The Dancing Horse Page 12

  ‘I never said you were, sir.’

  ‘A call to the Echo office in Glasgow — or in London — would set your mind at rest.’

  ‘Quite so, Mr. Grant.’

  The inspector proffered the hat. Majestically its owner rose to his feet, accepted it with ill grace and clapped it firmly on his head. ‘Good morning,’ he snarled.

  ‘Good morning,’ replied Inspector MacNiven.

  Circumstances had made the garnering of useful information impossible; and there was no real satisfaction in having the last word. But Bulldog had it. As he and Donald reached the door he turned and said: ‘No wonder John Gordon in the Sunday Express is so down on policemen!’

  The situation had its own humour, though there was nothing humorous in the cold and calculating look which the Inspector gave them as they went out. But Donald concealed his amusement and took care not to remind his companion that within the past twenty-four hours he had been promising other policemen that he would compose a resounding article, high in its praise of the Force.

  After lunch they paid a visit to the editor of the Campbeltown Gazette in his office in the Longrow.

  Andy Robertson was quiet and dark, in his middle thirties. He wasn’t a Campbeltown man and had trained on one of the big dailies. But whereas in Glasgow he had worked as an unknown sub-editor, here in a country town, though earning less, he was a miniature Beaverbrook, his finger on the pulse of local events, his pen an influence throughout Kintyre. He liked it that way.

  They talked in his small, stuffy room, with the clatter of a Linotype and a smell of printers ink coming from the composing-room at the back. His welcome to fellow journalists was quick and friendly. His conversation, however, betrayed a hint of carefulness, and Donald realized that like the police he wasn’t quite sure of them and that his reserve would soon infect the remainder of the townsfolk.

  ‘No, I’m afraid I can give you no fresh angle on the atomic station.’ He twiddled dark horn-rims. ‘Those who work there appear to be decent chaps, and the younger men are a great attraction for the Campbeltown lassies! Like the Navy when they’re in.’ He smiled, showing fresh white teeth. He added: ‘But Karl Feuchtganger keeps pretty hot discipline, I believe.’

  Donald said: ‘Do you know if any of the top boys own a grey Austin-Healey?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘There’s one knocking around. It passed us on the road from Glasgow yesterday, and we thought we heard the sound of its engine last night. Austin-Healeys can’t be too common in Kintyre, and I just wondered if it might belong to someone at the station.’

  ‘As a matter of fact I haven’t seen an Austin-Healey in the town for donkey’s ages. But the police could tell you.’

  ‘It’s of no importance. Probably a stranger on holiday.’ Donald let the subject drop and offered cigarettes. When they were lit Bulldog tried another tack.

  ‘Somebody was telling us today that Feuchtganger’s wife had died in unusual circumstances. Know anything about that?’

  Andy Robertson rubbed his blue chin. At last he said: ‘She died here, in the Cottage Hospital.’

  Smoke jerked from the cigarette in Donald’s fingers. ‘Recently?’ he asked.

  ‘About three months ago, just after her husband was appointed Director. There was some talk that she’d been exposed to radiation. In any event, the cause of her death was never explained, and you can imagine the kind of stories that went around in a place like Campbeltown!’

  ‘Have you met Feuchtganger?’ inquired Bulldog.

  The other shook his head. ‘Never set eyes on him. But they tell me he’s the cinema fan’s dream of a scientist. Bald, pince-nez, sharp thin face. A bit dictatorial.’

  Donald put in: ‘How can we get in touch with him? The barman at the Red Lion says there’s no phone, and personal calls are apparently discouraged.’

  ‘Can’t help you there, I’m afraid. Once upon a time I tried to get into the station myself — the Glasgow Herald wanted an article — but the fellow at the gate told me I was wasting my time. There may be a private telephone line to the Ministry of Supply — almost bound to be — but that’s another story.’

  The bird in the cage. The big ungainly bird beating its wings with vain energy. And just outside the bars — unseen in the dark and biding its time — a patient cat. Donald felt a cold flutter in his stomach. He and Bulldog were trying to find a reason for the death of a stranger in Soho, but he was certain now that if they did discover it they themselves would first be required to face death. Would it not be better to tell the police what they knew and then retire gracefully, without a story perhaps, but safe and in good health?

  When they left the Gazette office, no wiser than when they had gone in, he put the question.

  ‘I know, boy.’ For once his companion’s voice was mild. ‘We have our moods of doubt, haven’t we? But we must never allow imagination to get the better of us.’ A memory came to Donald of a kitten on a train. It may also have occurred to Bulldog, though naturally he didn’t mention it. He went on: ‘The point is, we know there’s a story. An exclusive story. We must go after it or fail in our jobs.’

  They walked down the Longrow, in the direction of the Red Lion. The day was brighter, and a fresh wind made dust and scraps of paper dance at the comers.

  Donald said: ‘Sorry, boss. Temporary aberration, I assure you. But we’re up against it, even as far as the story’s concerned. The worst has happened. We’re under suspicion, and from now on we’ll get no co-operation from the Campbeltown folk.’

  ‘I warned you about it,’ said Bulldog, but without great heat. ‘Last night was a mistake.’

  ‘And entirely my fault,’ admitted Donald.

  ‘Don’t make a martyr of yourself!’ The gruff retort was surprisingly accompanied by a smile. ‘If it comes to the bit, I’m responsible for your actions in this affair.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re right about the story, though. We’ve made a hell of a mess of it, barging about like two bulls in a china shop. But at the ceilidh tonight we’ll try a new approach — ’

  He stopped short. Donald’s fingers were on his arm, so tense that they made him flinch.

  ‘Boss — down yonder at the end of the street!’

  Beyond the intersection of the Longrow and Castlehill, about three hundred yards away, a girl with a red tammy was talking to the driver of a police car.

  FOURTEEN

  They stood on the pavement, heedless of the stares and jostling of other pedestrians. An errand-boy, hissing loudly through his teeth, came coasting into the kerb beside them — no doubt making an imaginary landing, jet assisted, on the other side of the moon — and went past them into an ironmonger’s shop carrying several parcels. He stepped on Donald’s toe, but his hasty apology went unacknowledged.

  ‘Janet Marshall,’ Donald was saying, almost to himself. ‘I must talk to her. I can’t allow her to escape this time!’

  ‘Well, mind your step!’ returned Bulldog, frowning. ‘That girl’s clouded your judgement far too much already, and — ’

  Once again he was forced to stop in mid-sentence. The girl with the red tammy had begun to climb into the police car, and Donald was erupting into violent action.

  ‘Stop, for Pete’s sake!’ exclaimed the News Editor, slipping on the pavement as he attempted unsuccessfully to grab hold of his companion. Before he could regain his balance, however, Donald was astride the errand-boy’s heavy bicycle and pedalling down the Longrow like an earnest competitor in the Tour de France.

  Helplessly he watched his progress. He was making no effort to keep to traffic rules: others had to avoid him or take the consequences. Cars sounded their horns and children scattered to the kerbside like frightened chickens. In spite of his speed, however, the police car had disappeared long before he reached the corner.

  ‘Damn it all!’ muttered Bulldog. ‘Why can’t the young keep a sense of proportion!’

 
By some unfathomable process of psychology, a picture came to him of his secretary — cool and admirably poised, biddable and good to look at. Thinking nostalgically of Miss Kelly, and wishing she were present to advise him, he began to trot down the street in the other’s wake. He had no plan of action — just a vague thought that if Donald came to grief it would be better if he were at hand to succour him.

  He had gone only a few yards, however, when behind him occurred a series of childish shouts. He swore vigorously to himself, realizing that the errand-boy must have come out of the ironmonger’s and, finding his bicycle gone, was now shrilly proclaiming its loss. He swore again, turned on his heel and hurried back. The only fortunate aspect of the situation was that none of Inspector MacNiven’s policemen appeared to be in sight.

  Meanwhile, although instinctively aware that Janet Marshall was already beyond his reach, Donald continued a dogged pursuit. Perhaps he’d find the black Jaguar parked around the next comer. If not, it might soon be halted by a sudden engine failure or a puncture.

  Head down, feet pistoning the pedals, he took the comer into Castlehill leaning over at a dangerous angle.

  The first thing he noticed was that the police car had vanished. It must therefore have sped off on the Southend road, which forked to the right among canyons of high tenements. The second thing he noticed was a large fish-lorry, lumbering down towards the Old Quay. It was directly in his way.

  A crash seemed to be inevitable. But the lorry-driver’s brakes were good, and at the last moment Donald allowed the bicycle to go into a skid and heaved himself off it. There was a moment of noise and confusion. A little girl screamed. A workman carrying kitchen steps and a paint-pot let the steps fall with a clatter. The lorry-driver let loose some words of unprintable panic. Then Donald was on his face in the gutter, looking up at the tall wheels of the lorry, with the bicycle, miraculously undamaged, lying beside him. He himself was unhurt, except for a painful bruise where his right hip had taken the brunt of his fall.

  He saw that a crowd was gathering, and, as Bulldog had done a moment or two before, looked about for signs of the police. There were none. He got up, resumed charge of the bicycle and apologized profusely to the lorry-driver, who by this time was more in command of his feelings.

  ‘A growed man, larkin’ aboot like a teddy-boy!’ That was the extent of his protest as he released his brakes, let in the clutch and departed on his lawful business.

  In one way Donald was relieved. Baulked of death — or at least a broken leg — the small crowd had already begun to disperse, muttering to itself about folks’ stupidity: and it was becoming fairly evident that there would now be no official investigation into the near accident. Balanced against this, however, was his knowledge that further search for Janet Marshall would have to be postponed. As he swallowed disappointment on this account, he saw Bulldog and the errand-boy bearing down on him from the other side of the street. Incongruously, they were hand in hand.

  ‘Hey, mister, that’s my bike ye’ve got!’

  Again heads began to turn. Bulldog, however, assumed a bland and joking expression — a considerable feat even in more pleasant circumstances — and called out cheerfully: ‘Well, Donald, you’ve won your bet! I’ve just been telling Sandy here about it.’

  Sandy was smiling at the feel of Bulldog’s crackling note in his trousers’ pocket. ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘ye can go a bike a’ richt, but if ye’d landed under yon lorry it wadna hae been sae funny!’

  No violent arguments appeared to be imminent. For the second time, therefore, the onlookers lost interest. In any case a sudden diversion occurred.

  The man with the kitchen steps, having picked them up and replaced them on his shoulder, swung away from the scene and bumped into a young matron pushing a baby in a pram. Paint from his pot spattered the pram’s glossy exterior, causing the mother to cry out in sharp annoyance. A dispute immediately developed as to who was to blame. The baby began to howl.

  Then somebody collided with the man. He staggered a little and once again allowed his steps to crash down on the pavement. A small boy, approaching on roller skates, tripped over them, fell headlong and cut his knee. He, too, began to howl, and only in the nick of time was the exasperated workman prevented from emptying the paint-pot over his head.

  The ensuing mêlée gave Bulldog and Donald their chance. Quietly and without fuss, they handed over the bicycle. Sandy grinned widely, saluted the News Editor, then darted in to see the fun from a closer vantage point. The two men moved off in the direction of the harbour, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

  Some minutes later, leaning against the railings on the semi-deserted New Quay and looking down at the Campbeltown lifeboat bobbing gently in the water below, they were able to indulge in expressions of relief.

  ‘Lucky we got out of that so easily,’ Donald brushed the dust of Castlehill from his trousers.

  Bulldog frowned, pushing his hat to the back of his head. Thanks to me! I squared young Sandy with a quid. Told him I had made a bet that you couldn’t ride a bicycle.’

  ‘I see. Of course I’ll pay you back — ’

  ‘Don’t be dafter than you look! We’ll mark it to expenses. What the devil came over you?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to Janet Marshall.’

  ‘I appreciate that. But why pinch a bicycle? Aren’t we in enough trouble with the police already without — ’

  ‘I know, boss. I know. Put it down as an uncontrollable impulse. The thing is, I can’t believe she’s mixed up in anything criminal. I wanted a chance to speak to her, if only for a few minutes!’

  Bulldog readjusted his hat, put a foot on the lower railing and sneered. ‘Your chance may come,’ he said, darkly.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Well, haven’t you noticed? Whenever she turns up something always happens — and not to our advantage.’

  ‘It wasn’t her fault I skidded under that lorry.’

  ‘No. But I think you get what I’m driving at. If ever we reach the stage of a showdown, I’ll bet my bottom dollar that Janet Marshall won’t be far away.’

  A seagull did a balancing act on the lifeboat’s dumpy yellow funnel. Some boys, newly out of school, clattered down the wooden steps nearby, climbed into a rowing-boat and moved off into the harbour with an enjoyable splashing of oars. An old fisherman in a blue jersey and white rubber boots strolled down the quiet quay and stopped some distance away, his back to the railings. He took out a pipe, lit it and spat sideways into the sea, glancing as he did so at Bulldog and Donald. The News Editor glanced back at him, with suspicion.

  Some sailors came off the black-hulled submarine at the extremity of the quay and went towards the town, laughing and playing leap-frog among the bollards. The day was ordinary, unexciting. Even the weather had taken a turn for the better. The grey clouds of the morning had given place to a sunny afternoon, and the greater warmth was magnifying the scent of sea-wrack. The water of the harbour was gradually smoothing itself out, subsiding into glistening patches like brightly coloured oil.

  The danger of death seemed remote. Yet in some odd way both Donald and Bulldog knew they were close to it. The feeling returned to them that they were being observed and studied, though from what direction, or by whom, they had no means of telling. A crisis was building up — of that they were sure — and they needed patience and courage to wait for it. Especially courage.

  After a time they walked back to the Red Lion, looking about them carefully. They saw no one wearing an American style tweed jacket, no one with a red tammy. Austin-Healeys, grey or otherwise, were not in evidence.

  They went to the bar and ordered pints of beer. Jock’s greeting was pleasant enough, but they noticed that his manner was much less forthcoming than on the previous evening. He avoided speaking to them as much as possible, concentrating on a discussion on football with two young business men at the other end of the counter. His sandy moustache drooped; but
his close-set eyes were alert and watchful.

  As they were about to leave, however, he came across and spoke. ‘Ye’ll no’ be forgettin’ the ceilidh the nicht? A wheen o’ the scientists’ll be there.’

  ‘Thanks for reminding us, Jock.’ Donald tried to sound gay and unworried. ‘When does it start?’

  ‘Aboot eicht o’clock, in the big lounge upstairs. Some o’ the Gaelic Choir’s comin’ as weel. Ye should enjoy it.’

  ‘I’m sure we will.’

  ‘My cousin Jimmy, he’ll be there. Nellie, tae. They’ll see you an’ Mr. MacPhail doesna die o’ thirst!’

  He grinned affably, then suddenly seemed to recollect himself. Nodding curtly, he returned to the football fans. On the way out Bulldog glanced at Donald, one shaggy eyebrow raised in a question-mark.

  They climbed the broad carpeted stairs. On the landing they met Nellie, carrying a pile of clean bed-linen. In the drab light she looked flushed and almost pretty, her eyes big and round behind her spectacles.

  ‘High tea ready?’ inquired Bulldog, with booming heartiness.

  ‘No, sir. Not yet. About half-past six. But-but you’ll be in plenty of time for the ceilidh.’

  She seemed about to say something else. Then, as Jock’s had done, her expression changed. Her lower lip trembled and she sniffed, and no longer did she look at all pretty.

  She hurried past them, her sandals clacking down the stairs.

  FIFTEEN

  Though Jock had mentioned that the ceilidh would begin about eight o’clock, it was nearly nine before it finally got going. There had been a good deal of wandering about, while guests looked for friends who were late in arriving; and at first some of them had preferred to have their drinks in the bar downstairs rather than ask Jimmy or Nellie to bring them up to the lounge.

  Three commercial travellers who were staying in the hotel sat with Donald and Bulldog. They were friendly men, glad at the prospect of a break in their normal routine of selling biscuits and sweets by day and reading paperbacks in the slow hours before bedtime. The stories they told were sharply humorous and far less pornographic than those commercial travellers are reported to tell.