Reaching the quays, they sniffed appreciatively the mingled scent of salt and tar. It had an antiseptic quality, cutting into their smoke-grimed lungs and making them cough. Gulls squabbled among the closely packed fishing-skiffs. There had been a few good catches of herring during the night, and buyers were searching noisily for bargains. A coal-boat was loading at the end of the Old Quay. At the tip of the New Quay lay a black-hulled submarine, and a few sailors were to be seen among the busy townsfolk.
Far to the left Donald noticed a flat-roofed building with a crane, and beyond it, across the green park with its magnificent War Memorial of grey stone, a tall erection of slender poles. He pointed them out to Bulldog, who actually found it in his heart to smile. Donald smiled too. Murder and moonlight madness were scarcely credible in the daylight setting of a west coast fishing town. Far less credible than in Soho.
Near the Iona-stone cross, with its runic inscription showing it to be as old as Christianity itself, they saw a burly young constable swinging on his heels and surveying the scene with candid eyes. A hatless Bulldog decided to grasp the nettle.
‘Let’s ask him where we can find the police station. I’ll do the talking, boy. The watchword is tact!’
Donald nodded, though he had private doubts regarding Bulldog’s tactfulness. ‘Right. Should be interesting to find out what the police think of the atom boys.’
To Bulldog’s query the constable supplied a grave and courteous answer. ‘Up the Castlehill, sir. Yonder at the top of Main Street. You’ll see the sign, in by to the left.’ ‘Thanks. Will the Inspector be there?’
‘Oh, yes. For most of the morning. Inspector MacNiven, sir.’
‘Pretty quiet in this town, I should think? For the police I mean.’
‘Well, in a way it is. But we have our moments. Last night, for instance.’
‘Oh? Last night my friend and I were at a party in Ardshalloch. Was there anything interesting?’
‘Attempted robbery. Over yonder at the furniture store. It’s not the first time, either.’
‘I expect you caught the rascals?’
‘Well, not so far. But we’ll get them all right.’
‘Plenty of clues, eh?’
‘Maybe not plenty. But we know what we’re doing.’
‘H’m. I expect you do.’
‘You and your friend will be on holiday, I’m thinking?’
‘Busman’s holiday. We’re newspapermen from London. Looking for a story about the atomic station.’
The policeman’s affability began to evaporate. He clasped his hands behind his back, stared up at the seagulls and frowned. ‘Atoms are not in my line at all. If you are wanting information on that subject you had better be seeing the Inspector.’
‘Yes. Quite. Thank you very much.’
‘What paper did you say you were from?’
‘I didn’t say. But it’s the Echo.’
‘Oh, the Echo. Yes, well — be seeing you about, sir. Good morning.’
‘Good morning, Constable.’
As they went along Main Street towards Castlehill, Donald glanced at his companion, who had become oddly silent. ‘Worrying about your hat, boss?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What’s the matter, then?’
‘It’s how that policeman spoke about the Echo. As if he were holding his nose, metaphorically speaking.’
‘Haven’t you experienced that kind of reaction before?’
‘Can’t say I have.’
‘Then it’s time you were back on the job as a reporter!’
‘H’m. Political angle, eh?’
‘Could be. Good thing our sports page is unrivalled.’
‘Ach, you and your sports page!’ Then suddenly Bulldog brightened. ‘Say, look who’s here!’ he said, in a hoarse whisper.
The alert grey eyes, the faintly wrinkled skin, the long amber beads, the jelly-firm grey hair trembling under a wispy hat — all were unmistakable. Helped by a uniformed chauffeur, she was climbing out of an old-fashioned hired limousine. For a moment, as she looked up at them, her expression had a basilisk quality of remoteness; but then recognition came, lighting up her face. She stood on the pavement outside a greengrocer’s shop and, as they approached, greeted them with cordiality.
‘Why, how do you do, Mr. MacPhail? And Mr. Grant?’
‘Glad to see you again, Lady Mary.’ Bulldog was affability itself. ‘You must find this quite a change from London?’
‘Oh, I love Kintyre. So quiet and real. You must know what I mean. The people are real. No absurd gimmicks to draw attention to themselves. No little cliques and coteries. They are themselves, and I can be myself.’
‘That must be important for a writer of poetry,’ said Donald, trying to make amends for his brashness in Muir’s Hotel.
‘Oh, indeed it is, Mr. Grant. And I’m so glad to tell you that last night I had a telephone call from my publisher. The subscription sales on my little book are excellent. Really excellent. Not as good as those John Betjeman would expect, of course, but in their own small way very encouraging. Do you think there may be a revival in people’s interest in poetry?’
‘It’s possible,’ replied Donald.
Bulldog made non-committal noises.
‘I feel sure there is,’ she went on. ‘Probably reaction against the materialistic concepts which are nowadays being put over by the authorities. Don’t you agree, Mr. MacPhail?’
‘Yes. Yes, absolutely.’ He shifted his feet and smoothed his bare head with an uneasy hand.
Lady Mary Kennedy smiled like a mother talking to two small boys about a problem she realized they didn’t fully understand. A tolerant smile, with a hint in it of pity. ‘But dear me,’ she said, suddenly, ‘I nearly forgot! I have found out something really interesting for you.’
Donald stopped scraping the kerb with the toe of his shoe.
Bulldog’s uneasiness vanished. ‘Yes?’ he said, quickly.
‘Do you remember — in Muir’s — asking me about the atomic station?’
‘Certainly,’ said Donald.
‘And you were interested in the new Director.’
Bulldog nodded. ‘You mentioned him yourself, madam.’
‘Yes — and I couldn’t remember his name or anything about him. I did so wish I had been able to help you, especially after your kind invitation to take me to Kintyre in your car. By the way, had you a pleasant journey?’
‘Extremely pleasant,’ lied Bulldog, camouflaging a shudder.
‘I’m so glad. But as I was saying, I felt positively guilty that I could be of so little help, and when I got home yesterday I decided that if you called — as I hope you will, very soon — I must know everything about him. So I made inquiries.’
Donald forced a smile. ‘That was good of you, Lady Mary.’
‘Not at all.’ Archly she touched his lapel with a long-nailed forefinger. ‘I like to be friends with the Press, particularly when my little book of poems is about to be published.’
Studiously Donald and Bulldog avoided looking at each other. She continued: ‘The new Director is Dr. Karl Feuchtganger, a naturalized German. A contemporary of Fuchs, they tell me, and one of the six eminent scientists from this country who witnessed the first atomic explosion in New Mexico.’
‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Bulldog, quietly. ‘A brilliant man.’
‘So I believe, Mr. MacPhail. And a remarkably good chess player. But I also happen to know that — well, that he is not at all popular with his subordinates, and that there is something — something mysterious about his background. His wife died in strange circumstances.’
‘I see,’ said Donald.
Bulldog cleared his throat. ‘How long has he been at the Mull?’
‘Only a few weeks. And no one has seen him — socially, I mean. Sometimes he stops at one of the hotels here for a drink, on his way to the Airport — and London. He comes and goes a great deal.’
‘You haven’t actually met him yourself?’ inquired Donald.
‘I haven’t, Mr. Grant. But I’m hoping to do so one of these days.’
She hesitated, and there was a small silence between them, while traffic bustled past on the street and the smell of petrol mingled with that of piled up cabbages at the door of the greengrocer’s. Then suddenly she burst into quick movement. ‘Oh, but you must please excuse me,’ she exclaimed, gathering her purse and basket from the patient chauffeur. ‘I have so much shopping to do this morning. You understand — after having been away for so long, and guests arriving. Please do call and see me when you have time. Then we can have a proper talk. Drumgarvie Lodge — remember?’
‘Thank you very much,’ Donald lifted his hat.
Bulldog tried to lift his, pawed empty air and awkwardly brought his arm to his side again. ‘We’ll make a point of calling,’ he promised, as she disappeared, beads crackling, into the busy shop.
The chauffeur smiled to them. He said nothing, but it was obvious that he regarded his fare with affectionate amusement.
Affection was absent from Donald’s mind. ‘A queer old bird,’ he said, as they moved on up the street. ‘Somehow I don’t like her much.’
‘Useful contact,’ reasoned Bulldog. ‘If Karl Feuchtganger is Director of the station it’s a cinch the work is of the highest importance. She might be a help if we decide we want to meet him.’
‘There’s that. But my guess is that she was dramatizing the whole thing. Trying to soften us up to give her book a mention in the Echo.’
‘You’re a cynic, boy! Look, d’you think she was hinting at something? I mean, by mentioning Fuchs. Queer way she spoke of Feuchtganger in my opinion.’
Donald shook his head. ‘She was making a mountain out of a molehill, for her own commercial purposes. That’s the first time in my life I’ve known a poet to be interested in subscription sales.’
‘Ach, you’re prejudiced! She’s not a bad old stick. A bit of a gossip, maybe, but most old maiden ladies are! And it’s gossip we’re after, isn’t it? I’ll certainly avail myself of her invitation as soon as possible. Tomorrow, probably. You never know what information she’s got tucked up her sleeve.’
‘Where’s Drumgarvie Lodge, anyway?’
‘We’ll ask the police.’
In the event, however, Bulldog omitted to do so. He and Donald had other things to think about.
THIRTEEN
Inspector MacNiven was lean and rugged and by wearing a goatee beard could have modelled for a picture of Abraham Lincoln. He listened quietly while they introduced themselves and explained their interest as newspapermen in the atomic station.
Finally he said: ‘Mr. MacPhail and Mr. Grant. I see. You would be the gentlemen who nearly had a bad accident yesterday? On the Black Spout?’
‘Right,’ said Bulldog. ‘Damn fine show on the part of the police patrol.’
‘I heard about it from Lochgilphead.’ The voice was official, unemotional. ‘Odd about your brakes.’
The News Editor shrugged. ‘One of those things. No accounting for it.’
Through an open door at the back of the room Donald could see a shapely policewoman busily engaged with a typewriter. It seemed to him that every now and then she paused to listen to their conversation.
As time went on Bulldog asked several questions, all designed to elicit any police misgivings about the project at the Mull. But the Inspector’s replies were unhelpful. The people who worked there caused no trouble. As to what went on inside — well, to his knowledge no local person had ever passed through the main gate.
A dead body in Soho seemed far from his thoughts.
His manner, however, was careful and restrained. Once or twice he glanced at his visitors from under shaggy grey eyebrows, and the glint in his eyes was as cold as the glint of water in the harbour.
There was something wrong. Donald could sense it. Not for the first time since leaving London he felt like some ungainly bird beating its wings against the bars of a cage. Were he and Bulldog missing something — some clue vital to the mystery? Were they deliberately putting themselves into danger, without a proper understanding of where that danger might come from?
Bulldog’s questions petered out. It was obvious that the Inspector either could not or would not provide them with any significant information. And he continued to regard them with what looked like wary hostility.
They were about to get up and leave when he reached under the desk and produced a hat. A grey trilby with a dark grey band. It was fairly new, but a streak of caked mud ran along the brim.
‘Mr. MacPhail,’ he said, in his quiet, authoritative voice, ‘could this be yours, by any chance?’
Once again the policewoman stopped her typing. The office became as silent as a theatre when the curtain rises. Donald glanced at the News Editor. He could imagine the riot of thoughts passing through his mind.
It was his hat all right. There could be no mistaking it. The question was, should he deny ownership and then be confronted with his name or initials inside?
Desperately Bulldog tried to remember. An hour ago he had been certain there were no identifying marks. Now he wasn’t sure at all. He weighed the possibilities, as in Long Acre he might weigh the value of a doubtful piece of news. If he said the hat didn’t belong to him and was proved to be a liar, he and Donald might find themselves, for a time at least, under grave suspicion, with small chance of achieving their main purpose. On the other hand, if his initials weren’t there — if the Inspector were simply chancing his arm on the strength of a London hat-maker’s stamp — a straightforward answer in the negative might at once set them in the clear.
The hat swung in the Inspectors fingers. His frigid look was unwavering. Donald found himself coughing and reaching in his pocket for a cigarette.
Abruptly Bulldog said: ‘It could be, Inspector. I did lose my hat last night. Coming home from rather a hectic party at Ardshalloch.’ He shrugged, leering a little, one man of the world trying to convey a certain impression to another. ‘How did you think it might be mine?’
‘The initials.’ He displayed them now — J. MacP. — like a conjurer producing a rabbit. ‘I also noticed that you weren’t wearing a hat this morning, though from the tan line on your forehead it’s pretty certain that you generally do.’
‘I see. Am I supposed to applaud such a brilliant piece of deduction?’
In his embarrassment Bulldog had assumed his most frightening expression. Copy-boys might have been cowed by it, but not Inspector MacNiven.
Ignoring the sarcasm, he went on: ‘You lost it, you infer, while proceeding from Ardshalloch to your hotel in an inebriated condition?’
Donald drew in his breath. The MacPhail temper was brittle, and never more brittle than when its owner was in a tight comer.
‘I inferred nothing of the sort!’ he rasped, lashing out like a frightened elephant. ‘I was not in an inebriated condition!’
‘I’m sorry. Then how did it happen?’
‘How did what happen?’
‘How did you lose your hat?’
‘What business is it of yours? Are you the Gestapo or something?’
‘No, sir. Merely an ordinary policeman carrying out a routine investigation.’
‘Mr. Grant and I have nothing whatever to do with your blasted routine investigations! You’d be better employed trying to find the real criminals!’
‘How do you know what we are trying to find?’
Anticipating a blistering retort, Donald intervened. ‘Mr. MacPhail is naturally embarrassed about losing his hat,’ he said, in his smoothest reportorial manner, while Bulldog gulped, swallowing his rage. ‘The plain fact is that when we were coming home — about half-past ten — we lost our way. Mr. MacPhail stumbled against the kerb in the dark. Both of us had had a few drinks, admittedly, but that had nothing to do with the accident. He fell and hurt his knee, which was
so painful that for a time he forgot about his hat. When he did discover its loss we were almost at the hotel, and it seemed pointless to go back and look for it.’
Before moonrise, the night had been fairly cloudy. The chances were that Kenyon and the pursuing constables would be unable to identify them. Donald was gambling on this, and it now seemed that his gamble would come off.
Inspector MacNiven dropped the trilby on his desk. It made a soft plop as it fell. ‘Where exactly did you stumble against the kerb, Mr. MacPhail?’
‘How the blazes should I know?’ Bulldog’s face was coloured like a swede turnip. ‘Somewhere beside a big empty park, as far as I can remember. What’s all this about, anyway?’
‘A routine investigation, as I told you, sir. There was a case of attempted robbery last night. Your hat was found not far from the scene.’
‘Good Gordon Highlanders! You’re not accusing us of trying to rob the furniture store?’
‘Furniture store?’ The chill of suspicion returned to the Inspector’s eyes, making Donald feel hotter and more uncomfortable than ever. ‘I don’t think I mentioned any furniture store?’
‘No. But your constable did — the chap we spoke to at the head of the Old Quay!’ The triumphant bellow brought about an immediate release of tension. ‘In this one-horse town there can’t have been two attempted robberies in the one night!’
The typewriter in the anteroom rattled again, sweet music for Donald. Inspector MacNiven sighed. He said: ‘So you have already been in touch with the police?’
‘We asked the way to the police station.’ Silken tones contrasted strongly with a savage expression. ‘Was that a crime?’
‘Certainly not, sir. I am sorry I had to trouble you like this — ’
‘Trouble us!’ exclaimed Bulldog, rolling his eyes. ‘Trouble us — ’
‘That’s all right, Inspector.’ Again Donald sailed in, pouring oil. ‘Mr. MacPhail and I realize you have your duty to do. But you take it that we’re not burglars.’
The Dancing Horse Page 11
