The Big Six

by Arthur Ransome

  “Didn’t Pete say?”

  “About people coming to cast off the Cachalot? Yes. Yes. But he didn’t know who they were. Did you see them?”

  “That flash put me blind,” said Bill. “But they was there. Two of ’em. I race back to the old ship. And they was after me. George Owdon and that other.”

  “Hurrah!” cried Dorothea. “I knew it was George Owdon. So it’s all right after all.”

  “Just what it ain’t,” said Joe. “That George he’s going to say he see Bill pushing her off.”

  “But didn’t you see him?”

  “Must have been him,” said Bill, keeping up with Dorothea. “But with that flash I didn’t see nothing. I up and run in the dark, and they after me. Into that old ditch they go good and proper. But I didn’t see nobody, not till they smoke us out and there they was in our cockpit.”

  “What about Tom?”

  “Bill’s watch and Pete’s,” said Joe. “Wish we’d all have stayed.”

  “We’re sunk,” said Bill, “if Pete ain’t got that photo.”

  “We aren’t,” said Dorothea. “We can’t be. Not with all our evidence.”

  They were hurrying now along the main street of the village. Shops were opening. People taking down shutters turned to stare at them in an unfriendly way. Outside Mr. Tedder’s two bicycles were propped against the fence.

  “That George Owdon’s in there now,” said Bill.

  Dorothea stopped, turned and darted to the bicycles. She looked first at one and then at the other.

  “Look! Look!” she cried. “Dick was right.” She pointed at a small smear of green paint on the grip of the right handlebar of one of the bicycles. “We can prove everything. It’s going to be all right. Come on.”

  They hurried on to Dr. Dudgeon’s. Tom was on the look out for them.

  “Pete’s all right,” Bill called out as soon as he saw Tom.

  “Where’s Dick?” said Tom.

  “Developing with Pete,” said Dorothea. “They’re coming after us. And there’s green paint on George Owdon’s handlebars.”

  “It’s close on nine already,” said Tom. “We can’t wait for them. Uncle Frank’ll be gone if we don’t look out. Look here. What did happen last night?”

  Bill and Joe tried to tell all they knew. Dorothea began gathering the clues and packing them into her suitcase. There was the scrap of grey flannel with its label, Dick’s drawing of the tyre-treads, the affidavit of Bob Curten, a sheaf of notes and the summary of all the evidence that she had finished before going to bed the night before.

  She interrupted the others. “There’s just one thing,” she said. “I asked the Admiral about lawyer’s fees.”

  “We got pots of money,” said Joe.

  “We can pay,” said Bill.

  “I don’t see that,” said Dorothea. “We’re all in it.”

  It was arranged that the six detectives should contribute equal shares.

  “We’ll put in for Pete,” said Bill.

  “And I’ve got Dick’s as well as mine,” said Dorothea, digging in her purse. “I don’t suppose Mr. Farland’ll mind a postal order. There isn’t time to go and change it now.”

  “What about the map?” said Tom.

  “Better bring it,” said Dorothea. “Push the pins well in so that they don’t fall out.”

  The map, with the black flags showing where boats had been cast off, was taken down and carefully rolled up.

  “We haven’t put a flag in for the Cachalot,” said Dorothea.

  “If Pete ain’t took that photo right, the Cachalot’s going to be worst of all,” said Bill.

  The map was unrolled. Another flag was put in its place and the map was rolled up again.

  “All the evidence we got,” said Bill. “It ain’t much, not if them two say they saw me cast her off.”

  “And there’s the chimney,” said Dorothea. “Have you taken it off the cabin roof?”

  Bill and Joe answered never a word but raced for the Death and Glory.

  Tom with the rolled up map and Dorothea with her suitcase came hurrying after them, to find them both on the roof of the cabin, Bill biting into a huge slice of bread and Joe working away with a screwdriver in one hand and a hunk of bread in the other.

  “Haven’t you had breakfast?” said Dorothea.

  “That ain’t no matter,” said Joe. “Tip her gently, Bill.”

  The chimney left its seating without accident, and a moment later they were on their way.

  They came into Mr. Farland’s garden.

  “We’d better just have a look in the road to see if they’re in sight,” said Dorothea.

  They went to the gate and looked down the road.

  “Must have got a photo,” said Joe hopefully. “Not, they’d be here by now.”

  “No good waiting,” said Tom.

  Followed by the rest of the detectives, he walked up to the front door of Mr. Farland’s house and rang the bell.

  CHAPTER XXXI

  IN THE DARK ROOM

  FOR the first few moments Pete could not see a thing. Black darkness everywhere, except the dim red glimmer of the lamp which seemed to throw no light at all. Then, dimly, he saw Dick’s face in the red glimmer, and caught a red reflection off Dick’s spectacles. Then he saw hands, glowing red, working at the camera. He saw the spool of film lifted out.

  “We needn’t bother with much of it,” said Dick. “The photograph’ll be at the inside end. We can throw the rest away.”

  “Won’t you be able to use it?” said Pete.

  “No,” said Dick. “And it doesn’t matter a bit if only you didn’t move the camera and had the shutter open.”

  “I ope the shutter all right,” said Pete.

  “Hold this end,” said Dick, unrolling the film.

  “But there’s nothing on it anywheres,” said Pete.

  “Undeveloped,” said Dick.

  A pair of scissors shone in the red light and a length of film curled up to Pete’s fingers.

  “Just drop it on the floor…. Now…. You pour the developer into the dish…. Yes…. That’s enough. And put the stopper back in the bottle. Better put it at the back of the table so that we shan’t knock it over…. Now, let’s see….”

  Holding each end of a short strip of film, milky white, but tinted rose by the lamp, he plunged it into the dish of developer and began moving it to and fro.

  “Don’t it stink?” said Pete.

  “The hypo’s almost worse,” said Dick. “I say. We’ll have to wash it and I never filled the bowl. Never mind. We can do it under the tap. And the hypo isn’t ready. That’s the worst of being in a hurry. Look here. Look! You did have the shutter open. That end of the film’s getting darker with a pale edge and all the rest’s still milky. We’ve got something anyhow…. Feel on your left for that packet. Shake some hypo crystals into the glass dish. Add water, not too much, and joggle to dissolve them….”

  The faint red light from the lamp seemed to be getting stronger every minute. Pete’s eyes were getting accustomed to it. He had no difficulty with the hypo crystals, and very little with adding the water, though he could not be sure he had put in enough without dipping the tip of a finger to feel.

  “You got the boat all right,” said Dick. “I do believe you did.” His voice trembled. “Look out for that hypo. Don’t bring it too near. One drop in the developer would spoil it…. Put it down on the table…. But see that…. That big lump of black’s the boat. It can’t be anything else.”

  “But the Cachalot’s white,” said Pete.

  “Not in the negative,” said Dick. “Everything comes the other way round. And then it comes right again when you print it. Look. That’ll be trees on the other side of the river and all that white’s probably the black water….”

  Pete peered into the dish at the film, but Dick did not dare to hold it still for more than a second at a time.

  DEVELOPING

  “It don’t show them villains,” said Pete.<
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  “You can’t tell yet,” said Dick. “There’s something….”

  “But it’s all going dark,” said Pete. “It’s going dark all over.”

  “Nearly done.”

  For a few moments longer, Dick worked the film to and fro in the developer. Then he picked it out, let it drip, and then, just for a half second, held it so that the faint red light from the lamp shone through it.

  “It shows them,” he cried. “We’ve got them!”

  “Where? Where?” said Pete.

  “Turn on the tap,” said Dick. “We’ve got to wash it and then we’ll put it in the fixing. After that it’ll be safe to have a proper look.”

  For a minute or two the water from the tap sluiced this way and that over the film. Then Dick lowered it into the dish with the hypo solution and worked it to and fro as he had done when it was in the developer.

  “What’s the time?” he said. “Where’s the Admiral’s watch?”

  “I’ve got it,” said Pete, and held Mrs. Barrable’s watch in the red glow of the lamp.

  “Five past nine,” said Dick. “They’ll be at Mr. Farland’s already. And we’ve got to get it dry and take a print of it.”

  “What’s that milky stuff?” asked Pete. “Melting away like a bit of snow. You haven’t let spoil it?”

  “Fixing,” said Dick. “When that’s all gone, it’s done.” He lifted the film and held it to the light. “Nearly done now. You can open the door….”

  Pete fumbled for the door handle and found it. “Sure?” he asked. It would be too awful if they spoiled the picture at the last minute.

  “All right,” said Dick.

  Pete opened the door and blinked. The white light of day pouring in seemed to douse the red lantern almost to darkness. Dick came to the door and held up the film so that they could both look through it.

  Pete stared. It was the first negative he had ever seen. He could make nothing of it. There was that lump of black and a big funny-shaped bit of white that you could see right through, and, yes, those must be trees all right, all those little darkish spots. Leaves they must be. And branches….

  But Dick, usually so quiet, shouted. “Two of them,” he cried. “Two of them. You’ve got them just as they were pushing her away from the bank.” He shot back into the dark room and began sluicing the negative under the tap.

  “Who are they?” asked Pete.

  “Can’t tell till we print,” said the photographer. “We’ve got to get the hypo washed off, and then dry it…. I say. Could you bolt down and ask the Admiral for some methylated spirit? She’s got some for her primus. It’s the quickest of all ways of drying.”

  Pete bolted, found Mrs. Barrable, and told her what Dick wanted.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Barrable. “And was it a success?”

  “Dick say we got two of ’em pushing her off.”

  “Not really? Sure it’s not Joe and Bill?”

  “Joe weren’t there,” said Pete seriously. “And Bill, he were working the light.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I couldn’t see nothing, not properly,” said Pete. “But Dick say we got ’em all right.”

  “Well, I am glad,” said Mrs. Barrable. But she had heard the hurry in Pete’s voice when he had asked for the methylated, and she had been getting it even while she was asking her questions. Pete took the bottle, thanked her, and raced upstairs again. He found Dick holding the negative by one corner, and collecting the wet from its edges on a bit of blotting paper. He had already used the scissors to cut away the rest of the film.

  “There’s a clean dish at the back of the table,” said Dick. “Pour some into that.”

  A few minutes later, in a smell of methylated that reminded Pete of Bill’s Christmas pudding, Dick was holding up the negative and blowing at it to speed its drying.

  “Lemme look,” said Pete, and then, as Dick held the film so that he could look through it, gasped with surprise. “Gee whizz!” he said. “Niggers!”

  “Not when they’re printed,” Dick laughed.

  “Look like niggers to me,” said Pete.

  “You wait…. I say, what’s the time now?”

  “Quarter past nine,” said Pete, looking at Mrs. Barrable’s watch.

  “Oh gosh,” said Dick. “And we can’t print it till it’s dry or it’ll stick to the paper.” He went on blowing at the film, and waving it in the air.

  “It’s beginning to dry all right,” he said a moment later.

  “We’re going to be late,” said Pete.

  “Tell you what,” said Dick. “We can let it print while we’re taking it along.”

  “How?” said Pete.

  “We’ll have it in the frame and hold it to the sun while we run. A few minutes’ll be enough to let us see who they are.”

  “Dick.” Mrs. Barrable called up from downstairs. “Aren’t you going to Mr. Farland’s? It’s long after nine.”

  “I know,” said Dick desperately. “But we’ve got the evidence at last. At least we will have in a minute.”

  Minute after minute went by, and looking sideways at the surface of the film he could see a damp spot that shrank with dreadful slowness, though Dick did all he could to hurry it, even holding it as near as he dared to the warmth of the lantern.

  It was ready at last. He took a printing frame, opened a black envelope, took out a piece of printing-paper and laid it against the negative, pressed negative and paper against the glass, closed the frame, looked to see that the negative was squarely on the paper and said, “Come on, Pete.”

  “Let’s have a look,” said Pete.

  “It’s a pretty dense negative,” said Dick. “Sometimes you can see a lot when they’re printing. This one you can’t. We’ve got to wait till the sun’s got at it. When the edges of the paper turn black.”

  “All right if we ain’t too late,” said Pete.

  A minute later they were out of the house and running together down the street on their way to join the rest of the detectives who were showing their evidence to the lawyer. Dick, as he ran, held the printing frame in the full light of the sun.

  CHAPTER XXXII

  THE LEGAL MIND

  “WHAT’S that?” asked Mr. Farland as soon as Bill and Joe came into the room carrying the big green chimney pot between them.

  “Evidence,” said Tom, unrolling the map and putting it at the end of Mr. Farland’s long table.

  “We’ve got lots more,” said Dorothea, patting her suitcase.

  Bill and Joe, carefully dusting the chimney pot with their hands, stood it upright on the carpet.

  Tom looked anxiously out of the window, not that he could see the road or even the gate through which Dick and Pete would come, for the window looked the other way, over the river, but just for peace of mind. From what Joe and Bill had said it was clear enough to him that Dorothea had been right and that they knew now who the villains were. But it was also clear that the trap they had laid was going to work the wrong way, and that if George Owdon and his friend stuck to it that they had seen Bill cast off the Cachalot the Coot Club was going to be not better off but worse.

  It was going to be Bill’s word against George’s, and with all that had gone before he did not think Bill’s word had much chance of being believed. Tom knew very well that Mr. Farland himself had thought from the first that the Coots had been at the bottom of all the mischief that had been going on. And unluckily it had been Pete’s turn with the camera. If it had been Dick’s there might have been some chance. But Pete had never taken a photograph in his life.

  “Won’t you sit down?” said Mr. Farland to Dorothea.

  “I think I’d rather stand,” said Dorothea. She took something from her pocket and laid it on the table in front of Mr. Farland. It was a small screwed up bit of paper, one of Mr. Dudgeon’s prescription forms.

  Mr. Farland took it. “More evidence?” he said, unscrewing the paper. “What on earth’s this? They haven’t been accused of taking money.”
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  Out of the paper came a postal order for two shillings, a two-shilling piece, a shilling, three sixpences, and couple of coppers.

  “I think it’s the proper fee,” said Dorothea.

  Mr. Farland had not for nothing been a lawyer all his life. He bowed gravely to Dorothea, but no one could have told what was in his mind as he smoothed out the bit of paper and laid it flat on his table, smoothed out the postal order and laid it on the bit of paper, and piled on it the two pennies, the two-shilling piece, the shilling and the three sixpences, exactly on the top of each other.

  “I am sure that you quite understand the position,” he said at last. “Sonning’s, the boatbuilders at Potter Heigham, employ my firm as solicitors. They have been put to considerable trouble by having a number of their boats cast off from their moorings and sent drifting down the river. They have missed a quantity of boat’s gear (shackles, to be exact) from one of their sheds. They have appealed to the police and to others to find out who is responsible for all this. On two occasions a small number of the missing shackles have been handed to the police here by one of you two lads….” He looked straight at Bill and Joe. Until that moment he had seemed to be looking at a picture on the wall behind their heads. “On the second occasion the shackles were given to a magistrate, Dr. Dudgeon, who, on your behalf, took them to the police. Now, we have been having the same sort of trouble here. No stealing, certainly. But I am told that every boat that has been sent adrift was lying somewhere near that boat of yours. And that your boat was at Ranworth when boats were sent adrift there. And that your boat was at Potter Heigham when the same thing happened there and all those shackles were stolen. Stolen is an ugly word, but stolen they were.”

  He paused. It certainly sounded terribly as if Mr. Farland had already made up his mind.

  Bill was just going to say something, when Mr. Farland spoke again.

  “Now then,” he said. “I’ve told you how we stand. I’m ready to listen to what you have to say, but if you have come to me to ask me to get you out of your difficulties, I don’t see that I can do anything.”