THE CORNISH RIVIERA.
In the summer time all the best people, and many who fall short of
perfection, go westward to the Cornish Riviera. It is the thing to do.
The taxi, the station 'bus, the private automobile, and even the almost
extinct four-wheeler, high laden with luggage, by common consent roll
down the slope into Paddington and deliver up their cargoes. Long are
the queues at the booking offices, thronged the platforms, and loud the
voices of those who command. Each little party of voyagers would seem
to have its own alarums as an inevitable adjunct to excursion. The
genius for organising is manifest on all sides with resultant chaos.
Orders and injunctions are flung broadcast--misinterpreted and
sometimes abused. The germ of panic infects the multitude.
There was nothing Freddie Dirk liked better than a holiday crowd. They
inspired in him a sense of profound gratitude. Their generosity was
boundless. To a gentleman of his skill in the matter of property
exchange they represented a fortune. Whatsoever the imagination might
picture and the heart of man covet could be had at the mere turn of a
hand.
His appointment with Harrison Smith was for 9.50, but Freddie Dirk
arrived half an hour ahead of time and this grace he put to excellent
account. He had learnt from Bolt that Cornwall was their destination,
wherefore his first care was to procure two first-class tickets for
Plymouth from the cuff of a gentleman's raincoat--a feat in strict
accordance with the laws of economy. The high cost of living had of
late reduced his supply of ready cash, on which account he could hardly
be blamed for taking possession of a wad of notes carelessly entrusted
to a side pocket by another passenger who was seeking to economise by
carrying his own bag. Being an essentially practical man Freddie Dirk
resisted the temptation to acquire a suitcase in crocodile by Pound.
Reticence in the matter did him credit and he rewarded himself with a
single stone diamond scarf pin that greatly enhanced the appearance of
his own cravat. He was debating with himself the question of a string
of pearls of no very great value when Harrison Smith's hand fell upon
his shoulder.
"That's a blame silly thing to do," said Dirk when he had recovered
from his initial surprise. "Blame silly. Might 'ave a bit more
respec' for a man's nerves."
Harrison Smith cursed him fluently as he led the way to a Ford car
standing in the yard.
"Lot of use to me you'd have been if the splits had got you. It's a
big job we're tackling and I don't want it spoilt by dam-fool sneak
thief tricks."
Freddie Dirk apologised and explained his distaste for idleness.
"Ain't we going by train--'cos I got the tickets."
"No."
"Well, 'ang on a minute while I gets the money back."
But even this business coup was denied and with a sense of opportunity
lost he entered the car.
There was nothing prepossessing in Freddie Dirk's appearance. He was
of the low brow, heavy jaw, bruiser type. The term a "tough" fits him
closely. He had a punch like a kick from a dray horse but when called
upon to use his hands he preferred to rely upon his mascot to ensure
success. Freddie's mascot was a few lengths of whalebone bound with
twine and socketed into a pear-shaped lump of lead. Scientifically
wielded it would go through the helmet of a City policeman like a hot
knife through butter. He had a healthy dislike for firearms which was
perhaps the primary cause of his failure to serve King and Country in
the late war. His skill as a draft dodger had earned him a great
reputation among many of his fellows equally diffident in their will to
serve.
"I've got you into this," said Harrison Smith as they chugged up the
station incline, "because I want a man who'll stick at nothing."
Dirk nodded.
"There's a chance we may have to----"
"That's orl rite--least said soonest mended."
"Barraclough is a bit of a bear cat and if he's got the concession on
him you can lay odds he'll fight."
"If he's got the blinking thing don't see 'ow we're going to make much
aht of it."
"Wouldn't his own side pay a goodish cheque? And wouldn't old Van cash
in to have it destroyed."
Dirk grinned very prettily revealing his broken front teeth in all the
glory of the morning sun.
"I get you. A private deal, like, favouring whichever market pays
best."
"That's the idea. There's a fortune in it if we get him tucked away in
some quiet place."
"It's a treat to work with you," said Dirk enthusiastically. "I'll lay
a quart there ain't a finer 'ead piece than yours from 'Oxton to
'Ammersmith."
"Thank you," said Harrison Smith. "Try and remember that and obey
orders quick as you get 'em."
"That's rite, captain, that's the talk. Give me a man wot talks
strite."
A Ford is a marvellous eater up of miles and Harrison Smith did not
spare his engine nor linger upon the way. Evening was falling when at
last they descended the hill into the little fishing village of
Polperro. They ran into the inn yard and tried to bespeak a lodging
for the night but in this they were unlucky for there was no
accommodation to be had. The best obtainable was a shake down in the
stable loft, granted on a promise to refrain from smoking. Having
refilled the petrol tank and assured themselves that the Ford was in
sound running order against the morrow's needs they entered the inn.
"We'll get a snack now," said Harrison Smith, "and after that take a
look round and make a few enquiries."
The schooners of ale provided by mine host to wash down the simple
country fare were entirely agreeable to Freddie Dirk's parched palate.
It had been a long day and, as he pointed out, refreshment had been all
too scarce. Harrison Smith might be, and undoubtedly was, an excellent
fellow but he did not understand the urgent need for beer without which
no good man was at his best. It was all very well going out and asking
questions and poking one's nose into this, that and the other but far
greater advantage was to be won by poking one's nose into deep foaming
tankards of beer. Closing hour came all too soon and it would be time
enough to seek fresh diversion after that unhappy event.
Wishing to remain in the good graces of his companion Harrison Smith
shrugged his shoulders and sallied forth alone in the direction of the
quay. The tide was out and from the mud and sand came the pungent
ozonous smell of rotting sea vegetation. Dazzling white gulls wheeled
and hovered in the air or noisily disputed the possession of fragments
of fish and the offal of the market. In the pool a dozen trawlers,
green striped and numbered, with furled brown sails and slackened
rigging rode sweetly at anchor. A knot of seamen leaned against the
outer stone wall of the pier smoking pipes and gazing idly across the
opal coloured sea. A couple of artists were wrestling valiantly with
the thousand subtle difficulties of the scene--trying to transmit to
canvas the changing lights upon the water, the pink blush on the
white-washed houses and the dull grey shadows on the mud. It was a
scene calm and sweet enough to awaken gentleness and set romance astir
but in Harrison Smith's mind it inspired no more than a sense of doubt
and disappointment. Surely this tiny harbour was an unlikely landing
for a man to choose who carried in his pocket the key to millions. No
decent sized vessel would ever put into such a port. The place was
asleep--dead almost.
A blasting conviction that the marks in the guide book had no
connection whatever with the business in hand came over him.
Barraclough might have put them there expressly to deceive the girl.
He was subtle enough to employ such a device. What if after all the
others were right and it was indeed Barraclough they had kidnapped? A
pretty fool he would look then.
Shaking himself out of these melancholy forebodings Harrison Smith
approached an old seaman with the offer of a "good evening" and a fill
of tobacco.
"Pretty quiet hereabouts," he remarked.
The old man nodded.
"Still I dare say you get steamers and such like popping in every day
to liven things up."
"Bearn't draught enuff for steamers. They doan't bother us much,
steamers doan't."
The reply was not encouraging.
"I see the fishing fleet is at anchor. Weather too calm?"
"Couldn't say thaat."
"Going out tonight?"
"Med-do."
"And how do you get rid of your fish?"
"Us sells 'er."
"I mean do you send it up by road?"
"Naw!"
"Steam trawler comes in to collect it?"
"Doan't come in--not very often it doan't."
Harrison Smith turned away with a sigh, leaving the old man sucking at
his pipe and spitting reflectively. There was no illumination to be
found in that quarter.
More than ever doubtful of success he passed slowly through the village
to its inland outskirts and there he paused to study the map. It might
be worth while taking a casual glance at the group of three cottages
marked by Barraclough with the pencil point. They were easily located
but their outward appearance suggested little enough connection with
the mystery. They were fashioned of grey Cornish granite with slate
roofs and the inevitable fuchsia bushes in the front gardens. One of
them boasted a small stock yard roughly cobbled, an open cowshed and
alongside a stable with a heavy double door. As a mere matter of form
Harrison Smith determined to take a glance inside but on approaching
the door he found it was fastened by an iron crossbar secured to an
eyelet by a large and well made padlock. The door fitted closely into
its architrave and there was no crack through which a man might see
into the stable. Once more his excitement revived. With a quick
glance over his shoulder to satisfy himself no one was about he
scrambled over the shale wall of the stock yard and passed to the rear
of the building. High up under the gable a few pieces of stone had
been removed for ventilation. A broken horse trough placed against the
wall served him as a ladder and a moment later he was peering through
the gap into the inky darkness of the stable. Nothing could be seen
so, with some difficulty, he struck a match and dropped it into the
space beyond. It went out in the fall but in the brief space while
still alight it revealed the bright parts of a long, low racing car.
Harrison Smith dropped silently to the ground and his breath came short
and sharp.
"I was right--I was right," he gasped. "Hispano Suisa by the look of
it--and fast too. Shouldn't have much chance against that outfit."
Naturally enough he resolved that it would never do to allow
Barraclough to get as far as the stable. On the other hand it would be
a wise precaution to disable the big automobile in case of accident.
But between him and the carrying out of this resolve was an iron bar
and a padlock. To attempt violence against the door would surely
attract attention from the house. And all at once a simple and
effective alternative suggested itself. If he himself were unable to
enter the stable he would take measures to prevent the entrance of any
other person. There was no difficulty about that and when five minutes
later he strolled down the road toward the inn it was with the
comforting reflection that the keyhole of the padlock was entirely
filled up with clay and grit in such a manner that no key could ever
again force its way in.
He found Dirk already settling himself down for the night and Harrison
Smith smote him boisterously on the back.
"A red hot scent, my son," said he. "We're on the winning side.
Success, my boy--success."
Freddie Dirk smiled beatifically through a fog of beer.
"Goo' ni'," he murmured.
"It's up with the dawn for you and me--and then success."
Curious how success reacts even on the best balanced brain and
obliterates the most obvious considerations. Harrison Smith entirely
forgot the second blue dot on the map--the one situated a mile outside
the village where a little footpath converged with the high road.