleine! Madeleine!” he cried brokenly. “My own one! My beloved!” He
almost sobbed as he attempted to strain her to his heart.

But she wrenched herself from him.

“No, no!” she gasped. “You must not! I told you. It cannot be.”

He pleaded with her, fiercely, passionately, and at last despairingly.
But he could not move her. Always she repeated that it could not be.

“At least tell me this,” he begged at last. “Would you marry me if this
syndicate did not exist; I mean if Mr. Coburn was not mixed up with
it?”

At first she would not answer, but presently, overcome by his
persistence, she burst once again into tears and admitted that her fear
of disgrace arising through discovery of the syndicate’s activities was
her only reason for refusal.

“Then,” said Merriman resolutely, “I will go back with you now and see
Mr. Coburn, and we will talk over what is to be done.”

At this her eyes dilated with terror.

“No, no!” she cried again. “He would be in danger. He would try
something that might offend the others, and his life might not be safe.
I tell you I don’t trust Captain Beamish and Mr. Bulla. I don’t think
they would stop at anything to keep their secret. He is trying to get
out of it, and he must not be hurried. He will do what he can.”

“But, my dearest,” Merriman remonstrated, “it could do no harm, to talk
the matter over with him. That would commit him to nothing.”

But she would not hear of it.

“If he thought my happiness depended on it,” she declared, “he would
break with them at all costs. I could not risk it. You must go away.
Oh, my dear, you must go. Go, go!” she entreated almost hysterically,
“it will be best for us both.”

Merriman, though beside himself with suffering, felt he could no longer
disregard her.

“I shall go,” he answered sadly, “since you require it, but I will
never give you up. Not until one of us is dead or you marry someone
else—I will never give you up. Oh, Madeleine, have pity and give me
some hope; something to keep me alive till this trouble is over.”

She was beginning to reply when she stopped suddenly and stood
listening.

“The lorry!” she cried. “Go! Go!” Then pointing wildly in the direction
of the road, she turned and fled rapidly back towards the clearing.

Merriman gazed after her until she passed round a corner of the lane
and was lost to sight among the trees. Then, with a weight of hopeless
despair on his heart, he began to walk towards the road. The lorry,
driven by Henri, passed him at the next bend, and Henri, though he
saluted with a show of respect, smiled sardonically as he noted the
other’s woebegone appearance.

But Merriman neither knew nor cared what the driver thought. Almost
physically sick with misery and disappointment, he regained his taxi
and was driven back to Bordeaux.

The next few days seemed to him like a nightmare of hideous reality and
permanence. He moved as a man in a dream, living under a shadow of
almost tangible weight, as a criminal must do who has been sentenced to
early execution. The longing to see Madeleine again, to hear the sound
of her voice, to feel her presence, was so intense as to be almost
unendurable. Again and again he said to himself that had she cared for
another, had she even told him that she could not care for him, he
would have taken his dismissal as irrevocable and gone to try and drag
out the remainder of his life elsewhere as best he could. But he was
maddened to think that the major difficulty—the overwhelming,
insuperable difficulty—of his suit had been overcome. She loved him!
Miraculous and incredible though it might seem—though it was—it was the
amazing truth. And that being so, it was beyond bearing that a mere
truckling to convention should be allowed to step in and snatch away
the ecstasy of happiness that was within his grasp. And worse still,
this truckling to convention was to save _him!_ What, he asked himself,
did it matter about _him?_ Even if the worst happened and she suffered
shame through her father, wasn’t all he wanted to be allowed to share
it with her? And if narrow, stupid fools did talk, what matter? They
could do without their companionship.

Fits of wild rage alternated with periods of cold and numbing despair,
but as day succeeded day the desire to be near her grew until it could
no longer be denied. He dared not again attempt to force himself into
her presence, lest she should be angry and shatter irrevocably the hope
to which he still clung with desperation. But he might without fear of
disaster be nearer to her for a time. He hired a bicycle, and after
dark had fallen that evening he rode out to the lane, and leaving his
machine on the road, walked to the edge of the clearing. It was a
perfect night, calm and silent, though with a slight touch of chill in
the air. A crescent moon shone soft and silvery, lighting up pallidly
the open space, gleaming on the white wood of the freshly cut stumps,
and throwing black shadows from the ghostly looking buildings. It was
close on midnight, and Merriman looked eagerly across the clearing to
the manager’s house. He was not disappointed. There, in the window that
he knew belonged to her room, shone a light.

He slowly approached, keeping on the fringe of the clearing and beneath
the shadow of the trees. Some shrubs had taken root on the open ground,
and behind a clump of these, not far from the door, he lay down, filled
his pipe, and gave himself up to his dreams. The light still showed in
the window, but even as he looked it went out, leaving the front of the
house dark and, as it seemed to him, unfriendly and forbidding.
“Perhaps she’ll look out before going to bed,” he thought, as he gazed
disconsolately at the blank, unsympathetic opening. But he could see no
movement therein.

He lost count of time as he lay dreaming of the girl whose existence
had become more to him than his very life, and it was not until he
suddenly realized that he had become stiff and cramped from the cold
that he looked at his watch. Nearly two! Once more he glanced
sorrowfully at the window, realizing that no comfort was to be obtained
therefrom, and decided he might as well make his way back, for all the
ease of mind he was getting.

He turned slowly to get up, but just as he did so he noticed a slight
movement at the side of the house before him, and he remained
motionless, gazing intently forward. Then, spellbound, he watched Mr.
Coburn leave by the side door, walk quickly to the shed, unlock a door,
and disappear within.

There was something so secretive in the way the manager looked around
before venturing into the open, and so stealthy about his whole walk
and bearing, that Merriman’s heart beat more quickly as he wondered if
he was now on the threshold of some revelation of the mystery of that
outwardly innocent place. Obeying a sudden instinct, he rose from his
hiding-place in the bushes and crept silently across the sward to the
door by which the other had entered.

It was locked, and the whole place was dark and silent. Were it not for
what he had just seen, Merriman would have believed it deserted. But it
was evident that some secret and perhaps sinister activity was in
progress within, and for the moment he forgot even Madeleine in his
anxiety to learn its nature.

He crept silently round the shed, trying each door and peering into
each window, but without result. All remained fast and in darkness, and
though he listened with the utmost intentness of which he was capable,
he could not catch any sound.

His round of the building completed, he paused in doubt. Should he
retire while there was time, and watch for Mr. Coburn’s reappearance
with perhaps some of his accomplices, or should he wait at the door and
tackle him on the matter when he came out? His first preference was for
the latter course, but as he thought it over he felt it would be better
to reserve his knowledge, and he turned to make for cover.

But even as he did so he heard the manager say in low harsh tones:
“Hands up now, or I fire!” and swinging round, he found himself gazing
into the bore of a small deadly-looking repeating pistol.

Automatically he raised his arms, and for a few moments both men stood
motionless, staring perplexedly at one another. Then Mr. Coburn lowered
the pistol and attempted a laugh, a laugh nervous, shaky, and without
merriment. His lips smiled, but his eyes remained cold and venomous.

“Good heavens, Merriman, but you did give me a start,” he cried, making
an evident effort to be jocular. “What in all the world are you doing
here at this hour? Sorry for my greeting, but one has to be careful
here. You know the district is notorious for brigands.”

Merriman was not usually very prompt to meet emergencies. He generally
realized when it was too late what he ought to have said or done in any
given circumstances. But on this occasion a flash of veritable
inspiration revealed a way by which he might at one and the same time
account for his presence, disarm the manager’s suspicions, and perhaps
even gain his point with regard to Madeleine. He smiled back at the
other.

“Sorry for startling you. Mr. Coburn. I have been looking for you for
some days to discuss a very delicate matter, and I came out late this
evening in the hope of attracting your attention after Miss Coburn had
retired, so that our chat could be quite confidential. But in the
darkness I fell and hurt my knee, and I spent so much time in waiting
for it to get better that I was ashamed to go to the house. Imagine my
delight when, just as I was turning to leave, I saw you coming down to
the shed, and I followed with the object of trying to attract your
attention.”

He hardly expected that Mr. Coburn would have accepted his statement,
but whatever the manager believed privately, he gave no sign of
suspicion.

“I’m glad your journey was not fruitless,” he answered courteously. “As
a matter of fact, my neuralgia kept me from sleeping, and I found I had
forgotten my bottle of aspirin down here, where I had brought it for
the same purpose this morning. It seemed worth the trouble of coming
for it, and I came.”

As he spoke Mr. Coburn took from his pocket and held up for Merriman’s
inspection a tiny phial half full of white tablets.

It was now Merriman’s turn to be sceptical, but he murmured polite
regrets in as convincing a way as he was able. “Let us go back into my
office,” the manager continued. “If you want a private chat you can
have it there.”

He unlocked the door, and passing in first, lit a reading lamp on his
desk. Then relocking the door behind his visitor and unostentatiously
slipping the key into his pocket, he sat down at the desk, waved
Merriman to a chair, and producing a box of cigars, passed it across.

The windows, Merriman noticed, were covered by heavy blinds, and it was
evident that no one could see into the room, nor could the light be
observed from without. The door behind him was locked, and in Mr.
Coburn’s pocket was the key as well as a revolver, while Merriman was
unarmed. Moreover, Mr. Coburn was the larger and heavier, if not the
stronger man of the two. It was true his words and manner were those of
a friend, but the cold hatred in his eyes revealed his purpose.
Merriman instantly realized he was in very real personal danger, and it
was borne in on him that if he was to get out of that room alive, it
was to his own wits he must trust.

But he was no coward, and he did not forget to limp as he crossed the
room, nor did his hand shake as he stretched it out to take a cigar.
When he came within the radius of the lamp he noticed with satisfaction
that his coat was covered with fragments of moss and leaves, and he
rather ostentatiously brushed these away, partly to prove to the other
his calmness, and partly to draw attention to them in the hope that
they would be accepted as evidence of his fall.

Fearing lest if they began a desultory conversation he might be tricked
by his astute opponent into giving himself away, he left the latter no
opportunity to make a remark, but plunged at once into his subject.

“I feel myself, Mr. Coburn,” he began, “not a little in your debt for
granting me this interview. But the matter on which I wish to speak to
you is so delicate and confidential, that I think you will agree that
any precautions against eavesdroppers are justifiable.”

He spoke at first somewhat formally, but as interest in his subject
quickened, he gradually became more conversational.

“The first thing I have to tell you,” he went on, “may not be very
pleasant hearing to you, but it is a matter of almost life and death
importance to me. I have come, Mr. Coburn, very deeply and sincerely to
love your daughter.”

Mr. Coburn frowned slightly, but he did not seem surprised, nor did he
reply except by a slight bow. Merriman continued:

“That in itself need not necessarily be of interest to you, but there
is more to tell, and it is in this second point that the real
importance of my statement lies, and on it hinges everything that I
have to say to you. Madeleine, sir, has given me a definite assurance
that my love for her is returned.”

Still Mr. Coburn made no answer, save then by another slight
inclination of his head, but his eyes had grown anxious and troubled.

“Not unnaturally,” Merriman resumed, “I begged her to marry me, but she
saw fit to decline. In view of the admission she had just made, I was
somewhat surprised that her refusal was so vehement. I pressed her for
the reason, but she utterly declined to give it. Then an idea struck
me, and I asked her if it was because she feared that your connection
with this syndicate might lead to unhappiness. At first she would not
reply nor give me any satisfaction, but at last by persistent
questioning, and only when she saw I knew a great deal more about the
business than she did herself, she admitted that that was indeed the
barrier. Not to put too fine a point on it—it is better, is it not,
sir, to be perfectly candid—she is living in terror and dread of your
arrest, and she won’t marry me for fear that if it were to happen she
might bring disgrace on me.”

Mr. Coburn had not moved during this speech, except that his face had
become paler and the look of cold menace in his eyes seemed charged
with a still more vindictive hatred. Then he answered slowly:

“I can only assume, Mr. Merriman, that your mind has become temporarily
unhinged, but even with such an excuse, you cannot really believe that
I am going to wait here and listen to you making such statements.”

Merriman bent forward.

“Sir,” he said earnestly, “I give you my word of honor and earnestly
ask you to believe that I am approaching you as a friend. I am myself
an interested party. I have sought this interview for Madeleine’s sake.
For her sake, and for her sake only, I have come to ask you to discuss
with me the best way out of the difficulty.”

Mr. Coburn rose abruptly.

“The best way out of the difficulty,” he declared, no longer attempting
to disguise the hatred he felt, “is for you to take yourself off and
never to show your face here again. I am amazed at you.” He took his
automatic pistol out of his pocket. “Don’t you know that you are
completely in my power? If I chose I could shoot you like a dog and
sink your body in the river, and no one would ever know what had become
of you.”

Merriman’s heart was beating rapidly. He had the uncomfortable
suspicion that he had only to turn his back to get a bullet into it. He
assumed a confidence he was far from feeling.

“On the contrary, Mr. Coburn,” he said quietly, “it is you who are in
our power. I’m afraid you don’t quite appreciate the situation. It is
true you could shoot me now, but if you did, nothing could save you. It
would be the rope for you and prison for your confederates, and what
about your daughter then? I tell you, sir, I’m not such a fool as you
take me for. Knowing what I do, do you think it likely I should put
myself in your power unless I knew I was safe?”

His assurance was not without its effect. The other’s face grew paler
and he sat heavily down in his chair.

“I’ll hear what you have to say,” he said harshly, though without
letting go his weapon.

“Then let me begin at the beginning. You remember that first evening I
was here, when you so kindly supplied me with petrol? Sir, you were
correct when you told Captain Beamish and Mr. Bulla that I had noticed
the changing of the lorry number plate. I had.”

Mr. Coburn started slightly, but he did not speak, and Merriman went
on:

“I was interested, though the thing conveyed nothing to me. But some
time later I mentioned it casually, and Hilliard, who has a mania for
puzzles, overheard. He suggested my joining him on his trip, and
calling to see if we could solve it. You, Mr. Coburn, said another
thing to your friends—that though I might have noticed about the lorry,
you were certain neither Hilliard nor I had seen anything suspicious at
the clearing. There, sir, you were wrong. Though at that time we could
not tell what was going on, we knew it was something illegal.”

Coburn was impressed at last. He sat motionless, staring at the
speaker. As Merriman remained silent, he moved.

“Go on,” he said hoarsely, licking his dry lips.

“I would ask you please to visualize the situation when we left.
Hilliard believed he was on the track of a criminal organization,
carrying on illicit operations on a large scale. He believed that by
lodging with the police the information he had gained, the break-up of
the organization and the capture of its members would be assured, and
that he would stand to gain much kudos. But he did not know what the
operations were, and he hesitated to come forward, lest by not waiting
and investigating further he should destroy his chance of handing over
to the authorities a complete case. He was therefore exceedingly keen
that we should carry on inquiries at what I may call the English end of
the business. Such was Hilliard’s attitude. I trust I make myself
clear.”

Again Coburn nodded without speaking.

“My position was different. I had by that time come to care for
Madeleine, and I saw the effect any disclosure must have on her. I
therefore wished things kept secret, and I urged Hilliard to carry out
his second idea and investigate further so as to make his case
complete. He made my assistance a condition of agreement, and I
therefore consented to help him.”

Mr. Coburn was now ghastly, and was listening with breathless
earnestness to his visitor. Merriman realized what he had always
suspected, that the man was weak and a bit of a coward, and he began to
believe his bluff would carry him through.

“I need not trouble you,” he went on, “with all the details of our
search. It is enough to say that we found out what we wanted. We went
to Hull, discovered the wharf at Ferriby, made the acquaintance of
Benson, and witnessed what went on there. We know all about Archer and
how he plants your stuff, and Morton, who had us under observation and
whom we properly tricked. I don’t claim any credit for it; all that
belongs to Hilliard. And I admit we did not learn certain small details
of your scheme. But the main points are clear—clear enough to get
convictions anyway.”

After a pause to let his words create their full effect, Merriman
continued:

“Then arose the problem that had bothered us before. Hilliard was wild
to go to the authorities with his story; on Madeleine’s account I still
wanted it kept quiet. I needn’t recount our argument. Suffice it to say
that at last we compromised. Hilliard agreed to wait for a month. For
the sake of our friendship and the help I had given him, he undertook
to give me a month to settle something about Madeleine. Mr. Coburn,
nearly half that month is gone and I am not one step farther on.”

The manager wiped the drops of sweat from his pallid brow. Merriman’s
quiet, confident manner, with its apparent absence of bluff or threat,
had had its effect on him. He was evidently thoroughly frightened, and
seemed to think it no longer worth while to plead ignorance. As
Merriman had hoped and intended, he appeared to conclude that
conciliation would be his best chance.

“Then no one but you two know so far?” he asked, a shifty, sly look
passing over his face.

Merriman read his thoughts and bluffed again.

“Yes and no,” he answered. “No one but we two know at present. On the
other hand, we have naturally taken all reasonable precautions.
Hilliard prepared a full statement of the matter which we both signed,
and this he sent to his banker with a request that unless he claimed it
in person before the given date, the banker was to convey it to
Scotland Yard. If anything happens to me here, Hilliard will go at once
to the Yard, and if anything happens to him our document will be sent
there. And in it we have suggested that if either of us disappear, it
will be equivalent to adding murder to the other charges made.”

It was enough. Mr. Coburn sat, broken and completely cowed. To Merriman
he seemed suddenly to have become an old man. For several minutes
silence reigned, and then at last the other spoke.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked, in a tremulous voice, hardly
louder than a whisper.

Merriman’s heart leaped.

“To consider your daughter, Mr. Coburn,” he answered promptly. “All I
want is to marry Madeleine, and for her sake I want you to get out of
this thing before the crash comes.”

Mr. Coburn once more wiped the drops of sweat from his forehead.

“Good lord!” he cried hoarsely. “Ever since it started I have been
trying to get out of it. I was forced into it against my will and I
would give my soul if I could do as you say and get free. But I can’t—I
can’t.”

He buried his head in his hands and sat motionless, leaning on his
desk.

“But your daughter, Mr. Coburn,” Merriman persisted. “For her sake
something must be done.”

Mr. Coburn shook his clenched fists in the air.

“Damnation take you!” he cried, with a sudden access of rage, “do you
think I care about myself? Do you think I’d sit here and listen to you
talking as you’ve done if it wasn’t for her? I tell you I’d shoot you
as you sit, if I didn’t know from my own observation that she is fond
of you. I swear it’s the only thing that has saved you.” He rose to his
feet and began pacing jerkily to and fro. “See here,” he continued
wildly, “go away from here before I do it. I can’t stand any more of
you at present. Go now and come back on Friday night at the same time,
and I’ll tell you of my decision. Here’s the key,” he threw it down on
the desk. “Get out quick before I do for you!”

Merriman was for a moment inclined to stand his ground, but, realizing
that not only had he carried his point as far as he could have
expected, but also that his companion was in so excited a condition as
hardly to be accountable for his actions, he decided discretion was the
better part, and merely saying: “Very well, Friday night,” he unlocked
the door and took his leave.

On the whole he was well pleased with his interview. In the first
place, he had by his readiness escaped an imminent personal danger.
What was almost as important, he had broken the ice with Mr. Coburn
about Madeleine, and the former had not only declared that he was aware
of the state of his daughter’s feelings, but he had expressed no
objection to the proposed match. Further, an understanding as to Mr.
Coburn’s own position had been come to. He had practically admitted
that the syndicate was a felonious conspiracy, and had stated that he
would do almost anything to get out of it. Finally he had promised a
decision on the whole question in three days’ time. Quite a triumph,
Merriman thought.

On the other hand he had given the manager a warning of the danger
which the latter might communicate to his fellow-conspirators, with the
result that all of them might escape from the net in which Hilliard, at
any rate, wished to enmesh them. And just to this extent he had become
a co-partner in their crime. And though it was true that he had escaped
from his immediate peril, he had undoubtedly placed himself and
Hilliard in very real danger. It was by no means impossible that the
gang would decide to murder both of the men whose knowledge threatened
them, in the hope of bluffing the bank manager out of the letter which
they would believe he held. Merriman had invented this letter on the
spur of the moment and he would have felt a good deal happier if he
knew that it really existed. He decided that he would write to Hilliard
immediately and get him to make it a reality.

A great deal, he thought, depended on the character of Coburn. If he
was weak and cowardly he would try to save his own skin and let the
others walk into the net. Particularly might he do this if he had
suffered at their hands in the way he suggested. On the other hand, a
strong man would undoubtedly consult his fellow-conspirators and see
that a pretty determined fight was made for their liberty and their
source of gain.

He had thought of all this when it suddenly flashed into his mind that
Mr. Coburn’s presence in the shed at two in the morning in itself
required a lot of explanation. He did not for a moment believe the
aspirin story. The man had looked so shifty while he was speaking, that
even at the time Merriman had decided he was lying. What then could he
have been doing?

He puzzled over the questions but without result. Then it occurred to
him that as he was doing nothing that evening he might as well ride out
again to the clearing and see if any nocturnal activities were
undertaken.

Midnight therefore found him once more ensconced behind a group of
shrubs in full view of both the house and the shed. It was again a
perfect night, and again he lay dreaming of the girl who was so near in
body and in spirit, and yet so infinitely far beyond his reach.

Time passed slowly, but the hours wore gradually round until his watch
showed two o’clock. Then, just as he was thinking that he need hardly
wait much longer, he was considerably thrilled to see Mr. Coburn once
more appear at the side door of the house, and in the same stealthy,
secretive way as on the previous night, walk hurriedly to the shed and
let himself in by the office door.

At first Merriman thought of following him again in the hope of
learning the nature of these strange proceedings, but a moment’s
thought showed him he must run no risk of discovery. If Coburn learned
that he was being spied on he would at once doubt Merriman’s statement
that he knew the syndicate’s secret. It would be better, therefore, to
lie low and await events.

But the only other interesting event that happened was that some
fifteen minutes later the manager left the shed, and with the same show
of secrecy returned to his house, disappearing into the side door.

So intrigued was Merriman by the whole business that he determined to
repeat his visit the following night also. He did so, and once again
witnessed Mr. Coburn’s stealthy walk to the shed at two a.m., and his
equally stealthy return at two-fifteen.

Rack his brains as he would over the problem of these nocturnal visits,
Merriman could think of no explanation. What for three consecutive
nights could bring the manager down to the sawmill? He could not
imagine, but he was clear it was not the pit-prop industry.

If the _Girondin_ had been in he would have once more suspected
smuggling, but she was then at Ferriby. No, it certainly did not work
in with smuggling. Still less did it suggest false note printing,
unless—Merriman’s heart beat more quickly as a new idea entered his
mind. Suppose the notes were printed there, at the mill! Suppose there
was a cellar under the engine house, and suppose the work was done at
night? It was true they had not seen signs of a cellar, but if this
surmise was correct it was not likely they would.

At first sight this theory seemed a real advance, but a little further
thought showed it had serious objections. Firstly, it did not explain
Coburn’s nightly visits. If the manager had spent some hours in the
works it might have indicated the working of a press, but what in that
way could be done in fifteen minutes? Further, and this seemed to put
the idea quite out of court, if the notes were being produced at the
clearing, why the changing of the lorry numbers? That would then be a
part of the business quite unconnected with the illicit traffic. After
much thought, Merriman had to admit to himself that here was one more
of the series of insoluble puzzles with which they found themselves
faced.

The next night was Friday, and in accordance with the arrangement made
with Mr. Coburn, Merriman once again went out to the clearing,
presenting himself at the works door at two in the morning. Mr. Coburn
at once opened to his knock, and after locking the door, led the way to
his office. There he wasted no time in preliminaries.

“I’ve thought this over, Merriman,” he said, and his manner was very
different from that of the previous interview, “and I’m bound to say
that I’ve realized that, though interested, your action towards me has
been correct not to say generous. Now I’ve made up my mind what to do,
and I trust you will see your way to fall in with my ideas. There is a
meeting of the syndicate on Thursday week. I should have been present
in any case, and I have decided that, whatever may be the result, I
will tell them I am going to break with them. I will give ill-health as
my reason for this step, and fortunately or unfortunately I can do this
with truth, as my heart is seriously diseased. I can easily provide the
necessary doctor’s certificates. If they accept my resignation, well
and good—I will emigrate to my brother in South America, and you and
Madeleine can be married. If they decline, well”—Mr. Coburn shrugged
his shoulders—“your embarrassment will be otherwise removed.”

He paused. Merriman would have spoken, but Mr. Coburn held up his hand
for silence and went on:

“I confess I have been terribly upset for the last three days to
discover my wisest course, and even now I am far from certain that my
decision is best. I do not want to go back on my former friends, and on
account of Madeleine I cannot go back on you. Therefore, I cannot warn
the others of their danger, but on the other hand I won’t give your
life into their hands. For if they knew what I know now, you and
Hilliard would be dead men inside twenty-four hours.”

Mr. Coburn spoke simply and with a certain dignity, and Merriman found
himself disposed not only to believe what he had heard, but even to
understand and sympathize with the man in the embarrassing
circumstances in which he found himself. That his difficulties were of
his own making there could be but little doubt, but how far he had put
himself in the power of his associates through deliberate evil-doing,
and how far through mistakes or weakness, there was of course no way of
learning.

At the end of an hour’s discussion, Mr. Coburn had agreed at all costs
to sever his connection with the syndicate, to emigrate to his brother
in Chile, and to do his utmost to induce his daughter to remain in
England to marry Merriman. On his side, Merriman undertook to hold back
the lodging of information at Scotland Yard for one more week, to
enable the other’s arrangements to be carried out.

There being nothing to keep him in Bordeaux, Merriman left for London
that day, and the next evening he was closeted with Hilliard in the
latter’s rooms, discussing the affair. Hilliard at first was most
unwilling to postpone their visit to the Yard but he agreed on
Merriman’s explaining that he had pledged himself to the delay.

So the days, for Merriman heavily weighted with anxiety and suspense,
began slowly to drag by. His fate and the fate of the girl he loved
hung in the balance, and not the least irksome feature of his position
was his own utter impotence. There was nothing that he could do—no
action which would take him out of himself and ease the tension of his
thoughts. As day succeeded day and the silence remained unbroken, he
became more and more upset. At the end of a week he was almost beside
himself with worry and chagrin, so much so that he gave up attending
his office altogether, and was only restrained from rushing back to
Bordeaux by the knowledge that to force himself once more on Madeleine
might be to destroy, once and for ever, any hopes he might otherwise
have had.

It was now four days since the Thursday on which Mr. Coburn had stated
that the meeting of the syndicate was to have been held, and only three
days to the date on which the friends had agreed to tell their story at
Scotland Yard. What if he received no news during those three days?
Would Hilliard agree to a further postponement? He feared not, and he
was racked with anxiety as to whether he should cross that day to
France and seek another interview with Mr. Coburn.

But, even as he sat with the morning paper in his hand, news was nearer
than he imagined. Listlessly he turned over the sheets, glancing with
but scant attention to the headlines, automatically running his eyes
over the paragraphs. And when he came to one headed “Mystery of a
Taxi-cab,” he absent-mindedly began to read it also.

But he had not gone very far when his manner changed. Starting to his
feet, he stared at the column with horror-stricken eyes, while his face
grew pallid and his pipe dropped to the floor from his open mouth. With
the newspaper still tightly grasped in his hand, he ran three steps at
a time down the stairs of his flat, and calling a taxi, was driven to
Scotland Yard.




PART TWO.
THE PROFESSIONALS




CHAPTER XII.
MURDER!


Almost exactly fifteen hours before Merriman’s call at Scotland Yard,
to wit, about eight o’clock on the previous evening, Inspector Willis
of the Criminal Investigation Department was smoking in the
sitting-room of his tiny house in Brixton. George Willis was a tall,
somewhat burly man of five-and-forty, with heavy, clean-shaven,
expressionless features which would have made his face almost stupid,
had it not been redeemed by a pair of the keenest of blue eyes. He was
what is commonly known as a safe man, not exactly brilliant, but
plodding and tenacious to an extraordinary degree. His forte was slight
clues, and he possessed that infinite capacity for taking pains which
made his following up of them approximate to genius. In short, though a
trifle slow, he was already looked on as one of the most efficient and
reliable inspectors of the Yard.

He had had a heavy day, and it was with a sigh of relief that he picked
up the evening paper and stretched himself luxuriously in his
easy-chair. But he was not destined to enjoy a long rest. Hardly had he
settled himself to his satisfaction when the telephone bell rang. He
was wanted back at the Yard immediately.

He swore under his breath, then, calling the news to his wife, he
slipped on his waterproof and left the house. The long spell of fine
weather had at last broken, and the evening was unpleasant, indeed
unusually inclement for mid-September. All day the wind had been gusty
and boisterous, and now a fine drizzle of rain had set in, which was
driven in sheets against the grimy buildings and whirled in eddies
round the street corners. Willis walked quickly along the shining
pavements, and in a few minutes reached his destination. His chief was
waiting for him.

“Ah, Willis,” the great man greeted him, “I’m glad you weren’t out. A
case has been reported which I want you to take over; a suspected
murder; man found dead in a taxi at King’s Cross.”

“Yes, sir,” Willis answered unemotionally. “Any details forward?”

“None, except that the man is dead and that they’re holding the taxi at
the station. I have asked Dr. Horton to come round, and you had both
better get over there as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, sir,” Willis replied again, and quickly left the room.

His preparations were simple. He had only to arrange for a couple of
plain clothes men and a photographer with a flashlight apparatus to
accompany him, and to bring from his room a handbag containing his
notebook and a few other necessary articles. He met the police doctor
in the corridor and, the others being already in waiting, the five men
immediately left the great building and took a car to the station.

“What’s the case, inspector, do you know?” Dr. Horton inquired as they
slipped deftly through the traffic.

“The Chief said suspected murder; man found dead in a taxi at King’s
Cross. He had no details.”

“How was it done?”

“Don’t know, sir. Chief didn’t say.”

After a few brief observations on the inclemency of the weather,
conversation waned between the two men, and they followed the example
of their companions, and sat watching with a depressed air the
rain-swept streets and the hurrying foot passengers on the wet
pavements. All five were annoyed at being called out, as all were tired
and had been looking forward to an evening of relaxation at their
homes.

They made a quick run, reaching the station in a very few minutes.
There a constable identified the inspector.

“They’ve taken the taxi round to the carrier’s yard at the west side of
the station, sir,” he said to Willis. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show
you the way.”

The officer led them to an enclosed and partially roofed area at the
back of the parcels office, where the vans from the shops unloaded
their traffic. In a corner under the roof and surrounded by a little
knot of men stood a taxi-cab. As Willis and his companions approached,
a sergeant of police separated himself from the others and came
forward.

“We have touched nothing, sir,” he announced. “When we found the man
was dead we didn’t even move the body.”

Willis nodded.

“Quite right, sergeant. It’s murder, I suppose?”

“Looks like it, sir. The man was shot.”

“Shot? Anything known of the murderer?”

“Not much, I’m afraid, sir. He got clear away in Tottenham Court Road,
as far as I can understand it. But you’ll hear what the driver has to
say.”

Again the Inspector nodded, as he stepped up to the vehicle.

“Here’s Dr. Newman,” the sergeant continued, indicating an exceedingly
dapper and well-groomed little man with medico written all over him.
“He was the nearest medical man we could get.”

Willis turned courteously to the other.

“An unpleasant evening to be called out, doctor,” he remarked. “The
man’s dead, I understand? Was he dead when you arrived?”

“Yes, but only a very little time. The body was quite warm.”

“And the cause of death?”

“Seeing that I could do nothing, I did not move the body until you
Scotland Yard gentlemen had seen it, and therefore I cannot say
professionally. But there is a small hole in the side of the coat over
the heart.” The doctor spoke with a slightly consequential air.

“A bullet wound?”

“A bullet wound unquestionably.”

Inspector Willis picked up an acetylene bicycle lamp which one of the
men had procured and directed its beam into the cab.

The corpse lay in the back corner seat on the driver’s side, the head
lolling back sideways against the cushions and crushing into a
shapeless mass the gray Homburg hat. The mouth and eyes were open and
the features twisted as if from sudden pain. The face was long and
oval, the hair and eyes dark, and there was a tiny black mustache with
waxed ends. A khaki colored waterproof, open in front, revealed a gray
tweed suit, across the waistcoat of which shone a gold watch chain. Tan
shoes covered the feet. On the left side of the body just over the
heart was a little round hole in the waterproof coat Willis stooped and
smelled the cloth.

“No blackening and no smell of burned powder,” he thought. “He must
have been shot from outside the cab.” But he found it hard to
understand how such a shot could have been fired from the populous
streets of London. The hole also seemed too far round towards the back
of the body to suggest that the bullet had come in through the open
window. The point was puzzling, but Willis pulled himself up sharply
with the reminder that he must not begin theorizing until he had
learned all the facts.

Having gazed at the gruesome sight until he had impressed its every
detail on his memory, he turned to his assistant. “Get ahead with your
flashlight, Kirby,” he ordered. “Take views from all the angles you
can. The constable will give you a hand. Meantime, sergeant, give me an
idea of the case. What does the driver say?”

“He’s here, sir,” the officer returned, pointing to a small, slight
individual in a leather coat and cap, with a sallow, frightened face
and pathetic, dog-like eyes which fixed themselves questioningly on
Willis’s face as the sergeant led their owner forward.

“You might tell me what you know, driver.”

The man shifted nervously from one foot to the other.

“It was this way, sir,” he began. He spoke earnestly, and to Willis,
who was accustomed to sizing up rapidly those with whom he dealt, he
seemed a sincere and honest man. “I was driving down Piccadilly from
Hyde Park Corner looking out for a fare, and when I gets just by the
end of Bond Street two men hails me. One was this here man what’s dead,
the other was a big, tall gent. I pulls in to the curb, and they gets
in, and the tall gent he says ‘King’s Cross.’ I starts off by
Piccadilly Circus and Shaftesbury Avenue, but when I gets into
Tottenham Court Road about the corner of Great Russell Street, one of
them says through the tube, ‘Let me down here at the corner of Great
Russell Street,’ he sez. I pulls over to the curb, and the tall gent he
gets out and stands on the curb and speaks in to the other one. Then I
shall follow by the three o’clock tomorrow,’ he sez, and he shuts the
door and gives me a bob and sez, ‘That’s for yourself,’ he sez, ‘and my
friend will square up at the station,’ he sez. I came on here, and when
this here man opens the door,” he indicated a porter standing by, “why,
the man’s dead. And that’s all I knows about it.”

The statement was made directly and convincingly, and Willis frowned as
he thought that such apparently simple cases proved frequently to be
the most baffling in the end. In his slow, careful way he went over in
his mind what he had heard, and then began to try for further details.

“At what time did you pick up the men?” he inquired.

“About half past seven, or maybe twenty to eight”

“Did you see where they were coming from?”

“No, sir. They were standing on the curb, and the tall one he holds up
his hand for me to pull over.”

“Would you know the tall man again?”

The driver shook his head.

“I don’t know as I should, sir. You see, it was raining, and he had his
collar up round his neck and his hat pulled down over his eyes, so as I
couldn’t right see his face.”

“Describe him as best you can.”

“He was a tall man, longer than what you are, and broad too. A big man,
I should call him.”

“How was he dressed?”

“He had a waterproof, khaki color—about the color of your own—with the
collar up round his neck.”

“His hat?”

“His hat was a soft felt, dark, either brown or green, I couldn’t
rightly say, with the brim turned down in front.”

“And his face? Man alive, you must have seen his face when he gave you
the shilling.”

The driver stared helplessly. Then he answered:

“I couldn’t be sure about his face, not with the way he had his collar
up and his hat pulled down. It was raining and blowing something
crool.”

“Did the other man reply when the tall one spoke into the cab?”

“Didn’t hear no reply at all, sir.”

Inspector Willis thought for a moment and then started on another tack.

“Did you hear a shot?” he asked sharply.

“I heard it, sir, right enough, but I didn’t think it was a shot at the
time, and I didn’t think it was in my cab. It was just when we were
passing the Apollo Theater, and there was a big block of cars setting
people down, and I thought it was a burst tire. ‘There’s somebody’s
tire gone to glory,’ I sez to myself, but I give it no more thought,
for it takes you to be awake to drive up Shaftesbury Avenue when the
theaters are starting.”

“You said you didn’t think the shot was in your cab; why do you think
so now?”

“It was the only sound like a shot, sir, and if the man has been shot,
it would have been then.”

Willis nodded shortly. There was something puzzling here. If the shot
had been fired by the other occupant of the cab, as the man’s evidence
seemed to indicate, there would certainly have been powder blackening
on the coat. If not, and if the bullet had entered from without, the
other passenger would surely have stopped the car and called a
policeman. Presently he saw that some corroborative evidence might
exist. If the bullet came from without the left-hand window must have
been down, as there was no hole in the glass. In this case the wind,
which was blowing from the north-west, would infallibly have driven in
the rain, and drops would still show on the cushions. He must look for
them without delay.

He paused to ask the driver one more question, whether he could
identify the voice which told him through the speaking tube to stop
with that of the man who had given him the shilling. The man answering
affirmatively, Willis turned to one of the plain clothes men.

“You have heard this driver’s statement, Jones,” he said. “You might
get away at once and see the men who were on point duty both at the
corner of Great Russell Street where the tall man got out, and in
Piccadilly, where both got in. Try the hotels thereabouts, the
Albemarle and any others you can think of. If you can get any
information follow it up and keep me advised at the Yard of your
movements.”

The man hurried away and Willis moved over once more to the taxi. The
assistant had by this time finished his flashlight photographs, and the
inspector, picking up the bicycle lamp, looked again into the interior.
A moment’s examination showed him there were no raindrops on the
cushions, but his search nevertheless was not unproductive. Looking
more carefully this time than previously, he noticed on the floor of
the cab a dark object almost hidden beneath the seat. He drew it out.
It was a piece of thick black cloth about a yard square.

Considerably mystified, he held it up by two corners, and then his
puzzle became solved. In the cloth were two small holes, and round one
of them the fabric was charred and bore the characteristic smell of
burned powder. It was clear what had been done. With the object
doubtless of hiding the flash as well as of muffling the report, the
murderer had covered his weapon with a double thickness of heavy cloth.
No doubt it had admirably achieved its purpose, and Willis seized it
eagerly in the hope that it might furnish him with a clue as to its
owner.

He folded it and set it aside for further examination, turning back to
the body. Under his direction it was lifted out, placed on an ambulance
stretcher provided by the railwaymen, and taken to a disused office
close by. There the clothes were removed and, while the doctors busied
themselves with the remains, Willis went through the pockets and
arranged their contents on one of the desks.

The clothes themselves revealed but little information. The waterproof
and shoes, it is true, bore the makers’ labels, but both these articles
were the ready-made products of large firms, and inquiry at their
premises would be unlikely to lead to any result. None of the garments
bore any name or identifiable mark.

Willis then occupied himself the contents of the pockets. Besides the
gold watch and chain, bunch of keys, knife, cigarette case, loose coins
and other small objects which a man such as the deceased might
reasonably be expected to carry, there were two to which the inspector
turned with some hope of help.

The first was a folded sheet of paper which proved to be a receipted
hotel bill. It showed that a Mr. Coburn and another had stayed in the
Peveril Hotel in Russell Square during the previous four days. When
Willis saw it he gave a grunt of satisfaction. It would doubtless offer
a ready means to learn the identity of the deceased, as well possibly
as of the other, in whom Willis was already even more interested.
Moreover, so good a clue must be worked without delay. He called over
the second plain clothes man.

“Take this bill to the Peveril, Matthews,” he ordered. “Find out if the
dead man is this Coburn, and if possible get on the track of his
companion. If I don’t get anything better here I shall follow you
round, but keep the Yard advised of your movements in any case.”

Before the man left Willis examined the second object. It was a
pocket-book, but it proved rather disappointing. It contained two five
pound Bank of England notes, nine one pound and three ten shilling
Treasury notes, the return half of a third-class railway ticket from
Hull to King’s Cross, a Great Northern cloakroom ticket, a few visiting
cards inscribed “Mr. Francis Coburn,” and lastly, the photograph by
Cramer of Regent Sweet of a pretty girl of about twenty.

Willis mentally noted the three possible clues these articles seemed to
suggest; inquiries in Hull, the discovery of the girl through Messrs.
Cramer, and third and most important, luggage or a parcel in some Great
Northern cloakroom, which on recovery might afford him help. The
presence of the money also seemed important, as this showed that the
motive for the murder had not been robbery.

Having made a parcel of the clothes for transport to the Yard, reduced
to writing the statements of the driver and of the porter who had made
the discovery, and arranged with the doctors as to the disposal of the
body, Willis closed and locked the taxi, and sent it in charge of a
constable to Scotland Yard. Then with the cloakroom ticket he went
round to see if he could find the office which had issued it.

The rooms were all shut for the night, but an official from the
stationmaster’s office went round with him, and after a brief search
they found the article for which the ticket was a voucher. It was a
small suitcase, locked, and Willis brought it away with him, intending
to open it at his leisure. His work at the station being by this time
complete, he returned to the Yard, carrying the suitcase. There, though
it was growing late, he forced the lock, and sat down to examine the
contents. But from them he received no help. The bag contained just the
articles which a man in middle-class circumstances would naturally
carry on a week or a fortnight’s trip—a suit of clothes, clean linen,
toilet appliances, and such like. Nowhere could Willis find anything of
interest.

Telephone messages, meanwhile, had come in from the two plain clothes
men. Jones reported that he had interviewed all the constables who had
been on point duty at the places in question, but without result. Nor
could any of the staffs of the neighboring hotels or restaurants assist
him.

The call from the Peveril conveyed slightly more information. The
manageress, so Matthews said, had been most courteous and had sent for
several members of her staff in the hope that some of them might be
able to answer his questions. But the sum total of the knowledge he had
gained was not great. In the first place, it was evident that the
deceased was Mr. Coburn himself. It appeared that he was accompanied by
a Miss Coburn, whom the manageress believed to be his daughter. He had
been heard addressing her as Madeleine. The two had arrived in time for
dinner five days previously, registering “F. Coburn and Miss Coburn,”
and had left about eleven on the morning of the murder. On each of the
four days of their stay they had been out a good deal, but they had
left and returned at different hours, and, therefore, appeared not to
have spent their time together. They seemed, however, on very
affectionate terms. No address had been left to which letters might be
forwarded, and it was not known where the two visitors had intended to
go when they left. Neither the manageress nor any of the staff had seen
anyone resembling the tall man.

Inspector Willis was considerably disappointed by the news. He had
hoped that Mr. Coburn’s fellow-guest would have been the murderer, and
that he would have left some trace from which his identity could have
been ascertained. However, the daughter’s information would no doubt be
valuable, and his next care must be to find her and learn her story.

She might of course save him the trouble by herself coming forward. She
would be almost certain to see an account of the murder in the papers,
and even if not, her father’s disappearance would inevitably lead her
to communicate with the police.

But Willis could not depend on this. She might, for example, have left
the previous day on a voyage, and a considerable time might elapse
before she learned of the tragedy. No; he would have to trace her as if
she herself were the assassin.

He looked at his watch and was surprised to learn that it was after one
o’clock. Nothing more could be done that night, and with a sigh of
relief he turned his steps homewards.

Next morning he was back at the Yard by eight o’clock. His first care
was to re-examine the taxi by daylight for some mark or article left by
its recent occupants. He was extraordinarily thorough and painstaking,
scrutinizing every inch of the floor and cushions, and trying the door
handles and window straps for finger marks, but without success. He
went over once again the clothes the dead man was wearing as well as
those in the suitcase, took prints from the dead man’s fingers, and
began to get things in order for the inquest. Next, he saw Dr. Horton,
and learned that Mr. Coburn had been killed by a bullet from an
exceedingly small automatic pistol, one evidently selected to make the
minimum of noise and flash, and from which a long carry was not
required.

When the details were complete he thought it would not be too early to
call at the Peveril and begin the search for Miss Coburn. He therefore
sent for a taxi, and a few minutes later was seated in the office of
the manageress. She repeated what Matthews had already told him, and he
personally interviewed the various servants with whom the Coburns had
come in contact. He also searched the rooms they had occupied, examined
with a mirror the blotting paper on a table at which the young lady had
been seen to write, and interrogated an elderly lady visitor with whom
she had made acquaintance.

But he learned nothing. The girl had vanished completely, and he could
see no way in which he might be able to trace her.

He sat down in the lounge and gave himself up to thought. And then
suddenly an idea flashed into his mind. He started, sat for a moment
rigid, then gave a little gasp.

“Lord!” he muttered. “But I’m a blamed idiot. How in Hades did I miss
that?”

He sprang to his feet and hurried out of the lounge.




CHAPTER XIII.
A PROMISING CLUE


The consideration which had thus suddenly occurred to Inspector Willis
was the extraordinary importance of the fact that the tall traveller
had spoken through the tube to the driver. He marveled how he could
have overlooked its significance. To speak through a taxi tube one must
hold up the mouthpiece, and that mouthpiece is usually made of
vulcanite or some similar substance. What better surface, Willis
thought delightedly but anxiously, could be found for recording
finger-prints? If only the tall man had made the blunder of omitting to
wear gloves, he would have left evidence which might hang him! And he,
Willis, like the cursed imbecile that he was, had missed the point!
Goodness only knew if he was not already too late. If so, he thought
grimly, it was all up with his career at the Yard.

He ran to the telephone. A call to the Yard advised him that the taxi
driver, on being informed he was no longer required, had left with his
vehicle. He rapidly rang up the man’s employers, asking them to stop
the cab directly they came in touch with it, then hurrying out of the
hotel, he hailed a taxi and drove to the rank on which the man was
stationed.

His luck was in. There were seven vehicles on the stand, and his man,
having but recently arrived, had only worked up to the middle of the
queue. The sweat was standing in large drops on Inspector Willis’s brow
as he eagerly asked had the tube been touched since leaving Scotland
Yard, and his relief when he found he was still in time was
overwhelming. Rather unsteadily he entered the vehicle and ordered the
driver to return to the Yard.

On arrival he was not long in making his test. Sending for his
finger-print apparatus, he carefully powdered the vulcanite mouthpiece,
and he could scarcely suppress a cry of satisfaction when he saw
shaping themselves before his eyes three of the clearest prints he had
ever had the good fortune to come across. On one side of the mouthpiece
was the mark of a right thumb, and on the other those of a first and
second finger.

“Lord!” he muttered to himself, “that was a near thing. If I had missed
it, I could have left the Yard for good and all. It’s the first thing
the Chief would have asked about.”

His delight was unbounded. Here was as perfect and definite evidence as
he could have wished for. If he could find the man whose fingers fitted
the marks, that would be the end of his case.

He left the courtyard intending to return to the Peveril and resume the
tracing of Miss Coburn, but before he reached the door of the great
building he was stopped. A gentleman had called to see him on urgent
business connected with the case.

It was Merriman—Merriman almost incoherent with excitement and
distress. He still carried the newspaper in his hand, which had so much
upset him. Willis pulled forward a chair, invited the other to be
seated, and took the paper. The paragraph was quite short, and read:

“MYSTERY OF A TAXI-CAB


“A tragedy which recalls the well-known detective novel _The Mystery of
the Hansom Cab_ occurred last evening in one of the most populous
thoroughfares in London. It appears that about eight o’clock two men
engaged a taxi in Piccadilly to take them to King’s Cross. Near the
Oxford Street end of Tottenham Court Road the driver was ordered to
stop. One of the men alighted, bade good-night to his companion, and
told the driver to proceed to King’s Cross, where his friend would
settle up. On reaching the station there was no sign of the friend, and
a search revealed him lying dead in the taxi with a bullet wound in his
heart. From papers found on the body the deceased is believed to be a
Mr. Francis Coburn, but his residence has not yet been ascertained.”


Inspector Willis laid down the paper and turned to his visitor.

“You are interested in the case, sir?” he inquired.

“I knew him, I think,” Merriman stammered. “At least I know someone of
the name. I—”

Willis glanced keenly at the newcomer. Here was a man who must, judging
by his agitation, have been pretty closely connected with Francis
Coburn. Suspicious of everyone, the detective recognized that there
might be more here than met the eye. He drew out his notebook.

“I am glad you called, sir,” he said pleasantly. “We shall be very
pleased to get any information you can give us. What was your friend
like?”

His quiet, conversational manner calmed the other.

“Rather tall,” he answered anxiously, “with a long pale face, and
small, black, pointed mustache.”

“I’m afraid, sir, that’s the man. I think if you don’t mind you had
better see if you can identify him.”

“I want to,” Merriman cried, leaping to his feet “I must know at once.”

Willis rose also.

“Then come this way.”

They drove quickly across town. A glance was sufficient to tell
Merriman that the body was indeed that of his former acquaintance. His
agitation became painful.

“You’re right!” he cried. “It is he! And it’s my fault. Oh, if I had
only done what she said! If I had only kept out of it!”

He wrung his hands in his anguish.

Willis was much interested. Though this man could not be personally
guilty—he was not tall enough, for one thing—he must surely know enough
about the affair to put the inspector on the right track. The latter
began eagerly to await his story.

Merriman for his part was anxious for nothing so much as to tell it. He
was sick to death of plots and investigations and machinations, and
while driving to the Yard he had made up his mind that if the dead man
were indeed Madeleine’s father, he would tell the whole story of his
and Hilliard’s investigations into the doings of the syndicate. When,
therefore, they were back in the inspector’s room, he made a determined
effort to pull himself together and speak calmly.

“Yes,” he said, “I know him. He lived near Bordeaux with his daughter.
She will be absolutely alone. You will understand that I must go out to
her by the first train, but until then I am at your service.

“You are a relation perhaps?”

“No, only an acquaintance, but—I’m going to tell you the whole story,
and I may as well say, once for all, that it is my earnest hope some
day to marry Miss Coburn.”

Willis bowed and inquired, “Is Miss Coburn’s name Madeleine?”

“Yes,” Merriman answered, surprise and eagerness growing in his face.

“Then,” Willis went on, “you will be pleased to learn that she is not
in France—at least, I think not. She left the Peveril Hotel in Russell
Square about eleven o’clock yesterday morning.”

Merriman sprang to his feet.

“In London?” he queried excitedly. “Where? What address?”

“We don’t know yet, but we shall soon find her. Now, sir, you can’t do
anything for the moment, and I am anxious to hear your story. Take your
own time, and the more details you can give me the better.”

Merriman controlled himself with an effort.

“Well,” he said slowly, sitting down again, “I _have_ something to tell
you, inspector. My friend Hilliard—Claud Hilliard of the Customs
Department—and I have made a discovery. We have accidentally come on
what we believe is a criminal conspiracy, we don’t know for what
purpose, except that it is something big and fraudulent. We were coming
to the Yard in any case to tell what we had learned, but this murder
has precipitated things. We can no longer delay giving our information.
The only thing is that I should have liked Hilliard to be here to tell
it instead of me, for our discovery is really due to him.”

“I can see Mr. Hilliard afterwards. Meantime tell me the story
yourself.”

Merriman thereupon related his and Hilliard’s adventures and
experiences from his own first accidental visit to the clearing when he
noticed the changing of the lorry number, right up to his last meeting
with Mr. Coburn, when the latter expressed his intention of breaking
away from the gang. He hid nothing, explaining without hesitation his
reasons for urging the delay in informing the authorities, even though
he quite realized his action made him to some extent an accomplice in
the conspiracy.

Willis was much more impressed by the story than he would have
admitted. Though it sounded wild and unlikely, then was a ring of truth
in Merriman’s manner which went far to convince the other of its
accuracy. He did not believe either that anyone could have invented
such a story. It’s very improbability was an argument for its truth.

And if it were true, what a vista it opened up to himself! The solution
of the murder problem would be gratifying enough but it was a mere
nothing compared to the other. If he could search out and bring to
naught such a conspiracy as Merriman’s story indicated, he would be a
made man. It would be the crowning point of his career, and would bring
him measurably nearer to that cottage and garden in the country to
which for years past he had been looking forward. Therefore no care and
trouble would be too great to spend on the matter.

Putting away thoughts of self, therefore, and deliberately
concentrating on the matter in hand, he set himself to consider in
detail what his visitor had told him and get the story clear in his
mind. Then slowly and painstakingly he began to ask questions.

“I take it, Mr. Merriman, that your idea is that Mr. Coburn was
murdered by a member of the syndicate?”

“Yes, and I think he foresaw his fate. I think when he told them he was
going to break with them they feared he might betray them, and wanted
to be on the safe side.”

“Any of them a tall, stoutly built man?”

“Captain Beamish is tall and strongly built, but I should not say he
was stout.”

“Describe him.”

“He stooped and was a little round-shouldered, but even then he was
tall. If he had held himself up he would have been a big man. He had a
heavy face with a big jaw, thin lips, and a vindictive expression.”

Willis, though not given to jumping to conclusions, felt suddenly
thrilled, and he made up his mind that an early development in the case
would be the taking of the impressions of Captain Beamish’s right thumb
and forefinger.

He asked several more questions and, going over the story again, took
copious notes. Then for some time he sat in silence considering what he
had heard.

At first sight he was inclined to agree with Merriman, that the
deceased had met his death at the hands of a member of the syndicate,
and if so, it was not unlikely that all or most of the members were
party to it. From the mere possibility of this it followed that the
most urgent thing for the moment was to prevent the syndicate
suspecting his knowledge. He turned again to his visitor.

“I suppose you realize, Mr. Merriman, that if all these details you
have given me are correct, you yourself are in a position of some
danger?”

“I know it, but I am not afraid. It is the possible danger to Miss
Coburn that has upset me so much.”

“I understand, sir,” the inspector returned sympathetically, “but it
follows that for both your sakes you must act very cautiously, so as to
disarm any suspicions these people may have of you.”

“I am quite in your hands, inspector.”

“Good. Then let us consider your course of action. Now, first of all
about the inquest. It will be held this evening at five o’clock. You
will have to give evidence, and we shall have to settle very carefully
what that evidence will be. No breath of suspicion against the
syndicate must leak out.”

Merriman nodded.

“You must identify the deceased, and, if asked, you must tell the story
of your two visits to the clearing. You must speak without the
slightest hesitation. But you must of course make no mention of the
changing of the lorry numbers or of your suspicions, nor will you
mention your visit to Hull. You will explain that you went back to the
clearing on the second occasion because it was so little out of your
way and because you were anxious to meet the Coburns again, while your
friend wanted to see the forests of Les Landes.”

Merriman again nodded.

“Then both you and your friend must avoid Scotland Yard. It is quite
natural that you should rush off here as you did, but it would not be
natural for you to return. And there is no reason why Mr. Hilliard
should come at all. If I want to see either of you I shall ring up and
arrange a place of meeting. And just two other things. The first is
that I need hardly warn you to be as circumspect in your conversation
as in your evidence. Keep in mind that each stranger that you may meet
may be Morton or some other member of the gang. The second is that I
should like to keep in touch with you for the remainder of the day in
case any question might crop up before the inquest. Where will you be?”

“I shall stay in my club, Rover’s, in Cranbourne Street. You can ring
me up.”

“Good,” Willis answered, rising to his feet. “Then let me say again how
pleased I am to have met you and heard your story. Five o’clock, then,
if you don’t hear to the contrary.”

When Merriman had taken his leave the inspector sat on at his desk,
lost in thought. This case bade fair to be the biggest he had ever
handled, and he was anxious to lay his plans so as to employ his time
to the best advantage. Two clearly defined lines of inquiry had already
opened out, and he was not clear which to follow. In the first place,
there was the obvious routine investigation suggested directly by the
murder. That comprised the finding of Miss Coburn, the learning of Mr.
Coburn’s life history, the tracing of his movements during the last
four or five days, the finding of the purchaser of the black cloth, and
the following up of clues discovered during these inquiries. The second
line was that connected with the activities of the syndicate, and
Willis was inclined to believe that a complete understanding of these
would automatically solve the problem of the murder. He was wondering
whether he should not start an assistant on the routine business of the
tragedy, while himself concentrating on the pit-prop business, when his
cogitations were brought to an end by a messenger. A lady had called in
connection with the case.

“Miss Madeleine Coburn,” thought Willis, as he gave orders for her to
be shown to his room, and when she entered he instantly recognized the
original of the photograph.

Madeleine’s face was dead white and there was a strained look of horror
in her eyes, but she was perfectly calm and sell-possessed.

“Miss Coburn?” Willis said, as he rose and bowed. “I am afraid I can
guess why you have called. You saw the account in the paper?”

“Yes.” She hesitated. “Is it—my father?”

Willis told her as gently as he could. She sat quite still for a few
moments, while he busied himself with some papers, then she asked to
see the body. When they had returned to Willis’s room he invited her to
sit down again.

“I very deeply regret, Miss Coburn,” he said, “to have to trouble you
at this time with questions, but I fear you will have to give evidence
at the inquest this afternoon, and it will be easier for yourself to
make a statement now, so that only what is absolutely necessary need be
asked you then.”

Madeleine seemed stunned by the tragedy, and she spoke as if in a
dream.

“I am ready to do what is necessary.”

He thanked her, and began by inquiring about her father’s history. Mr.
Coburn, it appeared, had had a public school and college training, but,
his father dying when he was just twenty, and leaving the family in
somewhat poor circumstances, he had gone into business as a clerk in
the Hopwood Manufacturing Company, a large engineering works in the
Midlands. In this, he had risen until he held the important position of
cashier, and he and his wife and daughter had lived in happiness and
comfort during the latter’s girlhood. But some six years previous to
the tragedy which had just taken place a change had come over the
household. In the first place, Mrs. Coburn had developed a painful
illness and had dragged out a miserable existence for the three years
before her death. At the same time, whether from the expense of the
illness or from other causes Miss Coburn did not know, financial
embarrassment seemed to descend on her father. One by one their small
luxuries were cut off, then their house had to be given up, and they
had moved to rooms in a rather poor locality of the town. Their
crowning misfortune followed rapidly. Mr. Coburn gave up his position
at the works, and for a time actual want stared them in the face. Then
this Pit-Prop Syndicate had been formed, and Mr. Coburn had gone into
it as the manager of the loading station. Miss Coburn did not know the
reason of his leaving the engineering works, but she suspected there
had been friction, as his disposition for a time had changed, and he
had lost his bright manner and vivacity. He had, however, to a large
extent recovered while in France. She was not aware, either, of the
terms on which he had entered the syndicate, but she imagined he shared
in the profits instead of receiving a salary.

These facts, which Willis obtained by astute questioning, seemed to him
not a little suggestive. From what Mr. Coburn had himself told
Merriman, it looked as if there had been some secret in his life which
had placed him in the power of the syndicate, and the inspector
wondered whether this might not be connected with his leaving the
engineering works. At all events inquiries there seemed to suggest a
new line of attack, should such become necessary.

Willis then turned to the events of the past few days. It appeared that
about a fortnight earlier, Mr. Coburn announced that he was crossing to
London for the annual meeting of the syndicate, and, as he did not wish
his daughter to be alone at the clearing, it was arranged that she
should accompany him. They travelled by the _Girondin_ to Hull, and
coming on to London, put up at the Peveril. Mr. Coburn had been
occupied off and on during the four days they had remained there, but
the evenings they had spent together in amusements. On the night of the
murder, Mr. Coburn was to have left for Hull to return to France by the
_Girondin_, his daughter going by an earlier train to Eastbourne, where
she was to have spent ten days with an aunt. Except for what Mr. Coburn
had said about the meeting of the syndicate, Madeleine did not know
anything of his business in town, nor had she seen any member of the
syndicate after leaving the ship.

Having taken notes of her statements, Willis spoke of the inquest and
repeated the instructions he had given Merriman as to the evidence.
Then he told her of the young man’s visit, and referring to his anxiety
on her behalf, asked if he might acquaint him with her whereabouts. She
thankfully acquiesced, and Willis, who was anxious that her mind should
be kept occupied until the inquest, pushed his good offices to the
extent of arranging a meeting between the two.

The inquest elicited no further information. Formal evidence of
identification was given, the doctors deposed that death was due to a
bullet from an exceedingly small bore automatic pistol, the cab driver
and porter told their stories, and the jury returned the obvious
verdict of murder against some person or persons unknown. The
inspector’s precautions were observed, and not a word was uttered which
could have given a hint to any member of the Pit-Prop Syndicate that
the _bona fides_ of his organization was suspected.

Two days later, when the funeral was over, Merriman took Miss Coburn
back to her aunt’s at Eastbourne. No word of love passed his lips, but
the young girl seemed pleased to have his company, and before parting
from her he obtained permission to call on her again. He met the aunt
for a few moments, and was somewhat comforted to find her a kind,
motherly woman, who was evidently sincerely attached to the now
fatherless girl. He had told Madeleine of his interview with her
father, and she had not blamed him for his part in the matter, saying
that she had believed for some time that a development of the kind was
inevitable.

So, for them, the days began to creep wearily past. Merriman paid as
frequent visits to Eastbourne as he dared, and little by little he
began to hope that he was making progress in his suit. But try as he
would, he could not bring the matter to a head. The girl had evidently
had a more severe shock than they had realized at first, and she became
listless and difficult to interest in passing events. He saw there was
nothing for it but to wait, and he set himself to bide his time with
the best patience he could muster.




CHAPTER XIV.
A MYSTIFYING DISCOVERY


Inspector Willis was more than interested in his new case. The more he
thought over it, the more he realized its dramatic possibilities and
the almost world-wide public interest it was likely to arouse, as well
as the importance which his superiors would certainly attach to it; in
other words, the influence a successful handling of it would have on
his career.

He had not been idle since the day of the inquest, now a week past. To
begin with he had seen Hilliard secretly, and learned at first hand all
that that young man could tell him. Next he had made sure that the
finger-prints found on the speaking tube were not those of Mr. Coburn,
and he remained keenly anxious to obtain impressions from Captain
Beamish’s fingers to compare with the former. But inquiries from the
port officials at Hull, made by wire on the evening of the inquest,
showed that the _Girondin_ would not be back at Ferriby for eight days.
There had been no object, therefore, in his leaving London immediately,
and instead he had busied himself by trying to follow up the deceased’s
movements in the metropolis, and learn with whom he had associated
during his stay. In his search for clues he had even taken the hint
from Merriman’s newspaper and bought a copy of _The Mystery of a Hansom
Cab_, but though he saw that this clever story might easily have
inspired the crime, he could find from it no help towards its solution.

He had also paid a flying visit to the manager of the Hopwood
Manufacturing Company in Sheffield, where Coburn had been employed.
From him he had learned that Madeleine’s surmise was correct, and that
there had been “friction” before her father left. In point of fact a
surprise audit had revealed discrepancies in the accounts. Some money
was missing, and what was suspiciously like an attempt to falsify the
books had taken place. But the thing could not be proved. Mr. Coburn
had paid up, but though his plea that he had made a genuine clerical
error had been accepted, his place had been filled. The manager
expressed the private opinion that there was no doubt of his
subordinate’s guilt, saying also that it was well known that during the
previous months Coburn had been losing money heavily through gambling.
Where he had obtained the money to meet the deficit the manager did not
know, but he believed someone must have come forward to assist him.

This information interested Willis keenly, supporting, as it seemed to
do, his idea that Coburn was in the power of the syndicate or one of
its members. If, for example, one of these men, on the lookout for
helpers in his conspiracy, had learned of the cashier’s predicaments it
was conceivable that he might have obtained his hold by advancing the
money needed to square the matter in return for a signed confession of
guilt. This was of course the merest guesswork, but it at least
indicated to Willis a fresh line of inquiry in case his present
investigation failed.

And with the latter he was becoming exceedingly disappointed. With the
exception of the facts just mentioned, he had learned absolutely
nothing to help him. Mr. Coburn might as well have vanished into thin
air when he left the Peveril Hotel, for all the trace he had left.
Willis could learn neither where he went nor whom he met on any one of
the four days he had spent in London. He congratulated himself,
therefore, that on the following day the _Girondin_ would be back at
Ferriby, and he would then be able to start work on the finger-print
clue.

That evening he settled himself with his pipe to think over once more
the facts he had already learned. As time passed he found himself
approaching more and more to the conclusion reached by Hilliard and
Merriman several weeks before—that the secret of the syndicate was the
essential feature of the case. What were these people doing? That was
the question which at all costs he must answer.

His mind reverted to the two theories already in the field. At first
sight that of brandy smuggling seemed tenable enough, and he turned his
attention to the steps by which the two young men had tried to test it.
At the loading end their observations were admittedly worthless, but at
Ferriby they seemed to have made a satisfactory investigation. Unless
they had unknowingly fallen asleep in the barrel, it was hard to see
how they could have failed to observe contraband being set ashore, had
any been unloaded. But he did not believe they had fallen asleep.
People were usually conscious of awakening. Besides there was the
testimony of Menzies, the pilot. It was hardly conceivable that this
man also should have been deceived. At the same time Willis decided he
must interview him, so as to form his own opinion of the man’s
reliability.

Another possibility occurred to him which none of the amateur
investigators appeared to have thought of. North Sea trawlers were
frequently used for getting contraband ashore. Was the _Girondin_
transferring illicit cargo to such vessels while at sea?

This was a question Inspector Willis felt he could not solve. It would
be a matter for the Customs Department. But he knew enough about it to
understand that immense difficulties would have to be overcome before
such a scheme could be worked. Firstly, there was the size of the
fraud. Six months ago, according to what Miss Coburn overheard, the
syndicate were making £6,800 per trip, and probably, from the remarks
then made, they were doing more today. And £6,800 meant—the inspector
buried himself in calculations—at least one thousand gallons of brandy.
Was it conceivable that trawlers could get rid of one thousand gallons
every ten days—One hundred gallons a day? Frankly he thought it
impossible. In fact, in the face of the Customs officers’ activities,
he doubted if such a thing could be done by any kind of machinery that
could be devised. Indeed, the more Willis pondered the smuggling
theory, the less likely it seemed to him, and he turned to consider the
possibilities of Miss Coburn’s suggestion of false note printing.

Here at once he was met by a fact which he had not mentioned to
Merriman. As it happened, the circulation of spurious Treasury notes
was one of _the_ subjects of interest to Scotland Yard at the moment.
Notes _were_ being forged and circulated in large numbers. Furthermore,
the source of supply was believed to be some of the large towns in the
Midlands, Leeds being particularly suspected. But Leeds was on the
direct line through Ferriby, and comparatively not far away. Willis
felt that it was up to him to explore to the uttermost limit all the
possibilities which these facts opened up.

He began by looking at the matter from the conspirators’ point of view.
Supposing they had overcome the difficulty of producing the notes, how
would they dispose of them?

Willis could appreciate the idea of locating the illicit press in
France. Firstly, it would be obvious to the gang that the early
discovery of a fraud of the kind was inevitable. Its existence, indeed,
would soon become common property. But this would but slightly affect
its success. It was the finding of the source of supply that mattered,
and the difficulty of this was at once the embarrassment of the
authorities and the opportunity of the conspirators.

Secondly, English notes were to be forged and circulated in England,
therefore it was from the English police that the source of supply must
be hidden. And how better could this be done than by taking it out of
England altogether? The English police would look in England for what
they wanted. The attention of the French police, having no false French
notes to deal with, would not be aroused. It seemed to Willis that so
far he was on firm ground.

The third point was that, granting the first two, some agency would be
required to convey the forged notes from France to England. But here a
difficulty arose. The pit-prop plan seemed altogether too elaborate and
cumbrous for all that was required. Willis, as Merriman had done
earlier, pictured the passenger with the padded overcoat and the
double-bottomed handbag. This traveller, it seemed, would meet the
case.

But did he? Would there not, with him, be a certain risk? There would
be a continuous passing through Customs houses, frequent searchings of
the faked suitcase. Accidents happen. Suppose the traveller held on to
his suitcase too carefully? Some sharp-eyed Customs officer might
become suspicious. Suppose he didn’t hold on carefully enough and it
were lost? Yes, there would be risks. Small, doubtless, but still
risks. And the gang couldn’t afford them.

As Willis turned the matter over in his mind, he came gradually to the
conclusion that the elaboration of the pit-prop business was no real
argument against its having been designed merely to carry forged notes.
As a business, moreover, it would pay or almost pay. It would furnish a
secret method of getting the notes across at little or no cost. And as
a blind, Willis felt that nothing better could be devised. The scheme
visualized itself to him as follows. Somewhere in France, probably in
some cellar in Bordeaux, was installed the illicit printing-press.
There the notes were produced. By some secret method they were conveyed
to Henri when his lorry-driving took him into the city, and he in turn
brought them to the clearing and handed them over to Coburn. Captain
Beamish and Bulla would then take charge of them, probably hiding them
on the _Girondin_ in some place which would defy a surprise Customs
examination. Numbers of such places, Willis felt sure, could be
arranged, especially in the engine room. The cylinders of a duplicate
set of pumps, disused on that particular trip, occurred to him as an
example. After arrival at Ferriby there would be ample opportunity for
the notes to be taken ashore and handed over to Archer, and Archer
“could plant stuff on Old Nick himself.”

The more he pondered over it, the more tenable this theory seemed to
Inspector Willis. He rose and began pacing the room, frowning heavily.
More than tenable, it seemed a sound scheme cleverly devised and
carefully worked out. Indeed he could think of no means so likely to
mislead and delude suspicious authorities in their search for the
criminals as this very plan.

Two points, however, think as he might, he could not reconcile. One was
that exasperating puzzle of the changing of the lorry number plates,
the other how the running of a second boat to Swansea would increase
the profits of the syndicate.

But everything comes to him who waits, and at last he got an idea. What
if the number of the lorry was an indication to the printers of the
notes as to whether Henri was or was not in a position to take over a
consignment? Would some such sign be necessary? If Henri suspected he
was under observation, or if he had to make calls in unsuitable places,
he would require a secret method of passing on the information to his
accomplices. And if so, could a better scheme be devised than that of
showing a prearranged number on his lorry? Willis did not think so, and
he accepted the theory for what it was worth.

Encouraged by his progress, he next tackled his second difficulty—how
the running of a second boat would dispose of more notes. But try as he
would he could arrive at no conclusion which would explain the point.
It depended obviously on the method of distribution adopted, and of
this part of the affair he was entirely ignorant. Failure to account
for this did not therefore necessarily invalidate the theory as a
whole.

And with the theory as a whole he was immensely pleased. As far as he
could see it fitted all the known facts, and bore the stamp of
probability to an even greater degree than that of brandy smuggling.

But theories were not enough. He must get ahead with his investigation.

Accordingly next morning he began his new inquiry by sending a
telegram.

“To BEAMISH, Landes Pit-Prop Syndicate, Ferriby, Hull.
    “Could you meet me off London train at Paragon Station at 3.9
    tomorrow re death of Coburn. I should like to get back by 4.0. If
    not would stay and go out to Ferriby.


“WILLIS,
“Scotland Yard.”


He travelled that same day to Hull, having arranged for the reply to be
sent after him. Going to the first-class refreshment room at the
Paragon, he had a conversation with the barmaid in which he disclosed
his official position, and passed over a ten-shilling note on account
for services about to be rendered. Then, leaving by the evening train,
he returned to Doncaster, where he spent the night.

On the next day he boarded the London train which reaches Hull at 3.9.
At Paragon Station he soon singled out Beamish from Merriman’s
description.

“Sorry for asking you to come in, Captain Beamish,” he apologized, “but
I was anxious if possible to get back to London tonight. I heard of you
from Miss Coburn and Mr. Merriman, both of whom read of the tragedy in
the papers, and severally came to make inquiries at the Yard. Lloyd’s
Register told me your ship came in here, so I came along to see you in
the hope that you might be able to give me some information about the
dead man which might suggest a line of inquiry as to his murderer.”

Beamish replied politely and with a show of readiness and candor.

“No trouble to meet you, inspector. I had to come up to Hull in any
case, and I shall be glad to tell you anything I can about poor Coburn.
Unfortunately I am afraid it won’t be much. When our syndicate was
starting we wanted a manager for the export end. Coburn applied, there
was a personal interview, he seemed suitable and he was appointed on
trial. I know nothing whatever about him otherwise, except that he made
good, and I may say that in the two years of our acquaintance I always
found him not only pleasant and agreeable to deal with, but also
exceedingly efficient in his work.”

Willis asked a number of other questions—harmless questions, easily
answered about the syndicate and Coburn’s work, ending up with an
expression of thanks for the other’s trouble and an invitation to
adjourn for a drink.

Beamish accepting, the inspector led the way to the first-class
refreshment room and approached the counter opposite the barmaid whose
acquaintance he had made the previous day.

“Two small whiskies, please,” he ordered, having asked his companion’s
choice.

The girl placed the two small tumblers of yellow liquid before her
customers and Willis added a little water to each.

“Well, here’s yours,” he said, and raising his glass to his lips,
drained the contents at a draught. Captain Beamish did the same.

The inspector’s offer of a second drink having been declined, the two
men left the refreshment room, still chatting about the murdered man.
Ten minutes later Captain Beamish saw the inspector off in the London
train. But he did not know that in the van of that train there was a
parcel, labelled to “Inspector Willis, passenger to Doncaster by 4.0
p.m.,” which contained a small tumbler, smelling of whisky, and
carefully packed up so as to prevent the sides from being rubbed.

The inspector was the next thing to excited when, some time later, he
locked the door of his bedroom in the Stag’s Head Hotel at Doncaster
and, carefully unpacking the tumbler, he took out his powdering
apparatus and examined it for prints. With satisfaction he found his
little ruse had succeeded. The glass bore clearly defined marks of a
right thumb and two fingers.

Eagerly he compared the prints with those he had found on the taxi
call-tube. And then he suffered disappointment keen and deep. The two
sets were dissimilar.

So his theory had been wrong, and Captain Beamish was not the murderer
after all! He realized now that he had been much more convinced of its
truth than he had had any right to be, and his chagrin was
correspondingly greater. He had indeed been so sure that Beamish was
his man that he had failed sufficiently to consider other
possibilities, and now he found himself without any alternative theory
to fall back on.

But he remained none the less certain that Coburn’s death was due to
his effort to break with the syndicate, and that it was to the
syndicate that he must look for light on the matter. There were other
members of it—he knew of two, Archer and Morton, and there might be
more—one of whom might be the man he sought. It seemed to him that his
next business must be to find those other members, ascertain if any of
them were tall men, and if so, obtain a copy of their finger-prints.

But how was this to be done? Obviously from the shadowing of the
members whom he knew, that was, Captain Beamish, Bulla, and Benson, the
Ferriby manager. Of these, Beamish and Bulla were for the most part at
sea; therefore, he thought, his efforts should be concentrated on
Benson.

It was with a view to some such contingency that he had alighted at
Doncaster instead of returning to London, and he now made up his mind
to return on the following day to Hull and, the _Girondin_ having by
that time left, to see what he could learn at the Ferriby depot.

He spent three days shadowing Benson, without coming on anything in the
slightest degree suspicious. The manager spent each of the days at the
wharf until about six o’clock. Then he walked to Ferriby Station and
took the train to Hull, where he dined, spent the evening at some place
of amusement, and returned to the depot by a late train.

On the fourth day, as the same program seemed to be in prowess, Willis
came to the conclusion that he was losing time and must take some more
energetic step. He determined that if Benson left the depot in the
evening as before, he would try to effect an entrance to his office and
have a look through his papers.

Shortly after six, from the hedge behind which he had concealed
himself, he saw Benson appear at the door in the corrugated iron fence,
and depart in the direction of Ferriby. The five employees had left
about an hour earlier, and the inspector believed the works were
entirely deserted.

After giving Benson time to get clear away, he crept from his hiding
place, and approaching the depot, tried the gate in the fence. It was
locked, but few locks were proof against the inspector’s prowess, and
with the help of a bent wire he was soon within the enclosure. He
closed the gate behind him and, glancing carefully round, approached
the shed.

The door of the office was also locked, but the bent wire conquered it
too, and in a couple of minutes he pushed it open, passed through, and
closed it behind him.

The room was small, finished with yellow matchboarded walls and
ceiling, and containing a closed roll-top desk, a table littered with
papers, a vertical file, two cupboards, a telephone, and other simple
office requisites. Two doors led out of it, one to the manager’s
bedroom, the other to the shed. Thinking that those could wait, Willis
settled down to make an examination of the office.

He ran rapidly though methodically through the papers on the table
without finding anything of interest. All referred to the pit-prop
industry, and seemed to indicate that the business was carried on
efficiently. Next he tackled the desk, picking the lock with his usual
skill. Here also, though he examined everything with meticulous care,
his search was fruitless.

He moved to the cupboards. One was unfastened and contained old
ledgers, account books and the like, none being of any interest. The
other cupboard was locked, and Willis’s quick eyes saw that the
woodwork round the keyhole was much scratched, showing that the lock
was frequently used. Again the wire was brought into requisition, and
in a moment the door swung open, revealing to the inspector’s
astonished gaze—a telephone.

Considerably puzzled, he looked round to the wall next the door. Yes,
he had not been mistaken; there also was affixed a telephone. He
crossed over to it, and following with his eye the run of the wires,
saw that it was connected to those which approached the shed from
across the railway.

With what, then, did this second instrument communicate? There were no
other wires approaching the shed, nor could he find any connection to
which it could be attached.

He examined the instrument more closely, and then he saw that it was
not of the standard government pattern. It was marked “The A. M.
Curtiss Co., Philadelphia, Pa.” It was therefore part of a private
installation and, as such, illegal, as the British Government hold the
monopoly for all telephones in the country. At least it would be
illegal if it were connected up.

But was it? The wires passed through the back of the cupboard into the
wall, and, looking down, Willis saw that one of the wall sheeting
boards, reaching from the cupboard to the floor, had at some time been
taken out and replaced with screws.

To satisfy his curiosity he took out his combination pocket knife, and
deftly removing the screws, pulled the board forward. His surprise was
not lessened when he saw that the wires ran down inside the wall and,
heavily insulated, disappeared into the ground beneath the shed.

“Is it possible that they have a cable?” thought the puzzled man, as he
replaced the loose board and screwed it fast.

The problem had to stand over, as he wished to complete his
investigation of the remainder of the building. But though he searched
the entire premises with the same meticulous thoroughness that he had
displayed in dealing with the papers, he came on nothing else which in
any way excited his interest.

He let himself out and, relocking the various doors behind him, walked
to Hassle and from there returned to his hotel in Hull.

He was a good deal intrigued by his discovery of the secret telephone.
That it was connected up and frequently used he was certain, both from
the elaboration of its construction and from the marking round the
cupboard keyhole. He wondered if he could without discovery tap the
wires and overhear the business discussed. Had the wires been carried
on poles the matter would have been simple, but as things were he would
have to make his connection under the loose board and carry his cable
out through the wall and along the shore to some point at which the
receiver would be hidden—by no means an easy matter.

But in default of something better he would have tried it, had not a
second discovery he made later on the same evening turned his thoughts
into an entirely new channel.

It was in thinking over the probable purpose of the telephone that he
got his idea. It seemed obvious that it was used for the secret side of
the enterprise, and if so, would it not most probably connect the
import depot of the secret commodity with that of its distribution?
Ferriby wharf was the place of import, but the distribution, as the
conversations overheard indicated, lay not in the hands of Benson but
of Archer. What if the telephone led to Archer?

There was another point. The difficulty of laying a secret land wire
would be so enormous that in the nature of things the line must be
short. It must either lead, Willis imagined, to the southern bank of
the estuary or to somewhere quite near.

But if both these conclusions were sound, it followed that Archer
himself must be found in the immediate neighborhood. Could he learn
anything from following up this idea?

He borrowed a directory of Hull and began looking up all the Archers
given in the alphabetical index. There were fifteen, and of these one
immediately attracted his attention. It read:

“Archer, Archibald Charles, The Elms, Ferriby.”

He glanced at his watch. It was still but slightly after ten. Taking
his hat he walked to the police station and saw the sergeant on duty.

“Yes, sir,” said the man in answer to his inquiry. “I know the
gentleman. He is the managing director of Ackroyd and Holt’s
distillery, about half-way between Ferriby and Hassle.”

“And what is he like in appearance?” Willis continued, concealing the
interest this statement had aroused.

“A big man, sir,” the sergeant answered. “Tall, and broad too. Clean
shaven, with heavy features, very determined looking.”

Willis had food for thought as he returned to his hotel. Merriman had
been thrilled when he learned of the proximity of the distillery to the
syndicate’s depot, seeing therein an argument in favor of the brandy
smuggling theory. This new discovery led Willis at first to take the
same view, but the considerations which Hilliard had pointed out
occurred to him also, and though he felt a little puzzled, he was
inclined to dismiss the matter as a coincidence.

Though after his recent experience he was even more averse to jumping
to conclusions than formerly, Willis could not but believe that he was
at last on a hopeful scent. At all events his first duty was clear. He
must find this Archibald Charles Archer, and obtain prints of his
fingers.

Next morning found him again at Ferriby, once more looking southwards
from the concealment of a cluster of bushes. But this time the object
of his attention was no longer the syndicate’s depot. Instead he
focused his powerful glasses on the office of the distillery.

About nine-thirty a tall, stoutly built man strode up to the building
and entered. His dress indicated that he was of the employer class, and
from the way in which a couple of workmen touched their caps as he
passed, Willis had no doubt he was the managing director.

For some three hours the inspector lay hidden, then he suddenly
observed the tall man emerge from the building and walk rapidly in the
direction of Ferriby. Immediately the inspector crept down the hedge
nearer to the road, so as to see his quarry pass at close quarters.

It happened that as the man came abreast of Willis, a small two-seater
motor-car coming from the direction of Ferriby also reached the same
spot. But instead of passing, it slowed down and its occupant hailed
the tall man.

“Hallo, Archer,” he shouted. “Can I give you a lift?”

“Thanks,” the big man answered. “It would be a kindness. I have
unexpectedly to go into Hull, and my own car is out of order.”

“Run you in in quarter of an hour.”

“No hurry. If I am in by half past one it will do. I am lunching with
Frazer at the Criterion at that time.”

The two-seater stopped, the big man entered, and the vehicle moved
away.

As soon as it was out of sight, Willis emerged from his hiding-place,
and hurrying to the station, caught the 1.17 train to Hull. Twenty
minutes later he passed through the swing doors of the Criterion.

The hotel, as is well known, is one of the most fashionable in Hull,
and at the luncheon hour the restaurant was well filled. Glancing
casually round, Willis could see his new acquaintance seated at a table
in the window, in close conversation with a florid, red-haired
individual of the successful business man type.

All the tables in the immediate vicinity were occupied, and Willis
could not get close by in the hope of overhearing some of the
conversation, as he had intended. He therefore watched the others from
a distance, and when they had moved to the lounge he followed them.

He heard them order coffee and liqueurs, and then a sudden idea came
into his head. Rising, he followed the waiter through the service door.

“I want a small job done,” he said, while a ten-shilling note changed
hands. “I am from Scotland Yard, and I want the finger-prints of the
men who have just ordered coffee. Polish the outsides of the liqueur
glasses thoroughly, and only lift them by the stems. Then when the men
have gone let me have the glasses.”

He returned to the lounge, and presently had the satisfaction of seeing
Archer lift his glass by the bowl between the finger and thumb of his
right hand, to empty his liqueur into his coffee. Hall an hour later he
was back in his hotel with the carefully packed glass.

A very few minutes sufficed for the test. The impressions showed up
well, and this time the inspector gave a sigh of relief as he compared
them with those of the taxi speaking-tube. They were the same. His
quest was finished. Archer was the murderer of Francis Coburn.

For a minute or two, in his satisfaction, the inspector believed his
work was done. He had only to arrest Archer, take official prints of
his fingers, and he had all the necessary proof for a conviction. But a
moment’s consideration showed him that his labors were very far indeed
from being over. What he had accomplished was only a part of the task
he had set himself. It was a good deal more likely that the other
members of the syndicate were confederates in the murder as well as in
the illicit trade. He must get his hands on them too. But if he
arrested Archer he would thereby destroy all chance of accomplishing
the greater feat. The very essence of success lay in lulling to rest
any doubts that their operations were suspect which might have entered
into the minds of the members of the syndicate. No, he would do nothing
at present, and he once more felt himself up against the question which
had baffled Hilliard and Merriman—What was the syndicate doing? Until
he had answered this, therefore, he could not rest.

And how was it to be done? After some thought he came to the conclusion
that his most promising clue was the secret telephone, and he made up
his mind the next day he would try to find its other end, and if
necessary tap the wires and listen in to any conversation which might
take place.




CHAPTER XV.
INSPECTOR WILLIS LISTENS IN


Inspector Willis was a good deal exercised by the question of whether
or not he should have Archer shadowed. If the managing director
conceived the slightest suspicion of his danger he would undoubtedly
disappear, and a man of his ability would not be likely to leave many
traces. On the other hand Willis wondered whether even Scotland Yard
men could shadow him sufficiently continuously to be a real safeguard,
without giving themselves away. And if that happened he might indeed
arrest Archer, but it would be good-bye to any chance of getting his
confederates.

After anxious thought he decided to take the lesser risk. He would not
bring assistants into the matter, but would trust to his own skill to
carry on the investigation unnoticed by the distiller.

Though the discovery of Archer’s identity seemed greatly to strengthen
the probability that the secret telephone led to him, Willis could not
state this positively, and he felt it was the next point to be
ascertained. The same argument that he had used before seemed to
apply—that owing to the difficulty of wiring, the point of connection
must be close to the depot. Archer’s office was not more than three
hundred yards away, while his house, The Elms, was over a mile. The
chances were therefore in favor of the former.

It followed that he must begin by searching Archer’s office for the
other receiver, and he turned his attention to the problem of how this
could best be done.

And first, as to the lie of the offices. He called at the Electric
Generating Station, and having introduced himself confidentially to the
manager in his official capacity, asked to see the man whose business
it was to inspect the lights of the distillery. From him he had no
difficulty in obtaining a rough plan of the place.

It appeared that the offices were on the first floor, fronting along
the line, Archer’s private office occupying the end of the suite and
the corner of the building nearest to the syndicate’s wharf, and
therefore to Ferriby. The supervisor believed that it had two windows
looking to the front and side respectively, but was not sure.

That afternoon Inspector Willis returned to the distillery, and
secreting himself in the same hiding place as before, watched until the
staff had left the building. Then strolling casually along the lane, he
observed that the two telephone wires which approached across the
fields led to the third window from the Ferriby end of the first floor
row.

“That’ll be the main office,” he said to himself, “but there will
probably be an extension to Archer’s own room. Now I wonder—”

He looked about him. The hedge bounding the river side of the lane ran
up to the corner of the building. After another hasty glance round
Willis squeezed through and from immediately below scrutinized the side
window of the managing director’s room. And then he saw something which
made him chuckle with pleasure.

Within a few inches of the architrave of the window there was a
down-spout, and from the top of the window to the spout he saw
stretching what looked like a double cord. It was painted the same
color as the walls, and had he not been looking out specially he would
not have seen it. A moment’s glance at the foot of the spout showed him
his surmise was correct. Pushed in behind it and normally concealed by
it were two insulated wires, which ran down the wall from the window
and disappeared into the ground with the spout.

“Got it first shot,” thought the inspector delightedly, as he moved
away so as not to attract the attention of any chance onlooker.

Another idea suddenly occurred to him and, after estimating the height
and position of the window, he turned and ran his eye once more over
his surroundings. About fifty yards from the distillery, and behind the
hedge fronting the lane, stood the cottage which Hilliard and Merriman
had noticed. It was in a bad state of repair, having evidently been
unoccupied for a long time. In the gable directly opposite the managing
director’s office was a broken window. Willis moved round behind the
house, and once again producing his bent wire, in a few moments had the
back door open. Slipping inside, he passed through the damp-smelling
rooms and up the decaying staircase until he reached the broken window.
From it, as he had hoped, he found he had a good view into the office.

He glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes past seven.

“I’ll do it tonight,” he murmured, and quietly leaving the house, he
hurried to Ferriby Station and so to Hull.

Some five hours later he left the city again, this time by motor. He
stopped at the end of the lane which ran past the distillery, dismissed
the vehicle, and passed down the lane. He was carrying a light, folding
ladder, a spade, a field telephone, a coil of insulated wire, and some
small tools.

The night was very dark. The crescent moon would not rise for another
couple of hours, and a thick pall of cloud cut off all light from the
stars. A faint wind stirred the branches of the few trees in the
neighborhood and sighed across the wide spaces of open country. The
inspector walked slowly, being barely able to see against the sky the
tops of the hedges which bounded the lane. Except for himself no living
creature seemed to be abroad.

Arrived at his destination, Willis felt his way to the gap in the hedge
which he had used before, passed through, and with infinite care raised
his ladder to the window of Archer’s office. He could not see the
window, but he checked the position of the ladder by the measurements
from the hedge. Then he slowly ascended.

He found he had gauged his situation correctly, and he was soon on the
sill of the window, trying with his knife to push back the hasp. This
he presently accomplished, and then, after an effort so great that he
thought he would be beaten, he succeeded in raising the sash. A minute
later he was in the room.

His first care was to pull down the thick blinds of blue holland with
which the windows were fitted. Then tip-toeing to the door, he
noiselessly shot the bolt in the lock.

Having thus provided against surprise, he began his investigation.
There in the top corner of the side window were the wires. They
followed the miter of the window architrave—white-enameled to match—and
then, passing down for a few inches at the outside of the moldings, ran
along the picture rail round the room, concealed in the groove behind
it. Following in the same way the miter of the architrave, they
disappeared though a door in the back wall of the office.

Willis softly opened the door, which was not locked, and peered into a
small store, evidently used for filing. The wires were carried down the
back of the architrave molding and along the top of the wainscoting,
until finally they disappeared into the side of one of a series of
cupboards which lined the wall opposite the door. The cupboard was
locked, but with the help of the bent wire it soon stood open and
Willis, flashing in a beam from his electric torch, saw with
satisfaction that he had attained at least one of his objects. A
telephone receiver similar to that at the syndicate’s depot was within.

He examined the remaining contents of the room, but found nothing of
interest until he came to the door. This was solidly made and edged
with rubber, and he felt sure that it would be almost completely
sound-proof. It was, moreover, furnished with a well-oiled lock.

“Pretty complete arrangement,” Willis thought as he turned back to the
outer office. Here he conducted another of his meticulous examinations,
but unfortunately with a negative result.

Having silently unlocked the door and pulled up the blinds, he climbed
out on the window sill and closed the window. He was unable to refasten
the hasp, and had therefore to leave this evidence of his visit, though
he hoped and believed it would not be noticed.

Lifting down the ladder, he carried it to the cottage and hid it
therein. Part of his task was done, and he must wait for daylight to
complete the remainder.

When some three hours later the coming dawn had made objects visible,
he again emerged armed with his tools and coil of insulated wire.
Digging a hole at the bottom of the down-pipe, he connected his wires
just below the ground level to those of the telephone. Then inserting
his spade along the face of the wall from the pipe to the hedge, he
pushed back the adjoining soil, placed the wires in the narrow trench
thus made, and trod the earth back into place. When the hole at the
down-spout had been filled, practically no trace remained of the
disturbance.

The ground along the inside of the hedge being thickly grown over with
weeds and grass, he did not think it necessary to dig a trench for the
wire, simply bedding it beneath the foliage. But he made a spade cut
across the sward from the hedge to the cottage door, sank in the wire
and trod out the cut. Once he had passed the tiny cable beneath the
front door he no longer troubled to hide it but laid it across the
floors and up the stairs to the broken window. There he attached the
field receiver, affixing it to his ear so as to be ready for
eventualities.

It was by this time half past six and broad daylight, but Willis had
seen no sign of life and he believed his actions had been unobserved.
He ate a few sandwiches, then lighting his pipe, lay down on the floor
and smoked contentedly.

His case at last was beginning to prosper. The finding of Coburn’s
murderer was of course an event of outstanding importance, and now the
discovery of the telephone was not only valuable for its own sake, but
was likely to bring in a rich harvest of information from the messages
he hoped to intercept. Indeed he believed he could hardly fail to
obtain from this source a definite indication of the nature and scope
of the conspiracy.

About eight o’clock he could see from his window a number of workmen
arrive at the distillery, followed an hour later by a clerical staff.
After them came Archer, passing from his car to the building with his
purposeful stride. Almost immediately he appeared in his office, sat
down at his desk, and began to work.

Until nearly midday Willis watched him going through papers, dictating
letters, and receiving subordinates. Then about two minutes to the hour
he saw him look at his watch, rise, and approach the door from the
other office, which was in Willis’s line of vision behind the desk. He
stooped over the lock as if turning the key, and then the watcher’s
excitement rose as the other disappeared out of sight in the direction
of the filing room.

Willis was not disappointed. Almost immediately he heard the faint call
of the tiny buzzer, and then a voice—Archer’s voice, he believed, from
what he had heard in the hotel lounge called softly, “Are you there?”

There was an immediate answer. Willis had never heard Benson speak, but
he presumed that the reply must be from him.

“Anything to report?” Archer queried.

“No. Everything going on as usual.”

“No strangers poking round and asking questions?”

“And no traces of a visitor while you were away?”

“None.”

“Good. It’s probably a false alarm. Beamish may have been mistaken.”

“I hope so, but he seemed very suspicious of that Scotland Yard
man—said he was sure he was out for more than he pretended. He thought
he was too easily satisfied with the information he got, and that some
of his questions were too foolish to be genuine.”

Inspector Willis sat up sharply. This was a blow to his dignity, and he
felt not a little scandalized. But he had no time to consider his
feelings. Archer was speaking again.

“I think we had better be on the safe side. If you have the slightest
suspicion don’t wait to report to me. Wire at once to Henri at the
clearing this message—take it down so that there’ll be no mistake—‘Six
hundred four-foot props wanted. If possible send next cargo.’ Got that?
He will understand. It is our code for ‘Suspect danger. Send blank
cargoes until further notice.’ Then if a search is made nothing will be
found, because there won’t be anything there to find.”

“Very good. It’s a pity to lose the money, but I expect you’re right.”

“We can’t take avoidable risks. Now about yourself. I see you brought
no stuff up last night?”

“Couldn’t. I had a rotten bilious attack. I started, but had to go back
to bed again. Couldn’t stand.”

“Better?”

“Yes, all right now, thanks.”

“Then you’ll bring the usual up tonight?”

“Certainly.”

“Very well. Now, what about ten forty-five for tomorrow?”

“Right.”

The switch snapped, and in a few seconds the watcher saw Archer return
to his office, bend for a moment over the lock of the door, then reseat
himself at his desk.

“I’ve got them now,” he thought triumphantly. “I’ve got them at last.
Tonight I’ll take them red-handed in whatever they’re doing.” He smiled
in anticipation. “By Jove,” he went on, “it was lucky they sent nothing
up last night, or they would have taken _me_ red-handed, and that might
have been the end of me!”

He was greatly impressed by the excellence of the telephone scheme.
There was nothing anywhere about it to excite suspicion, and it kept
Archer in touch with the illicit undertaking, while enabling him to
hold himself absolutely aloof from all its members. If the rest of the
organization was as good, it was not surprising that Hilliard and
Merriman had been baffled.

But the puzzle was now solved, the mystery at an end. That night, so
Willis assured himself, the truth would be known.

He remained in his hiding place all day, until, indeed, he had watched
the workers at the distillery leave and the gray shadows of evening had
begun to descend. Then he hid the telephone and wire in a cupboard,
stealthily left the house, and after a rapid glance round hurried along
the lane towards Ferriby.

He caught the 6.57 train to Hull, and in a few minutes was at the
police station. There he saw the superintendent, and after a little
trouble got him to fall in with the plan which he had devised.

As a result of their conference a large car left the city shortly
before nine, in which were seated Inspector Willis and eight picked
constables in plain clothes. They drove to the end of the Ferriby Lane,
where the men dismounted, and took cover behind some shrubs, while the
car returned towards Hull.

It was almost, but not quite dark. There was no moon, but the sky was
clear and the stars were showing brightly. A faint air, in which there
was already a touch of chill, sighed gently through the leaves, rising
at intervals almost to a breeze, then falling away again to nothing.
Lights were showing here and there—yellow gleams from unshaded windows,
signal lamps from the railway, navigation lights from the river. Except
for the sound of the retreating car and the dull roar of a distant
train, the night was very still, a night, in fact, pre-eminently
suitable for the inspector’s purpose.

The nine men moved silently down the lane at intervals of a few
minutes, their rubber-shod feet making no sound on the hard surface.
Willis went first, and as the others reached him he posted them in the
positions on which he had previously decided. One man took cover behind
the hedge of the lane, a short distance on the distillery side of the
wharf, another behind a pile of old material on the railway at the same
place, a third hid himself among some bushes on the open ground between
the railway and the river, while a fourth crept as near to the end of
the wharf as the tide would allow, so as to watch approaches from the
water. When they were in position, Willis felt convinced no one could
leave the syndicate’s depot for the distillery without being seen.

The other four men he led on to the distillery, placing them in a
similar manner on its Ferriby side. If by some extraordinary chance the
messenger with the “stuff” should pass the first cordon, the second, he
was satisfied, would take him. He left himself free to move about as
might appear desirable.

The country was extraordinarily deserted. Not one of the nine men had
seen a living soul since they left their motor, and Willis felt certain
that his dispositions had been carried out in absolute secrecy.

He crossed the fence on to the railway. By climbing half-way up the
ladder of a signal he was able to see the windows of the shed over the
galvanized fence. All were in darkness, and he wondered if Benson had
gone on his customary expedition into Hull.

To satisfy himself on this point he hid beneath a wagon which was
standing on the siding close to the gate in the fence. If the manager
were returning by his usual train he would be due in a few minutes, and
Willis intended to wait and see.

It was not long before a sharp footfall told that someone was coming
along the lane. The unknown paused at the stile, climbed over; and,
walking more carefully across the rails, approached the door. Willis,
whose eyes were accustomed to the gloom, could make out the dim form of
a man, showing like a smudge of intensified blackness against the
obscurity beyond. He unlocked the door, passed through, slammed it
behind him, and his retreating steps sounded from within. Finally
another door closed in the distance and silence again reigned.

Willis crawled out from beneath his truck and once more climbed the
signal ladder. The windows of Benson’s office were now lighted up, but
the blinds being drawn, the inspector could see nothing within.

After about half an hour he observed the same phenomenon as Hilliard
and Merriman had witnessed—the light was carried from the office to the
bedroom, and a few minutes later disappeared altogether.

The ladder on which he was standing appearing to Willis to offer as
good an observation post as he could hope to get, he climbed to the
little platform at the top, and seating himself, leaned back against
the timber upright and continued his watch.

Though he was keenly interested by his adventure, time soon began to
drag. It was cramped on the little seat, and he could not move freely
for fear of falling off. Then to his dismay he began to grow sleepy. He
had of course been up all the previous night, and though he had dozed a
little during his vigil in the deserted house, he had not really
rested. He yawned, stretched himself carefully, and made a determined
effort to overcome his drowsiness.

He was suddenly and unexpectedly successful. He got the start of his
life, and for a moment he thought an earthquake had come. The signal
post trembled and swayed while with a heavy metallic clang objects
moved through the darkness near his head. He gripped the rail, and then
he laughed as he remembered that railway signals were movable. This one
had just been lowered for a train.

Presently it roared past him, enveloping him in a cloud of steam, which
for an instant was lit bright as day by the almost white beam that
poured out of the open door of the engine firebox. Then, the steam
clearing, there appeared a strip of faintly lit ground on either side
of the flying carriage roofs; it promptly vanished; red tail Lamps
appeared, leaping away; there was a rattle of wheels over siding
connections, and with a rapidly decreasing roar the visitation was
past. For a moment there remained the quickly moving spot of lighted
steam, then it too vanished. Once again the signal post swayed as the
heavy mechanism of the arm dropped back into the “on” position, and
then all was once more still.

The train had effectually wakened Willis, and he set himself with a
renewed vigor to this task. Sharply he watched the dark mass of the
shed with its surrounding enclosure, keenly he listened for some sound
of movement within. But all remained dark and silent.

Towards one in the morning he descended from his perch and went the
round of his men. All were alert, and all were unanimous that no one
had passed.

The time dragged slowly on. The wind had risen somewhat and clouds were
banking towards the north-west. It grew colder, and Willis fancied
there must be a touch of frost.

About four o’clock he went round his pickets for the second time. He
was becoming more and more surprised that the attempt had been delayed
so long, and when some two hours later the coming dawn began to
brighten the eastern sky and still no sign had been observed, his
chagrin waxed keen. As the light increased, he withdrew his men to
cover, and about seven o’clock, when it was no longer possible that
anything would be attempted, he sent them by ones and twos to await
their car at the agreed rendezvous.

He was more disappointed at the failure of his trap than he would have
believed possible. What, he wondered, could have happened? Why had the
conspirators abandoned their purpose? Had he given himself away? He
went over in his mind every step he had taken, and he did not see how
any one of them could have become known to his enemies, or how any of
his actions could have aroused their suspicions. No; it was not, he
felt sure, that they had realized their danger. Some other quite
accidental circumstance had intervened to cause them to postpone the
transfer of the “stuff” for that night But what extraordinary hard luck
for him! He had obtained his helpers from the superintendent only after
considerable trouble, and the difficulty of getting them again would be
much greater. And not the least annoying thing was that he, a London
man, one, indeed, of the best men at the Yard, had been made to look
ridiculous in the eyes of these provincial police!

Dog-tired and hungry though he was, he set his teeth and determined
that he would return to the cottage in the hope of learning the reason
of his failure from the conversation which he expected would take place
between Archer and Benson at a quarter to eleven that day.

Repeating, therefore, his proceedings of the previous morning, he
regained his point of vantage at the broken window. Again he watched
the staff arrive, and again observed Archer enter and take his place at
his desk. He was desperately sleepy, and it required all the power of
his strong will to keep himself awake. But at last his perseverance was
rewarded, and at 10.45 exactly he saw Archer bolt his door and
disappear towards the filing room. A moment later the buzzer sounded.

“Are you there?” once again came in Archer’s voice, followed by the
astounding phrase, “I see you brought up that stuff last night.”

“Yes, I brought up two hundred and fifty,” was Benson’s amazing reply.

Inspector Willis gasped. He could scarcely believe his ears. So he had
been tricked after all! In spite of his carefully placed pickets, in
spite of his own ceaseless watchfulness, he had been tricked. Two
hundred and fifty of the illicit somethings had been conveyed, right
under his and his men’s noses, from the depot to the distillery. Almost
choking with rage and amazement he heard Archer continue:

“I had a lucky deal after our conversation yesterday, got seven hundred
unexpectedly planted. You may send up a couple of hundred extra tonight
if you like.”

“Right. I shall,” Benson answered, and the conversation ceased.

Inspector Willis swore bitterly as he lay back on the dusty floor and
pillowed his head on his hands. And then while he still fumed and
fretted, outraged nature asserted herself and he fell asleep.

He woke, ravenously hungry, as it was getting dusk, and he did not
delay long in letting himself out of the house, regaining the lane, and
walking to Ferriby Station. An hour later he was dining at his hotel in
Hull.




CHAPTER XVI.
THE SECRET OF THE SYNDICATE


A night’s rest made Willis once more his own man, and next morning he
found that his choking rage had evaporated, and that he was able to
think calmly and collectedly over the failure of his plans.

As he reconsidered in detail the nature of the watch he had kept, he
felt more than ever certain that his cordons had not been broken
through. No one, he felt satisfied, could have passed unobserved
between the depot and the distillery.

And in spite of this the stuff had been delivered. Archer and Benson
were not bluffing to put him off the scent. They had no idea they were
overheard, and therefore had no reason to say anything except the
truth.

How then was the communication being made? Surely, he thought, if these
people could devise a scheme, he should be able to guess it. He was not
willing to admit his brain inferior to any man’s.

He lit his pipe and drew at it slowly as he turned the question over in
his mind. And then a possible solution occurred to him. What about a
subterranean connection? Had these men driven a tunnel?

Here undoubtedly was a possibility. To drive three hundred yards of a
heading large enough for a stooping man to pass through, would be a
simple matter to men who had shown the skill of these conspirators. The
soil was light and sandy, and they could use without suspicion as much
timber as they required to shore up their work. It was true they would
have to pass under the railway, but that again was a matter of
timbering.

Their greatest difficulty, he imagined, would be in the disposal of the
surplus earth. He began to figure out what it would mean. The
passageway could hardly be less than four feet by five, to allow for
lining, and this would amount to about two yards of material to the
yard run, or say six hundred or seven hundred cubic yards altogether.
Could this have been absorbed in the filling of the wharf? He thought
so. The wharf was a large structure, thirty yards by thirty at least
and eight or nine feet high; more than two thousand cubic yards of
filling would have been required for it. The disposal of the earth,
therefore, would have presented no difficulty. All that came out of the
tunnel could have gone into the wharf three times over.

A tunnel seemingly being a practical proposition, he turned his
attention to his second problem. How could he find out whether or not
it had been made?

Obviously only from examination at one or other end. If it existed it
must connect with cellars at the depot and the distillery. And of these
there could be no question of which he ought to search. The depot was
not only smaller and more compact, but it was deserted at intervals. If
he could not succeed at the syndicate’s enclosure he would have no
chance at the larger building.

It was true he had already searched it without result, but he was not
then specially looking for a cellar, and with a more definite objective
he might have better luck. He decided that if Benson went up to Hull
that night he would have another try.

He took an afternoon train to Ferriby, and walking back towards the
depot, took cover in the same place that he had previously used. There,
sheltered by a hedge, he watched for the manager’s appearance.

The weather had, from the inspector’s point of view, changed for the
worse. The sunny days had gone, and the sky was overladen with clouds.
A cold wind blew in gustily from the south-east, bringing a damp fog
which threatened every minute to turn to rain, and flecking the
lead-colored waters of the estuary with spots of white. Willis shivered
and drew up his collar higher round his ears as he crouched behind the
wet bushes.

“Confound it,” he thought, “when I get into that shed I shall be
dripping water all over the floor.”

But he remained at his post, and in due course he was rewarded by
seeing Benson appear at the door in the fence, and after locking it
behind him, start off down the railway towards Ferriby.

As before, Willis waited until the manager had got clear away, then
slipping across the line, he produced his bent wire, opened the door,
and five minutes later stood once more in the office.

From the nature of the case it seemed clear that the entrance to the
cellar, if one existed, would be hidden. It was therefore for secret
doors or moving panels that he must look.

He began by ascertaining the thickness of all the walls, noting the
size of the rooms so as to calculate those he could not measure
directly. He soon found that no wall was more than six inches thick,
and none could therefore contain a concealed opening.

This narrowed his search. The exit from the building could only be
through a trap-door in the floor.

Accordingly he set to work in the office, crawling torch in hand along
the boards, scrutinizing the joints between them for any that were not
closed with dust, feeling for any that might be loose. But all to no
purpose. The boards ran in one length across the floor and were
obviously firmly nailed down on fixed joists.

He went to the bedroom, rolling aside the mats which covered the floor
and moving the furniture back and forwards. But here he had no better
result.

The remainder of the shed was floored with concrete, and a less
meticulous examination was sufficient to show that the surface was
unbroken. Nor was there anything either on the wharf itself or in the
enclosure behind the shed which could form a cover to a flight of
steps.

Sorely disappointed, Willis returned once more to the office, and
sitting down, went over once again in his mind what he had done, trying
to think if there was a point on the whole area of the depot which he
had overlooked. He could recall none except the space beneath a large
wardrobe in the next room which, owing to its obvious weight, he had
not moved.

“I suppose I had better make sure,” he said to himself, though he did
not believe so massive a piece of furniture could have been pulled
backwards and forwards without leaving scratches on the floor.

He returned to the bedroom. The wardrobe was divided into two portions,
a single deep drawer along the bottom, and above it a kind of large
cupboard with a central door. He seized its end. It was certainly very
heavy; in fact, he found himself unable to move it.

He picked up his torch and examined the wooden base. And then his
interest grew, for he found it was strongly stitch-nailed to the floor.

Considerably mystified, he tried to open the door. It was locked, and
though with his wire he eventually shot back the bolt, the trouble he
had, proved that the lock was one of first quality. Indeed, it was not
a cupboard lock screwed to the inside of the door as might have been
expected, but a small-sized mortice lock hidden in the thickness of the
wood, and the keyhole came through to the inside; just the same
arrangement as is usual in internal house doors.

The inside of the wardrobe revealed nothing of interest. Two coats and
waistcoats, a sweater, and some other clothes were hanging from hooks
at the back. Otherwise the space was empty.

“Why,” he wondered as he stood staring in, “should it be necessary to
lock up clothes like these?”

His eyes turned to the drawer below, and he seized the handles and gave
a sharp pull. The drawer was evidently locked. Once again he produced
his wire, but for the first time it failed him. He flashed a beam from
his lamp into the hole, and then he saw the reason.

The hole was a dummy. It entered the wood but did not go through it. It
was not connected to a lock.

He passed the light round the edges of the drawer. If there was no lock
to fasten it why had he been unable to open it? He took out his
penknife and tried to push the blade into the surrounding space. It
would not penetrate, and he saw that there was no space, but merely a
cut half an inch deep in the wood. There was no drawer. What seemed a
drawer was merely a blind panel.

Inspector Willis grew more and more interested. He could not see why
all that space should be wasted, as it was clear from the way in which
the wardrobe was finished that economy in construction had not been the
motive.

Once again he opened the door of the upper portion, and putting his
head inside passed the beam of the lamp over the floor. This time he
gave a little snort of triumph. The floor did not fit tight to the
sides. All round was a space of some eighth of an inch.

“The trap-door at last,” he muttered, as he began to feel about for
some hidden spring. At last, pressing down on one end of the floor, he
found that it sank and the other end rose in the air, revealing a
square of inky blackness out of which poured a stream of cold, damp
air, and through which he could hear, with the echoing sound peculiar
to vaults, the splashing and churning of the sea.

His torch revealed a flight of steps leading down into the darkness.
Having examined the pivoted floor to make sure there was no secret
catch which could fasten and imprison him below, he stepped on to the
ladder and began to descend. Then the significance of the mortice lock
in the wardrobe door occurred to him, and he stopped, drew the door to
behind him, and with his wire locked it. Descending farther he allowed
the floor to drop gently into place above his head, thus leaving no
trace of his passage.

He had by this time reached the ground, and he stood flashing his torch
about on his surroundings. He was in a cellar, so low in the roof that
except immediately beneath the stairs he could not stand upright. It
was square, some twelve feet either way, and from it issued two
passages, one apparently running down under the wharf, the other at
right angles and some two feet lower in level, leading as if towards
the distillery. Down the center of this latter ran a tiny tramway of
about a foot gauge, on which stood three kegs on four-wheeled frames.
In the upper side of each keg was fixed a tun-dish, to the under side a
stop-cock. Two insulated wires came down through the ceiling below the
cupboard in which the telephone was installed, and ran down the tunnel
towards the distillery.

The walls and ceiling of both cellar and passages were supported by
pit-props, discolored by the damp and marked by stains of earthy water
which had oozed from the spaces between. They glistened with moisture,
but the air, though cold and damp, was fresh. That and the noise of the
waves which reverberated along the passage under the wharf seemed to
show that there was an open connection to the river.

The cellar was empty except for a large wooden tun or cask which
reached almost to the ceiling, and a gunmetal hand pump. Pipes led from
the latter, one to the tun, the other along the passage under the
wharf. On the side of the tun and connected to it at top and bottom was
a vertical glass tube protected by a wooden casing, evidently a gauge,
as beside it was a scale headed “gallons,” and reading from 0 at the
bottom to 2,000 at the top. A dark-colored liquid filled the tube up to
the figure 1,250. There was a wooden spigot tap in the side of the tun
at floor level, and the tramline ran beneath this so that the wheeled
kegs could be pushed below it and filled.

The inspector gazed with an expression of almost awe on his face.

“Lord!” he muttered. “Is it brandy after all?”

He stooped and smelled the wooden tap, and the last doubt was removed
from his mind.

He gave vent to a comprehensive oath. Right enough it was hard luck!
Here he had been hoping to bring off a forged note coup which would
have made his name, and the affair was a job for the Customs Department
after all! Of course a pretty substantial reward would be due to him
for his discovery, and there was his murder case all quite
satisfactory, but forged notes were more in his line, and he felt
cheated out of his due.

But now that he was so far he might as well learn all he could. The
more complete the case he gave in, the larger the reward. Moreover, his
own curiosity was keenly aroused.

The cellar being empty save for the tun, the pump, and the small
tramway and trucks, he turned, and flashing his light before him,
walked slowly along the passage down which ran the pipe. He was, he
felt sure, passing under the wharf and heading towards the river.

Some sixty feet past the pump the floor of the passage came to an
abrupt end, falling vertically as by an enormous step to churning
waters of the river some six feet below. At first in the semi-darkness
Willis thought he had reached the front of the wharf, but he soon saw
he was still in the cellar. The roof ran on at the same level for some
twenty feet farther, and the side walls, here about five feet apart,
went straight down from it into the water. Across the end was a wall,
sloping outwards at the bottom and made of horizontal pit-props
separated by spaces of two or three inches. Willis immediately realized
that these props must be those placed behind the inner or raking row of
piles which supported the front of the wharf.

Along one side wall for its whole length was nailed a series of
horizontal laths twelve inches apart. What their purpose was he did not
know, but he saw that they made a ladder twenty feet wide, by which a
man could work his way from the passage to the end wall and reach the
water at any height of the tide.

Above this ladder was an object which at first puzzled the inspector,
then as he realized its object, it became highly illuminating. On a
couple of brackets secured to the wall lay a pipe of thin steel covered
with thick black baize, and some sixteen feet long by an inch in
diameter. Through it ran the light copper pipe which was connected at
its other end to the pump. At the end of the passage this pipe had
several joints like those of a gas bracket, and was folded on itself
concertina-wise.

The inspector stepped on to the ladder and worked his way across it to
the other end of the steel pipe, close by the end wall. The copper pipe
protruded and ended in a filling like the half of a union. As Willis
gazed he suddenly grasped its significance.

The side of the _Girondin_, he thought, would lie not more than ten
feet from where he was standing. If at night someone from within the
cellar were to push the end of the steel tube out through one of the
spaces between the horizontal timbers of the end wall, it could be
inserted into a porthole, supposing one were just opposite. The
concertina joints would make it flexible and allow it to extend, and
the baize covering would prevent its being heard should it
inadvertently strike the side of the ship. The union on the copper tube
could then be fixed to some receptacle on board, the brandy being
pumped from the ship to the tun.

And no outsider could possibly be any the wiser! Given a dark night and
careful operators, the whole thing would be carried out invisibly and
in absolute silence.

Now Willis saw the object of the peculiar construction of the front of
the wharf. It was necessary to have two lines of piles, so that the
deck between might overshadow and screen from view the openings between
the horizontal beams at the front of the cellar. He stood marvelling at
the ingenuity of the plan. No wonder Hilliard and Merriman had been
baffled.

But if he were to finish his investigations, he must no longer delay.
He worked back across the side of the cellar, regained the passage, and
returned to the pump-room. Then turning into the other passage, he
began to walk as quickly as possible along it.

The tunnel was barely four feet high by three wide, and he found
progress very tiring. After a slight curve at the mouth it ran straight
and almost dead level. Its construction was the same as that of the
cellar, longitudinal timber lining supported behind verticals and
lintels spaced about six feet apart. When he had gone about two hundred
yards it curved sharply to the left, ran heavily timbered for some
thirty yards in the new direction, and then swung round to the right
again.

“I suppose the railway crosses here,” Willis thought, as he passed
painfully round the bends.

The sweat stood in drops on his forehead when he reached the end, and
he breathed a sigh of relief as he realized he could once more stand
upright and stretch his cramped back. He found himself in another
cellar, this time about six feet by twelve. The tramway ran along it,
stopping at the end wall. The place was otherwise empty, save for a
wooden grating or tun-dish with a hinged lid which was fixed between
the rails near the entrance. The telephone wires, which had followed
the tunnel all the way, here vanished into the roof.

Willis concluded he must be standing beneath some part of the
distillery, and a very little thought was required to make clear to him
the _raison d’être_ of what he saw. He pictured the kegs being pushed
under the tap of the large tun in the pump-room and filled with brandy
pumped in from the _Girondin_. In imagination he saw Benson pushing his
loaded trucks through the tunnel—a much easier thing to do than to walk
without something to step over—stopping them one by one over the
grating and emptying the contents therein. No doubt that grating was
connected to some vat or tun buried still deeper beneath the
distillery, in which the brandy mingled with the other brandy brought
there by more legitimate means, and which was sold without documentary
evidence of its surprising increase in bulk.

It was probable, thought Willis, that some secret door must connect the
chamber in which he stood with the distillery, but a careful search
revealed no trace of any opening, and he was forced to the conclusion
that none existed. Accordingly, he turned and began to retrace his
steps through the tunnel.

The walk back seemed even longer and more irksome than his first
transit, and he stopped here and there and knelt down in order to
straighten his aching back. As he advanced, the booming sound of the
waves, which had died down to a faint murmur at the distillery, grew
louder and louder. At last he reached the pump-cellar, and was just
about to step out of the tunnel when his eye caught the flicker of a
light at the top of the step-ladder. Someone was coming down!

Willis instantly snapped off his own light, and for the fraction of a
second he stood transfixed, while his heart thumped and his hand slid
round to his revolver pocket. Breathlessly he watched a pair of legs
step on to the ladder and begin to descend the steps.

Like a flash he realized what he must do. If this was Benson coming to
“take up stuff,” to remain in the tunnel meant certain discovery. But
if only he could reach the passage under the wharf he might be safe.
There was nothing to bring Benson into it.

But to cross the cellar he must pass within two feet of the ladder, and
the man was half-way down. For a moment it looked quite hopeless, then
unexpectedly he got his chance. The man stopped to lock the wardrobe
door. When he had finished, Willis was already across the cellar and
hurrying down the other passage. Fortunately the noise of the waves
drowned all other sounds.

By the time the unknown had reached the bottom of the ladder, Willis
had stepped on to the cross laths and was descending by them. In a
moment he was below the passage level. He intended, should the other
approach, to hide beneath the water in the hope that in the darkness
his head would not be seen.

But the light remained in the cellar, and Willis raised himself and
cautiously peeped down the passage. Then he began to congratulate
himself on what he had just been considering his misfortune. For,
watching there in the darkness, he saw Benson carry out the very
operations he had imagined were performed. The manager wheeled the kegs
one by one beneath the great barrel, filled them from the tap, and
then, setting his lamp on the last of the three, pushed them before him
down the tunnel towards the distillery.

Inspector Willis waited until he judged the other would be out of
sight, then left his hiding-place and cautiously returned to the
pump-room. The gauge now showed 1,125 gallons, and he noted that 125
gallons was put up per trip. He rapidly ascended the steps, passed out
through the wardrobe, and regained the bedroom. A few minutes later he
was once more out on the railway.

He had glanced at his watch in the building and found that it was but
little after ten. Benson must therefore have returned by an earlier
train than usual. Again the inspector congratulated himself that events
had turned out as they had, for though he would have had no fear of his
personal safety had he been seen, premature discovery might have
allowed the other members of the gang to escape.

The last train for Hull having left, he started to walk the six miles
to the city. The weather had still further changed for the worse, and
now half a gale of wind whirled round him in a pandemonium of sound and
blew blinding squalls of rain into his eyes. In a few moments he was
soaked to the skin, and the buffeting of the wind made his progress
slow. But he struggled on, too well pleased by the success of his
evening’s work to mind the discomfort.

And as he considered the affair on the following morning he felt even
more satisfied. He had indeed done well! Not only had he completed what
he set out to do—to discover the murderer of Coburn—but he had
accomplished vastly more. He had brought to light one of the greatest
smuggling conspiracies of modern times. It was true he had not followed
up and completed the case against the syndicate, but this was not his
business. Smuggling was not dealt with by Scotland Yard. It was a
matter for the Customs Department. But if only it had been forged
notes! He heaved a sigh as he thought of the kudos which might have
been his.

But when he had gone so far, he thought he might as well make certain
that the brandy was discharged as he imagined. He calculated that the
_Girondin_ would reach Ferriby on the following day, and he determined
to see the operation carried out.

He followed the plan of Hilliard and Merriman to the extent of hiring a
boat in Hull and sculling gently down towards the wharf as dusk fell.
He had kept a watch on the river all day without seeing the motor ship
go up, but now she passed him a couple of miles above the city. He
turned inshore when he saw her coming, lest Captain Beamish’s
binoculars might reveal to him a familiar countenance.

He pulled easily, timing himself to arrive at the wharf as soon as
possible after dark. The evening was dry, but the south-easterly wind
still blew cold and raw, though not nearly so strongly as on the night
of his walk.

There were a couple of lights on the _Girondin_, and he steered by
these till the dark mass of her counter, looming up out of the night,
cut them off. Slipping round her stern, as Hilliard had done in the
River Lesque, he unshipped his oars and guided the boat by his hands
into the V-shaped space between the two rows of piles fronting the
wharf. As he floated gently forward he felt between the horizontal
props which held back the filling until he came to a vacant space, then
knowing he was opposite the cellar, he slid the boat back a few feet,
tied her up, and settled down to wait.

Though sheltered from the wind by the hull, it was cold and damp under
the wharf. The waves were lapping among the timbers, and the boat moved
uneasily at the end of her short painter. The darkness was absolute—an
inky blackness unrelieved by any point of light. Willis realized that
waiting would soon become irksome.

But it was not so very long before the work began. He had been there,
he estimated, a couple of hours when he saw, not ten feet away, a dim
circle of light suddenly appear on the _Girondin’s_ side. Someone had
turned on a faint light in a cabin whose open porthole was immediately
opposite the cellar. Presently Willis, watching breathlessly, saw what
he believed was the steel pipe impinge on and enter the illuminated
ring. It remained projecting into the porthole for some forty minutes,
was as silently withdrawn, the porthole was closed, a curtain drawn
across it, and the light turned up within. The brandy had been
discharged.

The thing had been done inaudibly, and invisibly to anyone on either
wharf or ship. Marvelling once more at the excellence and secrecy of
the plan, Willis gently pushed his boat out from among the piles and
rowed back down the river to Hull. There he tied the boat up, and
returning to his hotel, was soon fast asleep.

In spite of his delight at the discovery, he could not but realize that
much still remained to be done. Though he had learned how the syndicate
was making its money, he had not obtained any evidence of the
complicity of its members in the murder of Coburn.

Who, in addition to Archer, could be involved? There were, of course,
Beamish, Bulla, Benson, and Henri. There was also a man, Morton, whose
place in the scheme of things had not yet been ascertained. He, Willis
realized, must be found and identified. But were these all? He doubted
it. It seemed to him that the smuggling system required more helpers
than these. He now understood how the brandy was got from the ship to
the distillery, and he presumed it was loaded at the clearing in the
same manner, being brought there in some unknown way by the motor
lorries. But there were two parts of the plan of which nothing was yet
known. Firstly, where was the brandy obtained from originally, and,
secondly, how was it distributed from the distillery? It seemed to
Willis that each of these operations would require additional
accomplices. And if so, these persons might also have been implicated
in Coburn’s death.

He thought over the thing for three solid hours before coming to a
decision. At the end of that time he determined to return to London
and, if his chief approved, lay the whole facts before the Customs
Departments of both England and France, asking them to investigate the
matter in their respective countries. In the meantime he would
concentrate on the question of complicity in the murder.

He left Hull by an afternoon train, and that night was in London.




CHAPTER XVII.
“ARCHER PLANTS STUFF”


Willis’s chief at the Yard was not a little impressed by his
subordinate’s story. He congratulated the inspector on his discovery,
commended him for his restraint in withholding action against Archer
until he had identified his accomplices, and approved his proposals for
the further conduct of the case. Fortified by this somewhat unexpected
approbation, Willis betook himself forthwith to the headquarters of the
Customs Department and asked to see Hilliard.

The two men were already acquainted. As has been stated, the inspector
had early called at Hilliard’s rooms and learned all that the other
could tell him of the case. But for prudential reasons they had not met
since.

Hilliard was tremendously excited by the inspector’s news, and eagerly
arranged the interview with his chief which Willis sought. The great
man was not engaged, and in a few minutes the others were shown into
his presence.

“We are here, sir,” Willis began, when the necessary introductions had
been made, “to tell you jointly a very remarkable story. Mr. Hilliard
would doubtless have told you his part long before this, had I not
specially asked him not to. Now, sir, the time has come to put the
facts before you. Perhaps as Mr. Hilliard’s story comes before mine in
point of time, he should begin.”

Hilliard thereupon began. He told of Merriman’s story in the Rovers’
Club, his own idea of smuggling based on the absence of return cargoes,
his proposition to Merriman, their trip to France and what they learned
at the clearing. Then he described their visit to Hull, their
observations at the Ferriby wharf, the experiment carried out with the
help of Leatham, and, finally, what Merriman had told him of his second
visit to Bordeaux.

Willis next took up the tale and described the murder of Coburn, his
inquiries thereinto and the identification of the assassin, and his
subsequent discoveries at Ferriby, ending up by stating the problem
which still confronted him, and expressing the hope that the chief in
dealing with the smuggling conspiracy would co-operate with him in
connection with the murder.

The latter had listened with an expression of amazement, which towards
the end of the inspector’s statement changed to one of the liveliest
satisfaction. He gracefully congratulated both men on their
achievements, and expressed his gratification at what had been
discovered and his desire to co-operate to the full with the inspector
in the settling up of the case.

The three men then turned to details. To Hilliard’s bitter
disappointment it was ruled that, owing to his being known to at least
three members of the gang, he could take no part in the final scenes,
and he had to be content with the honor of, as it were, a seat on the
council of war. For nearly an hour they deliberated, at the end of
which time it had been decided that Stopford Hunt, one of the Customs
Department’s most skillful investigators, should proceed to Hull and
tackle the question of the distribution of the brandy. Willis was to go
to Paris, interest the French authorities in the Bordeaux end of the
affair, and then join Hunt in Hull.

Stopford Hunt was an insignificant-looking man of about forty. All his
characteristics might be described as being of medium quality. He was
five feet nine in height, his brown hair was neither fair nor dark, his
dress suggested neither poverty nor opulence, and his features were of
the type known as ordinary. In a word, he was not one whose appearance
would provoke a second glance or who would be credited with taking an
important part in anything that might be in progress.

But for his job these very peculiarities were among his chief assets.
When he hung about in an aimless, loafing way, as he very often did, he
was overlooked by those whose actions he was so discreetly watching,
and where mere loafing would look suspicious, he had the inestimable
gift of being able to waste time in an _affairé_ and preoccupied
manner.

That night Willis crossed to Paris, and next day he told his story to
the polite chief of the French Excise. M. Max was almost as interested
as his English _confrère_, and readily promised to have the French end
of the affair investigated. That same evening the inspector left for
London, going on in the morning to Hull.

He found Hunt a shrewd and capable man of the world, as well as a
pleasant and interesting companion.

They had engaged a private sitting-room at their hotel, and after
dinner they retired thither to discuss their plan of campaign.

“I wish,” said Willis, when they had talked for some moments, “that you
would tell me something about how this liquor distribution business is
worked. It’s outside my job, and I’m not clear on the details. If I
understood I could perhaps help you better.”

Hunt nodded and drew slowly at his pipe.

“The principle of the thing,” he answered, “is simple enough, though in
detail it becomes a bit complicated. The first thing we have to
remember is that in this case we’re dealing, not with distillers, but
with rectifiers. Though in loose popular phraseology both businesses
are classed under the term ‘distilling,’ in reality there is a
considerable difference between them. Distillers actually produce the
spirit in their buildings, rectifiers do not. Rectifiers import the
spirit produced by distillers, and refine or prepare it for various
specified purposes. The check required by the Excise authorities is
therefore different in each case. With rectifiers it is only necessary
to measure the stuff that goes into and comes out of the works. Making
due allowance for variation during treatment, these two figures will
balance if all is right.”

Willis nodded, and Hunt resumed.

“Now, the essence of all fraud is that more stuff goes out of the works
than is shown on the returns. That is, of course, another way of saying
that stuff is sold upon which duty has not been paid. In the case of a
rectifying house, where there is no illicit still, more also comes in
than is shown. In the present instance you yourself have shown how the
extra brandy enters. Our job is to find out how it leaves.”

“That part of it is clear enough anyway,” Willis said with a smile.
“But brandy smuggling is not new. There must surely be recognized ways
of evading the law?”

“Quite. There are. But to follow them you must understand how the
output is measured. For every consignment of stuff that leaves the
works a permit or certificate is issued and handed to the carrier who
removes it. This is a kind of way-bill, and of course a block is kept
for the inspection of the surveying officer. It contains a note of the
quantity of stuff, date and hour of starting, consignee’s name and
other information, and it is the authority for the carrier to have the
liquor in his possession. An Excise officer may stop and examine any
dray or lorry carrying liquor, or railway wagon, and the driver or
other official must produce his certificate so that his load may be
checked by it. All such what I may call surprise examinations, together
with the signature of the officer making them, are recorded on the back
of the certificate. When the stuff is delivered, the certificate is
handed over with it to the consignee. He signs it on receipt. It then
becomes his authority for having the stuff on his premises, and he must
keep it for the Excise officer’s inspection. Do you follow me so far?”

“Perfectly.”

“The fraud, then, consists in getting more liquor away from the works
than is shown on the certificates, and I must confess it is not easy.
The commonest method, I should think, is to fill the kegs or
receptacles slightly fuller than the certificate shows. This is
sometimes done simply by putting extra stuff in the ordinary kegs. It
is argued that an Excise officer cannot by his eye tell a difference of
five or six per cent; that, for example, twenty-six gallons might be
supplied on a twenty-five gallon certificate without anyone being much
the wiser. Variants of this method are to use slightly larger kegs, or,
more subtly, to use the normal sized kegs of which the wood at the ends
has been thinned down, and which therefore when filled to the same
level hold more, while showing the same measure with a dipping rod. But
all these methods are risky. On the suspicion the contents of the kegs
are measured and the fraud becomes revealed.”

Willis, much interested, bent forward eagerly as the other, after a
pause to relight his pipe, continued:

“Another common method is to send out liquor secretly, without a permit
at all. This may be done at night, or the stuff may go through an
underground pipe, or be hidden in innocent looking articles such as
suitcases or petrol tins. The pipe is the best scheme from the
operator’s point of view, and one may remain undiscovered for months,
but the difficulty usually is to lay it in the first instance.

“A third method can be used only in the case of rectifiers and it
illustrates one of the differences between rectifiers and distillers.
Every permit for the removal of liquor from a distillery must be issued
by the excise surveyor of the district, whereas rectifiers can issue
their own certificates. Therefore in the case of rectifiers there is
the possibility of the issuing of forged or fraudulent certificates. Of
course this is not so easy as it sounds. The certificates are supplied
in books of two hundred by the Excise authorities, and the blocks must
be kept available for the supervisor’s scrutiny. Any certificates can
be obtained from the receivers of the spirit and compared with the
blocks. Forged permits are very risky things to work with, as all
genuine ones bear the government watermark, which is not easy to
reproduce. In fact, I may say about this whole question of liquor
distribution generally, that fraud has been made so difficult that the
only hope of those committing it is to avoid arousing suspicion. Once
suspicion is aroused, discovery follows almost as a matter of course.”

“That’s hopeful for us,” Willis smiled.

“Yes,” the other answered, “though I fancy this case will be more
difficult than most. There is another point to be taken into
consideration which I have not mentioned, and that is, how the
perpetrators of the frauds are going to get their money. In the last
resort it can only come in from the public over the counters of the
licensed premises which sell the smuggled spirits. But just as the
smuggled liquor cannot be put through the books of the house selling
it, so the money received for it cannot be entered either. This means
that someone in authority in each licensed house must be involved. It
also carries with it a suggestion, though only a suggestion, the houses
in question are tied houses. The director of a distillery company would
have more hold on the manager of their own tied houses than over an
outsider.”

Again Willis nodded without replying, and Hunt went on:

“Now it happens that these Ackroyd & Holt people own some very large
licensed houses in Hull, and it is to them I imagine, that we should
first direct our attention.”

“How do you propose to begin?”

“I think we must first find out how the Ferriby liquor is sent to these
houses. By the way, you probably know that already. You watched the
distillery during working hours, didn’t you?”

The inspector admitted it.

“Did you see any lorries?”

“Any number; large blue machines. I noticed them going and coming in
the Hull direction loaded up with barrels.”

Hunt seemed pleased.

“Good,” he commented. “That’s a beginning anyway. Our next step must be
to make sure that all these lorries carry certificates. We had better
begin tomorrow.”

Willis did not quite see how the business was to be done, but he
forbore to ask questions, agreeing to fall in with his companion’s
arrangements.

These arrangements involved the departure from their hotel by taxi at
six o’clock the next morning. It was not fully light as they whirled
out along the Ferriby road, but the sky was clear and all the
indications pointed to a fine day.

They dismounted at the end of the lane leading to the works, and struck
off across the fields, finally taking up their position behind the same
thick hedge from which Willis had previously kept watch.

They spent the whole of that day, as well as of the next two, in their
hiding-place, and at the end of that time they had a complete list of
all lorries that entered or left the establishment during that period.
No vehicles other than blue lorries appeared, and Hunt expressed
himself as satisfied that if the smuggled brandy was not carried by
them it must go either by rail or at night.

“We can go into those other contingencies later if necessary,” he said,
“but on the face of it I am inclined to back the lorries. They supply
the tied houses in Hull, which would seem the obvious places for the
brandy to go, and, besides, railway transit is too well looked after to
attract the gang. I think we’ll follow this lorry business through
first on spec.”

“I suppose you’ll compare the certificate blocks with the list I made?”
Willis asked.

“Of course. That will show if all carry certificates. But I don’t want
to do that yet. Before alarming them I want to examine the contents of
a few of the lorries. I think we might do that tomorrow.”

The next morning, therefore, the two detectives again engaged a taxi
and ran out along the Ferriby road until they met a large blue lorry
loaded with barrels and bearing on its side the legend “Ackroyd & Holt
Ltd, Licensed Rectifiers.” When it had lumbered past on its way to the
city, Hunt called to the driver and ordered him to follow it.

The chase led to the heart of the town, ending in a street which ran
parallel to the Humber Dock. There the big machine turned in to an
entry.

“The Anchor Bar,” Hunt said, in satisfied tones. “We’re in luck. It’s
one of the largest licensed houses in Hull.”

He jumped out and disappeared after the lorry, Willis following. The
vehicle had stopped in a yard at the back of the great public house,
where were more barrels than the inspector ever remembered having seen
together, while the smell of various liquors hung heavy in the air.
Hunt, having shown his credentials, demanded the certificate for the
consignment. This was immediately produced by the driver, scrutinized,
and found in order. Hunt then proceeded to examine the consignment
itself, and Willis was lost in admiration at the rapidity as well as
the thoroughness of his inspection. He tested the nature of the various
liquids, measured their receptacles, took drippings in each cask, and
otherwise satisfied himself as to the quality and quantity. Finally he
had a look over the lorry, then expressing himself satisfied, he
endorsed the certificate, and with a few civil words to the men in
charge, the two detectives took their leave.

“That’s all square anyway,” Hunt remarked, as they reentered their
taxi. “I suppose we may go and do the same thing again.”

They did. Three times more on that day, and four times on the next day
they followed Messrs. Ackroyd & Holt’s lorries, in every instance with
the same result. All eight consignments were examined with the utmost
care, and all were found to be accurately described on the accompanying
certificate. The certificates themselves were obviously genuine, and
everything about them, so far as Hunt could see, was in order.

“Doesn’t look as if we are going to get it that way,” he commented, as
late that second evening they sat once more discussing matters in their
private sitting-room.

“Don’t you think you have frightened them into honesty by our
persistence?” Willis queried.

“No doubt,” the other returned. “But that couldn’t apply to the first
few trips. They couldn’t possibly have foretold that we should examine
those consignments yesterday, and today I expect they thought their
visitation was over. But we have worked it as far as it will go. We
shall have to change our methods.”

The inspector looked his question and Hunt continued:

“I think tomorrow I had better go out to the works and have a look over
these certificate blocks. But I wonder if it would be well for you to
come? Archer has seen you in that hotel lounge, and at all events he
has your description.”

“I shall not go,” Willis decided. “See you when you get back.”

Hunt, after showing his credentials, was received with civility at
Messrs. Ackroyd & Holt’s. When he had completed the usual examination
of their various apparatus he asked for certain books. He took them to
a desk, and sitting down, began to study the certificate blocks.

His first care was to compare the list of outward lorries which he and
Willis had made with the blocks for the same period. A short
investigation convinced him that here also everything was in order.
There was a certificate for every lorry which had passed out, and not
only so, but the number of the lorry, the day and hour at which it left
and the load were all correct so far as his observations had enabled
him to check them. It was clear that here also he had drawn blank, and
for the fiftieth time he wondered with a sort of rueful admiration how
the fraud was being worked.

He was idly turning over the leaves of the blocks, gazing vacantly at
the lines of writing while he pondered his problem when his attention
was attracted to a slight difference of color in the ink of an entry on
one of the blocks. The consignment was a mixed one, containing
different kinds of spirituous liquors. The lowest entry was for three
twenty-five gallon kegs of French brandy. This entry was slightly paler
than the remain order.

At first Hunt did not give the matter serious thought. The page had
evidently been blotted while the ink was wet, and the lower items
should therefore naturally be the fainter. But as he looked more
closely he saw that this explanation would not quite meet the case. It
was true that the lower two or three items above that of the brandy
grew gradually paler in proportion to their position down the sheet,
and to this rule Archer’s signature at the bottom was no exception. In
these Hunt could trace the gradual fading of color due to the use of
blotting paper. But he now saw that this did not apply to the brandy
entry. It was the palest of all—paler even than Archer’s name, which
was below it.

He sat staring at the sheet, whistling softly through his teeth and
with his brow puckered into a frown, as he wondered whether the obvious
suggestion that the brandy item had been added after the sheet had been
completed, was a sound deduction. He could think of no other
explanation, but he was loath to form a definite opinion on such slight
evidence.

He turned back through the blocks to see if they contained other
similar instances, and as he did so his interest grew. Quite a number
of the pages referring to mixed consignment had for their last item
kegs of French brandy. He scrutinized these entries with the utmost
care. A few seemed normal enough, but others showed indications which
strengthened his suspicions. In three more the ink was undoubtedly
paler than the remainder of the sheet, in five it was darker, while in
several others the handwriting appeared slightly different—more
upright, more sloping, more heavily or more lightly leaned on. When
Hunt had examined all the instances he could find stretching over a
period of three months, he was convinced that his deduction was
correct. The brandy items had been written at a different time from the
remainder, and this could only mean that they had been added after the
certificate was complete.

His interest at last keenly aroused, he began to make an analysis of
the blocks in question in the hope of finding some other peculiarity
common to them which might indicate the direction in which the solution
might lie.

And first as to the consignees. Ackroyd & Holt evidently supplied a
very large number of licensed houses, but of these the names of only
five appeared on the doubtful blocks. But these five were confined to
houses in Hull, and each was a large and important concern.

“So far, so good,” thought Hunt, with satisfaction. “If they’re not
planting their stuff in those five houses, I’m a Dutchman!”

He turned back to the blocks and once again went through them. This
time he made an even more suggestive discovery. Only one lorry-man was
concerned in the transport of the doubtful consignments. All the
lorries in question had been in charge of a driver called Charles Fox.

Hunt remembered the man. He had driven three of the eight lorries Hunt
himself had examined, and he had been most civil when stopped, giving
the investigator all possible assistance in making his inspection. Nor
had he at any time betrayed embarrassment. And now it seemed not
improbable that this same man was one of those concerned in the fraud.

Hunt applied himself once again to a study of the blocks, and then he
made a third discovery, which, though he could not at first see its
drift, struck him nevertheless as being of importance. He found that
the faked block was always one of a pair. Within a few pages either in
front of or behind it was another block containing particulars of a
similar consignment, identical, in fact, except that the brandy item
was missing.

Hunt was puzzled. That he was on the track of the fraud he could not
but believe, but he could form no idea as to how it was worked. If he
were right so far, the blocks had been made out in facsimile in the
first instance, and later the brandy item had been added to one of each
pair. Why? He could not guess.

He continued his examination, and soon another interesting fact became
apparent. Though consignments left the works at all hours of the day,
those referred to by the first one of each between the hours of four
and five. Further, the number of minutes past one and past four were
always identical on each pair. That showed the brandy item was nearly
always the later of the two, but occasionally the stuff had gone with
the one o’clock trip.

Hunt sat in the small office, of which he had been given undisturbed
possession, pondering over his problem and trying to marshal the facts
that he had learned in such a way as to extract their inner meaning. As
far as he could follow them they seemed to show that three times each
day driver Charles Fox took a lorry of various liquors into Hull. The
first trip was irregular, that is, he left at anything between
seven-thirty and ten-thirty a.m., and his objective extended over the
entire city. The remaining two trips were regular. Of these the first
always left between one and two and the second the same number of
minutes past four; both were invariably to the same one of the five
large tied houses already mentioned; the load of each was always
identical except that one—generally the second—had some kegs of brandy
additional, and, lastly, the note of this extra brandy appeared always
to have been added to the certificate after the latter had been made
out.

Hunt could make nothing of it. In the evening he described his
discoveries to Willis, and the two men discussed the affair
exhaustively, though still without result.

That night Hunt could not sleep. He lay tossing from side to side and
racking his brains to find a solution. He felt subconsciously that it
was within his reach, and yet he could not grasp it.

It was not far from dawn when a sudden idea flashed into his mind, and
he lay thrilled with excitement as he wondered if at last he held the
clue to the mystery. He went over the details in his mind, and the more
he thought over his theory the more likely it seemed to grow.

But how was he to test it? Daylight had come before he saw his way; but
at last he was satisfied, and at breakfast he told Willis his idea and
asked his help to carry out his plan.

“You’re not a photographer, by any chance?” he asked.

“I’m not A1, but I dabble a bit at it.”

“Good. That will save some trouble.”

They called at a photographic outfitter’s, and there, after making a
deposit, succeeded in hiring two large-size Kodaks for the day. With
these and a set of climbing irons they drove out along the Ferriby
road, arriving at the end of the lane to the works shortly after
midday. There they dismissed their taxi.

As soon as they were alone their actions became somewhat bewildering to
the uninitiated. Along one side of the road ran a seven-foot wall
bounding the plantation of a large villa. Over this Willis, with the
help of his friend, clambered. With some loose stones he built himself
a footing at the back, so that he could just look over the top. Then
having focused his camera for the middle of the road, he retired into
obscurity behind his defences.

His friend settled to his satisfaction, Hunt buckled on the climbing
irons, and crossing the road, proceeded to climb a telegraph pole which
stood opposite the lane. He fixed his camera to the lower
wires—carefully avoiding possible short-circuitings—and having focused
it for the center of the road, pulled a pair of pliers from his pocket
and endeavored to simulate, the actions of a lineman at work. By the
time these preparations were complete it was close on one o’clock.

Some half-hour later a large blue lorry came in sight bearing down
along the lane. Presently Hunt was able to see that the driver was Fox.
He made a prearranged sign to his accomplice behind the wall, and the
latter, camera in hand, stood up and peeped over. As the big vehicle
swung slowly round into the main road both men from their respective
positions photographed it. Hunt, indeed, rapidly changing the film,
took a second view as the machine retreated down the road towards Hull.

When it was out of sight, Hunt descended and with some difficulty
climbed the wall to his colleague. There in the shade of the thick belt
of trees both men lay down and smoked peacefully until nearly four
o’clock. Then once more they took up their respective positions,
watched until about half an hour later the lorry again passed out and
photographed it precisely as before. That done, they walked to Hassle
station, and took the first train to Hull.

By dint of baksheesh they persuaded the photographer to develop their
films there and then, and that same evening they had six prints.

As it happened they turned out exceedingly good photographs. Their
definition was excellent, and each view included the whole of the
lorry. The friends found, as Hunt had hoped and intended, that owing to
the height from which the views had been taken, each several keg of the
load showed out distinctly. They counted them. Each picture showed
seventeen.

“You see?” cried Hunt triumphantly. “The same amount of stuff went out
on each load! We shall have them now, Willis!”

Next day Hunt returned to Ferriby works ostensibly to continue his
routine inspection. But in three minutes he had seen what he wanted.
Taking the certificate book, he looked up the blocks of the two
consignments they had photographed, and he could have laughed aloud in
his exultation as he saw that what he had suspected was indeed the
fact. The two certificates were identical except that to the second an
item of four kegs of French brandy had been added! Hunt counted the
barrels. The first certificate showed thirteen and the last seventeen.

“Four kegs of brandy smuggled out under our noses yesterday,” he
thought delightedly. “By Jove! but it’s a clever trick. Now to test the
next point.”

He made an excuse for leaving the works, and returning to Hull, called
at the licensed house to which the previous afternoon’s consignment had
been dispatched. There he asked to see the certificates of the two
trips. On seeing his credentials these were handed up without demur,
and he withdrew with them to his hotel.

“Come,” he cried to Willis, who was reading in the lounge, “and see the
final act in the drama.”

They retired to their private room, and there Hunt spread the two
certificates on the table. Both men stared at them, and Hunt gave vent
to a grunt of satisfaction.

“I was right,” he cried delightedly. “Look here! Why I can see it with
the naked eye!”

The two certificates were an accurate copy of their blocks. They were
dated correctly, both bore Fox’s name as driver, and both showed
consignments of liquor, identical except for the additional four kegs
of brandy on the second. There was, furthermore, no sign that this had
been added after the remainder. The slight lightening in the color
towards the bottom of the sheet, due to the use of blotting paper, was
so progressive as almost to prove the whole had been written at the
same time.

The first certificate was timed 1.15 p.m., the second 4.15 p.m., and it
was to the 4 of this second hour that Hunt’s eager finger pointed. As
Willis examined it he saw that the lower strokes were fainter than the
remainder. Further, the beginning of the horizontal stroke did not
quite join the first vertical stroke.

“You see?” Hunt cried excitedly. “That figure is a forgery. It was
originally a 1, and the two lower strokes have been added to make it a
4. The case is finished!”

Willis was less enthusiastic.

“I’m not so sure of that,” he returned cautiously. “I don’t see light
all the way through. Just go over it again, will you?”

“Why to me it’s as clear as daylight,” the other asserted impatiently.
“See here. Archer decides, let us suppose, that he will send out four
kegs, or one hundred gallons, of the smuggled brandy to the Anchor Bar.
What does he do? He fills out certificates for two consignments each of
which contains an identical assortment of various liquors. The brandy
he shows on one certificate only. The blocks are true copies of the
certificates except that the brandy is not entered on either. The two
blocks he times for a quarter past one and past four respectively, but
both certificates he times for a quarter past one. He hands the two
certificates to Fox. Then he sends out on the one o’clock lorry the
amount of brandy shown on one of the certificates.”

Hunt paused and looked interrogatively at his friend, then, the latter
not replying, he resumed:

“You follow now the position of affairs? In the office is Archer with
his blocks, correctly filled out as to time but neither showing the
brandy. On the one o’clock lorry is Fox, with one hundred gallons of
brandy among his load. In his pocket are the two certificates, both
timed for one o’clock, one showing the brandy and the other not.”

The inspector nodded as Hunt again looked at him.

“Now suppose,” the latter went on, “that the one o’clock lorry gets
through to its destination unchallenged, and the stuff is unloaded. The
manager arranges that the four kegs of brandy will disappear. He takes
over the certificate which does not show brandy, signs it, and the
transaction is complete. Everything is in order, and he has got four
kegs smuggled in.”

“Good,” Willis interjected.

“On the other hand, suppose the one o’clock trip is held up by an
exciseman. This time Fox produces the other certificate, the one which
shows the brandy. Once again everything is in order, and the Excise
officer satisfied. It is true that on this occasion Fox has been unable
to smuggle out his brandy, and on that which he carries duty must be
paid, but this rare contingency will not matter to him as long as his
method of fraud remains concealed.”

“Seems very sound so far.”

“I think so. Let us now consider the four o’clock trip. Fox arrives
back at the works with one of the two certificates still in his pocket,
and the make up of his four o’clock load depends on which it is. He
attempts no more smuggling that day. If his remaining certificate shows
brandy he carries brandy, if not, he leaves it behind. In either case
his certificate is in order if an Excise officer holds him up. That is,
when he has attended to one little point. He has to add two strokes to
the 1 of the hour to make it into a 4. The ease of doing this explains
why these two hours were chosen. Is that all clear?”

“Clear, indeed, except for the one point of how the brandy item is
added to the correct block.”

“Obviously Archer does that as soon as he learns how the first trip has
got on. If the brandy was smuggled out on the first trip, it means that
Fox is holding the brandy-bearing certificate for the second, and
Archer enters brandy on his second block. If, on the contrary, Fox has
had his first load examined, Archer will make his entry on the first
block.”

“The scheme,” Willis declared, “really means this. If Archer wants to
smuggle out one hundred gallons of brandy, he has to send out another
hundred legitimately on the same day? If he can manage to send out two
hundred altogether then one hundred will be duty clear, but in any case
he must pay on one hundred?”

“That’s right. It works out like that.”

“It’s a great scheme. The only weak point that I can see is that an
Excise officer who has held up one of the trips might visit the works
and look at the certificate block before Archer gets it altered.”

Hunt nodded.

“I thought of that,” he said, “and it can be met quite easily. I bet
the manager telephones Archer on receipt of the stuff. I am going into
that now. I shall have a note kept at the Central of conversations to
Ferriby. If Archer doesn’t get a message by a certain time, I bet he
assumes the plan has miscarried for that day and fills in the brandy on
the first block.”

During the next two days Hunt was able to establish the truth of his
surmise. At the same time Willis decided that his co-operation in the
work at Hull was no longer needed. For Hunt there was still plenty to
be done. He had to get direct evidence against each severally of the
managers of the five tied houses in question, as well as to ascertain
how and to whom they were passing on the “stuff,” for that they were
receiving more brandy than could be sold over their own counters was
unquestionable. But he agreed with Willis that these five men were more
than likely in ignorance of the main conspiracy, each having only a
private understanding with Archer. But whether or not this was so,
Willis did not believe he could get any evidence that they were
implicated in the murder of Coburn.

The French end of the affair, he thought, the supply of the brandy in
the first instance, was more promising from this point of view, and the
next morning he took an early train to London as a preliminary to
starting work in France.




CHAPTER XVIII.
THE BORDEAUX LORRIES


Two days later Inspector Willis sat once again in the office of M. Max,
the head of the French Excise Department in Paris. The Frenchman
greeted him politely, but without enthusiasm.

“Ah, monsieur,” he said, “you have not received my letter? No? I wrote
to your department yesterday.”

“It hadn’t come, sir, when I left,” Willis returned. “But perhaps if it
is something I should know, you could tell me the contents?”

“But certainly, monsieur. It is easily done. A thousand regrets, but I
fear my department will not be of much service to you.”

“No, sir?” Willis looked his question.

“I fear not. But I shall explain,” M. Max gesticulated as he talked.
“After your last visit here I send two of my men to Bordeaux. They make
examination, but at first they see nothing suspicious. When the
_Girondin_ comes in they determine to test your idea of the brandy
loading. They go in a boat to the wharf at night. They pull in between
the rows of piles. They find the spaces between the tree trunks which
you have described. They know there must be a cellar behind. They hide
close by; they see the porthole lighted up; they watch the pipe go in,
all exactly as you have said. There can be no doubt brandy is secretly
loaded at the Lesque.”

“It seemed the likely thing, sir,” Willis commented.

“Ah, but it was good to think of. I wish to congratulate you on finding
it out.” M. Max made a little bow. “But to continue. My men wonder how
the brandy reaches the sawmill. Soon they think that the lorries must
bring it. They think so for two reasons. First, they can find no other
way. The lorries are the only vehicles which approach; nothing goes by
water; there cannot be a tunnel, because there is no place for the
other end. There remains only the lorries. Second, they think it is the
lorries because the drivers change the numbers. It is suspicious, is it
not? Yes? You understand me?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

“Good. My men then watch the lorries. They get help from the police at
Bordeaux. They find the firewood trade is a nothing.” M. Max shrugged
his shoulders. “There are five firms to which the lorries go, and of
the five, four—” His gesture indicated a despair too deep for words.
“To serve them, it is but a blind; so my men think. But the fifth firm,
it is that of Raymond Fils, one of the biggest distilleries of
Bordeaux. That Raymond Fils are sending out the brandy suggests itself
to my men. At last the affair marches.”

M. Max paused, and Willis bowed to signify his appreciation of the
point.

“My men visit Raymond Fils. They search into everything. They find the
law is not broken. All is in order. They are satisfied.”

“But, sir, if these people are smuggling brandy into England—” Willis
was beginning when the other interrupted him.

“But yes, monsieur, I grasp your point. I speak of French law; it is
different from yours. Here duty is not charged on just so much spirit
as is distilled. We grant the distiller a license, and it allows him to
distill any quantity up to the figure the license bears. But, monsieur,
Raymond Fils are—how do you say it?—well within their limit? Yes? They
do not break the French law.”

“Therefore, sir, you mean you cannot help further?”

“My dear monsieur, what would you? I have done my best for you. I make
inquiries. The matter is not for me. With the most excellent wish to
assist, what more can I?”

Willis, realizing he could get no more, rose.

“Nothing, sir, except to accept on my own part and that of my
department our hearty thanks for what you have done. I can assure you,
sir, I quite understand your position, and I greatly appreciate your
kindness.”

M. Max also had risen. He politely repeated his regrets, and with
mutual compliments the two men parted.

Willis had once spent a holiday in Paris, and he was slightly
acquainted with the city. He strolled on through the busy streets,
brilliant in the pale autumn sunlight, until he reached the Grands
Boulevards. There entering a café, he sat down, called for a bock, and
settled himself to consider his next step.

The position created by M. Max’s action was disconcerting. Willis felt
himself stranded, literally a stranger in a strange land, sent to carry
out an investigation among a people whose language he could not even
speak! He saw at once that his task was impossible. He must have local
help or he could proceed no further.

He thought of his own department. The Excise had failed him. What about
the Sûreté?

But a very little thought convinced him that he was even less likely to
obtain help from this quarter. He could only base an appeal on the
possibility of a future charge of conspiracy to murder, and he realized
that the evidence for that was too slight to put forward seriously.

What was to be done? So far as he could see, but one thing. He must
employ a private detective. This plan would meet the language
difficulty by which he was so completely hung up.

He went to a call office and got his chief at the Yard on the long
distance wire. The latter approved his suggestion, and recommended M.
Jules Laroche of the Rue du Sommerard near the Sorbonne. Half an hour
later Willis reached the house.

M. Laroche proved to be a tall, unobtrusive-looking man of some
five-and-forty, who had lived in London for some years and spoke as
good English as Willis himself. He listened quietly and without much
apparent interest to what his visitor had to tell him, then said he
would be glad to take on the job.

“We had better go to Bordeaux this evening, so as to start fresh
tomorrow,” Willis suggested.

“Two o’clock at the d’Orsay station,” the other returned. “We have just
time. We can settle our plans in the train.”

They reached the St Jean station at Bordeaux at 10.35 that night, and
drove to the Hotel d’Espagne. They had decided that they could do
nothing until the following evening, when they would go out to the
clearing and see what a search of the mill premises might reveal.

Next morning Laroche vanished, saying he had friends in the town whom
he wished to look up, and it was close on dinner-time before he put in
an appearance.

“I have got some information that may help,” he said, as Willis greeted
him. “Though I’m not connected with the official force, we are very
good friends and have worked into each other’s hands. I happen to know
one of the officers of the local police, and he got me the information.
It seems that a M. Pierre Raymond is practically the owner of Raymond
Fils, the distillers you mentioned. He is a man of about thirty, and
the son of one of the original brothers. He was at one time comfortably
off, and lived in a pleasant villa in the suburbs. But latterly he has
been going the pace, and within the last two years he let his villa and
bought a tiny house next door to the distillery, where he is now
living. It is believed his money went at Monte Carlo, indeed it seems
he is a wrong ’un all round. At all events he is known to be hard up
now.”

“And you think he moved in so that he could load up that brandy at
night?”

“That’s what I think,” Laroche admitted. “You see, there is the motive
for it as well. He wouldn’t join the syndicate unless he was in
difficulties. I fancy M. Pierre Raymond will be an interesting study.”

Willis nodded. The suggestion was worth investigation, and he
congratulated himself on getting hold of so excellent a colleague as
this Laroche seemed to be.

The Frenchman during the day had hired a motor bicycle and sidecar, and
as dusk began to fall the two men left their hotel and ran out along
the Bayonne road until they reached the Lesque. There they hid their
vehicle behind some shrubs, and reaching the end of the lane, turned
down it.

It was pitch dark among the trees, and they had some difficulty in
keeping the track until they reached the clearing. There a quarter moon
rendered objects dimly visible, and Willis at once recognized his
surroundings from the description he had received from Hilliard and
Merriman.

“You see, somebody is in the manager’s house,” he whispered, pointing
to a light which gleamed in the window. “If Henri has taken over
Coburn’s job he may go down to the mill as Coburn did. Hadn’t we better
wait and see?”

The Frenchman agreeing, they moved round the fringe of trees at the
edge of the clearing, just as Merriman had done on a similar occasion
some seven weeks earlier, and as they crouched in the shelter of a
clump of bushes in front of the house, they might have been interested
to know that it was from these same shrubs that that disconsolate
sentimentalist had lain dreaming of his lady love, and from which he
had witnessed her father’s stealthy journey to the mill.

It was a good deal colder tonight than on that earlier occasion when
watch was kept on the lonely house. The two men shivered as they drew
their collars higher round their necks, and crouched down to get
shelter from the bitter wind. They had resigned themselves to a weary
vigil, during which they dared not even smoke.

But they had not to wait so long after all. About ten the light went
out in the window and not five minutes later they saw a man appear at
the side door and walk towards the mill. They could not see his
features, though Willis assumed he was Henri. Twenty minutes later they
watched him return, and then all once more was still.

“We had better give him an hour to get to bed,” Willis whispered. “If
he were to look out it wouldn’t do for him to see two detectives
roaming about his beloved clearing.”

“We might go at eleven,” Laroche proposed, and so they did.

Keeping as much as possible in the shelter of the bushes, they
approached the mill. Willis had got a sketch-plan of the building from
Merriman, and he moved round to the office door. His bent wire proved
as efficacious with French locks as with English, and in a few moments
they stood within, with the door shut behind them.

“Now,” said Willis, carefully shading the beam of his electric torch,
“let’s see those lorries first of all.”

As has already been stated, the garage was next to the office, and
passing through the communicating door, the two men found five of the
ponderous vehicles therein. A moment’s examination of the number plates
showed that on all the machines the figures were separate from the
remainder of the lettering, being carried on small brass plates which
dropped vertically into place through slots in the main castings. But
the joint at each side of the number was not conspicuous because
similar vertical lines were cut into the brass between each letter of
the whole legend.

“That’s good,” Laroche observed. “Make a thing unnoticeable by
multiplying it!”

Of the five lorries, two were loaded with firewood and three empty. The
men moved round examining them with their torches.

“Hallo,” Laroche called suddenly in a low voice, “what have we here,
Willis?”

The inspector crossed over to the other, who was pointing to the
granolithic floor in front of him. One of the empty lorries was close
to the office wall, and the Frenchman stood between the two. On the
floor were three drops of some liquid.

“Can you smell them?” he inquired.

Willis knelt down and sniffed, then slowly got up again.

“Good man,” he said, with a trace of excitement in his manner. “It’s
brandy right enough.”

“Yes,” returned the other. “Security has made our nocturnal friend
careless. The stuff must have come from this lorry, I fancy.”

They turned to the vehicle and examined it eagerly. For some time they
could see nothing remarkable, but presently it gave up its secret The
deck was double! Beneath it was a hollow space some six feet by nine
long, and not less than three inches deep. And not only so. This hollow
space was continued up under the unusually large and wide driver’s
seat, save for a tiny receptacle for petrol. In a word the whole top of
the machine was a vast secret tank.

The men began measuring and calculating, and they soon found that no
less than one hundred and fifty gallons of liquid could be carried
therein.

“One hundred and fifty gallons of brandy per trip!” Willis ejaculated.
“Lord! It’s no wonder they make it pay.”

They next tackled the problem of how the tank was filled and emptied,
and at last their perseverance was rewarded. Behind the left trailing
wheel, under the framing, was a small hinged door about six inches
square and fastened by a spring operated by a mock rivet head. This
being opened, revealed a cavity containing a pipe connected to the tank
and fitted with a stop-cock and the half of a union coupling.

“The pipe which connects with that can’t be far away,” Laroche
suggested. “We might have a look round for it.”

The obvious place was the wall of the office, which ran not more than
three feet from the vehicle. It was finished with vertical tongued and
V-jointed sheeting, and a comparatively short search revealed the loose
board the detectives were by this time expecting. Behind it was
concealed a pipe, jointed concertina-wise, and ending in the other half
of the union coupling. It was evident the joints would allow the half
coupling to be pulled out and connected with that on the lorry. The
pipe ran down through the floor, showing that the lorry could be
emptied by gravity.

“A good safe scheme,” Laroche commented. “If I had seen that lorry a
hundred times I should never have suspected a tank. It’s well
designed.”

They turned to examine the other vehicles. All four were identical in
appearance with the first, but all were strictly what they seemed,
containing no secret receptacle.

“Merriman said they had six lorries,” Willis remarked. “I wonder where
the sixth is.”

“At the distillery, don’t you think?” the Frenchman returned. “Those
drops prove that manager fellow has just been unloading this one. I
expect he does it every night. But if so, Raymond must load a vehicle
every night too.”

“That’s true. We may assume the job is done every night, because
Merriman watched Coburn come down here three nights running. It was
certainly to unload the lorry.”

“Doubtless; and he probably came at two in the morning on account of
his daughter.”

“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 XIX.
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 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 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.

He had a longer vigil than on previous occasions, and it was not until
nearly four that he saw Archer lock the door of his office and move
towards the filing-room. Almost immediately came Benson’s voice
calling: “Are you there?”

They conversed as before for a few minutes. The _Girondin_, it
appeared, had arrived some hours previously with a cargo of “1375.” It
was clear that the members of the syndicate had agreed never to mention
the word “gallons.” It was, Willis presumed, a likely enough precaution
against eavesdroppers, and he thought how much sooner both Hilliard and
himself would have guessed the real nature of the conspiracy, had it
not been observed.

Presently they came to the subject about which Willis was expecting to
hear. Beamish, the manager explained, was there and wished to speak to
Archer.

“That you, Archer?” came in what Willis believed he recognized as the
captain’s voice. “I’ve had rather a nasty jar, a letter from Madeleine
Coburn. Wants Coburn’s share in the affair, and hints at knowledge of
what we’re really up to. Reads as if she was put up to it by someone,
probably that —— Merriman. Hold on a minute and I’ll read it to you.”
Then followed Madeleine’s letter.

Archer’s reply was short but lurid, and Willis, not withstanding the
seriousness of the matter, could not help smiling.

There was a pause, and then Archer asked:

“When did you get that?”

“Now, when we got in; but Benson tells me the letter has been waiting
for me for three days.”

“You might read it again.”

Beamish did so, and presently Archer went on:

“In my opinion, we needn’t be unduly alarmed. Of course she may know
something, but I fancy it’s what you say; that Merriman is getting her
to put up a bluff. But it’ll take thinking over. I have an appointment
presently, and in any case we couldn’t discuss it adequately over the
telephone. We must meet. Could you come up to my house tonight?”

“Yes, if you think it wise?”

“It’s not wise, but I think we must risk it. You’re not known here. But
come alone; Benson shouldn’t attempt it.”

“Right. What time?”

“What about nine? I often work in the evenings, and I’m never
disturbed. Come round to my study window and I shall be there. Tap
lightly. The window is on the right-hand side of the house as you come
up the drive, the fourth from the corner. You can slip round to it in
the shadow of the bushes, and keep on the grass the whole time.”

“Right. Nine o’clock, then.”

The switch of the telephone clicked, and presently Willis saw Archer
reappear in his office.

The inspector was disappointed. He had hoped that the conspirators
would have completed their plans over the telephone, and that he would
have had nothing to do but listen to what they arranged. Now he saw
that if he were to gain the information he required, it would mean a
vast deal more trouble, and perhaps danger as well.

He felt that at all costs he must be present at the interview in
Archer’s study, but the more he thought about it, the more difficult
the accomplishment of this seemed. He was ignorant of the plan of the
house, or what hiding-places, if any, there might be in the study, nor
could he think of any scheme by which he could gain admittance.
Further, there was but little time in which to make inquiries or
arrangements, as he could not leave his present retreat until dark, or
say six o’clock. He saw the problem would be one of the most difficult
he had ever faced.

But the need for solving it was paramount, and when darkness had set in
he let himself out of the cottage and walked the mile or more to
Archer’s residence. It was a big square block of a house, approached by
a short winding drive, on each side of which was a border of
rhododendrons. The porch was in front, and the group of windows to the
left of it were lighted up—the dining-room, Willis imagined. He
followed the directions given to Beamish and moved round to the right,
keeping well in the shadow of the shrubs. The third and fourth windows
from the corner on the right side were also lighted up, and the
inspector crept silently up and peeped over the sill. The blinds were
drawn down, but that on the third window was not quite pulled to the
bottom, and through the narrow slit remaining he could see into the
room.

It was empty, but evidently only for the time being, as a cheerful fire
burned in the grate. Furnished as a study, everything bore the impress
of wealth and culture. By looking from each end of the slot in turn,
nearly all the floor area and more than half of the walls became
visible, and a glance showed the inspector that nowhere in his purview
was there anything behind which he might conceal himself, supposing he
could obtain admission.

But could he obtain admission? He examined the sashes. They were of
steel, hinged and opening inwards in the French manner, and were
fastened by a handle which could not be turned from without. Had they
been the ordinary English sashes fastened with snibs he would have had
the window open in a few seconds, but with these he could do nothing.

He moved round the house examining the other windows. All were fitted
with the same type of sash, and all were fastened. The front door also
was shut, and though he might have been able to open it with his bent
wire, he felt that to adventure himself into the hall without any idea
of the interior would be too dangerous. Here, as always, he was
hampered by the fact that discovery would mean the ruin of his case.

Having completed the circuit of the building, he looked once more
through the study window. At once he saw that his opportunity was gone.
At the large desk sat Archer busily writing.

Various expedients to obtain admission to the house passed through his
brain, all to be rejected as impracticable. Unless some unexpected
incident occurred of which he could take advantage, he began to fear he
would be unable to accomplish his plan.

As by this time it was half past eight, he withdrew from the window and
took up his position behind a neighboring shrub. He did not wish to be
seen by Beamish, should the latter come early to the rendezvous.

He had, however, to wait for more than half an hour before a dark form
became vaguely visible in the faint light which shone through the study
blinds. It approached the window, and a tap sounded on the glass. In a
moment the blind went up, the sash opened, the figure passed through,
the sash closed softly, and the blind was once more drawn down. In
three seconds Willis was back at the sill.

The slot under the blind still remained, the other window having been
opened. Willis first examined the fastening of the latter in the hope
of opening the sash enough to hear what was said, but to his
disappointment he found it tightly closed. He had therefore to be
content with observation through the slot.

He watched the two men sit down at either side of the fire, and light
cigars. Then Beamish handed the other a paper, presumably Madeleine’s
letter. Archer having read it twice, a discussion began. At first
Archer seemed to be making some statement, to judge by the other’s rapt
attention and the gestures of excitement or concern which he made. But
no word of the conversation reached the inspector’s ears.

He watched for nearly two hours, getting gradually more and more
cramped from his stooping position, and chilled by the sharp autumn
air. During all that time the men talked earnestly, then, shortly after
eleven, they got up and approached the window. Willis retreated quickly
behind his bush.

The window opened softly and Beamish stepped out to the grass, the
light shining on his strong, rather lowering face. Archer leaned out of
the window after him, and Willis heard him say in low tones, “Then
you’ll speak up at eleven?” to which the other nodded and silently
withdrew. The window closed, the blind was lowered, and all remained
silent.

Willis waited for some minutes to let the captain get clear away, then
leaving his hiding-place and again keeping on the grass, he passed down
the drive and out on to the road. He was profoundly disappointed. He
had failed in his purpose, and the only ray of light in the immediate
horizon was that last remark of Archer’s. If it meant, as he presumed
it did, that the men were to communicate by the secret telephone at
eleven in the morning, all might not yet be lost. He might learn then
what he had missed tonight.

It seemed hardly worth while returning to Hull. He therefore went to
the Raven Bar in Ferriby, knocked up the landlord, and by paying four
or five times the proper amount, managed to get a meal and some food
for the next day. Then he returned to the deserted cottage, he let
himself in, closed the door behind him, and lying down on the floor
with his head on his arm, fell asleep.

Next morning found him back at his post at the broken window, with the
telephone receiver at his ear. His surmise at the meaning of Archer’s
remark at the study window proved to be correct, for precisely at
eleven he heard the familiar: “Are you there?” which heralded a
conversation. Then Beamish’s voice went on:

“I have talked this business over with Benson, and he makes a
suggestion which I think is an improvement on our plan. He thinks we
should have our general meeting in London immediately after I have
interviewed Madeleine Coburn. The advantage of this scheme would be
that if we found she possessed really serious knowledge, we could
immediately consider our next move, and I could, if necessary, see her
again that night. Benson thinks I should fix up a meeting with her at
say 10.30 or 11, that I could then join you at lunch at 1.30, after
which we could discuss my report, and I could see the girl again at 4
or 5 o’clock. It seems to me a sound scheme. What do you say?”

“It has advantages,” Archer answered slowly. “If you both think it
best, I’m quite agreeable. Where then should the meetings be held?”

“In the case of Miss Coburn there would be no change in our last
night’s arrangement; a private sitting-room at the Gresham would still
do excellently. If you’re going to town you could fix up some place for
our own meeting—preferably close by.”

“Very well, I’m going up on Tuesday in any case, and I’ll arrange
something. I shall let Benson know, and he can tell you and the others.
I think we should all go up by separate trains. I shall probably go by
the 5.3 from Hull on the evening before. Let’s see, when will you be in
again?”

“Monday week about midday, I expect. Benson could go up that morning,
Bulla and I separately by the 4, and Fox, Henri, and Raymond, if he
comes, by the first train next morning. How would that do?”

“All right, I think. The meetings then will be on Tuesday at 11 and
1.30, Benson to give you the address of the second. We can arrange at
the meeting about returning to Hull.”

“Righto,” Beamish answered shortly, and the conversation ended.

Willis for once was greatly cheered by what he had overheard. His
failure on the previous evening was evidently not going to be so
serious as he had feared. He had in spite of it gained a knowledge of
the conspirators’ plans, and he chuckled with delight as he thought how
excellently his ruse was working, and how completely the gang were
walking into the trap which he had prepared. As far as he could see, he
held all the trump cards of the situation, and if he played his hand
carefully he should undoubtedly get not only the men, but the evidence
to convict them.

To learn the rendezvous for the meeting of the syndicate he would have
to follow Archer to town, and shadow him as he did his business. This
was Saturday, and the managing director had said he was going on the
following Tuesday. From that there would be a week until the meeting,
which would give more than time to make the necessary arrangements.

Willis remained in the cottage until dark that evening, then, making
his way to Ferriby station, returned to Hull. His first action on
reaching the city was to send a letter to Madeleine, asking her to
forward Beamish’s reply to him at the Yard.

On Monday he began his shadowing of Archer, lest the latter should go
to town that day. But the distiller made no move until the Tuesday,
travelling up that morning by the 6.15 from Hull.

At 12.25 they reached King’s Cross. Archer leisurely left the train,
and crossing the platform, stepped into a taxi and was driven away.
Willis, in a second taxi, followed about fifty yards behind. The chase
led westwards along the Euston Road until, turning to the left down
Gower Street, the leading vehicle pulled up at the door of the Gresham
Hotel in Bedford Square. Willis’s taxi ran on past the other, and
through the backlight the inspector saw Archer alight and pass into the
hotel.

Stopping at a door in Bloomsbury Street, Willis sat watching. In about
five minutes Archer reappeared, and again entering his taxi, was driven
off southwards. Willis’s car slid once more in behind the other, and
the chase recommenced. They crossed Oxford Street, and passing down
Charing Cross Road stopped at a small foreign restaurant in a narrow
lane off Cranbourne Street.

Willis’s taxi repeated its previous maneuver, and halted opposite a
shop from where the inspector could see the other vehicle through the
backlight. He thought he had all the information he needed, but there
was the risk that Archer might not find the room he required at the
little restaurant and have to try elsewhere.

This second call lasted longer than the first, and a quarter of an hour
had passed before the distiller emerged and reentered his taxi. This
time the chase was short. At the Trocadero Archer got out, dismissed
his taxi, and passed into the building. Willis, following discreetly,
was in time to see the other seat himself at a table and leisurely take
up the bill of fare. Believing the quarry would remain where he was for
another half hour at least, the inspector slipped unobserved out of the
room, and jumping once more into his taxi, was driven back to the
little restaurant off Cranbourne Street. He sent for the manager and
drew him aside.

“I’m Inspector Willis from Scotland Yard,” he said with a sharpness
strangely at variance with his usual easy-going mode of address. “See
here.” He showed his credentials, at which the manager bowed
obsequiously. “I am following that gentleman who was in here inquiring
about a room a few minutes ago. I want to know what passed between
you.”

The manager, who was a sly, evil-looking person seemingly of Eastern
blood, began to hedge, but Willis cut him short with scant ceremony.

“Now look here, my friend,” he said brusquely, “I haven’t time to waste
with you. That man that you were talking to is wanted for murder, and
what you have to decide is whether you’re going to act with the police
or against them. If you give us any, trouble you may find yourself in
the dock as an accomplice after the fact. In any case it’s not healthy
for a man in your position to run up against the police.”

His bluff had more effect that it might have had with an Englishman in
similar circumstances, and the manager became polite and anxious to
assist. Yes, the gentleman had come about a room. He had ordered lunch
in a private room for a party of seven for 1.30 on the following
Tuesday. He had been very particular about the room, had insisted on
seeing it, and had approved of it. It appeared the party had some
business to discuss after lunch, and the gentleman had required a
guarantee that they would not be interrupted. The gentleman had given
his name as Mr. Hodgson. The price had been agreed on.

Willis in his turn demanded to see the room, and he was led upstairs to
a small and rather dark chamber, containing a fair-sized oval table
surrounded by red plush chairs, a red plush sofa along one side, and a
narrow sideboard along another. The walls supported tawdry and
dilapidated decorations, in which beveled mirrors and faded gilding
bore a prominent part. Two large but quite worthless oil paintings hung
above the fireplace and the sideboard respectively, and the window was
covered with gelatine paper simulating stained glass.

Inspector Willis stood surveying the scene with a frown on his brow.
How on earth was he to secrete himself in this barely furnished
apartment? There was not room under the sofa, still less beneath the
sideboard. Nor was there any adjoining room or cupboard in which he
could hide, his keen ear pressed to the keyhole. It seemed to him that
in this case he was doing nothing but coming up against one insoluble
problem after another. Ruefully he recalled the conversation in
Archer’s study, and he decided that, whatever it cost in time and
trouble, there must be no repetition of that fiasco.

He stood silently pondering over the problem, the manager obsequiously
bowing and rubbing his hands. And then the idea for which he was hoping
flashed into his mind. He walked to the wall behind the sideboard and
struck it sharply. It rang hollow.

“A partition?” he asked. “What is behind it?”

“Anozzer room, sair. A private room, same as dees.”

“Show it to me.”

The “ozzer room” was smaller, but otherwise similar to that they had
just left. The doors of the two rooms were beside each other, leading
on to the same passage.

“This will do,” Willis declared. “Now look here, Mr. Manager, I wish to
overhear the conversation of your customers, and I may or may not wish
to arrest them. You will show them up and give them lunch exactly as
you have arranged. Some officers from the Yard and myself will
previously have hidden ourselves in here. See?”

The manager nodded.

“In the meantime I shall send a carpenter and have a hole made in that
partition between the two rooms, a hole about two feet by one, behind
the upper part of that picture that hangs above the sideboard. Do you
understand?”

The manager wrung his hands.

“Ach!” he cried. “But _meine Zimmern!_ Mine rooms, zey veel pe
deestroyed!”

“Your rooms will be none the worse,” Willis declared. “I will have the
damage made good, and I shall pay you reasonably well for everything.
You’ll not lose if you act on the square, but if not—” he stared
aggressively in the other’s face—“if the slightest hint of my plan
reaches any of the men—well, it will be ten years at least.”

“It shall be done! All shall happen as you say!”

“It had better,” Willis rejoined, and with a menacing look he strode
out of the restaurant.

“The Gresham Hotel,” he called to his driver, as he reentered his taxi.

His manner to the manageress of the Bedford Square hotel was very
different from that displayed to the German. Introducing himself as an
inspector from the Yard, he inquired the purpose of Archer’s call.
Without hesitation he was informed. The distiller had engaged a private
sitting-room for a business interview which was to take place at eleven
o’clock on the following Tuesday between a Miss Coburn, a Mr. Merriman,
and a Captain Beamish.

“So far so good,” thought Willis exultingly, as he drove off. “They’re
walking into the trap! I shall have them all. I shall have them in a
week.”

At the Yard he dismissed his taxi, and on reaching his room he found
the letter he was expecting from Madeleine. It contained that from
Beamish, and the latter read:

“FERRIBY, YORKS,
“_Saturday_.


“DEAR MISS COBURN,—I have just received your letter of 25th inst., and
I hasten to reply.
    “I am deeply grieved to learn that you consider yourself badly
    treated by the members of the syndicate, and I may say at once that
    I feel positive that any obligations which they may have contracted
    will be immediately and honorably discharged.
    “It is, however, news to me that your late father was a partner, as
    I always imagined that he held his position as I do my own, namely,
    as a salaried official who also receives a bonus based on the
    profits of the concern.
    “With regard to the notes you have found on the operations of the
    syndicate, it is obvious that these must be capable of a simple
    explanation, as there was nothing in the operations complicated or
    difficult to understand.
    “I shall be very pleased to fall in with your suggestion that we
    should meet and discuss the points at issue, and I would suggest 11
    a.m. on Tuesday, 10th prox., at the Gresham Hotel in Bedford
    Square, if this would suit you.


“With kind regards,
“Yours sincerely,
“WALTER BEAMISH.”


Willis smiled as he read this effusion. It was really quite well
worded, and left the door open for any action which the syndicate might
decide on. “Ah, well, my friend,” he thought grimly, “you’ll get a
little surprise on Tuesday. You’ll find Miss Coburn is not to be caught
as easily as you think. Just you wait and see.”

For the next three or four days Willis busied himself in preparing for
his great coup. First he went down again to Eastbourne via Brighton,
and coached Madeleine and Merriman in the part they were to play in the
coming interview. Next he superintended the making of the hole through
the wall dividing the two private rooms at the Cranbourne Street
restaurant, and drilled the party of men who were to occupy the annex.
To his unbounded satisfaction, he found that every word uttered at the
table in the larger room was audible next door to anyone standing at
the aperture. Then he detailed two picked men to wait within call of
the private room at the Gresham during the interview between Madeleine
and Beamish. Finally, all his preparations in London complete, he
returned to Hull, and set himself, by means of the secret telephone, to
keep in touch with the affairs of the syndicate.




CHAPTER XX.
THE DOUBLE CROSS


Inspector Willis spent the Saturday before the fateful Tuesday at the
telephone in the empty cottage. Nothing of interest passed over the
wire, except that Benson informed his chief that he had had a telegram
from Beamish saying that, in order to reach Ferriby at the prearranged
hour, he was having to sail without a full cargo of props, and that the
two men went over again the various trains by which they and their
confederates would travel to London. Both items pleased Willis, as it
showed him that the plans originally made were being adhered to.

On Monday morning, as the critical hour of his coup approached, he
became restless and even nervous—so far, that is, as an inspector of
the Yard on duty can be nervous. So much depended on the results of the
next day and a half! His own fate hung in the balance as well as that
of the men against whom he had pitted himself; Miss Coburn and Merriman
too would be profoundly affected however the affair ended, while to his
department, and even to the nation at large, his success would not be
without importance.

He determined he would, if possible, see the various members of the
gang start, travelling himself in the train with Archer, as the leader
and the man most urgently “wanted.” Benson, he remembered, was to go
first. Willis therefore haunted the Paragon station, watching the
trains leave, and he was well satisfied when he saw Benson get on board
the 9.10 a.m. By means of a word of explanation and the passing of a
couple of shillings, he induced an official to examine the traveller’s
ticket, which proved to be a third return to King’s Cross.

Beamish and Bulla were to travel by the 4 p.m., and Willis, carefully
disguised as a deep-sea fisherman, watched them arrive separately, take
their tickets, and enter the train. Beamish travelled first, and Bulla
third, and again the inspector had their tickets examined, and found
they were for London.

Archer was to leave at 5.3, and Willis intended as a precautionary
measure to travel up with him and keep him under observation. Still in
his fisherman’s disguise, he took his own ticket, got into the rear of
the train, and kept his eye on the platform until he saw Archer pass,
suitcase and rug in hand. Then cautiously looking out, he watched the
other get into the through coach for King’s Cross.

As the train ran past the depot at Ferriby, Willis observed that the
_Girondin_ was not discharging pit-props, but instead was loading casks
of some kind. He had noted on the previous Friday, when he had been in
the neighborhood, that some wagons of these casks had been shunted
inside the enclosure, and were being unloaded by the syndicate’s men.
The casks looked like those in which the crude oil for the ship’s
Diesel engines arrived, and the fact that she was loading them
unemptied—he presumed them unemptied—seemed to indicate that the
pumping plant on the wharf was out of order.

The 5.3 p.m. ran, with a stop at Goole, to Doncaster, where the through
carriage was shunted on to one of the great expresses from the north.
More from force of habit than otherwise, Willis put his head out of the
window at Goole to watch if anyone should leave Archer’s carriage. But
no one did.

At Doncaster Willis received something of a shock. As his train drew
into the station another was just coming out, and he idly ran his eye
along the line of coaches. A figure in the corner of a third-class
compartment attracted his attention. It seemed vaguely familiar, but it
was already out of sight before the inspector realized that it was a
likeness to Benson that had struck him. He had not seen the man’s face
and at once dismissed the matter from his mind with the careless
thought that everyone has his double. A moment later they pulled up at
the platform.

Here again he put out his head, and it was not long before he saw
Archer alight and, evidently leaving his suitcase and rug to keep his
seat, move slowly down the platform. There was nothing remarkable in
this, as no less than seventeen minutes elapsed between the arrival of
the train from Hull and the departure of that from London, and through
passengers frequently left their carriage while it was being shunted.
At the same time Willis unostentatiously followed, and presently saw
Archer vanish into the first-class refreshment room. He took up a
position where he had a good view of the door, and waited for the
other’s reappearance.

But the distiller was in no hurry. Ten minutes elapsed, and still he
made no sign. The express from the north thundered in, the engine
hooked off, and shunting began. The train was due out at 6.22, and now
the hands of the great clock pointed to 6.19. Willis began to be
perturbed. Had he missed his quarry?

At 6.20 he could stand it no longer, and at risk of meeting Archer,
should the latter at that moment decide to leave the refreshment room,
he pushed open the door and glanced in. And then he breathed freely
again. Archer was sitting at a table sipping what looked like a whisky
and soda. As Willis looked he saw him glance up at the clock—now
pointing to 6.21—and calmly settle himself more comfortably in his
chair!

Why, the man would miss the train! Willis, with a sudden feeling of
disappointment, had an impulse to run over and remind him of the hour
at which it left. But he controlled himself in time, slipped back to
his post of observation, and took up his watch. In a few seconds the
train whistled, and pulled majestically out of the station.

For fifteen minutes Willis waited, and then he saw the distiller leave
the refreshment room and walk slowly down the platform. As Willis
followed, it was clear to him that the other had deliberately allowed
his train to start without him, though what his motive had been the
inspector could not imagine. He now approached the booking-office and
apparently bought a ticket, afterwards turning back down the platform.

Willis slipped into a doorway until he had passed, then hurrying to the
booking-window, explained who he was and asked to what station the last
comer had booked. He was told “Selby,” and he retreated, exasperated
and puzzled beyond words. What _could_ Archer be up to?

He bought a time-table and began to study the possibilities. First he
made himself clear as to the lie of the land. The main line of the
great East Coast route from London to Scotland ran almost due north and
south through Doncaster. Eighteen miles to the north was Selby, the
next important station. At Selby a line running east and west crossed
the other, leading in one direction to Leeds and the west, in the other
to Hull.

About half-way between Selby and Hull, at a place called Staddlethorpe,
a line branched off and ran south-westerly through Goole to Doncaster.
Selby, Staddlethorpe, and Doncaster therefore formed a railway
triangle, one of the sides of which, produced, led to Hull. From this
it followed, as indeed the inspector had known, that passengers to and
from Hull had two points of connection with the main line, either
direct to Selby, or through Goole to Doncaster.

He began to study the trains. The first northwards was the 4 p.m.
dining-car express from King’s Cross to Newcastle. It left Doncaster at
7.56 and reached Selby at 8.21. Would Archer travel by it? And if he
did, what would be his next move?

For nearly an hour Willis sat huddled up in the corner of a seat, his
eye on Archer in the distance, and his mind wrestling with the problem.
For nearly an hour he racked his brains without result, then suddenly a
devastating idea flashed before his consciousness, leaving him rigid
with dismay. For a moment his mind refused to accept so disastrous a
possibility, but as he continued to think over it he found that one
puzzling and unrelated fact after another took on a different
complexion from that it had formerly borne; that, moreover, it dropped
into place and became part of a connected whole.

[Illustration]

He saw now why Archer could not discuss Madeleine’s letter over the
telephone, but was able to arrange in that way for the interview with
Beamish. He understood why Archer, standing at his study window, had
mentioned the call at eleven next morning. He realized that Benson’s
amendment was probably arranged by Archer on the previous evening. He
saw why the _Girondin_ had left the Lesque without her full cargo, and
why she was loading barrels at Ferriby. He knew who it was he had seen
passing in the other train as his own reached Doncaster, and he grasped
the reason for Archer’s visit to Selby. In a word, he saw he had been
hoaxed—fooled—carefully, systematically, and at every point. While he
had been congratulating himself on the completeness with which the
conspirators had been walking into his net, he had in reality been
caught in theirs. He had been like a child in their hands. They had
evidently been watching and countering his every step.

He saw now that his tapping of the secret telephone must have been
discovered, and that his enemies had used their discovery to mislead
him. They must have recognized that Madeleine’s letter was inspired by
himself, and read his motives in making her send it. They had then used
the telephone to make him believe they were falling into his trap,
while their real plans were settled in Archer’s study.

What those plans were he believed he now understood. There would be no
meetings in London on the following day. The meetings were designed to
bring him, Willis, to the Metropolis and keep him there. By tomorrow
the gang, convinced that discovery was imminent, would be aboard the
_Girondin_ and on the high seas. They were, as he expressed it to
himself, “doing a bunk.”

Therefore of necessity the _Girondin_ would load barrelled oil to drive
her to some country where Scotland Yard detectives did not flourish,
and where extradition laws were of no account. Therefore she must
return light, or, he suspected, empty, as there would be no time to
unload. Moreover, a reason for this “lightness” must be given him, lest
he should notice the ship sitting high out of the water, and suspect.
And he now knew that it was really Benson that he had seen returning to
Ferriby via Goole, and that Archer was doing the same via Selby.

He looked up the trains from Selby to Ferriby. There was only one. It
left Selby at 9.19, fifty-eight minutes after the Doncaster train
arrived there, and reached Ferriby at 10.7. It was now getting on
towards eight. He had nearly two and a half hours to make his plans.

Though Willis was a little slow in thought he was prompt in action.
Feeling sure that Archer would indeed travel by the 7.56 to Selby, he
relaxed his watch and went to the telephone call office. There he rang
up the police station at Selby, asking for a plain-clothes man and two
constables to meet him at the train to make an arrest. Also he asked
for a fast car to be engaged to take him immediately to Ferriby. He
then called up the police in Hull, and had a long talk with the
superintendent. Finally it was arranged that a sergeant and twelve men
were to meet him on the shore at the back of the signal cabin near the
Ferriby depot, with a boat and a grappling ladder for getting aboard
the _Girondin_. This done, Willis hurried back to the platform,
reaching it just as the 7.56 came in. He watched Archer get on board,
and then himself entered another compartment.

At Selby the quarry alighted, and passed along the platform towards the
booking-office. Willis’s police training instantly revealed to him the
plain-clothes man, and him he instructed to follow Archer and learn to
what station he booked. In a few moments the man returned to say it was
Ferriby. Then calling up the two constables, the four officers followed
the distiller into the first-class waiting room, where he had taken
cover. Willis walked up to him.

“Archibald Charles Archer,” he said impressively, “I am Inspector
Willis of Scotland Yard. I have a warrant for your arrest on a charge
of murdering Francis Coburn in a cab in London on September 12 last. I
have to warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence.”

For a moment the distiller seemed so overwhelmed with surprise as to be
incapable of movement, and before he could pull himself together there
was a click, and handcuffs gleamed on his wrists. Then his eyes blazed,
and with the inarticulate roar of a wild beast he flung himself wildly
on Willis, and, manacled as he was, attempted to seize his throat. But
the struggle was brief. In a moment the three other men had torn him
off, and he stood glaring at his adversary, and uttering savage curses.

“You look after him, sergeant,” Willis directed a little breathlessly,
as he tried to straighten the remnants of his tie. “I must go on to
Ferriby.”

A powerful car was waiting outside the station, and Willis, jumping in,
offered the driver an extra pound if he was at Ferriby within fifty
minutes. He reckoned the distance was about twenty-five miles, and he
thought he should maintain at average of thirty miles an hour.

The night was intensely dark as the big vehicle swung out of Selby,
eastward bound. A slight wind blew in from the east, bearing a damp,
searching cold, more trying than frost. Willis, who had left his coat
in the London train, shivered as he drew the one rug the vehicle
contained up round his shoulders.

The road to Howden was broad and smooth, and the car made fine going.
But at Howden the main road turned north, and speed on the
comparatively inferior cross roads to Ferriby had to be reduced. But
Willis was not dissatisfied with their progress when at 9.38,
fifty-four minutes after leaving Selby, they pulled up in the Ferriby
lane, not far from the distillery and opposite the railway signal
cabin.

Having arranged with the driver to run up to the main road, wait there
until he heard four blasts on the _Girondin’s_ horn, and then make for
the syndicate’s depot, the inspector dismounted, and forcing his way
through the railway fence, crossed the rails and descended the low
embankment on the river side. A moment later, just as he reached the
shore, the form of a man loomed up dimly through the darkness.

“Who is there?” asked Willis softly.

“Constable Jones, sir,” the figure answered. “Is that Inspector Willis?
Sergeant Hobbs is here with the boats.”

Willis followed the other for fifty yards along the beach, until they
came on two boats, each containing half a dozen policemen. It was still
very dark; and the wind blew cold and raw. The silence was broken only
by the lapping of the waves on the shingle. Willis felt that the night
was ideal for his purpose. There was enough noise from wind and water
to muffle any sounds that the men might make in getting aboard the
_Girondin_, but not enough to prevent him overhearing any conversation
which might be in progress.

“We have just got here this minute, sir,” the sergeant said. “I hope we
haven’t kept you waiting.”

“Just arrived myself,” Willis returned. “You have twelve picked men?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Armed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I need not remind you all not to fire except as a last resort.
What arrangements have you made for boarding?”

“We have a ladder with hooks at the top for catching on the taffrail.”

“Your oars muffled?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Now listen, and see that you are clear about what you are
to do. When we reach the ship get your ladder into position, and I’ll
go up. You and the men follow. Keep beside me, sergeant. We’ll overhear
what we can. When I give the signal, rush in and arrest the whole gang.
Do you follow?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let us get under way.”

They pushed off, passing like phantoms over the dark water. The ship
carried a riding light, to which they steered. She was lying, Willis
knew, bow upstream. The tide was flowing, and when they were close by
they ceased rowing and drifted down on to her stern. There the leading
boat dropped in beneath her counter, and the bowman made the painter
fast to her rudder post. The second boat’s painter was attached to the
stern of the first, and the current swung both alongside. The men,
fending off, allowed their craft to come into place without sound. The
ladder was raised and hooked on, and Willis, climbing up, stealthily
raised his head above the taffrail.

The port side of the ship was, as on previous occasions, in complete
darkness, and Willis jerked the ladder as a signal to the others to
follow him. In a few seconds the fourteen men stood like shadows on the
lower deck. Then Willis, tiptoeing forward, began to climb the ladder
to the bridge deck, just as Hilliard had done some four months earlier.
As on that occasion, the starboard side of the ship, next the wharf,
was dimly lighted up. A light also showed in the window of the
captain’s cabin, from which issued the sound of voices.

Willis posted his men in two groups at either end of the cabin, so that
at a given signal they could rush round in opposite directions and
reach the door. Then he and the sergeant crept forward and put their
ears to the window.

This time, though the glass was hooked back as before, the curtain was
pulled fully across the opening, so that the men could see nothing and
only partially hear what was said. Willis therefore reached in and very
gradually pulled it a little aside. Fortunately no one noticed the
movement, and the talk continued uninterruptedly.

The inspector could now see in. Five men were squeezed round the tiny
table. Beamish and Bulla sat along one side, directly facing him. At
the end was Fox. The remaining two had their backs to the window, and
were, the inspector believed, Raymond and Henri. Before each man was a
long tumbler of whisky and soda, and a box of cigars lay on the table.
All seemed nervous and excited, indeed as if under an intolerable
strain, and kept fidgeting and looking at their watches. Conversation
was evidently maintained with an effort, as a thing necessary to keep
them from a complete breakdown. Raymond was speaking:

“And you saw him come out?” he was asking.

“Yes,” Fox answered. “He came out sort of stealthy and looked around. I
didn’t know who it was then, but I knew no one had any business in the
cottage at that hour, so I followed him to Ferriby station. I saw his
face by the lamps there.”

“And you knew him?”

“No, but I recognized him as having been around with that Excise
inspector, and I guessed he was on to something.”

“_Oui, oui_. Yes?” the Frenchman interrogated.

“Well, naturally I told the chief. He knew who it was.”

“_Bien!_ There is not—how do you say?—flies on Archer, _n’est-ce pas?_
And then?”

“The chief guessed who it was from the captain’s description.”

Fox nodded his head at Beamish. “You met him, eh, captain?”

“He stood me a drink,” the big man answered, “but what he did it for I
don’t know.”

“But how did he get wise to the telephone?” Bulla rumbled.

“Can’t find out,” Fox replied, “but it showed he was wise to the whole
affair. Then there was that letter from Miss Coburn. That gave the show
away, because there could have been no papers like she said, and she
couldn’t have discovered anything then that she hadn’t known at the
clearing. Archer put Morton on to it, and he found that this Willis
went down to Eastbourne one night about two days before the letter
came. So that was that. Then he had me watch for him going to the
telephone, and he has fooled him about proper. I guess he’s in London
now, arranging to arrest us all tomorrow.”

Bulla chuckled fatly.

“As you say,” he nodded at Raymond, “there ain’t no flies on Archer,
what?”

“I’ve always thought a lot of Archer,” Beamish remarked, “but I never
thought so much of him as that night we drew lots for who should put
Coburn out of the way. When he drew the long taper he never as much as
turned a hair. That’s the last time we had a full meeting, and we never
reckoned that this would be the next.”

At this moment a train passed going towards Hull.

“There’s his train,” Fox cried. “He should be here soon.”

“How long does it take to get from the station?” Raymond inquired.

“About fifteen minutes,” Captain Beamish answered. “We’re time enough
making a move.”

The men showed more and more nervousness, but the talk dragged on for
some quarter of an hour. Suddenly from the wharf sounded the
approaching footsteps of a running man. He crossed the gangway and
raced up the ladder to the captain’s cabin. The others sprang to their
feet as the door opened and Benson appeared.

“He hasn’t come!” he cried excitedly. “I watched at the station and he
didn’t get out!”

Consternation showed on every face, and Beamish swore bitterly. There
was a variety of comments and conjectures.

“There’s no other train?”

“Only the express. It doesn’t stop here, but it stops at Hassle on
notice to the guard.”

“He may have missed the connection at Selby,” Fox suggested. “In that
case he would motor.”

Beamish spoke authoritatively.

“I wish, Benson, you would go and ring up the Central and see if there
has been any message.”

Willis whispered to the sergeant, who, beckoning to two of his men,
crept hurriedly down the port ladder to the lower deck. In a moment
Benson followed down the starboard or lighted side. Willis listened
breathlessly above, heard what he was expecting—a sudden scuffle, a
muffled cry, a faint click, and then silence. He peeped through the
porthole. Fox was expounding his theory about the railway connections,
and none of those within had heard the sounds. Presently the sergeant
returned with his men.

“Trussed him up to the davit pole,” he breathed in the inspector’s ear.
“_He_ won’t give no trouble.”

Willis nodded contentedly. That was one out of the way out of six, and
he had fourteen on his side.

Meanwhile the men in the cabin continued anxiously discussing their
leader’s absence, until after a few minutes Beamish swore irritably.

“Curse that fool Benson,” he growled. “What the blazes is keeping him
all this time? I had better go and hurry him up. If they’ve got hold of
Archer, it’s time we were out of this.”

Willis’s hand closed on the sergeant’s arm.

“Same thing again, but with three men,” he whispered.

The four had hardly disappeared down the port ladder when Beamish left
his cabin and began to descend the starboard. Willis felt that the
crisis was upon him. He whispered to the remaining constables, who
closed in round the cabin door, then grasped his revolver, and stood
tense.

Suddenly a wild commotion arose on the lower deck. There was a warning
shout from Beamish, instantly muffled, a tramp of feet, a pistol shot,
and sounds of a violent struggle.

For a moment there was silence in the cabin, the men gazing at each
other with consternation on their faces. Then Bulla yelled: “Copped, by
heck!” and with an agility hardly credible in a man of his years,
whipped out a revolver, and sprang out of the cabin. Instantly he was
seized by three constables, and the four went swinging and lurching
across the deck, Bulla fighting desperately to turn his weapon on his
assailants. At the same moment Willis leaped to the door, and with his
automatic levelled, shouted, “Hands up, all of you! You are covered
from every quarter!”

Henri and Fox, who were next the door, obeyed as if in a stupor, but
Raymond’s hand flew out, and a bullet whistled past the inspector’s
head. Instantly Willis fired, and with a scream the Frenchman staggered
back.

It was the work of a few seconds for the remaining constables to dash
in under the inspector’s pistol and handcuff the two men in the cabin,
and Willis then turned to see how the contests on deck were faring. But
these also were over. Both Beamish and Bulla, borne down by the weight
of numbers, had been secured.

The inspector next turned to examine Raymond. His shot had been well
aimed. The bullet had entered the base of the man’s right thumb, and
passed out through his wrist. His life was not in danger, but it would
be many a long day before he would again fire a revolver.

Four blasts on the _Girondin’s_ horn recalled Willis’s car, and when,
some three hours later, the last batch of prisoners was safely lodged
in the Hull police station, Willis began to feel that the end of his
labors was at last coming in sight.

The arrests supplied the inspector with fresh material on which to
work. As a result of his careful investigation of the movements of the
prisoners during the previous three years, the entire history of the
Pit-Prop Syndicate was unravelled, as well as the details of Coburn’s
murder.

It seemed that the original idea of the fraud was Raymond’s. He looked
round for a likely English partner, selected Archer, broached the
subject to him, and found him willing to go in. Soon, from his
dominating personality, Archer became the leader. Details were worked
out, and the necessary confederates carefully chosen. Beamish and Bulla
went in as partners, the four being bound together by their joint
liability. The other three members were tools over whom the quartet had
obtained some hold. In Coburn’s case, Archer learned of the
defalcations in time to make the erring cashier his victim. He met the
deficit in return for a signed confession of guilt and an I O U for a
sum that would have enabled the distiller to sell the other up, and
ruin his home and his future.

An incompletely erased address in a pocket diary belonging to Beamish
led Willis to a small shop on the south side of London, where he
discovered an assistant who had sold a square of black serge to two
men, about the time of Coburn’s murder. The salesman remembered the
transaction because his customers had been unable to describe what they
wanted otherwise than by the word “cloth,” which was not the technical
name for any of his commodities. The fabric found in the cab was
identical to that on the roll this man stated he had used; moreover, he
identified Beamish and Bulla as the purchasers.

Willis had a routine search made of the restaurants of Soho, and at
last found that in which the conspirators had held their meetings
previous to the murder. There had been two. At the first, so Willis
learned from the description given by the proprietor, Coburn had been
present, but not at the second.

In spite of all his efforts he was unable to find the shop at which the
pistol had been bought, but he suspected the transaction had been
carried out by one of the other members of the gang, in order as far as
possible to share the responsibility for the crime.

On the _Girondin_ was found the false bulkhead in Bulla’s cabin, behind
which was placed the hidden brandy tank. The connection for the shore
pipe was concealed behind the back of the engineer’s wash-hand basin,
which moved forward by means of a secret spring.

On the _Girondin_ was also found something over £700,000, mostly in
Brazilian notes, and Benson admitted later that the plan had been to
scuttle the _Girondin_ off the coast of Bahia, take to the boats and
row ashore at night, remaining in Brazil at least till the hue and cry
had died down. But instead all seven men received heavy sentences.
Archer paid for his crimes with his life, the others got terms of from
ten to fifteen years each. The managers of the licensed houses in Hull
were believed to have been in ignorance of the larger fraud, and to
have dealt privately and individually with Archer, and they and their
accomplices escaped with lighter penalties.

The mysterious Morton proved to be a private detective, employed by
Archer. He swore positively that he had no knowledge of the real nature
of the syndicate’s operations, and though the judge’s strictures on his
conduct were severe, no evidence could be found against him, and he was
not brought to trial.

Inspector Willis got his desired promotion out of the case, and there
was someone else who got more. About a month after the trial, in the
Holy Trinity Church, Eastbourne, a wedding was solemnized—Seymour
Merriman and Madeleine Coburn were united in the holy bonds of
matrimony. And Hilliard, assisting as best man, could not refrain from
whispering in his friend’s ear as they turned to leave the vestry,
“Three cheers for the Pit-Prop Syndicate!”




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