Lonely Road (22 page)

He scratched his head unhappily. “I dunno what to do,” he said.

It took about an hour’s hard talking to persuade him that our course was best. But we left that night for London, all the three of us, and by ten o’clock next morning I had him closeted with Jenkinson.

I
DON’T
think I need go through in detail the examination which was made of Billy in London. I got him in to Jenkinson, and when we had satisfied ourselves that he could tell us no more than he had told me at Gloucester, we sent for Norman. I had the pleasure of ringing up that gentleman myself, from Jenkinson’s office.

I got on to him at Scotland Yard. “This is Commander Stevenson this end,” I said. “Is that Major Norman?”

“Speaking,” he replied.

“Good-morning,” I said courteously. “I’m speaking from Mr. Jenkinson’s office—you’ve met Mr. Jenkinson, haven’t you? Oh, yes, I was forgetting. We’ve got a young chap here that you might like to have a word or two with—I should say, that Mr. Jenkinson sees no objection. The driver of the lorry. What? Yes, the driver of the lorry that was burnt out. Miss Gordon’s brother.”

He burst out: “You say you’ve got him in your office? How long have you had him there?”

“Oh … let’s see, now,” I replied. “I saw him first in Gloucester yesterday, and brought him up last night. We’ve examined what he has to say, and there really seems to be no reason why he shouldn’t make a statement to you, if it would help you in your work in any way. Mr. Jenkinson will be present all the time, of course, to guard his interests.”

He said angrily: “See here, Mr. Stevenson, if that man gets away I shall hold you responsible for his escape.”

“Certainly,” I said. “Do I understand that you would like to see him? If so, I’ll ask him to wait here for a few minutes.”

“I’ll be round right now,” he said.

“Oh, that’s excellent,” I said pleasantly. “In about a quarter
of an hour’s time? I think that will be quite convenient for him.”

I didn’t get an answer to that one. The line was suddenly cut off; I think he must have been in something of a hurry.

He came in a remarkably short time, and with him was a shorthand man. He was inclined to be a little curt with me, so far as I remember—I can’t imagine why. We went through into a sort of Board Room next door to Jenkinson’s
office
, and sat down round a table while Norman asked his questions.

There was nothing new. He didn’t know any more than he had told me. Norman pressed him particularly upon the source of his instructions, but he knew nothing other than that the man he knew as Palmer turned up at Gloucester at his garage or his lodgings from time to time and left messages for him. It was from this man that he got his money after each trip, forty pounds in treasury notes. He had no means of finding him at other times. On the morning of each trip the man turned up at the garage and travelled down with him upon the lorry.

He gave a pretty full description of this man, but there was precious little in it to take hold of. He described a man of forty-five or fifty years of age, with grey hair and rather refined speech.

For the destination of his loads, however, he was able to supply clear evidence. He took the stuff to a farmhouse in Breconshire, not far from Trepwll; at this place it was unloaded and carried into a barn. He could identify this farm clearly, though he did not know its name; he gave such positive directions as to how you reached it from Trepwll as would identify it beyond all doubt.

The statement came to an end at last. Norman sent away his stenographer to get it typed, and it was arranged that Jenkinson should take Gordon down that afternoon to Scotland Yard to go over it and sign his deposition. Norman departed then, and I took Mollie and her brother out to lunch, at Mr. Lyons’ Corner House.

We took him back to Jenkinson at about three o’clock;
together they went off to Scotland Yard. Mollie and I took a taxi back to the hotel. She was tired, and a little bewildered by the events of the day.

“I do think it’s awful to get mixed up with the police,” she said. She had a wholesome dread of the constabulary.

I got a telephone message late that afternoon, summoning me to Sir David Carter at 10.30 the next morning. I wondered who was going to be there. I didn’t see what they wanted me for; if ever I was resolved upon one thing it was that I was taking no more part in police affairs. I’d had my fill of that; from this time onwards I was going to devote myself merely to the protection of Mollie and her brother against their irregularities.

Gordon turned up soon after tea; little of any consequence had happened at the Yard. I gave him over to Mollie for the evening, saw that they had plenty of money, and left them to their own devices; I judged that they would talk more freely if I were away. I dined that evening at the club, and took a hand of bridge. By the time that I got back to the hotel they had gone up to bed.

Mollie opened the door as I went into my room; her room was next to mine. She was wearing a kimono and her hair was down her back; in the dim light of the passage she seemed to me to be most beautiful. “I’m glad you’re back,” she said, a little oddly. “Billy and I, we had a lovely time. We went to the pictures. But it’s dreadfully expensive here.”

I smiled. “I had a bit of an expensive evening, too,” I said. “I was playing cards.”

“You wouldn’t like a cup of tea, or a whisky or anything like that, would you?” she asked. “I mean, I’ll put on my frock, and we’ll get a waiter if you like.”

“Don’t worry about the frock,” I said. “You’re much nicer like that.”

She coloured a little, and told me not to be so awful.

“No, I don’t want anything,” I said. “Just bed.”

There was a little pause.

“Good-night, Commander Stevenson,” she said.

“Good-night, Mollie,” I replied, and went into my room.

Next day I went down to the Yard and saw Sir David Carter. Norman was with him in his room, and Fedden; they must have got him up from Dartmouth in a hurry. They offered me a chair at a long table; Sir David left his desk, and we settled to a sort of conference.

He started off: “I should like to begin by offering my thanks, Commander Stevenson, for the services which you have rendered in this business. Colonel Fedden and Major Norman tell me that we owe a great deal to you, in securing the evidence of the young woman Gordon, and of her brother. I should like you to feel that we appreciate your help.”

I had come prepared to hold my own in any bickering, but this old man had rather spiked my guns. “I’m interested in those two,” I said at last. “They’re a good type, and I’d like to see them clear of any trouble.”

He inclined his head. “Exactly so. I hope sincerely that it will not be necessary for us to make any trouble for them. At the moment we do not anticipate that sort of difficulty.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I replied. “After what I’ve seen I should defend them with all the resources in my power,” and I glanced from the old man to Norman on his other side.

Sir David Carter coughed. “Leaving that aspect of the matter for the moment,” he said, “I thought it would perhaps be best to send for you, Commander Stevenson, before we communicate our proposals to the man, William Gordon. Major Norman informs me that you have considerable influence with both of them; as the procedure which we have decided on is of some delicacy, I think it right that we should put it to you first.”

I thrust my chair back from the table. “See here,” I said; “I’m out of this. I’m sorry, but I can’t do any more for you.”

There was a little pause. “Nevertheless,” remarked Sir David, “I should like you to hear what we propose.”

I relaxed my attitude. “I should be very glad to,” I replied. “But I can take no part in any of your plans.”

He nodded. “We should not wish you to.”

He picked up a pen-holder from the tray before him and began playing with it absently, a favourite trick of his. “You will have gathered the position for yourself,” he said. “We now know the destination of the guns, and a great deal more about the manner in which they are introduced into the country. We do not know the organisers of the enterprise. We do not know the nature of the ship that brings them, though the evidence of Sir Philip Stenning throws a little light on that. We do know that the guns are taken to Trepwll, and from that we can deduce, without a great deal of investigation, who they are intended for.”

He raised his head and looked at me. “There is trouble in that district, as you know.”

I did know. It was not far from the Glanferis mines, and the Conservative papers had been full of the Glanferis troubles for the last three months. The coal trouble had virtually closed the pits, and there was much labour unrest. There had been riots and isolated policemen had been beaten up; the papers put this down to Communist incitement. On the eve of the election, with the poll not five weeks off, Glanferis had assumed a disproportionate importance; its news value had been sedulously worked up. Glanferis was a front-page story at that time.

The old man was staring straight at me, still playing with his pen. “I want you to visualise the whole situation, to see it from the broadest point of view. If we go straight now to Trepwll we shall find arms. In that event, we might be forced to the incredible conclusion that the Welsh miners in that district are preparing for an armed revolt against the Crown.”

I met his eyes. “You find that quite incredible?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” he said quietly.

Norman broke in. “We have the most complete reports upon the situation in Glanferis,” he remarked. “This comes as a complete surprise. We cannot imagine what section of the disputants could find it to their interest to arm their men. The use of force against the Crown cuts clean across the policy
of every party in that district. It would mean political disaster for the party that attempted it. It’s inconceivable.”

“Still,” I said, “there the guns are. You can’t get away from that.”

Sir David sighed. “Yes, there they are.” I was a little sorry for him in his great responsibility.

He pursued his discourse. “I am taking it upon myself to delay the seizure of those guns,” he said quietly. “I would not have you think that we are shirking from our duty on account of the election, for fear of the effect that may be produced upon the electorate if guns should be discovered in Glanferis. We are rather concerned to ensure that when the matter is made public for the first time, the whole story shall be quite complete. I would not bring it out in bits and pieces. I want the directing intelligence behind those guns. I want evidence which will show for what reason they are there—in comparison with that evidence the guns are nothing.” He turned to me. “This country stands on the eve of a poll, Commander Stevenson. We seem to be in the unfortunate position of having to produce a bombshell for the public, another Zinovieff letter which may change the whole course of the election. If we have to do that we must have solid facts behind us—not merely guns and theories as to what they were intended for. The public must be told the whole truth of this affair if it be told anything at all.”

“I’m with you there,” I said. “Give the country the whole truth of whatever may be going on, and let it do what it thinks best. It won’t
go
wrong.”

He inclined his head. “Exactly so.”

Fedden stirred. “That leads us to the man Gordon,” he said. It was the first time he had spoken.

I raised my eyebrows. “How does he come into it?”

Sir David Carter said: “We propose to use him for the next few days for information purposes.”

I was about to speak, but he stopped me. “I will tell you first what we propose. We shall send him back to his work at Gloucester, keeping him quietly under observation there.
We shall give him to understand that no proceedings will be taken for the slight irregularities of which he may be guilty, on the condition that he supplies us with the information that we want. We want the man Palmer, primarily. Next, we want information about the next landing of arms to enable us to make a capture of the boat. Given those two, I think we shall secure sufficient evidence for us to put the matter to the public for its judgment.”

He paused. “I would not have you think that we enjoy these methods that we have to use,” he said a little sternly, looking straight at me. “Our business is to catch criminals, and to find out the truth.”

I nodded. “I appreciate that point.”

I sat and thought about it for a minute, and there was a silence in the room. Their attitude was reasonable; it was the only way to get the information quickly that would settle this affair. Billy must go back to Gloucester and deliver the man Palmer over to the police.

I saw now why they wanted me. They were no fools, and they knew that I had influence with Mollie. They could not make the man
go
back to Gloucester if he did not want to; they could not make him betray his associates. They were relying on Mollie and myself to influence him that that would be the right thing to do; they must have seen that threats would be of no avail. There was good stuff in that chap.

I could not deny that they were right, nor could I deny them help. The matter was too serious for that. Against my will they’d got me into it again.

I raised my head. “And you want me to do … what?”

It was exactly as I had thought. They had not seen Gordon or put this thing to him; they wanted me to do that. They wanted me to represent to him that the police were his friends, only anxious to help him in his difficulties and to guide him out of the mess that he had got into. I was to have a quiet talk with him with Mollie, and then to take him along and introduce him to one or two plain-clothes men the next day. Then he was to go back to Gloucester, and wait for developments.

“There isn’t any danger in it,” Norman said. “I can assure you that it’s a procedure which is often used.”

I stared at him. “I am quite ready to believe it,” I remarked, a little grimly.

I turned to Carter. “I will see what I can do,” I said. “You understand that I can promise nothing—nothing whatsoever. I’ll put it to them, and I’ll telephone to you this afternoon.”