by Nevil Shute
That was all he saw, but he told me what had happened. “When they got close they seen a man walking from the car down to the beach,” he said. “Walking quiet like, over the grass, he was.” They went close enough to the car to see that there was nobody else there, and then they followed on the stranger’s heels down to the beach. “They took him for a coastguard of some sort They come up behind him down there somewhere, and slugged him proper,” he explained. “With a pistol, with the handle, like.”
I felt Mollie stir beside me, and I smiled. “That’s right,” I said. I paused a minute, and inquired: “What happened then?”
He laughed. “They weren’t half in a stew.” The next thing he knew was that they came up from the beach to the lorry, all three of them, together with a girl. He had not seen the girl before; he thought that she must have come upon the boat. They were carrying what seemed to be a corpse, and in the party there were bitter words passing. At the lorry they laid the body down and the girl at once began attending to it, removing and renewing a rough, bloodstained bandage on the head. The man was quite unconscious.
They stood there for some time wrangling over what was to be done, and then they went off to view the car up the road, still arguing as they went. And by the time they got there it had begun to dawn on them that there was no significance at all in what had happened at the beach; the man was quite alone, and he was very drunk. Actually, there had been no necessity to strike him down at all; if they had humoured him he would have gone away and would have forgotten the whole thing next day. But there he was, drunk and unconscious, and with a serious head injury. A well-dressed fellow, too—possibly somebody of importance.
They’d got themselves into a pretty mess.
It was the young Englishman who suggested that they should stage a motor crash. He argued, rather forcibly, that the fellow was so drunk that he’d probably have piled his car up anyway before he reached his home, and that it was just as likely to have happened here as anywhere. Nobody had any better solution to their difficulty to suggest, and so they set about it.
Gordon drove the car a hundred yards along the road to the corner and transversely into the ditch in skidding attitude. With the assistance of a crowbar they contrived to turn it over on its side into the hedge—a big job, for it was a heavy car. They went round it with the crowbar then, breaking the glass and damaging the wings, but it was the young Englishman who thought of kicking through the roof above the driver’s seat. They did the best they could. Taking it all round, I think they must have made a rotten job of it; if any serious inquiry had been made it must have been obvious at once that that was no real crash. But no inquiry of that sort was necessary, I suppose. The fellow’s habits were well known.
And finally they brought along the body and laid it in the car. The man was still breathing heavily, and the bleeding from the scalp had stopped. The girl insisted that the position should be such that the head was raised a little, and they had some difficulty over this.
So they finished the unloading of the boat and came away. The man was still in a deep coma when they left, and it was close on dawn. They found out two days later that he had been found a couple of hours afterwards; he was in a nursing home and likely to get over it. It seemed a very satisfactory solution to what might have been a nasty incident.
Gordon laughed, a little ruefully. “They wasn’t half pleased when they heard that,” he said. “Well out of it, they thought they was.…”
I nodded slowly. “Would you recognise the man again?”
There was a little silence in the yard. He hesitated, and then said: “I would, sir. It was you.”
“Yes,” I said absently, “I suppose it was.” I was thinking of the further links I wanted to get out of him and for the moment I was silent, till I said:
“How did that lorry come to go on fire?”
He was annoyed. “Silliest thing you ever saw,” he said. “I never seen such!” He glanced at me, irrepressible. “But coo! she didn’t half flare up! Filling up, it was. I’d got the filler off the tank and pouring in from the can, and another can unstoppered beside me. An’ then one of them went to light a fag.” He laughed. “She went off with such a puff I fell backwards off the running-board into the road, an’ dropped the can and petrol over everything. You never seen such a mess! They fellows was out of the back like a knife and there she was. We just couldn’t do anything with her.”
I wrinkled my brows. “You had a load on board?” I asked. “I suppose it happened after you’d left the boat?”
“Oh, aye,” he said. “We got the most of it off her before it got too bad—all the cartridges and that, but some of the stuff we had to leave. I had the little Morris with me that trip”—he indicated the car beside us—“and we piled it all into her till she was down on her springs. Then she was full, an’ still a case or two left, an’ we put them down behind the hedge and went on in the Morris. But I reckon they must have been found, because they was gone next day. Still, I don’t see what else we could have done.…”
I asked him where the stuff was going to, and to my surprise he told me readily. He took it to Trepwll in Breconshire, about thirty miles north of Cardiff. That was a run of about a hundred and sixty miles, which usually took ten hours or so. His garage in Gloucester was handy for this run, and he eked out the business of these journeys with a certain amount of local work of various descriptions.
He told me that in all he had made five trips. I had blundered into the second landing, and his lorry had been burnt upon the last. The lorry that he had now was another one, which he had purchased second-hand as a replacement. He was overhauling it for the next journey.
“When is that?” I asked.
He did not know. It would be in about a week’s time; he only got two days’ notice of each trip. They paid him forty pounds a trip—not bad, he said, for twenty-four hours’ work. For this he promised secrecy.
He deposited his loads at a farm about two miles from Trepwll. Sometimes he had passengers upon these journeys and these were mostly foreigners; once he had gone alone. He did not know the names of any of the men that he had met, and he had resolutely kept his eyes shut upon the nature of the business. He was content to obey orders while things went well; in the event of any trouble he would look after himself, and get out of it as best he could. He got his orders from a man that he knew as Mr. Palmer, who came to him personally before each trip.
That was the substance of the tale he had to tell. I liked the man, I must say; if he was a rogue he was a cheerful one. To him the whole affair had been a matter of business and no more; he had made good money, and he wasn’t one to worry about ethics. He seemed to have no knowledge of the purpose of the guns, or interest. In fact, he told me that he had not known the nature of his cargoes till the lorry was burnt out, but it made no difference when he did discover it. His business was lorrying.
“Your next trip’s in about a week’s time, then?” I asked.
“That’s right, sir,” he replied. He sat there musing for a minute. “I don’t know as I’ll go on that one now. I don’t want to get mixed up with no police.…”
Mollie said: “Oh, Billy, you might have thought of that before!”
He looked up at her, and grinned, a little sheepishly. “Strewth,” he said, “I never thought of it like that.”
It seemed to me that there was information here that Fedden and his policemen ought to have, and that I could not allow this thing to be suppressed. I was equally certain that Jenkinson should be with this man when he made his statement to the police. As far as I could see it, the extent of his wrongdoing would be well covered by a ten-bob fine; they might not take that view of things at Scotland Yard. Jenkinson must be there. I sat and thought about it for a minute, till at last I said:
“The police will be here any day now—you’ll have to be prepared for that. You’ll have to tell them all that you’ve told me.”
He shifted uneasily. “That’s no way to go on. I got g
ood money to keep my mouth shut.” And then he burst out again: “I ain’t done nothing!”
It was Mollie who replied to that. “Oh, don’t keep on like that,” she said impatiently. “You been smuggling guns into the country, that’s what you been doing, like the Commander says. It’s no good you kidding yourself that way.”
He scratched his head unhappily. “I dunno what to do,” he said.
It took about an hour’s hard talking to persuade him that our course was best. But we left that night for London, all the three of us, and by ten o’clock next morning I had him closeted with Jenkinson.
CHAPTER X
I DON’T think I need go through in detail the examination which was made of Billy in London. I got him in to Jenkinson, and when we had satisfied ourselves that he could tell us no more than he had told me at Gloucester, we sent for Norman. I had the pleasure of ringing up that gentleman myself, from Jenkinson’s office.
I got on to him at Scotland Yard. “This is Commander Stevenson this end,” I said. “Is that Major Norman?”
“Speaking,” he replied.
“Good-morning,” I said courteously. “I’m speaking from Mr. Jenkinson’s office—you’ve met Mr. Jenkinson, haven’t you? Oh, yes, I was forgetting. We’ve got a young chap here that you might like to have a word or two with—I should say, that Mr. Jenkinson sees no objection. The driver of the lorry. What? Yes, the driver of the lorry that was burnt out. Miss Gordon’s brother.”
He burst out: “You say you’ve got him in your office? How long have you had him there?”
“Oh … let’s see, now,” I replied. “I saw him first in Gloucester yesterday, and brought him up last night. We’ve examined what he has to say, and there really seems to be no reason why he shouldn’t make a statement to you, if it would help you in your work in any way. Mr. Jenkinson will be present all the time, of course, to guard his interests.”
He said angrily: “See here, Mr. Stevenson, if that man gets away I shall hold you responsible for his escape.”
“Certainly,” I said. “Do I understand that you would like to see him? If so, I’ll ask him to wait here for a few minutes.”
“I’ll be round right now,” he said.
“Oh, that’s excellent,” I said pleasantly. “In about a quarter of an hour’s time? I think that will be quite convenient for him.”
I didn’t get an answer to that one. The line was suddenly cut off; I think he must have been in something of a hurry.
He came in a remarkably short time, and with him was a shorthand man. He was inclined to be a little curt with me, so far as I remember—I can’t imagine why. We went through into a sort of Board Room next door to Jenkinson’s office, and sat down round a table while Norman asked his questions.
There was nothing new. He didn’t know any more than he had told me. Norman pressed him particularly upon the source of his instructions, but he knew nothing other than that the man he knew as Palmer turned up at Gloucester at his garage or his lodgings from time to time and left messages for him. It was from this man that he got his money after each trip, forty pounds in treasury notes. He had no means of finding him at other times. On the morning of each trip the man turned up at the garage and travelled down with him upon the lorry.
He gave a pretty full description of this man, but there was precious little in it to take hold of. He described a man of forty-five or fifty years of age, with grey hair and rather refined speech.
For the destination of his loads, however, he was able to supply clear evidence. He took the stuff to a farmhouse in Breconshire, not far from Trepwll; at this place it was unloaded and carried into a barn. He could identify this farm clearly, though he did not know its name; he gave such positive directions as to how you reached it from Trepwll as would identify it beyond all doubt.
The statement came to an end at last. Norman sent away his stenographer to get it typed, and it was arranged that Jenkinson should take Gordon down that afternoon to Scotland Yard to go over it and sign his deposition. Norman departed then, and I took Mollie and her brother out to lunch, at Mr. Lyons’ Corner House.
We took him back to Jenkinson at about three o’clock; together they went off to Scotland Yard. Mollie and I took a taxi back to the hotel. She was tired, and a little bewildered by the events of the day.
“I do think it’s awful to get mixed up with the police,” she said. She had a wholesome dread of the constabulary.
I got a telephone message late that afternoon, summoning me to Sir David Carter at 10.30 the next morning. I wondered who was going to be there. I didn’t see what they wanted me for; if ever I was resolved upon one thing it was that I was taking no more part in police affairs. I’d had my fill of that; from this time onwards I was going to devote myself merely to the protection of Mollie and her brother against their irregularities.
Gordon turned up soon after tea; little of any consequence had happened at the Yard. I gave him over to Mollie for the evening, saw that they had plenty of money, and left them to their own devices; I judged that they would talk more freely if I were away. I dined that evening at the club, and took a hand of bridge. By the time that I got back to the hotel they had gone up to bed.
Mollie opened the door as I went into my room; her room was next to mine. She was wearing a kimono and her hair was down her back; in the dim light of the passage she seemed to me to be most beautiful. “I’m glad you’re back,” she said, a little oddly. “Billy and I, we had a lovely time. We went to the pictures. But it’s dreadfully expensive here.”
I smiled. “I had a bit of an expensive evening, too,” I said. “I was playing cards.”
“You wouldn’t like a cup of tea, or a whisky or anything like that, would you?” she asked. “I mean, I’ll put on my frock, and we’ll get a waiter if you like.”
“Don’t worry about the frock,” I said. “You’re much nicer like that.”
She coloured a little, and told me not to be so awful.
“No, I don’t want anything,” I said. “Just bed.”
There was a little pause.
“Good-night, Commander Stevenson,” she said.
“Good-night, Mollie,” I replied, and went into my room.
Next day I went down to the Yard and saw Sir David Carter. Norman was with him in his room, and Fedden; they must have got him up from Dartmouth in a hurry. They offered me a chair at a long table; Sir David left his desk, and we settled to a sort of conference.
He started off: “I should like to begin by offering my thanks, Commander Stevenson, for the services which you have rendered in this business. Colonel Fedden and Major Norman tell me that we owe a great deal to you, in securing the evidence of the young woman Gordon, and of her brother. I should like you to feel that we appreciate your help.”
I had come prepared to hold my own in any bickering, but this old man had rather spiked my guns. “I’m interested in those two,” I said at last. “They’re a good type, and I’d like to see them clear of any trouble.”
He inclined his head. “Exactly so. I hope sincerely that it will not be necessary for us to make any trouble for them. At the moment we do not anticipate that sort of difficulty.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I replied. “After what I’ve seen I should defend them with all the resources in my power,” and I glanced from the old man to Norman on his other side.
Sir David Carter coughed. “Leaving that aspect of the matter for the moment,” he said, “I thought it would perhaps be best to send for you, Commander Stevenson, before we communicate our proposals to the man, William Gordon. Major Norman informs me that you have considerable influence with both of them; as the procedure which we have decided on is of some delicacy, I think it right that we should put it to you first.”
I thrust my chair back from the table. “See here,” I said; “I’m out of this. I’m sorry, but I can’t do any more for you.”
There was a little pause. “Nevertheless,” remarked Sir David, “I should like you t
o hear what we propose.”
I relaxed my attitude. “I should be very glad to,” I replied. “But I can take no part in any of your plans.”
He nodded. “We should not wish you to.”
He picked up a pen-holder from the tray before him and began playing with it absently, a favourite trick of his. “You will have gathered the position for yourself,” he said. “We now know the destination of the guns, and a great deal more about the manner in which they are introduced into the country. We do not know the organisers of the enterprise. We do not know the nature of the ship that brings them, though the evidence of Sir Philip Stenning throws a little light on that. We do know that the guns are taken to Trepwll, and from that we can deduce, without a great deal of investigation, who they are intended for.”
He raised his head and looked at me. “There is trouble in that district, as you know.”
I did know. It was not far from the Glanferis mines, and the Conservative papers had been full of the Glanferis troubles for the last three months. The coal trouble had virtually closed the pits, and there was much labour unrest. There had been riots and isolated policemen had been beaten up; the papers put this down to Communist incitement. On the eve of the election, with the poll not five weeks off, Glanferis had assumed a disproportionate importance; its news value had been sedulously worked up. Glanferis was a front-page story at that time.
The old man was staring straight at me, still playing with his pen. “I want you to visualise the whole situation, to see it from the broadest point of view. If we go straight now to Trepwll we shall find arms. In that event, we might be forced to the incredible conclusion that the Welsh miners in that district are preparing for an armed revolt against the Crown.”
I met his eyes. “You find that quite incredible?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he said quietly.