The Pit-Prop Syndicate. John Curran
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 any one 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 the deck, and in another moment he had slipped round the deck-house 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 state-room, 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 state-room. Aft of this building most of the remaining bridge deck was taken up by two lifeboats, canvas covered and housed in chogs. 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, reconnoitring, 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. Some one 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. Recognising 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 holiday.’
They passed round the deck-house 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 depot 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 deck-house 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 syphon 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?’
Mr Coburn hesitated.
‘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: