The Dancing Horse

by Angus MacVicar

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean by that! In any case, those men may have been ordinary gangsters, specializing in robbery with violence. Plenty of them about. That they attacked us was possibly a coincidence.’

  ‘You don’t believe that, do you?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because like me — like all good newspapermen — you don’t believe in coincidence.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me that whoever killed that chap in Soho has discovered we’re on to something and that lie intends to kill us, too, before we get at the truth?’

  ‘Yes. He knows we’re the only people with a chance of identifying him. He knows that as newspapermen we’ll probably pursue that chance alone and unaided. If he succeeds in rubbing us out he’ll be safe again. Q.E.D. Any comment?’

  ‘Well,’ said Donald, slowly, ‘it’s a convincing argument, and you may be right — in principle.’

  ‘Thanks. I thought you’d see it my way.’

  ‘But Janet Marshall has nothing to do with it,’ he went on, emphatically. ‘That I’m certain about! I know her, you see. You don’t.’

  ‘H’m. It’s a point.’ Magnanimously prepared to compromise, Bulldog looked into the bottom of his empty glass. Then, with one of his mental side-steps, he said abruptly: ‘By the way, I’ve decided where I’m going for my holiday. Did you know there’s an atomic station at the Mull of Kintyre?’

  Donald was thinking about a girl who had tried to hide her tears. He answered automatically: ‘I gathered that. Someone was telling me just the other day. The Ministry won’t allow any reporters near it, either, on account of top secret experiments. But what’s an atomic station got to do with — ’

  Bulldog interrupted by bringing his hand down with a crash on the polished arm of his chair. ‘Consider, boy! A dead man in Soho, the sketch of a dancing horse on a page of his diary, a secret atomic station in Kintyre. There may — there just may be a common denominator.’

  ‘By golly!’ said Donald, emerging swiftly from his daydream.

  ‘All right,’ the News Editor continued, well pleased by the impression he had made. ‘I’m going to Kintyre tomorrow to try and find that common denominator. What’s more, nobody’s going to stop me! Oh, and by the way, you’re coming too.’

  ‘I’m what!’

  ‘You’re coming too. I squared the whole thing with the Chief this afternoon. He doesn’t know exactly what we’re after, but he trusts my judgement.’

  ‘To smell a rat?’

  ‘To smell several rats, my boy.’

  Donald smoothed back his hair. ‘So that’s the set-up! I thought you said a holiday?’

  ‘H’m. I’m past the age of romance, as you know, but I still have the instincts of my calling.’

  Donald grinned, experiencing — not for the first time — an unreasonably warm affection for his employer. ‘It must be the Glenfroig!’ he decided. ‘Don’t you realize that if your theory is correct those men will almost certainly have another go at us?’

  ‘Could be,’ replied Bulldog, with apparent indifference.

  ‘Well, at your age! I mean — ’

  ‘What the blazes has my age got to do with it!’ Indifference vanished in a flood of choler. ‘I stood up to them in that alley, didn’t I, same as you did?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. But — ’

  Well, I’m a bachelor, No ties, no commitments — like yourself. We’re on the track of what may be the greatest story of the year, and if you think I’m going to miss it because of a bunch of blasted hoodlums — ’

  ‘All right, all right. Sorry I spoke.’

  ‘I should think so!’ Bulldog heaved himself upright, poured a spot more whisky into his glass, savoured and swallowed it and smiled an unnerving smile.

  Donald sighed. ‘I expect you want me to buy the tickets?’ he said, hoping that Mrs. Vintage hadn’t been disturbed by the shouting.

  ‘Aye. There are one or two things I must clear up at the office tomorrow, so make it sleepers. Ten o’clock from Euston tomorrow night.’

  ‘Ten o’clock, Euston. Okay, boss. Okay.’

  When the News Editor had gone, safely tucked into a private taxi, Donald sponged himself down, painted iodine on his bruised left arm and donned a fresh pair of pyjamas. Then he got into bed and lay in the dark, considering the events of the day. But they were as incoherent as a problem picture by Dali.

  Where, he wondered, did Janet Marshall fit in? He had championed her with Bulldog, but he remembered her strange manner in the Minotaur, her eager, speculative look as they chatted outside. Had she after all been responsible for setting those men on their track?

  He dismissed the thought with an effort and concentrated on Bulldog’s hunch. A dead man in Soho, the rough sketch of a dancing horse, a secret atomic station in Kintyre — was there, in fact, a common denominator? Was it possible that somebody was trying to prevent them finding it?

  He fell asleep at last, and his sleep was untroubled. His dreams were not of thugs in Towser Lane. They were of a little farm in the north of Scotland, through which ran the hazel-bordered Con: the farm where he had been born.

  FIVE

  Miss Kelly was sorry that both her employer and Donald Grant should be going away from the office at the same time. Her holidays were not due until August, and the prospect of a fortnights work with the Managing Editor, a smooth-faced, smooth-tongued man who knew the sales figures up, down, sideways and backwards, but was no more a real journalist than she was, didn’t appeal to her in the least — especially as the weather was so nice outside. Mr. Glover would be courteous and correct and careful not to overwork her in the way the News Editor did, but life without Bulldog’s changing moods — which always reminded her of a dark mountain in Glencoe, visited and admired by her as a schoolgirl — life without Bulldog’s vital influence and without Donald’s cheerful grin and friendly compliments would be dull, insipid and uninspired.

  She envied, too, their good spirits as they prepared to leave the office that evening. They were like a couple of schoolboys, she thought, off for a night’s fishing in a forbidden pool. At thirty-five she felt old and staid beside them, though in her heart a small flame of lively resource continued to burn.

  She took off her glasses and glanced at her boss, who was fitting the Peter Street file into his briefcase. On the opposite side of the room Donald sat on a cold radiator, whistling and sharpening a pencil.

  ‘Mr. MacPhail,’ she said, getting up. ‘I wish I were going with you.’

  ‘What!’ He turned and stared at her. ‘You! You’re only a girl!’

  It gave her a warm, snug feeling to think that Bulldog at any rate looked upon her as a girl. Donald probably thought her ancient — a veritable mother-figure. ‘I envy you having such an interesting adventure,’ she explained.

  ‘I don’t know about an adventure,’ said Donald. ‘It’s work as far as we’re concerned.’

  ‘Sure,’ growled Bulldog, snapping his briefcase shut.

  She smiled. ‘Nice when you can get it,’ she remarked.

  The News Editor continued to look at her, as if he’d never seen her before. She was tall and slim and cool in a frock of pale blue, and without her glasses the flicker of her eyelids was more pronounced than ever. A shadow crossed his dark face, giving him a most sinister appearance; but both Miss Kelly and Donald knew that he was only thinking.

  ‘It may be damned dangerous,’ he said, at last. ‘I told you what happened to us last night.’

  She shrugged. ‘That could have been incidental, as Mr. Grant has pointed out. In any case I shouldn’t be scared. I can look after myself, too, to a certain extent. Judo,’ she explained.

  ‘Good heavens!’ he cried. ‘A pretty creature like you!’

  He said the most charming things, in spite of his appearance. ‘I don’t claim to be pretty in the least,’ she answered, with a smile, ‘but you should realize, Mr. MacPhail, that the more attractive a girl is, t
he more she may require to practise judo.’

  Donald laughed, not so much at Miss Kelly’s remark as at Bulldog’s reaction.

  ‘Aye,’ said the News Editor, slowly, ‘you’ve got something there!’

  He paused and took a deep breath, as if emotions were warring inside him. His expression became even more forbidding, and Donald, wondering if his boss had finally reached a stage when all inhibitions were to be thrust aside, experienced a momentary feeling of alarm. He needn’t have worried.

  After a time, with a heavy shake of his head, Bulldog went on: Tm sorry, Miss Kelly, it just can’t be done.’ His regret was so obviously genuine that it did a great deal to salve her disappointment. The thing is, I’d like you to come. Might argue, part of your job as my secretary.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘On the other hand’ — he was inexorable — ‘your parents. Aged parents. Sole breadwinner. No, Miss Kelly, I can’t risk it. Not when you consider that from now on Grant and I may be on the spot. This newspaper couldn’t get on without you. And neither could I,’ he finished, glaring in her direction as if he wanted to murder her.

  She sighed and began to tidy up her desk. The Managing Editor was to be her fate after all, but it was gratifying to have her boss expressing interest in her welfare. ‘Very well, Mr. MacPhail,’ she said, quietly. ‘It was just an idea.’

  From the radiator Donald said: ‘We’d like nothing better than to take you with us, but the plain fact is that we’d be indulging ourselves if we did.’

  ‘Sure,’ growled the News Editor.

  She smiled. ‘Men never like their women in the front line, do they?’

  ‘That’s it!’ rasped Bulldog. ‘That’s what I wanted to say. And when the job’s over you’ll be here, waiting.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Her smile faded, and for a moment she remained still. ‘Please — please take care of yourselves!’ she said. ‘In some ways you’re both so inexperienced.’ There was a pause. Then Donald laughed, dissipating the odd little cloud of feeling.

  ‘Don’t worry, Madge, we’ll be all right.’ He slid off the radiator and picked up his suitcase. ‘Ready, boss?’ he inquired.

  ‘Aye.’ Bulldog was still looking at his secretary with a puzzled frown. ‘Aye, I’m ready. Miss Kelly.’

  ‘Yes, Mr. MacPhail?’

  ‘I told Glover not to bully you. Explained you weren’t used to it — might put you off.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr. MacPhail.’

  ‘H’m. Well. Good-bye, Miss Kelly.’

  ‘Good-bye, Mr. MacPhail.’

  Donald waved to her. ‘Good-bye, Madge.’

  ‘Good-bye, Mr. Grant. See that he changes his socks when necessary.’

  ‘Right. I’ll do that.’

  Then they were out of the room and descending the white-tiled, antiseptic stairs leading to the car-park. ‘Remarkable!’ said Bulldog, out of a silence.

  Donald grinned. ‘You’ve said it!’

  At the beginning of their journey to Euston they sat side by side in the back of the chauffeur-driven office car, saying nothing. At last, however, Bulldog seemed to shoulder aside a burden of complicated thoughts.

  He said: ‘Nearly twenty-four hours since those hoodlums tried to get us. Funny they haven’t tried again.’ It was as if he were beginning to doubt the validity of his own theory.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Donald made an effort to sound judicial. ‘If they were hired by the murderer he probably realizes by now that he’s put us on our guard. May be cooking up something more subtle.’

  ‘There’s that. You didn’t notice anyone trailing you today?’

  ‘Can’t say I did.’

  ‘But you kept your eyes open?’

  ‘Certainly. Didn’t you?’

  ‘Sure. I saw nothing suspicious either.’

  There was a small sensation of unrest in Donald’s stomach. He wondered if Bulldog felt the same. It wasn’t exactly fear, as he had experienced it physically at the flash of knives in Towser Lane. Rather an imaginative upset. He and the News Editor were risking trouble in the hope of getting a story. Last night trouble had arrived unexpectedly, catching them off balance, and only luck had brought them through unscathed. Now that they were ready for more they had no idea from which direction it might come — or even if it would come at all. Among people, he guessed, they might be comparatively safe. The next attempt to kill them would probably be made when they were alone and relaxed. The answer, therefore, must be to remain perpetually watchful — and in the company of others as much as possible. When they had more knowledge of the enemy and could pick a suitable time and place for a showdown, different methods might be employed. Meanwhile spasms of nervousness were bound to occur.

  ‘Yes, the murderer may have boobed in attacking us last night,’ said the News Editor, revealing that his train of thought had been running on parallel lines. ‘He faces the consequence that from now on well take precautions.’

  ‘Exactly. Don’t you agree, therefore, that he may leave us alone for a while and try to lull us into a false sense of security?’

  ‘Could be. If he knows we’re making for Kintyre — which he probably does by now — he may decide to let us come on and deal with us there.’

  ‘It’s quite possible. All the same, I think we should still keep our wits about us.’

  ‘H’m. A feat more difficult for some folk than for others!’ Bulldog suddenly roared with laughter at his own joke and slapped Donald on the knee.

  The atmosphere became more cheerful. Neither of them knew exactly what they were going to look for in Kintyre. Nor had they a clue to the identity of the enemy — if, indeed, an enemy were in the field. — and yet the promise of excitement was invigorating. Soldiers approaching an alien coast in a wartime landing-craft had the same kind of feeling.

  A few minutes later the car purred into the echoing, dingy station, and the chauffeur civilly bade them adieu. They were early for the train and went to the bar for a drink.

  Despite his comparatively lightsome frame of mind, the News Editor was taking no chances. He stood leaning sideways against the counter, glass in hand, regarding the other customers with a lowering eye which reminded Donald of a suspicious gunman in a Wild West film. The barmaids kept looking in his direction, giggling together.

  Presently an inoffensive city gentleman with an inward sloping chin and pale, streamlined hair tapped him on the shoulder and asked pleasantly for a light for his cigarette. Bulldog’s hand quivered and the beer slopped. Then he turned with such an evil scowl and bark of refusal that the stranger immediately left the premises, almost in tears.

  On being reproached by Donald for this display of ill manners, he replied with a certain smugness: ‘Can’t be too careful, boy! Might have been one of them!’

  ‘He only wanted a match.’

  ‘Instead he got a flea in his ear!’ Bulldog gulped down the last of his drink and smacked the tall glass on the counter. ‘Serve him right, too. Can’t abide chatty strangers. Now, get a move on! We have a train to catch.’

  The journey to Glasgow began uneventfully. Both men made certain that the doors of their sleepers were locked, and Donald at any rate dropped over almost at once. He dreamt that he was flying out into space in a rocket shaped like a dancing horse. The drumming of atomic hooves clattered in his ears, then suddenly resolved itself into the beat of the train passing over points in the dark wilderness of the Midlands. But at the same time an explosion was taking place outside his door, made up of a thunderous knocking accompanied by a shout: ‘Donald! Donald, boy — wake up!’

  He shook himself out of sleep, threw off the bedclothes and leapt into action. Outside in the corridor stood Bulldog, clad in pyjamas vividly striped in violet. Their colour matched his face.

  ‘What the blazes — ’ began Donald.

  ‘My sleeper — things going on!’ Bulldog’s voice had an angry pitch, but though he made a creditable effort to con
ceal the fact, he was obviously shaken.

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘Come with me!’

  He led Donald into the compartment next door. The train was swaying roughly, crashing through what was probably a large junction. The curtains screening the space between the bed and the floor were also swinging.

  Bulldog pointed. In a hoarse whisper he said: ‘Scratching noise. Been hearing it ever since I turned in. Right below me.’

  ‘Didn’t you look?’

  ‘No. Got to be damned careful!’

  ‘But you want me to look?’

  The answer was oblique. ‘What is it, Donald? Couldn’t get a wink of sleep. Do you think — ’

  Out of the background roar of the train there emerged a tiny sound — a sound of movement under the bed. Bulldog’s face took on a mottled expression which betrayed alarm, query and cunning in swift succession.

  ‘Something there all right,’ said Donald.

  He had no wish to be a hero, but after all Bulldog was the piper who called the tune. His was the menial task. He took a deep breath, like a swimmer about to brave a wintry sea; then he knelt down and lifted the curtain. ‘Come out, you in there!’ he said, in an unnaturally loud voice.

  There was no answer. Donald sank to one knee and looked into the semi-dark. Then his face cleared, its grim lines vanishing. He grinned up at the News Editor and thrust a swift hand behind the curtain. It came out holding a kitten.

  ‘Blow me down!’ ejaculated Bulldog, like a balloon having the air let out.

  The kitten was only a few months old and jet black except for a patch of white on its tummy. White gaiters appeared to encircle its legs. Donald got to his feet, holding it in the palm of one hand and stroking it with the other. It purred contentedly.

  ‘Must have strayed into the coach at Euston and got frightened when the train started.’

  ‘Yes.’ His boss laughed without mirth and in a slightly shame-faced manner. ‘Made a bloomer there, Donald!’

  ‘Not one of the enemy after all!’

  ‘Who the blazes ever said it was!’ Marshalling his resources, Bulldog projected an intimidating scowl. ‘Give it me!’ he demanded.