The Pit-Prop Syndicate by Freeman Wills Crofts (readict books TXT) ๐
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The Pit-Prop Syndicate is a story from the beginning of the golden age of crime fiction. Seymour Merriman, a British wine merchant on business in France, happens upon a syndicate manufacturing pit-propsโbeams used to prop up mine tunnelsโbut his eye is caught by one odd detail: their lorryโs numberplate mysteriously changes. With the help of his friend Hilliard from the Excise department they dig deeper and uncover a dangerous conspiracy.
Freeman Wills Crofts was a civil engineer, turned author of crime fiction. Though somewhat forgotten today, his style was widely appreciated at the time, and still finds fans of those who like a puzzle where all the loose ends are tied up. During his career he wrote over thirty crime novels; The Pit-Prop Syndicate, published in 1922, was his third.
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- Author: Freeman Wills Crofts
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Parallel to the front and about fifty feet behind it was the wall of the shed. It was pierced by four doors, all of which were closed, but out of each of which ran a line of narrow gauge railway. These lines were continued to the front of the wharf and there connected up by turntables to a cross line, evidently with the idea that a continuous service of loaded trucks could be sent out of one door, discharged, and returned as empties through another. Stacks of pit-props stood ready for loading between the lines.
โSeems a sound arrangement,โ Hilliard commented as they made their inspection.
โQuite. Anything I noticed before struck me as being efficient.โ
When they had seen all that the wharf appeared to offer, they walked round the end of the shed. At the back were a number of doors, and through these also narrow gauge lines were laid which connected with those radiating to the edge of the clearing. Everywhere between the lines were stacks of pit-props as well as blocks and cuttings. Three or four of the doors were open, and in front of one of them, talking to someone in the building, stood a man.
Presently he turned and saw them. Immediately they advanced and Hilliard accosted him.
โGood morning. We are looking for Mr. Coburn. Is he about?โ
โNo, monsieur,โ the man answered civilly, โhe has gone into Bordeaux. He wonโt be back until the afternoon.โ
โThatโs unfortunate for us,โ Hilliard returned conversationally. โMy friend and I were passing up the river on our launch, and we had hoped to have seen him. However, we shall get hold of him later. This is a fine works you have got here.โ
The man smiled. He seemed a superior type to the others and was evidently a foreman.
โNot so bad, monsieur. We have four saws, but only two are running today.โ He pointed to the door behind him as he spoke, and the two friends passed in as if to have an idle look round.
The interior was fitted up like that of any other sawmill, but the same element of design and efficiency seemed apparent here as elsewhere. The foreman explained the process. The lopped trunks from the wood came in by one of two roads through a large door in the center of the building. Outside each road was a saw, its axle running parallel to the roads. The logs were caught in grabs, slung on to the table of the saws and, moving automatically all the time, were cut into lengths of from seven to ten feet. The pieces passed for props were dumped on to a conveyor which ran them out of the shed to be stacked for seasoning and export. The rejected pieces by means of another conveyor moved to the third and fourth saws, where they were cut into blocks for firewood, being finally delivered into two large bins ready for loading on to the lorries.
The friends exhibited sufficient nontechnical interest to manage to spend a good deal of time over their survey, drawing out the foreman in conversation and seeing as much as they could. At one end of the shed was the boiler house and engine room, at the other the office, with between it and the mill proper a spacious garage in which, so they were told, the six lorries belonging to the syndicate were housed. Three machines were there, two lying up empty, the third, with engine running and loaded with blocks, being ready to start. They would have liked to examine the number plate, but in the presence of the foreman it was hardly possible. Finally they walked across the clearing to where felling and lopping was in progress, and inspected the operations. When they left shortly after with a promise to return to meet Mr. Coburn, there was not much about the place they had missed.
โThat business is just as right as rain,โ Merriman declared when they were once more in the boat. โAnd that foremanโs all right too. Iโd stake my life he wasnโt hiding anything. Heโs not clever enough for one thing.โ
โSo I think too,โ Hilliard admitted. โAnd yet, what about the game with the number plates? Whatโs the idea of that?โ
โI donโt know. But all the same Iโll take my oath thereโs nothing wrong about the timber trade. Itโs no go, Hilliard. Letโs drop chasing wild geese and get along with our trip.โ
โI feel very like it,โ the other replied as he sucked moodily at his pipe. โWeโll watch for another day or so, and if we see nothing suspicious we can clear out.โ
But that very evening an incident occurred which, though trifling, revived all their suspicions and threw them at once again into a sea of doubt.
Believing that the Coburns would by that time have returned, they left the launch about five oโclock to call. Reaching the edge of the clearing almost directly behind the house, they passed round the latter and rang.
The door was opened by Miss Coburn herself. It happened that the sun was shining directly in her eyes, and she could not therefore see her visitorsโ features.
โYou are the gentlemen who wished to see Mr. Coburn, I presume?โ she said before Merriman could speak. โHe is at the works. You will find him in his office.โ
Merriman stepped forward, his cap off.
โDonโt you remember me, Miss Coburn?โ he said earnestly. โI had the pleasure of meeting you in May, when you were so kind as to give me petrol to get me to Bordeaux.โ
Miss Coburn looked at him more carefully, and her manner, which had up to then been polite, but coolly self-contained, suddenly changed. Her face grew dead white and she put her hand sharply to her side, as though to check the rapid beating
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