Wreckers Must Breathe

by Hammond Innes

  Alf played his torch over the debris and at length we turned back and retraced our steps to where the main gallery had branched. We took the next branch, and before we had gone more than forty feet we came up against another huge fall. I began to have a feeling that the whole place must be unsafe. All I wanted to do was to get out of it before it caved in on top of us.

  Alf spent even longer examining this fall. But at length he led me back and down the next branch. It was the same thing. Thirty feet or so down the gallery we were stopped by a fall. I guessed then that there must be a serious fault in the whole rock formation at this point. I said as much to Alf, but he only grunted and continued to poke about amongst the debris. Then he began to examine the walls.

  At last I could stand it no longer. ‘I’m getting out of this,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘All right, miss,’ he said. But he made no move. He simply stood there with his head on one side, listening. Involuntarily I began to listen too. I could hear the hum of the water somewhere beyond the falls and occasionally there was the creak of a pit prop.

  I suddenly clutched his arm. ‘I can’t stand this,’ I said. ‘What are you listening for? What’s the matter with the place?’ He seemed a little put out by my questions. ‘You’re uneasy, aren’t you?’ I went on. ‘I’ve felt it ever since we left the old workings. For God’s sake tell me what it is. Have we lost our way, is somebody following us—what? I don’t mind so long as you tell me what it is.’

  Then he told me. ‘Somebody has been in this mine since it was closed down,’ he said. He told me not to be alarmed. Then he said, ‘Remember that fall we had to scramble through in the old workings?’ I nodded. ‘That was what first made me uneasy,’ he went on. Then he explained that he thought the fall unnatural. ‘Do you suppose it would have been done to discourage people from entering the mine?’ he asked. Then he pointed out that the watercourse had been diverted. Normally it would have run through these workings and out beyond into the cave. And what about these falls, he asked. He took my hand and showed me clean-cut flakes on the walls and marks as though the rock had been blackened. ‘These falls are not natural,’ he said. He spoke fast and excited in his musical Welsh voice. ‘The rock has been blasted. Those marks are the marks of dynamite. Someone has blocked off the new workings.’ He swung round on me. ‘Why is that?’ he asked. ‘Indeed, and can you tell me why you wanted to come down this mine?’

  I explained that I had reason to be suspicious of the last owner. He looked at me with his head on one side. ‘Mr Wilson was not a good man,’ he said. ‘But I did not think him dishonest.’

  He took my arm and led me back up the gallery. ‘Tomorrow we will come down with two friends of mine. I believe we may be able to find a way through this fall.’

  And that is how things stand at the moment. We got out of the mine shortly after one. I felt pretty near exhausted and very dirty. Since then I have had a wash, a meal and a rest. I don’t know what to think. I had a hunch that the mine would be worth looking at. Now I’ve been down it and am informed that someone has tampered with it since it was closed—in fact, that someone has deliberately produced four falls of rock. But we were able to get through the first fall—the one in the old workings. Was that design or inefficiency? Was I mistaken when I had that unpleasant feeling that we were being followed? And the three big falls—what was on the other side? What is that faint roar of water? Alf says it doesn’t sound like water. Is somebody drilling? The whole thing is so fantastic. Do you remember Conan Doyle’s Tales of Horror and Mystery? Well, I feel as though I’m writing the diary in one of his tales of horror that will be found after I am dead and from which others will draw the wildest conjectures. Suppose there is an underground race and they are coming to the surface to conquer us? Stupid! But when you are deep in the bowels of the earth anything seems possible. Quite frankly I’m not looking forward to tomorrow.

  Your scared investigator,

  MAUREEN.

  P.S. Since writing this I have heard rather a peculiar thing. I went down to the local as Alf’s guest. They’re a tough crowd at Pendeen, but very friendly. I met Alf’s pals who are coming on tomorrow’s expedition. One’s tall and the other’s short, and they both look very tough indeed. They’re out of work, like Alf. Both worked in Wheal Garth under Maclean. What I wanted to tell you, however, is a curious little story that is drifting around. They are very superstitious in this neighbourhood and apparently there has been talk recently of the miners who were killed in that disaster lying uneasy. They say that the white skull of a dead miner can be seen on dark nights floating in the sea just off Wheal Garth right over the spot where they were trapped.

  Now the talk was going on about this when an old boy in the corner of the pub gives tongue and says that his son that keeps a bar over to St Ives told him a fisherman coming back late the other night picked up a glass net float that was bobbing up and down in the water and shining like a little full moon. It was apparently covered with phos-phorous. ‘That’s what you see,’ the old man said. ‘That flawt were drifting and a phawsphorescent fish rubbed itself against it. The skull of a dead miner!’ He laughed.

  I thought about this as Alf and I were walking home. ‘What do you think?’ I asked. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Miners are superstitious folk,’ he said. It was a dark night. ‘I’ve got a pair of binoculars in the car,’ I said. ‘Would you care to walk with me as far as the cliffs?’ He agreed, so we fetched the glasses and walked over to the cliffs. Well, it was there all right. At first I could see absolutely nothing. It was so dark that, looking through the glasses, it was as though I had covered the lenses with my hands. And then suddenly I saw a faint little point of light bobbing about like a will-o’-the-wisp. Alf saw it too. It was so faint that is was barely visible. But it was there all right.

  Now what do you make of that? I hear there’s a boat to be hired at Cape Cornwall. Tomorrow night, if I get back from the mine in time, I’m going out to have a look at the skull of that miner if I can get someone to come with me. Alf was very silent as we walked back. I don’t know whether he, too, is superstitious, or if he was just trying to reason things out. I must admit that I don’t feel too happy myself. It’s easy to be matter-of-fact in a newspaper office and pour verbal ridicule upon country superstitions. But down here there seems a bit more to it. After all, there are thirty-odd men lying dead under the bed of the sea there. I think I’m going to have nightmares tonight. Now I must go out and post this endless screed. I’ll report developments tomorrow. I wonder how long it will take us to get through one of those falls?—M. W.

  Wire from Charles Patterson of the Daily Recorder to Maureen Weston at Cap View, Pendeen, dispatched from Fleet Street at 3.25 p.m. on Friday, September 15:

  Jesse Maclean British now directing mining work of national importance for Supply Ministry stop No police record nothing against him—Patterson.

  Wire from Charles Patterson of the Daily Recorder to Maureen Weston at Cap View, Pendeen, dispatched from Fleet Street at 6.10 p.m. on Friday, September 15:

  Letter received grand work stop Wire results days operations—Patterson.

  Wire from Charles Patterson of the Daily Recorder to Maureen Weston at Cap View, Pendeen, dispatched from Fleet Street at 10.50 a.m. on Saturday, September 16:

  Report at once results yesterdays activities—Patterson.

  Wire from Charles Patterson of the Daily Recorder to Davies at Cap View, Pendeen, dispatched from Fleet Street at 12.35 p.m. on Saturday, September 16 and carrying with it a reply-paid form:

  Please inform whereabouts of Maureen Weston residing with you—Patterson.

  Pre-paid wire from Mrs Alf Davies to Charles Patterson of the Daily Recorder dispatched from Pendeen at 2.40 p.m. on Saturday, September 16:

  Miss Weston and my husband visited Wheal Garth mine yesterday and have not returned stop Search party organized—Davies.

  Transcript of a code wire from Detective-inspector Fuller to Superintendent McGlade at Scotl
and Yard dispatched from Pendeen at 2.50 p.m. on Saturday, September 16:

  Maureen Weston and three local miners missing stop Went down Wheal Garth mine yesterday following visit previous day stop Am convinced she had discovered something stop Mine reportend to be unsafe stop Two falls heard late yesterday afternoon stop Locals fear they are trapped stop Rescue parties have opened up new shaft and are working desperately to clear falls stop Advise detention of Jesse Arthur Maclean late engineer to mine for questioning stop Description tall lean dark hair thinning glasses Scotch stop Also locate and detain Wilson—Fuller.

  Record of a phone call put through by Superintendent McGlade of Scotland Yard to Chief-inspector Saviour of Durham at 3.45 p.m. on Saturday, September 16:

  I want you to detain Jesse Arthur Maclean, engineer in charge of the mining work at the munitions dump at Dutton. You can do it under the Emergency Powers (Defence) Act—I’ve nothing against him so far.

  Note from Superintendent McGlade to Colonel Blank at M.I.5 and dispatched by a special messenger at 5.30 p.m. on Saturday, September 16:

  For your information I enclose copies of a number of letters and telegrams sent from a Miss Maureen Weston to Charles Patterson, news editor of the Daily Recorder. They may be of interest to you. You will remember she was investigating the disappearance of Walter Craig in the Cadgwith U-boat incident for her paper. I am detaining the man Maclean mentioned in her letters who is now working on a munitions dump and am endeavouring to discover the whereabouts of Tubby Wilson.

  This file of communications received by Patterson from Miss Weston was handed to me this afternoon by Patterson himself after he had learned that the girl had not returned from an expedition into the Wheal Garth mine.

  I should be glad to hear what you think of them.

  Yours,

  MCGLADE.

  Memorandum from the Naval Intelligence Department of the Admiralty to Colonel Blank of M.I.5 dispatched by special messenger at 8.45 p.m. on Saturday, September 16:

  Here are details of reports of U-boats in the vicinity of the Cornish coast received since the outbreak of war from coastal patrols of the Navy and the Fleet Air Arm:

  September 4, 51.12 north 51.48 west. September 6, 49.54 north 5.5 west. September 9, 49.51 north 3.36 west. September 10, 49.11 north 2.24 west. September 10, 51.8 north 5.21 west. September 13, 52.3 north 5.48 west. September 14, 50.17 north 5.54 west. September 15, 49.45 north 6.35 west. September 15, 50.25 north 5.31 west.

  In most cases depth charges or bombs were released, but only in two cases has the destruction of the U-boat been definitely achieved. Hope this is what you wanted—F.E.

  Communiques dispatched from the War Office and the Admiralty shortly after 9.30 p.m. on Saturday, September 16, as a result of phone calls from M.I.5:

  From the War Office to officer commanding H.M. Forces encamped at Trereen, Cornwall:

  Dispatch immediately two companies of infantry to Pendeen. One company is to mount guard on all exits of the Wheal Garth mine. If one company proves insufficient further troops must be dispatched. The second company is to enter the mine. Contact Detective-inspector Fuller of Scotland Yard who will be awaiting your arrival at the inn. He will provide guides to the mine and will inform you of the position.

  From the Admiralty to commanders of destroyers EH 4 and EH 5 stationed at Newlyn:

  Proceed immediately to 50 degrees 23 minutes north 5 degrees 43 minutes west and patrol West Cornish coast from Botallack Head to Pendeen Watch.

  Part Three

  The Wheal Garth Closes Down

  1

  Plans

  WITH A SUDDEN thrill of excitement I realized what Logan was doing. He was carrying on a conversation in morse. But was it a conversation? Was he making it up? I looked at what I had written down. It read: ‘I came here with three miners. Progress into new workings blocked by falls. Had removed part of lightest fall and found way through when met by armed Germans. What is this place?’

  I looked up at Logan. His face was intent on the movements of the spoon against the iron bars of the grille. Heavy tap, pause, four light taps, pause, tap tap, pause, tap tap tap, long pause, short short, pause, short short short, long pause, short short short, short short long—and so it went on. I did not understand morse, but I presumed he was replying to the question.

  I looked down again at what I had written. It made sense. It suggested that this was part of a mine. That tied up with the idea of the base being either in Cornwall or in Spain. It certainly did not read like the imaginings of a man who was mentally sick. I got up and went over to the door. Logan had finished tapping. Faintly I heard a metallic click, then two more, louder and close together. Then short short short short, pause, dash dash dash. There was no doubt about it. Someone was morsing from the next cell. ‘Who is it?’ I asked Logan.

  ‘That’s just what he’s asked us,’ he replied. ‘One of the first things he said when we established contact was that he represented the Daily Recorder. Evidently they sent someone out to look for you.’ He resumed his tapping with the spoon. I waited. So Logan remembered his morse, did he?

  He stopped tapping and listened. Then he took my pencil and wrote down slowly in block letters—IS CRAIG REALLY THERE. THIS IS MAUREEN WESTON. ‘Good God, it’s a woman!’ said Logan. Then he wrote: PATTERSON SENT ME TO INVESTIGATE YOUR DISAPPEARANCE.

  I was amazed. ‘Ask her how she found us,’ I said.

  The spoon went tap-tap again and presently Logan began writing the reply: ‘Worked back from the spy at Carillon. This led me to phoney mine owner. And this is the mine. It lies four miles north of Saint Just.’

  ‘So you were right,’ I said. ‘This base is in Cornwall. Ask her whether any one knows where she is.’

  Back came the reply: ‘Please repeat slower. I am working the code from a diary.’

  Logan wielded the spoon again with longer pauses between each letter. Then came the reply: ‘Yes. But the Germans have blown up galleries in old workings so that it will look as though we have been trapped by a fall. Have you any plans?’

  Heavy, light, pause, heavy heavy heavy went the tapping of Logan’s spoon. It was so short that I knew what that must be. Then we were interrupted by the opening of the guard-room door. Shortly afterwards our evening meal was brought to us.

  When we were alone again I said: ‘You know, we’ve only got till Sunday evening at the latest?’

  He nodded with his mouth full of potato stew and contrived to grin at the same time.

  I looked at him closely. ‘Do you remember who the owner of Carillon was?’ I asked.

  ‘Ar, his name was Cutner—is that right?’

  ‘Your memory is not so bad after all,’ I said, ‘I suppose it’s all come back to you?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He nodded and grinned, and there was that twinkle in his eyes that I had not seen since Cadgwith.

  I was still not altogether convinced. It seemed incredible that the man could have put an act over on me so completely. After all, I had been his constant companion for nearly two weeks. Anyway, I failed to see the necessity of it. I tried him with another question. ‘Can you tell me the name of the coastguard at Cadgwith?’ I asked, and there was a trace of anxiety in my voice, for I was desperately anxious for someone to share with me the responsibility of immobilizing the base.

  ‘Let me see,’ he hesitated, his Slav features puckered with amusement. ‘It wouldn’t be Ted Morgan, now, would it?’

  I felt a sudden great relief. ‘Thank God for that,’ I breathed. ‘But why the devil didn’t you tell me you were only shamming?’

  ‘I would have,’ he said, ‘but I figured it out that I’d have a better chance of putting it across if you thought I was going balmy too. Anyway, I’m no actor. I knew the only thing was to make myself believe I was balmy. I tell you, at times I was afraid I really was.’

  I gave a short laugh. ‘That’s what most actors have discovered,’ I said. ‘But what was the idea?’

  ‘I wanted to av
oid giving them the information they were after. And also I thought it might help.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t seem to have,’ I said.

  ‘Hasn’t it?’ He beckoned me across to his bed. ‘Here’s the result of my carving,’ he said. He bent down and tilted the bed up so that he could get hold of the leg nearest the wall and farthest from the door. With the help of his knife he began to prise very carefully at one of the letters of his name which he had cut on the inside of the leg, low down. And in a second the whole section with his name had come away, and in a hollow cut below it was a key fitted snugly into the wood.

  He put the section back and tapped it carefully into position. It fitted perfectly and very tightly. Unless any one were looking for it, it was unlikely to be discovered. ‘What key is it?’ I asked.

  ‘The key to this cell.’

  ‘But how did you get hold of it?’

  He returned to his stew. ‘There are four cells along here,’ he said, ‘and the locks are all the same. Remember those ratings that were put in the other cells to cool off after a brawl last Monday? The guards used the same key for all the cells. And I noticed another thing. The guards were sometimes careless. They left the keys in the cell doors instead of returning them to the guard-room. So I started my craze for modelling and hollowed out my little hiding-place. Because I was supposed to be daft I got away with it. And two days after I had finished it I had the chance of lifting a key from the lock of the neighbouring cell. It was missed about two hours later. You remember we were searched on Wednesday night and the whole cell turned upside down by the guard? But by then it was safely tucked away.’

  ‘I wonder they haven’t put bolts on the door,’ I said.

  ‘Probably the guard didn’t report the loss.’

  I sat down on my bed again and considered the matter. It was certainly a step forward. We had the means of getting out of our cell at any time of the night. But having got out, what then? The various stores were all locked and we hadn’t the key to any of these. That meant we could not get at either the fuel or the munitions. And the guards went the rounds every hour. Moreover, the arrival of Maureen Weston and her three miners complicated matters in that any plan to destroy the whole base meant the loss of their lives as well as ours.