The Pit Prop Syndicate

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The Pit Prop Syndicate

by Freeman Wills Croft

CONTENTS

PART ONE THE AMATEURS

1. The Sawmill on the Lesque
2. An Interesting Suggestion
3. The Start of the Cruise
4. A Commercial Proposition
5. The Visit of the Girondin
6. A Change of Venue
7. The Ferriby Depot
8. The Unloading of the Girondin
9. The Second Cargo
10. Merriman Becomes Desperate
11. An Unexpected Ally

PART TWO THE PROFESSIONALS

12. Murder!
13. A Promising Clue
14. A Mystifying Discovery
15. Inspector Willis Listens In
16. The Secret of the Syndicate
17. "Archer Plants Stuff"
18. The Bordeaux Lorries
19. Willis Spreads His Net
20. The Double Cross

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 Aviguon."

"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 hall-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 2

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.

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