Journalistic instinct took over. Donald got up and sauntered across to a small table on which were arranged a number of magazines. Among the crowd he was inconspicuous, but as he apparently pondered a choice of reading matter, turning over glossy pages, he was close enough to overhear a snatch of what Nellie and the newcomer were saying.
‘But I’m not off till after ten, Mr. Kenyon.’
‘That’s all right. I can wait.’ To his surprise Donald detected a Lancashire accent.
‘Okay, then. I’ll do it. Poor lassie, I’m that sorry for her!’
‘Well done, Nellie.’ There was a strange sort of excitement in the light, clipped voice. ‘Tell her I’ll be in Cooper’s Close at half-past.’
‘Half-past ten you mean?’
‘Yes. It’ll be dark by then.’
As Donald turned away, looking into a copy of The Scottish Field, he heard the chink of money. When he resumed his place Nellie was taking an order for gin and orange from a matronly lady with a peke, and the youthful Mr. Kenyon was leaving the lounge.
A sudden notion occurred to him, brought into being by the soft look in Nellie’s eyes: the same look, he remembered, as she had given him after Janet Marshall’s abrupt departure. Could it be that this man Kenyon had an appointment with Janet at ten-thirty? A link between her and the station, that was what he and Bulldog were looking for. An innocent link, of course — he couldn’t believe otherwise — but one, nevertheless, that might help them to find a murderer and the motive behind the crime.
First of all, however, he had to make sure that his guess about Kenyon’s job was on the target. He signed to Nellie as she passed towards the serving hatch with empty glasses. She came to his table, smiling in her motherly way.
‘Could I have twenty Capstan, please? I seem to have run out.’
‘Certainly, Mr. Grant. Shan’t be a jiffy.’
When she returned with the packet he tipped her well. After a moment’s banter he said: ‘That young chap I saw you talking to a minute ago — with the green windcheater — his face seems familiar.’
A secretive look chased the warmth from her eyes. She sniffed, looking a little pathetic. ‘I don’t see how you could know him. He’s a Mr. Kenyon, from the station. One of the scientists.’
‘I’m sure I’ve seen him before somewhere.’
‘Maybe in London, Mr. Grant. He’s awful clever, they say. Sometimes he goes off to a conference down south, but mostly he’s here.’
‘So he’s been at the Mull since the station opened?’
‘Oh, yes. He comes in here a lot. A nice boy, but a bit foolish at times.’
‘Drink, you mean?’
‘Well, I’m afraid so.’ Gradually Nellie was losing her wariness. She enjoyed a gossip, especially with a nice man like Mr. Grant, who was ugly in such a thrilling kind of way. She went on: ‘But he’s awful clever — so all the other scientists say — and they just couldn’t do without him at the station. How I know is that he’s a great friend of my — ’
She broke off, suddenly remembering. For a second her face looked pinched and hurt. She took a handkerchief from the pocket of her apron and blew her nose. ‘Oh, but I mustn’t stand here talking. I’m sorry, Mr. Grant. There’s so much to do, you see — and well, you can’t possibly be interested in Jim Kenyon.’
She was gone, hurt on two counts: by the memory that had stopped her pleasant gossip, and by the thought that Mr. Grant might consider her rude and countrified.
Donald waited with impatience for Bulldog to come back, but it was eight o’clock before his stumpy legs appeared at a comer of the stairs.
‘All set,’ he informed Donald. ‘Took longer than I thought to write the darned thing.’
‘Now maybe you’ll appreciate what your reporters are up against — especially when you start shouting for their copy!’
‘The result’s a lot better than you could have done.’
‘That goes without saying!’ Donald grinned. Then, abruptly, he changed the subject. ‘Look,’ he said, quietly, ‘while you were away something happened.’
‘What d’you mean?’
Donald told him. ‘Cooper’s Close — wherever that may be — at ten-thirty.’ His hand jerked and the smoke from his cigarette spiralled to the ceiling. ‘I’d like to see who turns up to meet Kenyon.’
‘Janet Marshall, you think?’
‘It’s possible. Don’t you agree?’
‘Possible, but not probable. You’re becoming so obsessed with that girl that you see her in everything.’ Smug after giving birth to a literary baby, Bulldog had become a receptacle of wisdom. ‘I know your state of mind,’ he went on. ‘Every girl you come across — every girl you hear mentioned — there’s something of the girl about her. It’s a common complaint.’
‘Come off it, boss! I’m not in love with Janet Marshall, if that’s what you think. I just know she’s not a wrong ’un, and I’d like to prove it to you.’
‘H’m. Interesting. But you have no proof whatever that she’s involved with Kenyon?’
‘None. Just a feeling. Like you have sometimes.’
‘My feelings are usually right on the beam.’
‘So were mine about Kenyon.’
‘Sure. But one swallow doesn’t make a summer.’
‘Well, if I’m wrong, there’s no harm done.’
‘I dunno.’ Bulldog pondered. ‘It might be darned awkward if Kenyon is simply meeting some local popsie and finds us spying on him. The inhabitants of this small burgh might label us nosey-parkers and give us no further co-operation.’
‘There may be something in that,’ conceded Donald. ‘Let’s call it a last resort, then — if we draw a blank at the hotels.’
‘All right. If it’ll please you. But remember, you’re on your own if Kenyon spots us and cuts up rough. I’m too old for all this excitement.’
After posting the letter they visited the Kintyre Arms which dispensed a potent whisky from the island of Islay. Trying to sound like Sir Compton Mackenzie, Bulldog said it looked like peaty gin, tasted like nectar and had the kick of an elephant rifle.
Here, for the most part, the clientele consisted of fishermen and farmers. Before they left, Donald and Bulldog had acquired a comprehensive knowledge not only of the system of ring-net herring-fishing practised off the West Coast of Scotland but also of the huge milk industry which went on in Kintyre. Heads were shaken on the subject of the atomic station: fish and cattle were in danger of being poisoned, that was the underlying theme. But nobody particularized about the scientists or their friends. Nobody, it seemed, knew a great deal about them.
Next they had a gentle sojourn in the Regal in Broad Street, which offered entertaining bar conversation from a B.B.C. film unit engaged on shooting harbour scenes for a television play.
The beards and jerkins reminded Donald of Soho. A Campbeltown writer who had attached himself to the unit declaimed an original set of verses in praise of the atomic age, making a heavy and involved comparison between the speed and power symbolized by ‘The Dancing Horse’ and the actual power contained in the atom. The B.B.C. men applauded him heartily, vowing that they would put him on the air as soon as they returned to Glasgow. He bought them drinks on the strength of this promise, and Donald’s mouth crooked in a sardonic smile. He had heard many such promises made before, but seldom, to his knowledge, had anything ever come of them.
Finally he and Bulldog went to Ardshalloch, where a Drama Club was having its Annual Dinner. Here again their inquiries were skilfully framed, but no news was forthcoming about Janet Marshall. As in the other hotels, none of the staff had heard of her, while customers looked blank when mention was made of a grey suit and red tammy.
The night wore on, and they found themselves becoming involved in a ceilidh which followed the Drama Clubs Dinner. The tall leading man insisted on their presence at a mock rehearsal, while the stage manager and his crew — already in good form themselves — l
ined up rows of brimming glasses for their delight.
At one stage Donald announced to no one in particular: ‘She is only a ghost, a will o’ the wisp. Did I ever really see her?’ Then, realizing the time and the state he was getting into, he pulled himself together, rescued Bulldog from the charms of the leading lady and led the way outside into the gathering dusk.
They walked across the town by way of the quiet quays.
In the half-light the bare masts of the fishing skiffs resembled a skeleton forest. On the Old Quay towered a coal-loading machine, like some phallic symbol painted by a surrealist.
Young couples lingered on the benches on the promenade, while the street behind them echoed to the talk and laughter of people coming out of a brightly lit cinema.
There was only a slight breeze, but the clean, salty smell of the harbour effectively cleared Donald’s head.
He said: ‘A narrow escape, boss!’
‘It certainly was! Another ten minutes would have seen me off with that dame. But I’m not sure that I did want to escape.’
‘That’s how I felt.’ The Town Hall clock, hidden from them by the high tenements of Main Street, chimed the quarter. ‘As it is we have fifteen minutes to get to Cooper’s Close. Last resort. Remember?’
Bulldog made no comment.
By this time they knew all about Cooper’s Close, for in the Kintyre Arms a hairy old fisherman had given them its location and entire history. This included lines of Rabelaisian doggerel describing sights and sounds it had witnessed during the past hundred years. A dark, covered-in alley between a garage and a furniture store in the Longrow, it did not, as Donald had erroneously surmised, take its name from some worthy called Cooper, but from a cooper who had run a prosperous barrel-making business there at the tail-end of the century, when the town had boasted no fewer than twenty-one distilleries.
They approached it from the rear, where it emerged into an open space near Kinloch Park. This was an area overlooked by the dead-eyed furniture store, and at the moment they had it to themselves. It was a drab oasis of quiet, with the night sounds of the town going on around them in the near distance.
They crossed the cobbles, aware of the smell of dust and garbage, and took up a position in the shadow of a big water-cistern. From it they had a clear view right down the close to where it opened on to the Longrow. It was like looking down a tunnel.
‘D’you still think Janet Marshall will come here?’ Bulldog’s voice rumbled slightly against the zinc sounding-board of the cistern.
‘I don’t know, boss. But we must try something. We’ve raised no fish tonight — so far.’
Bulldog grunted. ‘Damn silly caper! Playing cowboys and Red Indians at this hour.’
‘We’ve had too much to drink, that’s the trouble. It’s blurred our faculties.’
‘Those of some are permanently blurred.’
‘There’s an old saying about people in glass houses. What if I tell Miss Kelly about that leading lady?’
‘Eh? Don’t do that, boy! Bad for discipline.’
‘Sez you!’
Donald’s apparent light-heartedness was cover for excitement and nervous tension. The thought that very soon he might be seeing Janet Marshall caused the excitement, for a reason he made no attempt to analyse. The idea that through Kenyon they might penetrate the secret of The Dancing Horse’ caused the tension. It was odd, however, that for the time being the true object of their journey to Kintyre was overshadowed in his mind by concern about the owner of a red tammy. The Islay Mist may have been responsible.
Bulldog’s fingers clamped on his arm. Framed in the oblong opening at the Longrow end of the close was the silhouette of a man. They heard the sound of his footsteps, approaching.
The silhouette came closer and merged with the dark. Donald couldn’t be sure that it was Kenyon, though his first impression of the figure had been one of youthfulness.
The footsteps stopped, some ten yards away.
After a time a lighter scraped into flame as the stranger lit a cigarette. They could hear him clearing his throat and shifting his feet impatiently.
A cat appeared as if from nowhere and slunk past their feet. Bulldog shivered. He was allergic to cats. Donald shivered, too — relieved that the incident had gone by without more fuss. He remembered vividly an occasion when the office pet had given birth to five kittens in the News Editor’s wastepaper-basket. Bulldog’s discovery of this circumstance — some time after midnight on a hot June morning — had caused such a furore that several hardened sub-editors had gone home to their wives almost in tears.
Minutes passed. Two sweethearts crossed the area from the direction of Kinloch Park, their arms about each other, oblivious to everything except themselves. They went through the close and out into the Longrow. Again Donald shivered with relief.
Suddenly they saw the girl. She came in the wake of the young couple, teetering over the cobbles on high, spiked heels. Donald drew in his breath as he caught sight of her tammy. Then, with a feeling of disappointment that almost made him physically sick, he realized that its colour was bright orange.
She went by them with a whiff of cheap perfume — a smallish girl with an open blue coat which swung about her attractive legs. The man heard her and came forward hurriedly. It was Kenyon all right. Donald made out his Lancashire accent: ‘Myra! Nellie told you?’
‘Aye, she did.’ This time the accent of Kintyre was unmistakable. ‘Nellie’s a good sort, though she is my sister.’
The pair were standing only a few feet from the cistern, and Donald and Bulldog found themselves in an awkward situation. The slightest sound would reveal their presence, but as Kenyon took hold of the girl roughly and began to kiss her, that was the last thing they wanted to happen. Despite their profession they were still human enough to hate giving embarrassment. On the other hand, they were acutely embarrassed themselves by having to witness the love-making of strangers.
For what seemed a long time the couple remained locked together. Donald tried to will them to move apart and go elsewhere but without effect.
At last, however, they stirred in each other’s arms. Her head sank down against his shoulder and they began to whisper. Bulldog’s eyes closed tightly, in a vain effort to shut out the sordid, commonplace details of a little passion.
‘It’s no good, Jim. I saw the doctor, and that’s the end of it.’
‘Are you quite sure?’
‘He said I was three months gone.’
Despair settled on the alley like a cold pall.
‘My God, what a hell of a thing! You said you’d take precautions, Myra.’
‘That’s right — on you go! Blame me!’
‘I’m not blaming you, darling. Of course I’m not. I love you.’
‘Oh, Jim.’
‘I love you. I’ll always love you, in spite of everything.’
There was a close, tense silence, while they kissed again with the thoroughness of practised lovers. Bulldog had opened his eyes and in the dim light was glaring up at Donald. An actor told to register accusation couldn’t have done better. Donald’s back was sticky with perspiration. This was terrible — and all his fault — but if they came out of hiding now it would be even more terrible. Especially for Kenyon and the girl.
‘Oh, Jim, I’m real glad you’ve come back. I — I couldn’t think you wanted rid of me. Were you angry when I wrote to the station and asked you to tell Nellie where you’d meet me?’
‘I wasn’t angry. Just — just a bit shaken. I mean — ’
‘I had to tell you. I know that you’re married and that you have to be careful with that creature blackmailing you. But you’ll get your divorce soon, won’t you, Jim? Then we can be happy, just me and you.’
‘It’s not as easy as all that. It’s damned complicated. And now this.’ His voice was weak and a little vicious. ‘My God! Isn’t there any way you can stop it, Myra?’
Donald heard a s
mall half-sob. It was a story as old as time itself, with no original newspaper twist. But even as he braced himself for the inevitable tears and recriminations, Bulldog provided a twist of his own.
Easing slightly his cramped position, he slipped on a smooth cobblestone, struck his elbow against the cistern and caused a booming noise which echoed in the quiet area like a drum-beat at a funeral.
ELEVEN
‘Oh, hell!’ he muttered, regaining balance.
Kenyon and the girl drew apart, startled. Kenyon’s hand went to his hip pocket, but what the gesture signified Donald and Bulldog didn’t wait to find out. Lowering their heads, they charged out of the shadows and raced off in the direction of Kinloch Park.
They heard the girl screaming and Kenyon shouting in angry frustration. But they were fairly certain that the dusky light and the suddenness of their departure would prevent the couple from recognizing them again.
‘I told you, Grant! Bringing me into this!’ Bulldog was panting as they stumbled across the cobbles for the shelter of the trees in the park. ‘Blasted idiot!’
His trials, however, were not over. As they readied the far end of the area, a whistle shrilled. To their horror, they found that their way of escape was cut off by two agile uniformed policemen.
They turned in their tracks, cursing their luck and quite unaware that a week previously an unsuccessful attempt had been made to burgle the furniture store and that the shouting and sudden screams had triggered off quick action by an already alert police force.
Instinctively they avoided Cooper’s Close. Kenyon and the girl were still there, and even though they could possibly have brushed past them, more policemen might be waiting at the Longrow end of the tunnel. They saw a fire-escape leading up to the flat roof of the furniture store and, with Bulldog leading, began to climb it.
The iron ladder was slender and precariously steep, zig-zagging up the high brick wall. As they reached the first sharp turn they heard another whistle and the quick metallic clump of feet coming after them.
‘For crying out loud!’ gasped Bulldog, not daring to look down. ‘They’ve spotted us.’
The Dancing Horse Page 9
