The Pit Prop Syndicate - Freeman Wills Crofts (best books to read in your 20s txt) 📗
- Author: Freeman Wills Crofts
- Performer: -
Book online «The Pit Prop Syndicate - Freeman Wills Crofts (best books to read in your 20s txt) 📗». Author Freeman Wills Crofts
The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Pit Prop Syndicate, by Freeman Wills Crofts
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: The Pit Prop Syndicate
Author: Freeman Wills Crofts
Release Date: November 3, 2008 [EBook #2013]
Last Updated: March 15, 2018
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PIT PROP SYNDICATE ***
Produced by An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer, and David Widger
CONTENTS
PART ONE. THE AMATEURS
CHAPTER 1. THE SAWMILL ON THE LESQUE
CHAPTER 2. AN INTERESTING SUGGESTION
CHAPTER 3. THE START OF THE CRUISE
CHAPTER 4. A COMMERCIAL PROPOSITION
CHAPTER 5. THE VISIT OF THE “GIRONDIN”
CHAPTER 6. A CHANGE OF VENUE
CHAPTER 7. THE FERRIBY DEPOT
CHAPTER 8. THE UNLOADING OF THE “GIRONDIN”
CHAPTER 9. THE SECOND CARGO
CHAPTER 10. MERRIMAN BECOMES DESPERATE
CHAPTER 11. AN UNEXPECTED ALLY
PART TWO. THE PROFESSIONALS
CHAPTER 12. MURDER!
CHAPTER 13. A PROMISING CLUE
CHAPTER 14. A MYSTIFYING DISCOVERY
CHAPTER 15. INSPECTOR WILLIS LISTENS IN
CHAPTER 16. THE SECRET OF THE SYNDICATE
CHAPTER 17. “ARCHER PLANTS STUFF”
CHAPTER 18. THE BORDEAUX LORRIES
CHAPTER 19. WILLIS SPREADS HIS NET
CHAPTER 20. THE DOUBLE CROSS
CHAPTER 1. 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
Comments (0)