There was nothing Freddie Dirk liked better than a holiday crowd. They inspired in him a sense of profound grat.i.tude. Their generosity was boundless. To a gentleman of his skill in the matter of property exchange they represented a fortune. Whatsoever the imagination might picture and the heart of man covet could be had at the mere turn of a hand.

His appointment with Harrison Smith was for 9.50, but Freddie Dirk arrived half an hour ahead of time and this grace he put to excellent account. He had learnt from Bolt that Cornwall was their destination, wherefore his first care was to procure two first-cla.s.s tickets for Plymouth from the cuff of a gentleman's raincoat--a feat in strict accordance with the laws of economy. The high cost of living had of late reduced his supply of ready cash, on which account he could hardly be blamed for taking possession of a wad of notes carelessly entrusted to a side pocket by another pa.s.senger who was seeking to economise by carrying his own bag. Being an essentially practical man Freddie Dirk resisted the temptation to acquire a suitcase in crocodile by Pound.

Reticence in the matter did him credit and he rewarded himself with a single stone diamond scarf pin that greatly enhanced the appearance of his own cravat. He was debating with himself the question of a string of pearls of no very great value when Harrison Smith's hand fell upon his shoulder.

"That's a blame silly thing to do," said Dirk when he had recovered from his initial surprise. "Blame silly. Might 'ave a bit more respec' for a man's nerves."

Harrison Smith cursed him fluently as he led the way to a Ford car standing in the yard.

"Lot of use to me you'd have been if the splits had got you. It's a big job we're tackling and I don't want it spoilt by dam-fool sneak thief tricks."

Freddie Dirk apologised and explained his distaste for idleness.

"Ain't we going by train--'cos I got the tickets."

"No."

"Well, 'ang on a minute while I gets the money back."

But even this business coup was denied and with a sense of opportunity lost he entered the car.

There was nothing prepossessing in Freddie Dirk's appearance. He was of the low brow, heavy jaw, bruiser type. The term a "tough" fits him closely. He had a punch like a kick from a dray horse but when called upon to use his hands he preferred to rely upon his mascot to ensure success. Freddie's mascot was a few lengths of whalebone bound with twine and socketed into a pear-shaped lump of lead. Scientifically wielded it would go through the helmet of a City policeman like a hot knife through b.u.t.ter. He had a healthy dislike for firearms which was perhaps the primary cause of his failure to serve King and Country in the late war. His skill as a draft dodger had earned him a great reputation among many of his fellows equally diffident in their will to serve.

"I've got you into this," said Harrison Smith as they chugged up the station incline, "because I want a man who'll stick at nothing."

Dirk nodded.

"There's a chance we may have to----"

"That's orl rite--least said soonest mended."

"Barraclough is a bit of a bear cat and if he's got the concession on him you can lay odds he'll fight."

"If he's got the blinking thing don't see 'ow we're going to make much aht of it."

"Wouldn't his own side pay a goodish cheque? And wouldn't old Van cash in to have it destroyed."

Dirk grinned very prettily revealing his broken front teeth in all the glory of the morning sun.

"I get you. A private deal, like, favouring whichever market pays best."

"That's the idea. There's a fortune in it if we get him tucked away in some quiet place."

"It's a treat to work with you," said Dirk enthusiastically. "I'll lay a quart there ain't a finer 'ead piece than yours from 'Oxton to 'Ammersmith."

"Thank you," said Harrison Smith. "Try and remember that and obey orders quick as you get 'em."

"That's rite, captain, that's the talk. Give me a man wot talks strite."

A Ford is a marvellous eater up of miles and Harrison Smith did not spare his engine nor linger upon the way. Evening was falling when at last they descended the hill into the little fishing village of Polperro. They ran into the inn yard and tried to bespeak a lodging for the night but in this they were unlucky for there was no accommodation to be had. The best obtainable was a shake down in the stable loft, granted on a promise to refrain from smoking. Having refilled the petrol tank and a.s.sured themselves that the Ford was in sound running order against the morrow's needs they entered the inn.

"We'll get a snack now," said Harrison Smith, "and after that take a look round and make a few enquiries."

The schooners of ale provided by mine host to wash down the simple country fare were entirely agreeable to Freddie Dirk's parched palate.

It had been a long day and, as he pointed out, refreshment had been all too scarce. Harrison Smith might be, and undoubtedly was, an excellent fellow but he did not understand the urgent need for beer without which no good man was at his best. It was all very well going out and asking questions and poking one's nose into this, that and the other but far greater advantage was to be won by poking one's nose into deep foaming tankards of beer. Closing hour came all too soon and it would be time enough to seek fresh diversion after that unhappy event.

Wishing to remain in the good graces of his companion Harrison Smith shrugged his shoulders and sallied forth alone in the direction of the quay. The tide was out and from the mud and sand came the pungent ozonous smell of rotting sea vegetation. Dazzling white gulls wheeled and hovered in the air or noisily disputed the possession of fragments of fish and the offal of the market. In the pool a dozen trawlers, green striped and numbered, with furled brown sails and slackened rigging rode sweetly at anchor. A knot of seamen leaned against the outer stone wall of the pier smoking pipes and gazing idly across the opal coloured sea. A couple of artists were wrestling valiantly with the thousand subtle difficulties of the scene--trying to transmit to canvas the changing lights upon the water, the pink blush on the white-washed houses and the dull grey shadows on the mud. It was a scene calm and sweet enough to awaken gentleness and set romance astir but in Harrison Smith's mind it inspired no more than a sense of doubt and disappointment. Surely this tiny harbour was an unlikely landing for a man to choose who carried in his pocket the key to millions. No decent sized vessel would ever put into such a port. The place was asleep--dead almost.

A blasting conviction that the marks in the guide book had no connection whatever with the business in hand came over him.

Barraclough might have put them there expressly to deceive the girl.

He was subtle enough to employ such a device. What if after all the others were right and it was indeed Barraclough they had kidnapped? A pretty fool he would look then.

Shaking himself out of these melancholy forebodings Harrison Smith approached an old seaman with the offer of a "good evening" and a fill of tobacco.

"Pretty quiet hereabouts," he remarked.

The old man nodded.

"Still I dare say you get steamers and such like popping in every day to liven things up."

"Bearn't draught enuff for steamers. They doan't bother us much, steamers doan't."

The reply was not encouraging.

"I see the fishing fleet is at anchor. Weather too calm?"

"Couldn't say thaat."

"Going out tonight?"

"Med-do."

"And how do you get rid of your fish?"

"Us sells 'er."

"I mean do you send it up by road?"

"Naw!"

"Steam trawler comes in to collect it?"

"Doan't come in--not very often it doan't."

Harrison Smith turned away with a sigh, leaving the old man sucking at his pipe and spitting reflectively. There was no illumination to be found in that quarter.

More than ever doubtful of success he pa.s.sed slowly through the village to its inland outskirts and there he paused to study the map. It might be worth while taking a casual glance at the group of three cottages marked by Barraclough with the pencil point. They were easily located but their outward appearance suggested little enough connection with the mystery. They were fashioned of grey Cornish granite with slate roofs and the inevitable fuchsia bushes in the front gardens. One of them boasted a small stock yard roughly cobbled, an open cowshed and alongside a stable with a heavy double door. As a mere matter of form Harrison Smith determined to take a glance inside but on approaching the door he found it was fastened by an iron crossbar secured to an eyelet by a large and well made padlock. The door fitted closely into its architrave and there was no crack through which a man might see into the stable. Once more his excitement revived. With a quick glance over his shoulder to satisfy himself no one was about he scrambled over the shale wall of the stock yard and pa.s.sed to the rear of the building. High up under the gable a few pieces of stone had been removed for ventilation. A broken horse trough placed against the wall served him as a ladder and a moment later he was peering through the gap into the inky darkness of the stable. Nothing could be seen so, with some difficulty, he struck a match and dropped it into the s.p.a.ce beyond. It went out in the fall but in the brief s.p.a.ce while still alight it revealed the bright parts of a long, low racing car.

Harrison Smith dropped silently to the ground and his breath came short and sharp.