The Pit-Prop Syndicate · Part I · Chapter 11 (3/3)

At first sight this theory seemed a real advance, but a little further thought showed it had serious objections. Firstly, it did not explain Coburn’s nightly visits. If the manager had spent some hours in the works it might have indicated the working of a press, but what in that way could be done in fifteen minutes? Further, and this seemed to put the idea quite out of court, if the notes were being produced at the clearing, why the changing of the lorry numbers? That would then be a part of the business quite unconnected with the illicit traffic. After much thought, Merriman had to admit to himself that here was one more of the series of insoluble puzzles with which they found themselves faced.

The next night was Friday, and in accordance with the arrangement made with Mr. Coburn, Merriman once again went out to the clearing, presenting himself at the works door at two in the morning. Mr. Coburn at once opened to his knock, and after locking the door, led the way to his office. There he wasted no time in preliminaries.

“I’ve thought this over, Merriman,” he said, and his manner was very different from that of the previous interview, “and I’m bound to say that I’ve realised that, though interested, your action towards me has been correct not to say generous. Now I’ve made up my mind what to do, and I trust you will see your way to fall in with my ideas. There is a meeting of the syndicate on Thursday week. I should have been present in any case, and I have decided that, whatever may be the result, I will tell them I am going to break with them. I will give ill-health as my reason for this step, and fortunately or unfortunately I can do this with truth, as my heart is seriously diseased. I can easily provide the necessary doctor’s certificates. If they accept my resignation, well and good⁠—I will emigrate to my brother in South America, and you and Madeleine can be married. If they decline, well”⁠—Mr. Coburn shrugged his shoulders⁠—“your embarrassment will be otherwise removed.”

He paused. Merriman would have spoken, but Mr. Coburn held up his hand for silence and went on:

“I confess I have been terribly upset for the last three days to discover my wisest course, and even now I am far from certain that my decision is best. I do not want to go back on my former friends, and on account of Madeleine I cannot go back on you. Therefore, I cannot warn the others of their danger, but on the other hand I won’t give your life into their hands. For if they knew what I know now, you and Hilliard would be dead men inside twenty-four hours.”

Mr. Coburn spoke simply and with a certain dignity, and Merriman found himself disposed not only to believe what he had heard, but even to understand and sympathise with the man in the embarrassing circumstances in which he found himself. That his difficulties were of his own making there could be but little doubt, but how far he had put himself in the power of his associates through deliberate evildoing, and how far through mistakes or weakness, there was of course no way of learning.

At the end of an hour’s discussion, Mr. Coburn had agreed at all costs to sever his connection with the syndicate, to emigrate to his brother in Chile, and to do his utmost to induce his daughter to remain in England to marry Merriman. On his side, Merriman undertook to hold back the lodging of information at Scotland Yard for one more week, to enable the other’s arrangements to be carried out.

There being nothing to keep him in Bordeaux, Merriman left for London that day, and the next evening he was closeted with Hilliard in the latter’s rooms, discussing the affair. Hilliard at first was most unwilling to postpone their visit to the Yard but he agreed on Merriman’s explaining that he had pledged himself to the delay.

So the days, for Merriman heavily weighted with anxiety and suspense, began slowly to drag by. His fate and the fate of the girl he loved hung in the balance, and not the least irksome feature of his position was his own utter impotence. There was nothing that he could do⁠—no action which would take him out of himself and ease the tension of his thoughts. As day succeeded day and the silence remained unbroken, he became more and more upset. At the end of a week he was almost beside himself with worry and chagrin, so much so that he gave up attending his office altogether, and was only restrained from rushing back to Bordeaux by the knowledge that to force himself once more on Madeleine might be to destroy, once and for ever, any hopes he might otherwise have had.

It was now four days since the Thursday on which Mr. Coburn had stated that the meeting of the syndicate was to have been held, and only three days to the date on which the friends had agreed to tell their story at Scotland Yard. What if he received no news during those three days? Would Hilliard agree to a further postponement? He feared not, and he was racked with anxiety as to whether he should cross that day to France and seek another interview with Mr. Coburn.

But, even as he sat with the morning paper in his hand, news was nearer than he imagined. Listlessly he turned over the sheets, glancing with but scant attention to the headlines, automatically running his eyes over the paragraphs. And when he came to one headed “Mystery of a Taxicab,” he absentmindedly began to read it also.

But he had not gone very far when his manner changed. Starting to his feet, he stared at the column with horror-stricken eyes, while his face grew pallid and his pipe dropped to the floor from his open mouth. With the newspaper still tightly grasped in his hand, he ran three steps at a time down the stairs of his flat, and calling a taxi, was driven to Scotland Yard.