Dick Barton and the Great Tobacco Conspiracy

by Mike Dorrell

  ‘Am I to take it that we’re in for some sort of special treat, Snowey?’ Dick Barton said.

  Snowey nodded towards the approaching combatants who came crouching forward in a martial arts style of fighting. ‘Chop Suey maybe, sir,’ he muttered. ‘Looks like about all they’re good for.’

  The first guard had now reached Dick Barton and was attempting to grip him in a judo hold. The special agent feinted, then threw a straight left to the jaw. It connected. The Oriental called Heng grimaced with pain, then he backed away and prepared to come in again. Again, Dick Barton tried to throw a left. But this time he was not successful. Heng sidestepped the special agent, grasped his arm, and threw him to the ground.

  From the floor, Dick Barton looked up speculatively at the looming figure of the guard. ‘Ju-jitsu, eh?’ the special agent muttered. ‘Must have been taking a correspondence course, Snowey.’

  ‘Still looks like a seven stone weakling to me, sir,’ Snowey managed in reply, before T’sien was on him. Snowey grappled with the Oriental as best he could, but he was already too late. The other guards came from behind and pinned his arms to his sides. One glance told him that Dick Barton was in a similar position.

  Overpowered, but still game, Dick Barton taunted the renegade M.P. ‘Well – it took six of your yellow friends, Hetherington. Now what?’

  Still sitting on his chair on the dais, Hetherington smiled slowly for a moment. Then he spoke: ‘Don’t be so impatient, Barton,’ he said. ‘Savour your last moments on earth – however unpleasant they might be.’

  In the meantime, Virginia Marley and Jock Anderson had returned to the Riley Monaco. They now stood beside it. They both wore expressions of concern on their faces.

  Not for the first time, Virginia looked anxiously at her watch. ‘It’s six o’clock,’ she said to Jock.

  ‘Right,’ came the decisive reply.

  Virginia, worried about Dick Barton and Snowey, was not keen to abandon her vigilance. She felt there was a chance they might still turn up. ‘Do you think we ought to wait five more minutes?’ she asked.

  ‘No. No, Miss, I don’t,’ Jock Anderson said. ‘If Mr Barton said six, he meant six. Can you drive a car?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Virginia.

  Plainly, Jock Anderson had not wasted his time while waiting for Dick Barton and Snowey to return. He now issued Virginia with crisp instructions. ‘Right. You get down to the telephone in the village and call Detective Inspector Harrington at Whitehall 1212.’

  Virginia opened the driver’s door of the Riley, and began to get in. Then, turning to Jock, she said: ‘What are you going to do?’

  Already, Jock was beginning to walk in the direction of the quarry. Virginia noticed that he was carrying some tools with him. ‘I’m going up to see if I can help,’ Jock explained.

  She watched as he moved further away from the car. ‘Don’t get into trouble, Jock.’

  ‘Don’t fash yourself about me, Miss,’ the Scotsman said in return. ‘Just get that call through.’

  Virginia Marley settled herself into the driver’s seat, turned on the ignition, and pressed the starter motor. The engine caught at once.

  Dick Barton and Snowey, with their hands bound behind them, now stood against one of the walls of the cavernous underground room. The guards stood in front of them waving their sten guns menacingly.

  Hetherington, who still sat on the dais, began to rant at them: ‘Why do you try to stand against the march of history, Barton? Men like you – little men – with your pratings of “democracy” and “equality” – you think you can halt the advance of true progress?’

  ‘No idea, old son,’ Dick Barton’s reply was deceptively casual. ‘But if you’re true progress I’ll have a damn good try.’

  Hetherington’s face became red and angry. ‘Quiet,’ he ordered.

  Once again, although his hands were bound behind him, and his back was literally to the wall, Dick Barton’s coolness did not leave him. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Hetherington.

  ‘I thought you were asking a question.’

  The renegade M.P., the mind behind the vast complex in the Welsh mountains, and co-conspirator of the master criminal Melganik, leant forward in his chair. ‘It is exactly your sort of little mind that tried to stop me before the war,’ he declared to Dick Barton. ‘I was willing to be reasonable; I was even willing to submit myself to the ludicrous procedure of putting myself up for the approval of the great unwashed. But the major political parties forced me to stand alone. Very well – stand alone I shall!’

  ‘You and a few hundred chinks,’ remarked Snowey White. He’d had enough of Hetherington. What with him going on all the time. Wouldn’t even give a prisoner a chance to think of a way to escape.

  Hetherington began to speak again. ‘A few hundred? My dear Mr White, you sadly underestimate me. What you have seen here is only a fraction of the power I have at my fingertips. I have bases the length and breadth of this island – each of them filled, as this one is, with men trained to take over the essential services of this country and run them as I command.’

  Dick Barton was exasperated. ‘Sieg-ruddy-heil,’ he said to Hetherington. And he meant it.

  Dusk was falling rapidly. The lonely country road across the North Wales moorland was not a very pleasant place to be. As she drove, Virginia Marley resisted the temptation to shiver. She had a job to carry out. She kept her eyes on the road.

  It was lucky that she did, she thought, for the Riley’s headlamps suddenly picked up a large American car that was parked right across the middle of the narrow road. She pushed her foot down hard on the brakes, and managed to stop only inches from the other vehicle.

  She opened the door and got out. She was furious. ‘What on earth do you think you’re ...’

  And there Virginia Marley trailed off in mid-sentence, for, as the driver’s door of the large American car opened, she found herself staring into the barrel of a revolver. The gun was held by someone she recognised – Curly Cohen. ‘You,’ Virginia said.

  ‘Me. That’s right,’ Curly replied. His voice was quiet. Then Virginia saw that the rear window of the car was being wound down. She also knew the figure who leaned out. He had a sinister scar and a sibilant voice. It was no one else but Melganik, the master criminal.

  ‘We meet again, Miss Marley,’ Melganik said. ‘What a very great pleasure.’

  ‘The pleasure is entirely yours, I can assure you,’ Virginia retorted hotly.

  Melganik’s reply was almost a soft purr – except for the tinge of menace. ‘I am so desolate to hear that,’ he said. ‘But perhaps you would care to join your brother in the car with me?’

  ‘Rex?’ Virginia took an involuntary step forward, and then, remembering what had happened last time, she stopped. ‘No!’ Her declaration was firm. ‘I’m not being caught like that again, Mr Melganik!’

  The master criminal shrugged as if it was a matter of no great importance to him. ‘Trapped or not, my dear,’ he remarked. ‘You are coming with me.’ He turned towards the thug in his employment. ‘Get her, Curly!’

  ‘Right!’

  Curly Cohen took one quick pace forward and grabbed Virginia’s arm. As he twisted it behind her back, the girl cried out in pain. ‘Just don’t make any trouble, miss, that’s all,’ the thug advised. ‘Then nobody won’t get hurt.’

  Virginia tried to wriggle free but the pain was too great. She gave up her attempt at resistance as Curly Cohen pushed her towards the car. Melganik opened the rear door. He had a smile on his hideous face.

  Virginia Marley was bundled inside.

  Meanwhile, back in the cavernous underground room, the nerve-centre of Hetherington’s operations in the remote mountains of North Wales, the renegade was still ranting at Dick Barton and Snowey White who were still pinioned against the wall.

  ‘The decadence that has infected every aspect of life in this country must be removed – with the surgeon’s knife if necessary. The culture that produced the nigger music
performed by such pitiable objects as your friend Rex Marley must be restyled.’

  Snowey White shrugged, then turned to Dick Barton who was standing by his side. ‘He does go on, sir, don’t he?’ The remark did not go unnoticed by Hetherington. His eyes were now glaring, and his face was flushed with anger. ‘And you – you Barton, and you White. You who seek to uphold and defend the corruption in which we are forced to live – you must be among the first to go!’ Hetherington paused for his words to take effect. ‘I am not by nature a merciful man,’ he resumed. ‘Your demise will be slow – slow and hideously painful.’

  Dick Barton timed his retort impeccably; ‘You’re going to bore us to death?’ he suggested.

  The ex-M.P. who did not regard democracy as the true condition of England, laughed in reply. ‘Ah – you think you can joke, Mr Barton. But I think the smile will be on the other side of your face when you see what I have in store for you.’

  As Hetherington stopped speaking, a deathly hush filled the underground room. Snowey White glanced towards Dick Barton, but the special agent’s expression gave away nothing at all. Snowey began to wonder how – and if – the governor was going to be able to get them out of this one. All things considered, it was beginning to look very nasty.

  Night had fallen on the mountains. As Jock Anderson crawled towards the perimeter fence that surrounded the quarry at Llanechbrantiog, he could hear the occasional owl in the distance. It was becoming cold, and with the blanket of darkness had come an enveloping dampness. But Jock had no time to think of his own predicament, it was very likely that Dick Barton and Snowey White were in trouble, and if he could, he meant to get them out of it.

  Jock ducked as a searchlight beam swung over his head. He could make out a wooden guard tower of the kind used in concentration camps, it was quite near. Further away, but not so far that he couldn’t see what was going on, was the main gate where he had left the Rolls-Royce 20/25 when he had delivered it from Derby before the war.

  The searchlight swept over him again. Jock continued to lie low for what seemed a frighteningly long time. Then, it moved on.

  He crawled on towards the fence, and, when he had reached it, extracted a pair of wire cutters from his pocket. He then began to snip at the first strands of barbed wire.

  The sound of a car horn drew his attention. He stopped work for a moment, and watched the activity at the gate. An American car drew up, it was too dark for him to be sure of the model. Two guards standing near swung the gates open, and the car glided through. Then, the guards resumed their alert posture, and Jock went on with his work at the fence. It was lucky that he had a good pair of cutters.

  One of the doors to the underground room crashed open, an Oriental guard entered, and then stood aside as two more important figures came in. They were none other than Dmitri Melganik and his fiancée Melissa.

  ‘Ah, Dmitri,’ Hetherington greeted the master criminal. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Mr Barton?’

  Melganik directed his attention towards where Barton and Snowey were standing against the wall. He smiled, when he spoke it was with slow and sinister tones. ‘We’ve spoken on the telephone.’

  Hetherington continued his charade of courtesy. He indicated Snowey: ‘And Mr White?’

  ‘A lump.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Hetherington replied.

  Snowey was indignant. He didn’t like to be reminded of his mistake. ‘Ruddy nerve,’ he said. Then, he pointed to Melissa, he had recognised her the moment she had come through the door. ‘She’s the one, sir,’ he said to Dick Barton. ‘She’s the one who pretended to be Mr Marley’s fiancée and then got me clouted on the head.’

  Melissa was not unaware of Snowey’s identity. ‘Ah,’ she replied. ‘It’s poor Mr White of the delicate cranium.’

  A more serious expression came over Melganik’s face. ‘Enough of this banter,’ he declared. ‘Bring in the other two.’

  In obedience to Melganik’s order, two more guards came into the room. Virginia Marley was struggling valiantly with the first of them, but he was much too strong for her. Her brother Rex was still in no condition to resist. He was barely conscious. His face still had the deathly pallor that had marked him when Dick Barton had first seen the crooner at the Blue Parrot. And that seemed a long time ago.

  Virginia and Rex were forced to join Barton and Snowey against the wall.

  ‘Ah – we now have the complete set,’ Hetherington remarked. He turned towards Melganik. ‘Well done, Dmitri.’ The master criminal smiled back at him.

  Dick Barton spoke very quietly to Snowey: ‘They seem to have overlooked Jock.’

  But Snowey was dubious of the mechanic’s chances. ‘I don’t know what he’s going to do against this lot,’ he said. He looked around the room. They were vastly outnumbered. The odds were stacked against them.

  Jock Anderson had reached the edge of the quarry. Carefully, in case he should disturb any loose stones, and so give warning of his presence, the mechanic looked over the edge. And what he saw took his breath away. He had not expected anything like this.

  There were several rows of troop lorries parked in well-ordered lines. Guards in Oriental uniform moved about in a seemingly efficient manner. The whole place gave the impression of a well ordered military operation. He was obviously going to have his work cut out. He let out a long, low whistle.

  Dick Barton, Snowey White, Virginia Marley and her brother Rex, stared at the sten guns of the Oriental guards in the control of Hetherington and Melganik. For the moment, even Barton felt sure, there was nothing they could do – except play for time.

  Hetherington, now obviously more relaxed, and with apparent contempt for his prisoners, was talking to his co-conspirator as he stood in front of them.

  ‘Mr Barton here doubts the feasibility of our aims, Dmitri,’ Hetherington said.

  The master criminal smiled to himself. ‘Of course he does,’ he remarked. ‘But then he doesn’t yet know my half of the plan, I imagine?’

  A self-satisfied smirk crossed Hetherington’s face. ‘I was about to move on to that.’ He looked across to where Dick Barton was standing.

  The special agent could stand no more. It was time for him to declare himself. He addressed himself to the master criminal. ‘Anything you dream up, Melganik,’ he declared, ‘is bound to be dirty, but scarcely guaranteed to be successful.’

  The equilibrium of the mid-European with the sibilant voice was not disturbed. ‘Oh, I don’t think that even the brilliant Mr Barton will be able to find a weakness in my scheme.’

  Shrewdly, Dick Barton asked a key question: ‘And what’s that when it’s at home?’

  Melganik paused before he spoke again. ‘It is quite simple really.’ He seemed to hold the special agent’s intelligence in contempt. ‘I daresay our little raid on the tobacco warehouse from which nothing appeared to have been stolen had you bemused, huh?’

  But there was a limit to the amount of inferiority that Dick Barton could pretend to. Even when his life was at stake. ‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘A child could see through it.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Dick Barton repeated. ‘The bales of tobacco were stolen.’

  ‘But they were checked and double checked by the great Detective Inspector Harrington of Scotland Yard, Mr Barton,’ came the reply.

  The special agent felt that there was now no point in concealing what he had worked out long ago. When his back was to the wall, the only thing to do was speak out. ‘Yes,’ Dick Barton said. ‘What he didn’t realise was that the dozen bales that you stole were replaced by a dozen seemingly identical bales.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Only they contained not innocent tobacco but marijuana.’

  Melganik seemed unperturbed. He nodded his head as he spoke. ‘Very good. Very good. And then?’

  Dick Barton looked around at the group with him. Snowey had a determined expression on his face. Virginia was looking after Rex, whose condition had not improved since he had been brought into
the room. They might all be at the master criminal’s mercy, but he had no intention of showing fear. ‘You tell me,’ he said after a while.

  ‘Ah – not so clever, after all.’ Melganik now seemed to think that his scheme had gone far beyond the comprehension of the special agent and his friends. ‘You have failed to think it through. I am a businessman, Mr Barton. What do I gain by substituting a very expensive drug for a few comparatively cheap dried leaves of the tobacco plant, Nicotiana Tobacum?’

  ‘That’s rather obvious, I’m afraid,’ Dick Barton replied.

  Virginia Marley looking up from her brother’s slumped body, cried out indignantly; ‘He wants to turn the whole population into drug addicts!’

  Melganik nodded sagely. ‘The young lady has brains as well as beauty,’ he said. ‘What a tragedy that the world will have the benefit of them for so short a time.’ Even though he was uttering the most terrible threats, his voice carried the same silken tones as before. ‘You see ...’ he resumed.

  From the dais, Hetherington interrupted. ‘That’s enough Dmitri,’ he warned.

  But the master criminal was far too egotistical to be prevented from telling the whole dastardly scheme. ‘No, no,’ he protested to Hetherington. ‘Why should they not hear the whole thing? The grand design? It would be wanton cruelty to send them to their deaths not knowing for what they die. The look of puzzlement on their little faces would melt the stoniest heart.’

  It was time to speak up again, Dick Barton decided. ‘No puzzlement here, I assure you,’ he stated.

  ‘Oh indeed?’

  There was no menace in Dick Barton’s reply. When he spoke it was with a matter-of-fact certainty. ‘I know all I need to know, Melganik,’ he said. ‘Enough to get you put away from the company of decent folk for the rest of your life.’

  Snowey White watched Melganik’s reaction. The governor had hit home all right. The mid-European was trying hard to keep up the pretence that he was still as cool as a cucumber in an iceberg. But Snowey noticed that Melganik’s scar was beginning to become red with anger.

  ‘Possibly,’ Melganik said as he replied to Dick Barton’s last remark. ‘If you were in a position to make what you know public, which is hardly the case. But I digress.’ He paused before he launched into a further speech, relishing the prospect of performing before a captive audience. ‘Yes, of course the prospect of a population of hashish smokers is one to gladden the heart of he who controls the supply of that substance. But my colleague Mr Hetherington goes further. Once we have the wits of the populace suitably dulled, he will be in an ideal position to make his move to seize all means of communication within the capital and bend the country to his will.’