Donald said nothing. Whisky and beer was churning about inside him. The idea of tamely giving himself up didn’t occur to him, as it obviously hadn’t done to Bulldog, either. In the circumstances, explaining things to the police would seriously hamper their investigations. Success depended so much on their apparent lack of guile.
It was like negotiating a crazy toy built of Meccano. Far down they made out voices — probably Kenyon and the girl telling police reinforcements what had happened. Close behind them the boots of their immediate pursuers clanged determinedly against the rungs of the ladder.
‘Stop there!’ shouted a West Highland voice, breathless but charged with the law’s authority.
They climbed even faster. The News Editor kept on swearing under quick-drawn breath, and Donald marvelled at the words he used.
They seemed to have been on the ladder for an eternity before Bulldog reached the topmost rung and hauled himself over the parapet on to the roof. Donald squirmed and slithered to his side.
‘You got us into this! What the blazes do we do now?’ In a blink of moonlight, glowing up from behind Ben Gullion, the News Editor’s lumpy face glistened with sweat. It resembled a villain’s mask in a Japanese play.
Donald glanced down the cliff-side of the store. The two policemen were already clattering on to the last section of the ladder. He looked back at the long sweep of the roof, like some enormous ill-lit stage. In a distant comer stood a chimney-head. A few yards to the left of it the gaunt arm of a crane was silhouetted against the stars.
‘Come on, boss — this way!’
‘Where, for Pete’s sake?’
But Bulldog followed, wheezing a little, his leather-soled shoes skidding on the dew-damp concrete.
To Donald had come the recollection of a similar furniture store in the market town of his boyhood: a recollection of his fascinated delight in watching green-aproned removers loading vans with tables, chairs and wardrobes by means of a small, hand-operated crane set high in the roof. The hook would dangle outside an opening thirty or forty feet up in the blank wall. From there a workman would stretch out for it, fix on a piece of furniture and shout to his mate on the roof-top. A few turns of a handle and the hook’s load would sink down gently into the van.
Now he was looking at a similar handle from the distance of only a few feet. The arm of the crane jutted out beyond the roof, its cable and hook slung inside the parapet. He looked back. The two policemen hadn’t yet appeared at the top of the fire-escape.
He turned the handle until the hook hung taut over the parapet’s edge. ‘Step into it, boss. I’ll crank you down. Then I’ll slide after you.’
‘But — but what’s below us?’
‘A side street, as far as I can make out. Nobody there at the moment.’
Bulldog’s anger left him. For a moment his look became pathetic. ‘Donald,’ he said, ‘I’m scared of heights!’
‘So am I. But it’s our only chance. Go on! Keep your eyes shut!’
A hundred feet away, the check-rimmed cap of the first policemen came into view on a level with the roof. Then his forehead and his chin.
Bulldog whipped up courage. He scrambled on to the parapet, caught the cable and stepped into the hook. He glared at Donald. In a quavering voice, he said: ‘Oh, you bloody fool! I’ll sack you for this!’ But before the diatribe was finished, Donald had slipped the brake and sent him spinning down into the darkness.
Seconds passed. Then there was a thud far below, and the cable grew slack. Thankfully Donald jammed on the brake, sprang for the parapet and leapt into space.
As he gripped the cable in tense fingers, he heard one policeman racing across the roof and the other blowing his whistle and yelling to his colleagues in the area to move round into Parliament Lane.
He went down the cable, hand under hand. It was slightly greasy, and once or twice he thought his descent might get out of control. But he was able to hang on, though his palms were painfully bruised.
How far he was from the ground when the policeman on the roof began to crank the cable upwards he had no idea. He was caught in a sudden panic, picturing himself faced either with a desperate leap to injury and perhaps death or with a tame surrender to grimly smiling authority at the top.
Then Bulldog’s voice came to him: ‘Jump, boy — jump!’
The sound, he judged, came from no more than fifteen feet below. He let go, therefore, and willed himself to become limp as he had learned to do in the commandos. As he struck the stone setts of Parliament Lane, his fall partially broken by Bulldog who had gamely tried to catch him in outstretched arms, he heard footsteps hurrying towards them from the direction of the Longrow.
He got to his feet. ‘Come on, boss! We’re not finished yet!’
‘My God!’ said the News Editor. But he was on terra firma now, and his relief at having successfully negotiated the journey on the crane-hook gave him renewed vigour.
Like Olympic champions they ran down the lane towards the Kinloch Park end.
Behind them a hue and cry was mounting, for the policemen seemed to have been joined by a number of civilians; but in front the way was clear. The road alongside the Park was completely empty, except for two cars passing each other in opposite directions. When these had gone, they dashed across the tarmac into the shadow of a row of trees. The Park itself lay dark and quiet under the rising moon.
‘Well,’ panted Bulldog, ‘what now, idiot boy?’
Some fifty yards away, dimly outlined against a background of tenement buildings, Donald saw the tall erection on which fishermen dried their nets. Its construction was like that of a giant clothes-horse — two sets of triangular wooden supports with a long pole connecting the apexes about twenty feet above the ground. Nets were draped along it, hanging down in heavy loops and festoons to within a foot or two of the grass.
‘Up there!’ he answered. ‘If we lie along the pole, nobody will spot us from the ground. The thick nets should make it comfortable enough.’
‘Good grief!’ wheezed Bulldog. Then suddenly his tone changed. ‘Donald,’ he exclaimed, slapping a hand to his bare head, ‘I’ve lost my hat!’
‘Your what?’
‘My hat. Must have been when we started to cross the Park. Never noticed it till now.’
‘Is your name inside it?’
‘I don’t think so. Maybe my initials, but — ’
‘Can’t be helped, anyway. No good going back for it now. Come on!’
They reached their objective. Donald looked up at the soaring slenderness of the nearest support. ‘Should be easy,’ he said.
Its slope was steep, but his forecast proved correct. Layers of net gave him firm holds for hands and feet, and in a matter of seconds he was half-way up and turning to help Bulldog, toiling in the rear.
The pursuit was casting about on Kinloch Road, making a confused noise. Then, just as they scrambled up on to the horizontal pole at the top, the noise crystallized. Soon it was coming towards them across the Park. ‘They’ve found your hat,’ said Donald.
They lay still, precariously balanced on their stomachs. The pole was less broad than they had imagined and the mesh of the nets surprisingly rough.
‘Sure!’ groaned Bulldog. ‘They’ll find us next!’
‘Not if you keep quiet and don’t move.’
‘Easier said than done!’ Suddenly, in a low voice, he added: ‘Your backside sticks up a mile, boy!’
‘So does yours, but from the ground they’ll look like lumps in the nets. Ssh! Here they come!’
Twenty feet below, led by three policemen, the crowd ran past, making for the street beyond the tenements. That anyone should be lurking high above their heads never seemed to occur to them. No one spared even a glance for the shadowy cross-pole, with the nets draped irregularly across it. Gradually the scutter of their feet and the excited shouting and talk died away.
‘Let’s beat it!’ muttered Bulldog. ‘I’m gett
ing cramp.’
‘Wait a bit. They may come back.’ For once caution was on Donald’s side. ‘As long as we stay here we’re all right. As I told you.’
‘It’s damned uncomfortable.’
‘Better a spot of discomfort now than a night in jail.’
‘You sound like a blasted Chinese philosopher! You and your Janet Marshall! A pretty mess you landed us in!’
‘We’re practically out of it.’
‘What a performance! Waiting for a murderer to attack, so that we can identify him. Every nerve on edge. Then you go and make things twice as difficult by getting into trouble with the police! Like trying to do acrobatics on a tight-rope!’
‘You’re good at acrobatics, boss. Very few men of your age would be fit enough to do what you’ve done tonight.’
‘H’m.’ The sting went out of Bulldog’s voice. ‘Must say my blood-pressure stood up to it well.’
‘Miss Kelly would be proud of you.’
‘She’d scarcely believe it! Swinging down on that hook! Nice girl, Miss Kelly. Pity she couldn’t have come with us. See us in action, eh? Those back-room people don’t realize what we reporters have to do for a living!’
‘I thought you were the News Editor.’
‘Damn it, I was a reporter before you were out of diapers! Don’t start any of that stuff — ’
He broke off. The sounds of the pursuit were vanishing into the distance, and he had become careless. To emphasize his point he had shifted his position on the cushion of net and waved an arm. The result was unfortunate.
He found himself slipping. He dug his fingers into the mesh and burst out: ‘Lost my balance, boy! I’m going over!’
‘For the love of Mike!’ Donald shot out a hand and caught him by the collar of his jacket.
But he hadn’t reckoned with Bulldog’s solid weight. In spite of every effort with hands, feet and knees, they both began to roll off, like competitors on a greasy pole. It flashed through Donald’s mind that they were twenty feet above the ground and that even though they would fall on grass the impact might still cause broken bones if they landed in an awkward way.
The News Editor went first. But as luck would have it he retained a grip on the net, while instinct impelled Donald to keep firm hold of his collar. There was a ripping sound as the mesh strained and parted. In slow motion, as if they were being lowered cannily by block and tackle, they descended to the ground, landing squarely on their feet but leaving behind a long tear in the net.
Bulldog disentangled his fingers and wiped his forehead. ‘That was a bad moment!’ he said.
‘You’re telling me!’ Donald recovered his wits and looked around with apprehension. All was quiet. ‘Anyway, nobody saw us,’ he added, in obvious relief.
‘Back to the hotel, eh?’
‘Yes. I wonder if Jimmy’s still there, to dispense a stiffener?’
‘I could be doing with one! And remember, when we get back to London — if ever we do! — remind me to send a cheque to pay for the damage to that net. It should come under expenses.’
‘Okay, boss. Let’s move.’
To avoid people they used back alleys and ill-lit side streets, and it was nearly half-past eleven by the time they reached the Red Lion. They were in a fairly disreputable state. Bulldog was hatless, his suit crumpled and stained with grease from the crane cable. The knot of Donald’s tie was hidden under his collar, a button had gone missing from his jacket and his hands were filthy with grease and tar and blood. They slunk in by the back door. No one was about in the rear premises, and they were able to slip upstairs and have a wash and brush up in their rooms before going down to the lounge to look for Jimmy.
The tall waiter was still there, on duty till the night porter came on at twelve. And he wasn’t alone. He was talking to a bald-faced man with an American-style tweed jacket, whose age could have been about forty-five.
When the stranger saw Bulldog and Donald he got up quietly and said good night. He had a slow way of moving, like a wary American in a film. His accent, too, was transatlantic, and his eyes gave the impression that they were hooded, like an owl’s.
When he had gone, Bulldog smiled with heavy affability. ‘Well, Jimmy, any whisky for your weary guests?’
‘Certainly, sir. Bulloch, Lade?’
‘Fine, Two big ones. With soda.’
‘Shan’t be a minute, sir.’
In the quiet street outside a car moved off. The snarl of its engine resembled a muffled road-drill.
Donald stiffened. ‘Boss,’ he said, ‘An Austin-Healey!’
‘An Austin-Healey?’ Then he remembered. Slowly, with a frown, he said: ‘I see what you mean. That may have been the chap who followed us from Glasgow this morning.’
‘It’s possible.’
‘I wonder if he knows Janet Marshall?’
Before Donald could answer, Jimmy was back with the drinks.
TWELVE
To account for their lateness they told the waiter that they had become involved with the Dramatic Club at Ardshalloch. It was an alibi containing some truth, and they hoped it would get by even in Campbeltown, where police and civilian gossips probably worked hand in hand.
Jimmy smiled and shook his head. ‘That lot!’ he remarked, in a pitying way. ‘No wonder you look a wee bit tired. They would be drinking you under the table?’ His manner of speech was more Highland than his cousin Jock’s, and in fact his home was in Inveraray. He came to Campbeltown for the summer season of tips.
‘They did their best,’ Donald agreed. ‘You seem to have had a quiet night here?’
‘It was busy enough up to ten o’clock. As a rule there’s not much doing after that in any of the hotels. Ardshalloch had a late licence tonight.’
Bulldog sipped his Bulloch, Lade. ‘You had one late visitor at least,’ he said. The chap who went out just now.’
‘Aye, yon was a character if you ask me!’ Jimmy appeared to be entirely open and above-board. The alert expression in his eyes, the long face and narrow balding head, the slightly sardonic smile — all were typical of the Scottish West Coast. ‘He came in after eleven to ask the way to Southend, and och, well — we had a longer crack than I realized. Very interested in the place he was. Especially the atomic station.’
‘I see.’
‘I was wondering if he might be a newspaperman like yourselves?’
Donald shrugged. ‘I don’t think so. Unless he’s one of those American freelances.’
‘He knows about you, Mr. Grant. Says he often reads your sports column.’
Bulldog was too interested to make a cynical comment. He said, quickly: ‘So he was asking about us?’
‘About Mr. Grant, sir. He didn’t mention you at all. He was saying he hoped to meet him some time. That’s why I was a wee bit surprised when you came in and he beat it at once.’
Donald lit a cigarette. ‘A stranger to these parts, I take it?’
‘I never saw him before. And he didn’t tell me his name. But I gathered he was going to Southend on holiday.’
‘Nice car he has, by the sound of it.’
‘Aye, you’re right, Mr. Grant. Now if you’ll excuse me I’ll be tidying up in the bar before the night porter comes in. Will you be wanting another drink?’
‘No, thank you. We’re just going to bed.’
‘Very well. Good night, Mr. Grant.’
‘Good night, Jimmy.’
‘Good night, Mr. MacPhail.’
‘Good night.’
The lounge was quiet, smoke curling in the still air beneath the electric chandeliers. It had become slightly cold, and Donald shivered.
He said: ‘I didn’t like the look of our friend with the tweed jacket. To me he had the face of a killer.’
Bulldog swallowed the last of his whisky. ‘Maybe you’ve got something there,’ he answered, and his tone was bleak.
By morning, however, he had regained his good spirits. Dona
ld, too, was feeling better and less inclined to be nervous about the result of their investigation.
That is, if their visit to Kintyre could be called an investigation. Facts were still difficult to pin down. It was significant, however, that Janet Marshall had travelled north to Campbeltown and that a bald-faced man should appear to be interested in their doings. They were on the right track: of that they were convinced.
But the track was so twisted and so faintly marked that a false step might at any moment carry them over the edge of a precipice. If they were to reach its end, a substantial sign-post would have to be found, and that fairly soon. Was this the day for finding it?
Having slept off the depressing effects of beer and whisky, Donald and Bulldog were optimistic. A sign-post would appear, provided they advanced with more circumspection. The previous night had been a blunder; but they looked back on their adventure without undue anxiety. For one thing, Kenyon and his girl couldn’t possibly have recognized them in the dark. For another, the only clue the police might have to their identity was Bulldog’s hat, and by now Bulldog had persuaded himself that the band was bare even of his initials. It was an unfortunate affair that could be written off on the score of misdirected enthusiasm. No great harm had been done, and now they could make a fresh start.
They enjoyed their breakfast of smoked haddock and poached eggs. On their way out to the street they encountered Nellie, scrubbing the corridor on her knees. She smiled up at them — wistfully, Donald thought, but without enmity or suspicion.
It was a cool morning, with the wind in the east. The little town was grey and drab, except down by the quays, where flowers bloomed in an open space around the ancient Iona-stone cross. Even the people were inclined to be staidly dressed. Jeans, duffle-coats — and red tammies — appeared to be unpopular.
The buildings in the Main Street were generally nineteenth century — some even older — but through a side alley Donald and Bulldog caught a glimpse of modern council houses rising in tiers of green and white and brown.
They approached the flower-decorated open space and, leaving streets and buildings behind, found the true beauty of Campbeltown — the wide, horseshoe loch and harbour, with Davaar Island guarding its entrance and Cnoc Scalbert and Ben Gullion crouching like watchdogs on either side. The water was alive and had a sparkle even on this cloudy day.
The Dancing Horse Page 10
