The Terror Trap

by John Creasey

  Burke’s eyes narrowed a little. Pickering squatted on the edge of Lewis’s desk, and wagged a stubby finger.

  “Ay—agitators, Mr Burke. Ah don’t know them—but Ah’ve seen their like, oft enough. They come from anywhere, a’most, and a bad pit, like Granton’s, is made for them. Yon men know their jobs. Give them the stuff to talk, and they’ll make use on’t. And trouble is, every mine in the country’s been stewing for years—and waiting for the Commission’s report is the only thing that’s held ‘em, lately. Ah’ve been praying there’d be no flare-up, but now it’s come.” Bitterly, he added: “And Ah did it ma’self. If Ah’d been half the man Ah thought, Ah’d’ve told Granton to go to hell. He’s been squeezing for years, tighter every month. And now, when trouble’s come, he wants to offer them anything. Ah’d never do it, Mr Burke. T’would have been lying to the men, and Ah’d never do it. Not that Ah t’would ha’ done any good. It came too late. And now—well, it’ll take a miracle to stop it.”

  When he had finished, there was silence for fully a minute.

  If Burke had needed any confirmation of the seriousness of this strike, Pickering had supplied it. The manager was grimly aware of the whole circumstances; he knew just what to expect.

  Burke spoke at last.

  “It’s the agitator angle I want to get at,” he said, looking at the superintendent.

  Lewis nodded, lighted a cigarette.

  “Yes, I expected it would be. Well, Mr Burke, we aren’t unused to visiting agitators, down here. No mining centre is. And we get all kinds. There’s the fanatic, who does it for nothing and because he’s a bee in his bonnet. At normal times he’s just tolerated by the men; they know he’s not reasonable. But at a time like this, they’ll listen to anything. Then there’s the discontented type—grumblers whether they’re in work or out, paid well or badly. They’ve rarely much in the ways of guts. Then we’ve got the Weekly Worker people—paid newspapermen with frankly Communist leanings. They’re more theorists than anything else, but they’re usually clever.” The superintendent smiled drily. “Well, there you’ve got the regulars.”

  Burke nodded: he was learning a lot.

  “Then,” Lewis emphasised, slowly, “you’ve got the outsiders. They combine the dangerous qualities of the others; they’re clever, they’re used to the game, they have plenty of money and they’ll use it to corrupt the men. It works like this, Mr Burke. If you’ve a shift working sixty men, these men are part of each other. They make up a family party—and often a dozen or more of them actually are related, by the way—and they think together. They’ve got to get the coal from the coal-face to the pit-head, and to earn their money, they’ve got to get it up quickly. If one of them isn’t doing his bit, the others know it—and let him know it. That’s when they’re working. But if you get disaffection—say one or two men agitating for trouble, down the pit—the whole shift is affected. So these outside agitators pay one or two men each shift. That causes the muttering down below. Then the shift comes up top, and finds two or three stumpers yelling for a strike. They’ve been prepared for it. They’re ready. And then up she comes.”

  Jim Burke nodded slowly. He could see, now, how easy it had been for anyone set on making trouble to start it at Granton’s collieries—the danger-point of the South Wales fields.

  And Sir Marcus O’Ray had almost certainly wanted trouble. He wanted Granton’s—but he couldn’t get it without Lavis’s vote, and Lavis wouldn’t attend a meeting for a long time to come.

  If O’Ray had simply planned to control Granton’s in order to strengthen the Cropper-Gordon group, there would have been no rhyme or reason to cause the stoppage. But it would be well worth O’Ray’s while to create chaos—to start trouble that would affect the Cropper-Gordon groups as well as Granton’s—if in fact whatever he was after was big enough.

  Burke believed it was.

  And then, in a flash, he saw something else. It came on him like lightning—the way he had seen the real meaning behind Sir Joseph Granton’s words. This strike would have come about whether Granton’s had been bought by O’Ray or not—but O’Ray wanted the strike; to achieve his object Burke suddenly realised he must have it! Granton’s was a comparatively small company: the reason O’Ray had wanted it, was because disaffection could easily start from it!

  But why?

  Burke thought he knew. Sir Marcus O’Ray, through the Cropper-Gordon group, wanted complete control of the English, Welsh and Scottish coalfields. Already it controlled nearly fifty per cent of the big companies. It wanted the rest...

  Of course! Burke’s mind raced on. Of course—it would be to negotiate in the midst of the strike than at any other time! The owners would lose heavily over the stoppage. They must do. They would be only too anxious to get rid of their holdings to the bigger group—and during the strike, would sell-out at much lower figures than before it.

  That wasn’t all.

  Pickering had talked of the Coal Commission. Burke had read reports of its investigations: he knew, and Pickering had confirmed, that after the Commission’s final report, mining conditions would almost certainly improve. If that improvement came about, the companies outside O’Ray’s group would not sell. They would have been through the worst period; they would have waited for the rewards of their patience.

  But now with the strike on, the miners’ leaders would not be willing to accept the report of the Coal Commission. It’s progress would be, for them, too slow. Before the strike, reason would have prevailed. Now, it wouldn’t. Absurd demands would come—they always did. The miners would lay down conditions that the owners would not and could not meet. It would take weeks—it might take months—before the miners were forced to the realisation that they were trying to get blood out of a stone.

  This was going to be a long struggle ...

  Everyone believed it. The press were agreed on it. Pickering and Lewis, with their fingers on the pulse of the strike movement, were certain of it. The owners would realise it, too.

  And rather than face the immense losses, inability to meet foreign commitments, the long struggle after the settlement to regain lost foreign and colonial markets, the coal owners would sell out to anyone who made an offer.

  Cropper-Gordon’s, or Sir Marcus O’Ray, would make that offer. At the end of it, the big company would virtually control every coal mine in the country. There would, of course, be some independent collieries, but none that mattered ...

  “I see,” Burke murmured, finally. “In other words, this would not have started without paid agitators bribing some of the miners to cause the trouble. So we can be positive that there are agitators, although we can’t be sure where they’ve come from.”

  Lewis nodded. Pickering said:

  “Ay. Mebbe they’ve Russian gold. Ah’m not denying t’Communists have stirred up trouble, in’t past——”

  Pickering appeared to pause, and then apparently decided to say nothing else. Burke said slowly:

  “You don’t think it’s Russian gold, Mr. Pickering.”

  The Yorkshireman stared at him grimly.

  “No,” he said. “Ah don’t, and that’s a fact. Ah don’t know these men. Ah’ve seen strangers t’ Swansea, strangers t’ Granton’s, and Ah’ve heeard them talking. They’ve no convictions, Mr. Burke—they’re raising trouble for sake on’t. And now we’ve got it, we’ll not stop it till it’s burned itself out—and that’ll be a sad way ahead.” Pickering shrugged, glum-faced. “Say, Lewis. Have ye anything stronger th’n water? Ah could do with a drop.”

  Lewis smiled.

  “Sorry, Pickering, but you ought to know I’m T.T. by now.”

  “I’ve a flask.” Burke took it from his hip pocket and passed it over with a grin. “Help yourself.” He looked at the super. “Do you know these agitators?”

  “Why, yes,” said Lewis. “Most of them. You’re going to ask why we don’t jail them, I suppose? They’re cunning, Mr. Burke. They just make a statement of grievances—which are partly true
but highly-coloured—and then they say ‘do something about it’. They don’t say ‘strike’; they’re too wary. They leave a lot to the imagination—and the men they’ve bribed, the miners themselves, do the rest.” Lewis smiled again, but without much humour. “It’s a regular profession, strike-making. And it’s a sight easier than strike-breaking.”

  “Ay.” Pickering passed back the flask. “Thanks, Mr. Burke. Ah wish Ah could have better tidings for ye, but—”

  He still looked glum; the whisky hadn’t cheered him.

  “Well,” Burke said, “you know more about it than I do. But there’s a chance we may do something, gentlemen. This strike’s official, of course, with union backing?”

  “Ay.” said Pickering.

  “And if the union said ‘go back and wait for a while’ the men would do it?”

  “Ay. But to make it a general settlement, they’d need summat concrete to talk about.”

  “We might find it.” Burke rose. “Is it possible for me to see some of the agitators?”

  “Yes,” said Lewis. “But not tonight. They’ll be indoors, some place, planning the campaign for tomorrow.”

  “What time in the morning?”

  “Oh, eight-thirty—nine o’clock.”

  “Nine o’clock will suit me. And if it’s possible, Mr. Pickering, I’d like to see Granton’s pits—and your special brand of revolutionaries.”

  “Ay, and ye’re welcome,” said Pickering.

  “Then I’ll see you both tomorrow morning.” Burke offered his hand. “Good-night, Mr. Lewis. Good-night, Mr. Pickering, and hope for the best!”

  There was silence in the superintendent’s office for a minute after he had gone. Then Pickering said:

  “D’ye know? Ah wouldna’ be surprised if yon man didn’t find summat.”

  “I was thinking exactly the same thing,” nodded Superintendent Lewis. “Well—we can’t do anything more, tonight. I’ll walk home with you.”

  Back at the Station Hotel, Burke found everything as he had left it. Tommy Wigham had not shown himself at the front or back of the Railway Hotel. It was possible, of course, that he knew he was being watched; it was even possible he would adopt a disguise which, in the darkness, could get him past even Burke and Carruthers, who knew him. That had to be chanced.

  They divided the night into watches. Burke and Carruthers took the first, from midnight onwards, and were relieved by the plainclothes men at four o’clock. It was just before seven that Burke awakened quickly, as a Welsh voice called:

  “He’s gone out the front way, Mr. Burke.”

  Burke jumped out of bed and strode to join the man at the window. Tommy Wigham was on the opposite side of the road, talking—Burke grinned as he saw it—to a policeman.

  “Thanks,” he said. “If he moves off before I’m ready, you cut after him. If there’s anything to report after eight-forty-five, try for me at the superintendent’s office.”

  “Right, sir.”

  The detective kept watch. Three minutes later, he turned to say:

  “He’s moving—well! That was quick work.”

  Burke, fully dressed, grinned.

  “Force of habit. I’ll be after him, and you’d better come with me. I’ll follow you—keeping thirty or forty yards behind, all the time. He doesn’t know you, but he knows me very well.”

  As the man nodded and hurried out, Burke turned to where Bob Carruthers was still sleeping the sleep of the just, his blond hair beautifully in place, as ever, a poke in the ribs brought him immediately awake, and Burke said:

  ’Tell the man at the back, that there’s nothing for him to do for a while. If I’m not back by nine, telephone Headquarters and tell Lewis I’ll turn up when I can.”

  Carruthers rolled out of bed, already on the job.

  “All right, old son. Steady as you go.”

  The first detective was at the end of the street by the time Burke reached the pavement. Burke got within thirty yards of him, and then kept his distance. Why was Tommy Wigham up so early? Was it possible he had work to do that couldn’t be done, decently, when the world was fully awake?

  Swansea seemed dead, that morning—even for seven o’clock, Burke mused. There were few people about, and even fewer cars. Cars! What a damned fool he was being—if Wigham went for his car, it would be easy to loose him. And he had left the Austin at the same garage as Wigham’s Morris: he couldn’t get his car out while Wigham was there. He caught the detective up handed him his garage ticket, and gave him the car’s number and description.

  “If our man goes for his car,” he said, “the Austin’s in the same garage.”

  “Right.” The man nodded. “I’ll watch it.”

  It was later that Burke learned the detective’s name was Lloyd. He was the taller of the two, and he seemed capable of tackling any emergency. Burke was as satisfied as if he had had one of the Arrans with him, but he wished all the same, that Toby Arran would arrive soon. Craigie had promised mid-day. Mid-day might be too late ...

  Five minutes later, Tommy Wigham entered the garage.

  Lloyd followed him in and, with Burke silently applauding, came out on his tail. Burke, half-hidden in a shop doorway, watched the Morris go by. Tommy Wigham was looking serious; he did not look, now, the fool he had seemed when Burke first met him.

  “I’d give a lot,” Burke muttered, “to know what he’s thinking. But knowing where he’s going will help.”

  The Austin came up just as the Morris turned a corner. Burke jumped in and spread himself over the rear seat, to avoid being seen if Wigham should look back. Lloyd drove well, but neither car travelled at much more than thirty, and Burke had time to look round.

  What he saw appalled him.

  They were outside Swansea now, and in the mining area itself. Rows of small houses were packed close together; dirty, grim, depressing. To the right and left the pit-heads made stark outlines against a grey sky. There were slag heaps in profusion, little hills of dark grey waste, and the darkness seemed to imbue everything around. There was no colour. The countryside was drab—dirty—washed out. Here and there, grass had managed to force itself to the surface, but even that was discoloured; there was no freshness in the green.

  There were few people about.

  Those who were, all men and boys, were dressed badly; often in rags. Their faces were clean—scrubbed to a pasty whiteness. Their eyes were brilliant; the dark fringes of coaldust on eyelids and lashes would take weeks to disappear completely. Now and then, among the grim-faced little groups—rarely did Burke see a man alone—he heard a sing-song Welsh voice raised in protest. Always, the theme was the same—the miners’ rights, the employers’ injustices.

  The road went upwards, slightly, and looking back Burke could see over a wide, wasted area. Five miles away the grey mass of Swansea made a background, and here and there he glimpsed the glassy waters of an equally grey sea. Above Swansea there was a thin haze of smoke, but the air grew clearer over the pit-heads. Chimneys, girders, pulleys, rail trucks and rusty railway lines comprised the greater part of the scene, all stark and somehow ominous in their utter stillness. For there was no sign of life ...

  No smoke came from the chimneys. No sound came from the pits. No trucks moved along network of lines; here and there, little groups of them were stuck, like wreckage thrown up by a high-tide.

  It wasn’t Burke’s first glimpse of the area. He had been through here before, and even then he had known that less than half the pits were working. But the place had been alive. Smoke had belched, trucks had moved, men had hurried, the big pulleys at the pit-heads had whirled round and round, lowering one cage to the depths below, bringing another up.

  Now, it was dead ...

  The tragedy of it seemed to hit Burke like a physical blow. He turned away from the desolation, and looked ahead. The Morris was still travelling at a steady thirty miles an hour.

  Lloyd glanced round.

  “What shall I do if he turns off, Mr. Burke?”
<
br />   “Go past the end of his road,” said Burke. “There are plenty of places where we can hide the car, and go back after him. Where are we now?”

  “In the Granton fields.”

  “Oh, are we?” Burke murmured.

  The Austin topped a rise. Looking down, Burke saw another of the mining villages he had passed so often; the same hovels huddled together, the same surface dirt everywhere.

  Smoke curled from a few of the cottage chimneys, but none came from the stacks. There were twenty or thirty pit-heads, Burke reckoned, over an area of four or five square miles.

  Silence reigned here, too, but it was silence undermined by the murmur of men’s voices.

  This place was waking up. Burke saw more men about, and larger groups. He saw also policemen—mounted and on foot—some of whom were talking to the miners. The tension Burke had sensed in Swansea was worse here. Hostile glances came their way. Sometimes, someone—usually a youth—yelled abuse, but mostly there was silence and suspicion. At the Granton fields distrust was rife ...

  Tommy Wigham drew up outside a house larger than any of the others in sight, and disappeared inside. Out of the corner of his eye, Burke saw that it was a pub. A name Burke couldn’t distinguish was painted on a black board, but the paint was worn away. The exterior was weather-beaten, the one big front window broken and boarded up. No man was near it.

  Lloyd drove past the place and pulled up two hundred yards away, just outside the village. The Austin was hidden from view by a corrugated iron shed, the walls of which were painted red and covered with chalk marks, messages, and slogans—the predominating word being: ‘strike’.