Part 14 (1/2)

”You distinguish between distillers and rectifiers?”

”Certainly; there's less check on rectifiers. Am I not right in saying that while the regulations for the measurement of spirit actually produced from the stills are so thorough as to make fraud almost impossible, rectifiers, because they don't themselves produce spirit, but merely refine what other firms have produced, are not so strictly looked after? Rectifiers would surely find smuggled stuff easier to dispose of than distillers.”

Hilliard shook his head.

”Perhaps so, theoretically,” he admitted, ”but in practice there's nothing in it. Neither could work a fraud like that, for both are watched far too closely by our people. I'm afraid I don't see that this place being here helps us. Surely it's reasonable to suppose that the same cause brought Messrs. Ackroyd & Bolt that attracted the syndicate?

Just that it's a good site. Where in the district could you get a better? Cheap ground and plenty of it, and steamer and rail connections.”

”It's a coincidence anyway.”

”I don't see it. In any case unless we can prove that the s.h.i.+p brings brandy the question doesn't arise.”

Merriman shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly.

”That's a blow,” he remarked. ”And I was so sure I had got hold of something good! But it just leads us back to the question that somehow or other we must inspect that depot, and if we find nothing we must watch the Girondin unloading. If we can only get near enough it would be impossible for them to discharge anything in bulk without our seeing it.”

Hilliard murmured an agreement, and the two men strolled on in silence, the thoughts of each busy with the problem Merriman had set. Both were realizing that detective work was a very much more difficult business than they had imagined. Had not each had a strong motive for continuing the investigation, it is possible they might have grown fainthearted.

But Hilliard had before him the vision of the kudos which would accrue to him if he could unmask a far-reaching conspiracy, while to Merriman the freeing of Madeleine Coburn from the toils in which she seemed to have been enmeshed had become of more importance than anything else in the world.

The two friends had already left the distillery half a mile behind, when Hilliard stopped and looked at his watch.

”Ten minutes to twelve,” he announced. ”As we have nothing to do let's go back and watch that place. Something may happen during the afternoon, and if not we'll look out for the workmen leaving and see if we can pick up something from them.”

They retraced their steps past the distillery and depot, then creeping into a little wood, sat down on a bank within sight of the enclosure and waited.

The day was hot and somewhat enervating, and both enjoyed the relaxation in the cool shade. They sat for the most part in silence, smoking steadily, and turning over in their minds the problems with which they were faced. Before them the country sloped gently down to the railway bank, along the top of which the polished edges of the rails gleamed in the midday sun. Beyond was the wide expanse of the river, with a dazzling track of s.h.i.+mmering gold stretching across it and hiding the low-lying farther sh.o.r.e with its brilliancy. A few small boats moved slowly near the sh.o.r.e, while farther out an occasional large steamer came into view going up the fairway to Goole. Every now and then trains roared past, the steam hardly visible in the dry air.

The afternoon dragged slowly but not unpleasantly away, until about five o'clock they observed the first sign of activity about the syndicate's depot which had taken place since their arrival. The door in the galvanized fence opened and five figures emerged and slowly crossed the railway. They paused for a moment after reaching the lane, then separated, four going eastwards towards the distillery, the fifth coming north towards the point at which the watchers were concealed. The latter thereupon moved out from their hiding place on to the road.

The fifth figure resolved itself into that of a middle-aged man of the laboring cla.s.s, slow, heavy, and obese. In his rather bovine countenance hardly any spark of intelligence shone. He did not appear to have seen the others as he approached, but evinced neither surprise nor interest when Hilliard accosted him.

”Any place about here you can get a drink?”

The man slowly jerked his head to the left.

”Oop in village,” he answered. ”Raven bar.”

”Come along and show us the way and have a drink with us,” Hilliard invited.

The man grasped this and his eyes gleamed.

”Ay,” he replied succinctly.

As they walked Hilliard attempted light conversation, but without eliciting much response from their new acquaintance, and it was not until he had consumed his third bottle of beer that his tongue became somewhat looser.

”Any chance of a job where you're working?” Hilliard went on. ”My pal and I would be glad to pick up something.”

The man shook his head, apparently noticing nothing incongruous in the question.