The Pit-Prop Syndicate. Freeman Wills CroftsЧитать онлайн книгу.
really wonderfully comfortable,” she explained, “and oh, the fires! I've never seen such glorious wood fires as we have. Cuttings, you know. We have more blocks than we know what to do with.”
“I can imagine. I wish we had 'em in London.”
They were walking not too rapidly across the clearing towards the mill. At the back of the shed were a number of doors, and opposite one of them, heading into the opening, stood the motor lorry. The engine was still running, but the driver had disappeared, apparently into the building. As the two came up, Merriman once more ran his eye idly over the vehicle. And then he felt a sudden mild surprise, as one feels when some unexpected though quite trivial incident takes place. He had felt sure that this lorry standing at the mill door was that which had passed him on the bridge, and which he had followed down the lane. But now he saw it wasn't. He had noted, idly but quite distinctly, that the original machine was No. 4. This one had a precisely similar plate, but it bore the legend “The Landes Pit-Prop Syndicate, No. 3.”
Though the matter was of no importance, Merriman was a little intrigued, and he looked more closely at the vehicle. As he did so his surprise grew and his trifling interest became mystification. The lorry was the same. At least there on the top was the casting, just as he had seen it. It was inconceivable that two similar lorries should have two identical castings arranged in the same way, and at the same time and place. And yet, perhaps it was just possible.
But as he looked he noticed a detail which settled the matter. The casting was steadied by some rough billets of wood. One of these billets was split, and a splinter of curious shape had partially entered a bolt hole. He recalled now, though it had slipped from his memory, that he had noticed that queer-shaped splinter as the lorry passed him on the bridge. It was therefore unquestionably and beyond a shadow of doubt the same machine.
Involuntarily he stopped and stood staring at the number plate, wondering if his recollection of that seen at the bridge could be at fault. He thought not. In fact, he was certain. He recalled the shape of the 4, which had an unusually small hollow in the middle. There was no shadow of doubt of this either. He remained motionless for a few seconds, puzzling over the problem, and was just about to remark on it when the girl broke in hurriedly.
“Father will be in the office,” she said, and her voice was sharpened as from anxiety. “Won't you come and see him about the petrol?”
He looked at her curiously. The smile had gone from her lips, and her face was pale. She was frowning, and in her eyes there showed unmistakable fear. She was not looking at him, and his gaze followed the direction of hers.
The driver had come out of the shed, the same dark, aquiline-featured man as had passed him on the bridge. He had stopped and was staring at Merriman with an intense regard in which doubt and suspicion rapidly changed to hostility. For a moment neither man moved, and then once again the girl's voice broke in.
“Oh, there is father,” she cried, with barely disguised relief in her tones. “Come, won't you, and speak to him.”
The interruption broke the spell. The driver averted his eyes and stooped over his engine; Merriman turned towards the girl, and the little incident was over.
It was evident to Merriman that he had in some way put his foot in it, how he could not imagine, unless there was really something in the matter of the number plate. But it was equally clear to him that his companion wished to ignore the affair, and he therefore expelled it from his mind for the moment, and once again following the direction of her gaze, moved towards a man who was approaching from the far end of the shed.
He was tall and slender like his daughter, and walked with lithe, slightly feline movements. His face was oval, clear skinned, and with a pallid complexion made still paler by his dark hair and eyes and a tiny mustache, almost black and with waxed and pointed ends. He was good-looking as to features, but the face was weak and the expression a trifle shifty.
His daughter greeted him, still with some perturbation in her manner.
“We were just looking for you, daddy,” she called a little breathlessly. “This gentleman is cycling to Bordeaux and has run out of petrol. He asked me if there was any to be had hereabouts, so I told him you could give him some.”
The newcomer honored Merriman with a rapid though searching and suspicious glance, but he replied politely, and in a cultured voice:
“Quite right, my dear.” He turned to Merriman and spoke in French. “I shall be very pleased to supply you, monsieur. How much do you want?”
“Thanks awfully, sir,” Merriman answered in his own language. “I'm English. It's very good of you, I'm sure, and I'm sorry to be giving so much trouble. A liter should run me to Bordeaux, or say a little more in case of accidents.”
“I'll give you two liters. It's no trouble at all.” He turned and spoke in rapid French to the driver.
“Oui, monsieur,” the man replied, and then, stepping up to his chief, he said something in a low voice. The other started slightly, for a moment looked concerned, then instantly recovering himself, advanced to Merriman.
“Henri, here, will send a man with a two-liter can to where you have left your machine,” he said, then continued with a suave smile:
“And so, sir, you're English? It is not often that we have the pleasure of meeting a fellow-countryman in these wilds.”
“I suppose not, sir, but I can assure you your pleasure and surprise is as nothing to mine. You are not only a fellow-countryman but a friend in need as well.”
“My dear sir, I know what it is to run out of spirit. And I suppose there is no place in the whole of France where you might go farther without finding any than this very district. You are on pleasure bent, I presume?”
Merriman shook his head.
“Unfortunately, no,” he replied. “I'm travelling for my firm, Edwards & Merriman, Wine Merchants of London. I'm Merriman, Seymour Merriman, and I'm going round the exporters with whom we deal.”
“A pleasant way to do it, Mr. Merriman. My name is Coburn. You see I am trying to change the face of the country here?”
“Yes, Miss”—Merriman hesitated for a moment and looked at the girl—“Miss Coburn told me what you were doing. A splendid notion, I think.”
“Yes, I think we are going to make it pay very well. I suppose you're not making a long stay?”
“Two days in Bordeaux, sir, then I'm off east to Avignon.”
“Do you know, I rather envy you. One gets tired of these tree trunks and the noise of the saws. Ah, there is your petrol.” A workman had appeared with a red can of Shell. “Well, Mr. Merriman, a pleasant journey to you. You will excuse my not going farther with you, but I am really supposed to be busy.” He turned to his daughter with a smile. “You, Madeleine, can see Mr. Merriman to the road?”
He shook hands, declined Merriman's request to be allowed to pay for the petrol and, cutting short the other's thanks with a wave of his arm, turned back to the shed.
The two young people strolled slowly back across the clearing, the girl evidently disposed to make the most of the unwonted companionship, and Merriman no less ready to prolong so delightful an interview. But in spite of the pleasure of their conversation, he could not banish from his mind the little incident which had taken place, and he determined to ask a discreet question or two about it.
“I say,” he said, during a pause in their talk, “I'm afraid I upset your lorry man somehow. Did you notice the way he looked at me?”
The girl's manner, which up to this had been easy and careless, changed suddenly, becoming constrained and a trifle self-conscious. But she answered readily enough.
“Yes, I saw it. But you must not mind Henri. He was badly shell-shocked, you know, and he has never been the same since.”
“Oh, I'm sorry,” Merriman apologized, wondering if the man could be a relative. “Both my brothers suffered