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.