The Dancing Horse

by Angus MacVicar

  ‘The initials J.M. must be about the commonest in the kingdom.’

  ‘I know.’

  The dirt from their jackets was scattered on the carpet. From among the fire-irons Donald took a brush and swept it into a heap. This he scraped up with a small shovel and dumped into the empty grate.

  ‘I can’t make it out,’ he said. ‘Was that note a phoney to try and get us to Cooper’s Close?’

  ‘I think so. I think it was part of the general pattern. The attack in Towser Lane, the “accident” to the car, now this. The idea being to scare us off, or to get rid of us one way or another short of actual murder. Janet Marshall tried it, too, you know, using a more direct approach.’

  Donald sat on the bed and ran long fingers through his hair. ‘How did Kenyon come into it?’

  ‘Same way probably, as the man who was killed in Soho. He knew too much.’

  ‘You may be right. And now that their plans have failed three times, don’t you think they will try murder next time?’

  ‘Yes. And that may be the chance we’ve been waiting for. Meet them in the open, boy. Face to face.’

  ‘So we’re not being scared off?’

  ‘No damn fear! I’m like a cat on hot bricks — free confession, Donald — have been all along — but I mean to go through with this to the bitter end. What about you?’

  ‘I don’t like it. But if you can stomach it, so can I!’

  ‘That’s the spirit! Trembling with bravery — ’

  He broke off to listen. Downstairs, faintly, a telephone was ringing.

  It went on ringing, until at last a door opened and slippered feet clacked across the hall. Then it stopped.

  After a time there were footsteps on the stairs: footsteps that had a quality of stealth. Donald and Bulldog heard them approaching along the corridor.

  Outside the door they halted.

  Donald got up from the bed, quietly. Then in two long strides he crossed the room and snatched open the door. In the dimly lit passage, wearing pyjamas and a dressing-gown, Jimmy the waiter stood blinking stupidly in the bright light from the room.

  ‘Anything the matter?’ said Donald, with a jauntiness he didn’t feel.

  ‘No, sir. No. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.’ He hesitated, coughed and looked embarrassed. He said: ‘Mr. MacPhail’s in there as well, is he?’

  ‘Yes. This is his room.’

  ‘Aye, of course, sir. I — er — I thought the light was still on up here and came to put it out.’

  ‘I see. Well, good night.’

  ‘Good night, sir. The light was out, after all.’

  ‘So I notice.’

  Donald closed the door. They heard the man’s slippers go pattering down the stairs.

  Bulldog said: ‘What was all that in aid of?’

  ‘The phone call,’ replied Donald, slowly. ‘Don’t you think it might have been from the Inspector? He’s still suspicious. Maybe he asked Jimmy to check if we were in.’

  ‘It’s a theory. Luckily we did get back from Cooper’s Close in a hurry. He hasn’t got anything on us this time.’

  A strange expression appeared on Donald’s face. He said: ‘You’re wrong, boss.’

  ‘What! What d’you mean?’

  ‘When they go through Kenyon’s wallet they’ll find the card you gave him at the ceilidh.’

  ‘My God, I’d forgotten it! With MacNiven in the kind of mood he’s in, it won’t be long till we’re on the carpet, answering questions!’

  ‘Seems we haven’t much time to stage that show-down.’

  ‘You’re telling me! We can’t put off visiting the atomic station much longer.’

  ‘We could have an early breakfast and drive straight down.’

  ‘Right. Show ourselves at the station first, then retire to the moorland country round about.’

  ‘Aye. There’s always more chance of landing a fish in the open than under the trees.’

  ‘So I’ve heard tell. I hope MacNiven doesn’t put a spanner in the works!’

  They went to bed, each being careful to lock his door and put the catch on his window.

  EIGHTEEN

  The night was mild and stuffy, and they didn’t sleep too well. At times, when they did drop over, their dreams were troubled by the memory of Kenyon’s dead and tortured face.

  In the morning they were in the dining-room by half-past seven, with the early sun glinting on neatly arranged cruets and cutlery and making a shimmering pattern on the white breakfast tablecloths. The place was empty, but from the kitchen at the back there floated a smell of cooking bacon. Neither Bulldog nor Donald found their appetites keen.

  For a few minutes, while they sat at their usual table, no one appeared. They tried to remain outwardly calm and unhurried; but as time went by and there was still no sign of a waitress, the News Editor first became restless, then irritable and at last obviously annoyed. He got up, knocking one knee sharply against a leg of the table, stumped over to the serving hatch and viciously rapped on it.

  An elderly waitress came through the swing doors. As she caught sight of them her indifferent yawn died prematurely and a careful, unfriendly look came into her eyes.

  ‘You’re early,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Bulldog, and would have gone on had not Donald given his foot a warning nudge. A scene at this stage might be disastrous.

  She shrugged. ‘You were all having a pretty good time of it last night. I thought you might be taking a long lie. What is it you want? Porridge, cereals, poached egg, bacon and egg?’

  They settled for plates of bacon and egg and ate them without enthusiasm. At any moment they expected to see the main door of the dining-room open and someone come in to say that they were wanted in the hall. A few early risers did appear with startling suddenness, but no one else.

  At a quarter to eight they went upstairs to collect their hats and the binoculars which Donald often used at sports meetings and football matches and which he looked upon as part of his normal travelling equipment. Then, avoiding the sharp-eyed receptionist, they made their way out to the yard at the back and got into the Oxford. The engine started without fuss.

  Donald drove off into crooked, narrow streets, heading deviously for the road to Southend. His instinct was to keep away from the haunts of policemen, and in this he succeeded. As they sped beyond the 30-mile limit into the rolling farm country outside Campbeltown he breathed a sigh of relief.

  Bulldog said: ‘So far, so good, boy. I wonder what the day will bring?’

  ‘I wonder?’ Donald set the car at Oatfield Brae. Then he added: ‘One thing we forgot. We may get a bit hungry as the day goes on, and we haven’t brought anything to eat — or drink.’

  ‘Glad to know you’re thinking about your stomach again!’

  ‘I had heartburn after breakfast. It’s cleared up now.’

  ‘Too much gin last night. That’s your trouble, boy!’

  They were trying to encourage each other by sounding more hearty and cheerful than they felt, and their gaiety was unconvincing.

  But Donald persevered. ‘What about calling at the first hotel we come across and buying beer and sandwiches? Or would that be too dangerous?’

  ‘Depends whether MacNiven’s on the warpath yet. Even if he is, I don’t think he’ll have got round to phoning Southend just as early as this, so it may be safe enough to visit a hotel within, say, the next half-hour.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. We’ll keep our eyes open for one.’

  Gaiety was giving place to loftily judicial argument. Again the result tended to sound phoney.

  There was a fair amount of traffic on the road: farmers’ cars on the way to the Campbeltown market, bicycles, vans peddling groceries at wayside cottages, a few tractors with trailers. There was also a motor-scooter driven by a fair-haired youngster who waved his hand happily as he cruised past. Enviously Donald returned the greeting.

  The
Oxford went down Kilellan Hill, then through a valley of green sycamores. Eventually it emerged in sight of the sea and the tall hills at the Mull of Kintyre.

  Built oddly on only one side of the road, the straggling village of Southend came into sight above the shore. At the nearer end they saw the white walls of an hotel. Donald slowed the car and brought it to a halt beside the bar entrance. He left Bulldog smoking a cigarette and went inside.

  ‘Beer?’ smiled the tall, dark girl at the counter. ‘Plenty of that, sir.’

  He had been expecting a Highland accent, but instead it was almost standard B.B.C. More important, however, he had been given a warm and uninhibited greeting. He felt extraordinary grateful, and his spirits rose.

  ‘What about a few sandwiches?’ he asked, pocketing four screw-tops and smiling for the first time that morning.

  ‘Of course. I’ll see the chef. We have some cold ham, I know. Perhaps you’d like some with that?’

  ‘Thank you. The very thing.’

  A few minutes later he was restarting the Oxford and telling Bulldog what had happened. ‘The nicest girl you could hope to meet, boss. And quite obviously she hasn’t heard the gossip that’s going about in Campbeltown. She treated me like an ordinary human being.’

  ‘A pleasant change! I wish I’d gone in with you.’

  As they went through Southend, past a smart grocery store and a more old-fashioned post-office, past solid Edwardian villas and the closely built houses of agricultural workers, past a coast-guard station and its attendant cluster of homes and offices, they saw children playing noisily along the roadside, and realized that it was Saturday, with the schools closed. Something in this fact tended to make them both more uneasy than ever, but they were so intent on the job in hand that they failed to pinpoint the actual reason.

  Near the shore they saw to the left a trim golf-course, with shaven greens scattered invitingly among sand-dunes and on high, grassy banks. Donald thought wistfully about a leather-scented locker-room, about the chaff of partners in a four-ball, about the clatter of spiked shoes as they went out on to the first tee and took their practice swings. For him the preliminaries to a game of golf exemplified freedom and a grateful relaxing of tension. The flutter of flags on distant greens, the crisp sound of an iron shot, the banter when a short putt was missed — these were the signs of a happy holiday. But today he might have to face a creditor who would demand full payment for past happiness.

  Under the eye of another big hotel perched on a hillside, the Oxford purred along the road which skirted the sea. At the eastern end of a small bay stood the Rock of Dunaverty, with the ruin on its summit of a MacDonald castle, destroyed three hundred years ago by marauding Campbells. At the western end a sign pointed to Saint Colomba’s Footprints, and Donald remembered that it was here Columcille had first landed with his disciples, before going on to Iona where Ireland is unseen. From Southend — and especially today in the clear morning light — Ireland was much in evidence, eleven miles across the bright North Channel: ‘The round blue hills of Antrim, sleeping in the sun.’

  The Mull of Kintyre, he knew, was steeped in history. Mesolithic men from Ireland, the original inhabitants of Scotland, their staging-ground had probably been here. Columba and his holy men, Vikings from the north, Campbells from the heart of the mainland — all had made their way to this quiet place, some with good intentions, some with bad. And now, beyond the high hills in front, other strangers were working in an atomic station: Englishmen, Irishmen, Europeans of all nationalities. And in the future other men would come.

  He set the Oxford at Carskiey Brae and posed himself a question. His present worries and those of Bulldog, were they not infinitesimal wrinkles in the graph of time? He smiled and felt a great deal better.

  The narrow road had recently been surfaced with tarmacadam and, though steep in places, was comfortable going. Heather, green and scrubby at this early season of the year, was spread like a giant blanket on either side. Sheep moved in the distance, and a great silence lay on the rolling moors. There was no sign even of a shepherd’s house.

  Then suddenly, as the road reached its highest point, they saw ‘The Dancing Horse’. Craggy and lifelike, it towered against the skyline, sentinel over a vast area of uncultivated land. Both men were taken aback by its domination and power, and Donald realized that Hetherington’s picture in the Minotaur, magnificent in its own way, in fact did the original less than justice. Here in its setting of far-flung country it was more striking than any artist could hope to reveal within the limits of a conventional canvas. The only hint of softness in its background was a wooded glen a mile or so to the east which disappeared over the horizon. The wood was clearly not indigenous and might have been planted there as a shelter from the bitter winds raging in from the Atlantic.

  A shelter for what? The question formed in Donald’s mind only to be put aside at once by his interest in what appeared immediately below ‘The Dancing Horse’. It was the atomic station, which they had come to visit. In outline harsh and raw, it resembled a steel constructional toy set up in a rock-garden. Inside gleaming strands of barbed wire could be seen a rectangle of low, prefabricated huts, a tar-macadamed courtyard shining in the sun and spidery girders surrounding the base of a cylindrical metal tower. White-coated men, dwarfed by distance, scurried like ants along its paths and byways.

  ‘This is it,’ said Bulldog, quietly.

  ‘This is it,’ agreed Donald, pressing down on the accelerator.

  They stopped about three hundred yards from the barbed wire and parked the car behind a telephone kiosk at the roadside — a garish red incongruity among the screes and corries, presumably erected there for the convenience of the scientists and workpeople. Then they took a short-cut across the moor and within a minute or two reached the main entrance to the station. A large board proclaimed No Admittance.

  Nevertheless, Bulldog tried to turn the handle of the closed gate. It turned, but nothing else happened. The twin sections of the gate were clamped together by a heavy padlock.

  Inside, to the right, a wooden shed probably housed the gateman. Bulldog rattled the handle and shouted: ‘Anybody there?’

  A man in a blue uniform put in an appearance. He was stocky and broad, with a shaggy moustache like Old Bill. But his eyes were intelligent and wary.

  ‘Wot’s all this?’ he said through the white-painted spars, his accent as incongruous at the Mull of Kintyre as the station itself.

  ‘We’re newspapermen, from the Echo,’ said Bulldog, attempting sweet friendliness. ‘Could we see Dr. Karl Feuchtganger?’

  The man raised heavy eyebrows. ‘Got an appointment, mate?’

  ‘No, but — ’

  ‘Or an official pass?’

  ‘As a matter of fact we haven’t. At the same time — ’

  ‘Then you ’aven’t a hope. No one gets in ’ere except with an official pass — or on direct orders from ’is nibs. Sorry, but that’s the way of it.’

  Bulldog reddened. ‘Look, I see you have a telephone in there. Call Dr. Feuchtganger and — ’

  ‘Come off it, mate! The Doctor would ’ang me if I called ’im this time of day. I tell you, there’s not a hope of getting in. Better scarper and enjoy the scenery.’

  ‘What the devil do you mean, talking to me like that? I’ll put in a complaint, my man — ’

  ‘Put in as many complaints as you like! I know my job.’

  ‘Damned impertinence!’

  ‘People in glass ’ouses, cock! Off you go now — be good boys!’

  Bulldog was prepared to continue the verbal battle, but Donald took his arm. ‘It’s no good, boss. Let’s go.’

  ‘I’ve a damned good mind to start shouting! It might attract the attention of someone in authority.’

  The gateman shrugged. ‘I’m in authority ’ere. If you start being a nuisance, I’ll carry out my orders and call the police.’

  The News Editor calmed down, eyes narrow
ing. ‘So you have police in there?’

  ‘Wot d’you think? Top security this place is!’

  ‘I see. Well, if this is what the country’s coming to, God help us! Impertinent gatemen! Snooping police! We’ll be under a dictatorship next!’

  With Donald at his side he strode away, out on to the moor. The man shrugged again and went back to his shed. The time was almost exactly eleven o’clock.

  And at that same hour, while Donald and Bulldog walked farther and farther into a region of heather and dry peat-hags, where they had calculated they might provoke a final showdown with those to whom they had been so assiduously offering themselves as bait, Inspector MacNiven in the police station at Campbeltown was receiving a small quiet man in a brown suit, who had travelled from London that morning, by air.

  Presently the newcomer said: ‘Have you seen a girl in town — a girl wearing a grey suit and a red tammy? Her name’s Janet Marshall.’

  ‘Indeed we have. She approached one of my men in the street. He brought her here. Later we picked her up again and took her to Southend.’

  ‘I see.’

  The Inspector frowned a little. He went on: ‘There are also two gentlemen in whom I am interested. A certain James MacPhail and Donald Grant, who say they are from the Echo.’

  The small man smiled. ‘Yes. I should imagine they’re a bit troublesome. But more to the point, what do you know of a scientist called Jim Kenyon?’

  ‘Not a great deal, except that he died last night.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Apparently he hanged himself, in a fit of drunken depression. But I’m fairly certain it was murder,’ said the Inspector, with grim confidence, ‘though so far I can’t prove it. We learned about it from an anonymous woman on the telephone. I’m ready to believe it was Janet Marshall.’

  His visitor had become stiff and strained. ‘So we are too late,’ he muttered, almost to himself. ‘Now we’ve got to move fast before other murders are committed.’

  ‘Eh! What the devil do you mean?’ burst out MacNiven, moved finally to passion.