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.