The Dancing Horse Read online

  It was like a long moment snatched from eternity. Everything was happening at lightning speed, and yet to Donald ages seemed to pass. The whole glen came distinctly into his sight-the stream parallel with the road, leaping and frothing down and down over a ladder of black stones, the Black Spout from which the hill took its name; the raw metalled track spiralling into a glen on the right towards the Loch Sloy Hydro-Electric Scheme; the mountains of Mid-Argyll, blue in the distance and basking in the sun, now beginning to appear at the western end of Glen Croe. And just in sight in the mirror, far behind, the grey Austin-Healey.

  Easing the Oxford to the left, he felt cool and amazingly detached. The furniture van was coming closer, but with the Jaguar moving in front at a hundred miles an hour, there was now no danger of a triple collision. The danger lay in the bend at the bridge. If they were to be saved, relief must come before they reached it. He considered all the points with care. He understood what the police driver had in mind and, his tense thought having come to a stage of automatic relaxation, concentrated on the task he found imposed on him.

  The Jaguar began to slow. The Oxford crept closer and closer to its tail.

  ‘We’ll ram it, boy!’ jerked out Bulldog, involuntarily.

  ‘That’s the rough idea.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If I can get tight against its bumper, its brakes may slow both of us.’

  ‘But my God — ’

  ‘I know. If we touch too sharply — if he brakes too suddenly or if I mishandle the wheel — we’re all bound for Kingdom Come!’

  Bulldog’s big spatulate fingers gripped the arm-rest until the knuckles went white. Donald remained detached. He saw the rear bumper of the Jaguar, a sparkle in the sunshine, come easing in towards the Oxford’s bonnet. He thought of the polished surface of his own front bumper. When the two surfaces met there might be a slither and a slide and a tearing of metal, and the open mouth of the great glen would be waiting. Only the tall over-riders, by preventing one bumper from climbing over the other, could possibly save the day.

  He switched off the engine. Less risk of fire. The wind whistled above the Jaguar’s scream. At the immense pace it had developed, the Oxford was beginning to display a long, bouncing motion, like a speed-boat.

  A yard, a foot, inches only.

  The policeman with the ginger moustache was twisted round in his seat, grotesquely stiff, relaying staccato information to the driver. The driver’s back was like a ramrod, straight, unmoving.

  The bumpers touched. A tremor went through the Oxford. The wheel kicked, then steadied as the cars separated again. The pattern of the lean-faced constable’s plan began to unfold. It required an ice-cool nerve and a golfer’s sense of timing; and it soon became obvious that he possessed both.

  Another tremor. Another wheel-kick. This time the slightest hint of a check on the Oxford’s headlong progress. Donald felt it quivering as its bumper slid and scraped against the one in front. His hands on the wheel were sensitive to every movement, but so far there had been nothing to increase his fears.

  Bulldog saw the furniture van a few hundred yards in front, the bridge less than half a mile beyond. He felt useless and helpless — and anger at his impotence was like bile in his throat. Then he glanced at Donald’s grim profile and saw there, in the brightness of one unwinking eye, a first faint cause for optimism.

  With expert skill the police driver was gradually decreasing speed. Each time the cars touched and shivered, the Oxford’s speed was also decreasing. The speedometer needle dropped in a series of jerks from 70 to 60. But the bend at the bridge was looming close, and to take it at a mile a minute just wasn’t possible.

  The furniture van seemed to grow bigger and bigger, and suddenly it flashed past. The driver, bare arm on the ledge of his open cabin window, was staring at them, mouth wide and slack. Donald noticed with interest that he wore a bright red handkerchief at his throat.

  For the first time the police driver touched his brakes, and the rear bumper of the Jaguar pressed hard against the Oxford. Donald felt the wheel jerk and twist, and for a moment he was on the point of losing control altogether. Then the Jaguar ripped ahead in a short burst and, momentarily released, the car steadied. And its speed dropped to 55.

  The shiver again. The slide and scrape of polished metal. A definite risk on the part of the policeman as he applied his brakes even more firmly. A slight skid by the Jaguar and a breath-taking surge of speed as its driver straightened it out again, free of the bouncing Oxford. The needle on the speedometer moved down to 50.

  Four hundred yards to the bridge. Coming up through Glen Croe — out of the long switchback from Cairndow and past the shepherd’s cottage — Donald saw a caterpillar of four cream and red buses, a convoy of death if encountered at the bend. They would reach it, he judged, at about the same time as the speeding cars.

  His coolness deserted him. He began to sweat, the perspiration oozing out on the palms of his hands. He had a moment of panic as he gripped the wheel tighter and felt his fingers slide on the slippery ebonite. The whole episode took on a nightmare quality. He prayed that he might soon waken up and find himself safe in bed. And as he realized that this was no fantasy, a crazy urge invited him to spin the wheel to the left and plunge down into the shelter of the rock-strewn glen.

  ‘Steady, boy! Watch it!’

  Bulldog’s rasping voice cooled him like a splash of icy water. He sucked in his breath and, as the Jaguar closed in again, braced himself for what he sensed would be the drivers final bid to prevent catastrophe.

  The gleaming bumpers touched, scraped. The speed dropped to 45 m.p.h. The bridge was only three hundred yards away, the buses about the same distance on the other side. A lamb made to move across the road in front of the Jaguar. It saved its life — and probably the lives of four humans — by a sudden leap back into the bracken towards its startled mother.

  Then the policeman began to press real power into his brakes. There was a grinding, snarling sound from the bumpers and a tinkle of glass as the Oxford’s fog-lamp splintered against one of the Jaguar’s over-riders. Donald felt the car heaving and swaying and for some reason became convinced that the bumpers had become inextricably tangled. But there was no skid on this occasion, just a showering of metal chips flying up from the gutter against the inner surface of the mudguards.

  It was as if a giant’s hand had been thrust out, buffering the Oxford. Both Donald and Bulldog felt themselves sliding forward in the front seat, though Donald’s own foot was taut against the useless brake-pedal.

  Once more time was standing still. Nothing existed except the jigging tail of the Jaguar, half-hidden beyond the bonnet. Donald knew that at any moment there could be a violent heave and stagger and both vehicles would go spinning into destruction like stock-cars in a race. But no such accident occurred. Slowly but surely the speed dropped.

  Forty, thirty, twenty m.p.h.

  Then, only a few yards from the bridge, the policeman tensed and stood on his brakes. Shuddering, trembling like frightened horses, the Jaguar and the Oxford stopped by the roadside, the Jaguar’s front wheels splayed a little on to the grassy verge.

  The buses came roaring out of the bend at the bridge, streamers and balloons flapping and spraying from the open windows. Children waved and blew toy trumpets. A school picnic, it seemed. With a gust of wind and a whiff of diesel oil they passed by up the hill, none of the drivers paying any attention to the fact that the cars were locked together.

  ‘God help us!’ said Bulldog.

  ‘He did help us,’ replied Donald in shaky sincerity, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.

  The policemen got out of the Jaguar. Both were slightly pale but otherwise showed no sign of emotion.

  The stouter one with the ginger moustache came towards the Oxford, pulling out a note-book. ‘What’s all this about?’ he said in an official voice, which, however, did little to conceal the Highland burr beneath it.
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  The orthodoxy of the question, coming as it did after a display of such gallantry, made even Bulldog smile.

  EIGHT

  A car zipped past, going in the direction of Cairndow and Inveraray. It was the grey Austin-Healey. At the wheel sat a bald-faced man, wearing sun-glasses which effectively camouflaged his appearance. The police driver glanced after it, with an excusable lack of interest. None of the others even noticed it.

  The fair constable repeated his question, this time directly to Donald: ‘Well, sir — what’s all this about?’

  ‘Brakes failed at the top of the Rest.’

  ‘That seems strange, in a comparatively new car like this.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Could I see your licence and registration book?’

  By this time both Donald and Bulldog had climbed stiffly out of the Oxford and, like the others, were standing in the warmth of the valley of Glen Croe. For a moment, with no traffic in sight, it was peaceful and quiet. The burn splashed below the bridge. From the vast hillsides came the bleating of lambs and the occasional cry of a bird. Sharpened by the heat, the scent of the Highlands eddied about them — a mixed odour from peat and heather, bog-myrtle and wild thyme. The four men made a little group, lazy and unhurried, the balmy air acting like a tonic on their scared nerves.

  Donald produced his licence and the papers showing the car to be a hired one. As they examined them, the policemen explained that they were from Lochgilphead, on a routine patrol. The driver was a Constable MacLeod, his companion Constable Ferguson. In a moment or two, both nodded approval of the documents.

  As they did so, Bulldog at last found speech. ‘By heaven,’ he said, hoarsely, ‘you chaps deserve a medal for what you did just now! Name’s MacPhail. News Editor of the Echo — London Office. This is Donald Grant, the sports writer.’

  Ginger-moustache offered a small tight smile. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, while Constable MacLeod, adjusting his driving gloves, inclined his head with wary courtesy.

  ‘Magnificent!’ declared Bulldog, letting off the pent up steam of terror. ‘Might have been killed as well as us! Look, Mr. Grant and I are going to Campbeltown, staying at the Red Lion. Found it in an A.A. book. I’ll do a piece about you while we’re there — make everybody realize what a damn fine police force we’ve got.’

  ‘No need for that, sir,’ murmured Ginger-moustache. ‘All in the course of duty. In the meantime may we look at your car to see if we can find out what went wrong?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Bulldog quietened, his nervous reaction coming more under command. ‘But Mr. Grant has told you — the brakes — ’

  ‘I know.’ Constable MacLeod was already on his back, peering in beneath the chassis of the Oxford. ‘It’s funny, though, how the hand-brake failed as well.’

  ‘The thing is,’ said Ginger-moustache, ‘you may have a claim against the garage that hired it out.’

  ‘I see.’ Donald felt slightly uneasy under the scrutiny of the cool grey eyes. ‘I never thought of that.’

  ‘Why didn’t you, sir?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I had plenty of other things to think about in the past few minutes!’

  ‘Aye, you’re right there!’

  The driver emerged from underneath the car, his narrow face too blank to be true. ‘It is queer,’ he said.

  Bulldog glowered at him. ‘What’s queer?’ he demanded.

  ‘The nut at the back of the master-cylinder worked loose, letting the oil drain out of the hydraulic system. That sometimes happens if a garage is careless, but not often.’ He turned to Donald. ‘Did you notice the brakes going slack, before you came to the Rest?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I did. I put it down to oil or water in the linings.’

  ‘H’m.’ Constable MacLeod’s expression became, if possible, even more blank. ‘But what I can’t understand,’ he continued, ‘is why the hand-brake cable should have snapped at the same time. It could have been tampered with, in my opinion.’

  ‘What!’ exclaimed Bulldog, getting worked up again.

  ‘There’s a clean break. It looks anything but natural.’

  You mean the cable was partly cut,’ said Donald, ‘so that a sudden jerk would snap it?’

  ‘I can’t say for sure, sir. But it looks like that to me.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ said Bulldog, but without inner conviction. That would mean somebody wanted to kill us!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Constable MacLeod.

  Two cars passed, whining into third gear to climb the Black Spout. A three-decker sheep-float went down gingerly towards the bridge. Then there was silence again, except that on the high crags to the right a lapwing called.

  ‘Have you anything in mind that could account for it, sir?’ Ginger-moustache looked at Donald with the direct confidence of a future Inspector.

  For a moment Donald was tempted. Then he pulled himself together, for, after all, it was the papers story. ‘No. Nothing, I’m afraid. It’s a complete mystery, as far as I’m concerned. The car seemed perfectly sound when we left Glasgow, and as you see the garage certified its mechanical efficiency.’

  ‘That’s just the point, sir. If you’d like us to make a few inquiries — ’

  ‘No, no — not that!’ Bulldog thrust a broadsword among the rapiers. ‘We’re on a few days’ holiday. In Campbeltown, as I told you. Knitting up the ravelled sleeve of care. Can’t have it all mussed up by a lot of damned policemen snooping around — ’ He broke off, face reddening with unaccustomed embarrassment. ‘Not you, I mean. Heaven forbid! Bravest thing I’ve ever seen. Speaking generally, if you follow me. Officialdom. Once you get involved — ’ He petered out in incoherence.

  The driver grinned. ‘We follow you, sir. Of course, it’s up to you whether you make a complaint or not.’

  Donald shook his head. ‘Scarcely worth it, I think.’

  But Ginger-moustache was still curious. ‘Did you take the car straight out of the garage?’

  ‘We didn’t, actually. A chauffeur brought it round to Muir’s Hotel, where we’d been having breakfast.’

  ‘I see. Then someone could have approached the chauffeur, taken him in for a coffee, maybe. Another man, dressed in chauffeur’s togs, could have spent a few minutes underneath the car without arousing the least suspicion.’

  ‘That’s possible, I suppose, but — ’

  ‘Absolutely ridiculous!’ said Bulldog, closing the argument. ‘No one knew we were at Muir’s or had ordered a car. Apart from the head porter, that is. In any case — well, point is, we’re on holiday. Want to enjoy it. Brakes went. Just an accident. Where can we get them repaired?’

  The policemen gave up the inquiry. After some manoeuvring they separated the cars and sped off to bring help from a garage in Arrochar. More than an hour later, with the sun still shining, Donald and Bulldog said au revoir to the gallant and helpful if somewhat mystified constables and to the young mechanic who had put the Oxford to rights. In a sound car, but with a feeling of uncertain excitement still undermining their outward calm, they drove off into Glen Croe.

  ‘Remember, see you at the Red Lion,’ roared Bulldog from the window. ‘Damn fine performance. Never criticize the police again!’

  Constable Ferguson waved politely, then smiled and said something out of the comer of his mouth to Constable MacLeod.

  The mechanic pocketed a handsome tip. He wished he could meet such generous clients every day. At the back of his mind was a stir of curiosity regarding the broken brake cable, but he didn’t allow it to absorb too much of his attention. Odd things happened to cars, as he knew only too well.

  ‘Fairly obvious, I think,’ Bulldog was saying to Donald, as they drove past Cairndow towards the bridge at the end of Loch Fyne. ‘That little contretemps was the result of another plan to kill us. You can’t invoke the aid of coincidence this time.’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Donald, caressing the wheel.

 
‘Eh? What the blazes do you mean?’

  “All right, boss — I agree that mony a mickle mak’s a muckle. It certainly wasn’t a coincidence. But did they really want to kill us? That’s the question in my mind.’

  ‘Too right they did! And we should have been, if those policemen hadn’t shown up!’

  ‘I know. But how could they be sure that the brakes would pack in on such a dangerous hill as the Black Spout?’

  Bulldog frowned. ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘It might have happened on a level stretch of road, when we could have stopped quite safely by running into the ditch. They couldn’t guarantee otherwise.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’ The tone was grudging. ‘But in that case, why the deuce did they go to all that trouble?’

  ‘To make sure that our interest was sustained. That we kept on coming — to the Mull of Kintyre.’

  For the space of a minute Bulldog conned this over. Then he said: ‘You’ve got something there. They know that newspapermen are like pigs and basking sharks — try to stop them and they crash on harder than ever.’

  Donald nodded. He went on: ‘Of course, if we had been killed, all the better from their point of view! But they don’t want to show their hand too openly — not just yet. Plain, straightforward murder of two easily identifiable individuals like ourselves might cause them to be involved with the police. I have a feeling that they’re cooking up something special for us in the Campbeltown area.’

  ‘So you have feelings, too?’

  ‘Indeed I have.’

  ‘H’m. Could be. They may be leading us on into a situation where we can be disposed of without risk.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  They said nothing more for a time. Swiftly the Oxford went over the Loch Fyne bridge and round the wide comers through the trees. It passed Neil Munro’s ‘Doom Castle’ and came to Inveraray, a little town of white houses elbowing each other around a pier, with a turreted castle sheltering beneath the green, wooded hill of Dun Cuach. The day grew warmer, and Donald opened his window wide, letting in a breeze touched with the mingled scent of tar and pine trees.