Escort to Adventure

by Angus MacVicar

  Escort To Adventure

  Angus Macvicar

  © Angus MacVicar 1999

  Angus MacVicar has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1952 by Burrow’s Press Ltd.

  This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Veronica Jane

  Chapter 2

  First Encounter

  Chapter 3

  Duet In Two Keys

  Chapter 4

  Enter A Thin Man

  Chapter 5

  Glendale

  Chapter 6

  Shadow-Play

  Chapter 7

  A Chink In The Armour

  Chapter 8

  The Poachers

  Chapter 9

  Nerves

  Chapter 10

  Second Encounter

  Chapter 11

  At Glendale Kirk

  Chapter 12

  The Intangible Clue

  Chapter 13

  The Crouching Dog

  Chapter 14

  Search Party

  Chapter 15

  Last Encounter

  Chapter 16

  Borgadaille Cliff

  Chapter 17

  Vigil

  Chapter 18

  Bulldog Bill Has A Bet

  Chapter 1

  Veronica Jane

  A shaft of spring sunlight, blazing through a gap in the tall tenement building on the opposite side of the street, fell across a page of thick white notepaper lying on the desk of Superintendent William McIntosh, Head of the Criminal Investigation Department of the Glasgow Police.

  Bulldog Bill — as he was nicknamed by irreverent subordinates — adjusted horn-rimmed glasses, reflectively fingered a wide blue chin and read the letter through for a second time.

  Sitting there with his broad back to the window, bald and heavily jowled, he had the appearance of an old-time prizefighter. But numerous smart criminals, their energies now safely directed to the manufacture of mail-bags, could bitterly testify that his looks were deceptive. Behind the outward mask was a quick and clever brain and — what only a few of his intimates realized — a puckish sense of humour.

  He took off his horn-rims, flicking a speck of dust from the letter with a gnarled forefinger. For a while he remained in a brown study. Then he smiled to himself, reached for the desk telephone and spoke decisively.

  A few minutes later there was a respectful knock. The Superintendent composed his features and began to fill a pipe.

  “Come in!” he said.

  A tall, dark-haired young man in plain-clothes, strongly built and good-looking in a tough kind of way, entered the room, closed the door and stood to attention before the desk.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?” he inquired, with the hint of a Highland accent.

  For a moment Bulldog Bill was silent, studying the newcomer with covert interest.

  Detective-Sergeant Kenneth MacDonald was thirty-four. During the war he had been an officer with the commandos; but on demobilization — despite the offer of more than one highly paid business appointment — he had resumed his chosen profession as a policeman.

  In this profession he was wholly absorbed. Some of his more frivolous colleagues declared that he slept with a pair of handcuffs underneath his pillow and that his favourite light reading comprised the four large volumes of The Science of Police Detection.

  Be that as it may, he did his duty with unusual seriousness, and though he was by no means unpopular with his fellow-policemen — he was too helpful and obliging for that — there were those who hinted that all work and no play tended to make Kenneth a dull boy.

  Finally the Superintendent struck a match and lit his pipe.

  “MacDonald,” he said, “I have a job for you. A tricky job. Might be dangerous, too… Let me tell you about it,” he continued, adding a trifle impatiently: “Relax, man — relax! Take a chair.”

  Obediently Kenneth sat down; but he remained grimly alert, his trilby dangling between his knees.

  Superintendent McIntosh sighed. This chap MacDonald worried him. A first-class detective — no doubt of that. But too keen. Too earnest, perhaps, and without a proper knowledge of human nature. He had passed all his exams and could be promoted at once, if necessary. But Bulldog Bill had no intention of giving him promotion — not just yet. In his opinion every policeman, no matter how well equipped with scientific knowledge, was, in the long run, bound to be a failure if he lacked the human touch.

  Then the Superintendent's sigh merged into an involuntary chuckle. He leaned back, tending the hot tobacco in his pipe.

  “You come from Glendale in Kintyre, don't you?” he asked.

  Kenneth was at a loss to account for his Chief's peculiar mood. “My father was parish minister there, sir — until just before the war.”

  “Then you ought to know the district — and the people — fairly well?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Fine. Ever heard of a chap called Fraser MacKay who emigrated to America some thirty years ago?”

  “My father used to speak of him. A farmer's son from Glendale. Didn't he join the New York Police?”

  “He did — and is now Head of the Special Intelligence Unit of the U.S. Treasury Department. One of my closest friends.”

  “Indeed, sir?”

  “Yes. In fact, I've just had a letter from him.”

  Kenneth's square chin jutted out another fraction of an inch. This sounded good. Was the Chief going to offer him an assignment in the States? If so, it would definitely improve his chances of promotion.

  “Now then," continued Bulldog Bill, jerking his bulk forward and putting his elbows squarely on the desk, “I want you to hear what Fraser MacKay says — the gist of it anyway… For some time, in New York, he’s been on the track of the O’Sullivan gang. They’re snide-merchants — counterfeiters. In about a month he should have all the evidence he requires for a prosecution. But there’s a snag. A couple of weeks ago Mike O’Sullivan got wise to what was going on. His first move was to offer Fraser a bribe of half a million dollars to scrap the investigation. Naturally enough, Fraser told him exactly where to get off.” The Superintendent grinned. “I can just imagine his language! Must have been choice!”

  Kenneth allowed himself an answering smile. It was a pleasant smile, showing white teeth and puckering the corners of his clear blue eyes — a smile strangely at variance with his usual sober mood.

  “Where was I?” said Superintendent McIntosh. “Oh, yes — Fraser let O’Sullivan and his mob know that he couldn’t be bribed, so they threatened to bump him off. But again he had an answer. In the event of his death, he told them, the case would automatically be handed over to his colleagues in the Treasury Department, and the snide-merchants would be charged not only with counterfeiting but also with murder. They saw the point at once.”

  “He had them cornered in fact.”

  “Not quite,” replied Bulldog Bill. “Fraser MacKay is a widower — has been for years — but he has a daughter, aged twenty-two. Veronica Jane her name is. I know her well, and she’s a bit of a handful!”

  “You mean, the O’Sullivan gang is now threatening her?”

  “Exactly. And Fraser is so wrapped up in his daughter that if, for instance, they were to kidnap her and hold her to ransom, he might be tempted to neglect his duty and tear up the evidence against them.”

  “I see, sir,” said Kenneth, though he was troubled by the idea of any policeman — no matter what the circumstances — being tempted to neglect his duty.

  “And so,” explained the Superintendent, “my fr
iend has decided to send Veronica Jane over here — until the case is complete and Mike O'Sullivan and his gang have been arrested. It will be safer in Scotland, especially as she's going to spend most of her time in Glendale — at the back of beyond. Fraser doesn't believe the gang will come after her, but in case they do — just in case, you understand — he wants me to keep an eye on her and make certain she comes to no harm.”

  Bulldog Bill tapped the letter on his desk. “Fraser says his daughter is due in Glasgow tomorrow. With the Sylvania — Yorkhill Docks. After a week in town she's going for a month to Glendale, where Fraser expects to join her when his job is done.”

  Suddenly, with daunting clarity, Kenneth realized what was coming. His day-dream of an interesting assignment in the States was shattered.

  He braced himself.

  “MacDonald,” said his Chief, “I'm putting you in charge of this case. In other words I'm putting you in charge of Veronica Jane. Contact her as soon as she arrives and explain the position. Afterwards you must use your own judgment as to how you’re going to protect her.”

  He paused and cleared his throat. “But I want you to remember this,” he added. “Fraser MacKay is my friend. Once during the war he saved my life — in New York, when a man I was after threw a grenade. If anything happens to his daughter in this country, I shall hold you personally responsible.”

  The centrally-heated room was warm, and a drop of perspiration ran down Kenneth's forehead. His knowledge of The Science of Police Detection provided him with no comfort. Science would be unavailing in a case like this.

  He stood up.

  “Sir” he said, “may I suggest someone else in my place? I — er”

  Superintendent McIntosh interrupted. “No,” he said, brusquely. “You’ll do it. Things are fairly quiet at the moment, and you can easily be spared. Besides, I want the thing done thoroughly, and — well, MacDonald, you’ve never made a bloomer yet… Now, off you go. If you're in trouble, you can always depend on co-operation from this Department. Good afternoon, my boy. And good luck!"

  The interview was at an end. Orders were orders, and Kenneth accepted the inevitable.

  “Good afternoon, sir," he said, turning stiffly on his heel.

  When the door closed, Superintendent McIntosh folded his friend’s letter and put it in his pocket. Then he grinned and, with the stem of his pipe, delicately scratched the tip of his left ear.

  MacDonald was certainly the man for the job. He was steady and reliable and a native of Glendale, Fraser MacKay’s birthplace. But there was another reason. His knowledge of his brother-men — and more particularly of his sister-women — was definitely at fault; and it had occurred to Bulldog Bill that contact with Miss Veronica Jane MacKay might help to educate him in this respect…

  Kenneth said nothing to his colleagues about the interview; but the news leaked out. Late that evening, just before he went off duty, Sergeant Gillespie dug him in the ribs.

  “Lucky dog! Hear you’ve been appointed governess to a blonde bombshell from the States!’’

  The others crowded round, asking questions; but he did his best to ward them off.

  “A routine job,’’ he said, assuming an air of indifference. “She’s only twenty-two — a friend of Bulldog’s. I tried to get out of it, but nothing doing."

  Sergeant Gillespie laughed. “Cagey, eh? Well — if you want assistance in holding her hand, be sure to let us know!’’

  Kenneth shuddered.

  He was by no means a misogynist, as people imagined; but in the presence of women — except those with positive criminal tendencies — he felt awkward and shy. Up to date, therefore, he had avoided them as much as possible, comforting himself with the assurance that his work as a policeman was a great deal more interesting. But now — now, shy or not, he was faced with the dire necessity of changing his ways.

  He approached his duty, however, with characteristic efficiency.

  When the Sylvania docked on the following afternoon, he was one of the first on board. From the purser — an old friend — he learned that Miss Veronica Jane MacKay was indeed among the passengers and that she intended staying a night at Muir's Hotel in Asia Street.

  Later, having satisfied himself that no suspicious characters had come across in the Sylvania — and dourly determined to do his job thoroughly — he called at Muir's and asked to see her.

  The lady at the reception-desk, not unused to young men whose voices rumbled with synthetic assurance when they mentioned a girl's name, smiled at him with understanding. “Miss MacKay is having dinner. Would you mind waiting in the lounge?"

  “Thank you… Yes, I know my way."

  The quiet, luxuriously appointed lounge was empty. Kenneth sat down in an easy chair. The street outside was devoid of traffic, and the silence soon became oppressive. On the mantelpiece a clock ticked with maddening persistence. He noticed a gilt-framed picture on the opposite wall. Its title was “The Stag at Bay."

  This is a bit thick, he thought ruefully. A grown man, an ex-commando and a detective-sergeant — used to dealing competently with tough characters of every description — worried by the thought of meeting an unknown chit of a girl.

  “MacDonald," he told himself, scathingly, “be your age!"

  There were sounds indicating that dinner was over. Several people came into the lounge, and at each arrival he stiffened and prepared to get up.

  Then he was on his feet, looking down at a girl with thick golden hair falling to her shoulders. She was small and slim and wore a blue suit cut in the American fashion. Her grey eyes were demure.

  “Mr. MacDonald?" she queried.

  He nodded, dumbly.

  “They told me you called," she went on, and for a person born and reared in New York she had surprisingly little trace of an American accent. “I guess I ought to introduce myself. I'm Veronica Jane MacKay."

  “Yes, I — I'm glad to meet you," he said, as they shook hands. “I — er — as a matter of fact I'm a detective-sergeant."

  Her eyes widened. “Say — you're not going to arrest me or anything? Now that you mention it, you do look kind of — well, kind of grim and official!"

  “Oh, no! Er — nothing like that! I can explain"

  “Do sit down,' she interrupted; and as she turned to take a chair beside him, he missed the glint of laughter in her eyes. “They're bringing coffee in a minute," she said. “I hope you'll join me?"

  “Er — thank you."

  She smiled at him, almost shyly. As far as he could make out she wasn’t nearly so pert and formidable as Bulldog Bill had led him to believe. She looked, in fact, like a schoolgirl. He began to feel better.

  Then he noticed that on account of the way she was sitting, her slender, silk-clad legs were displayed to some advantage. It was all part of her youthful innocence, he told himself; nevertheless he looked away abruptly and fingered the inside of his collar.

  She bit her lip.

  “Won't you have a cigarette?" she asked, searching in her handbag.

  “No — have one of mine!" he exclaimed; and acted so quickly — as if he were drawing a bead on some dangerous criminal — that his case was out and open in front of her before she could draw breath. “I’m sorry," he apologized. “I — er — I couldn't be sure if you smoked or not."

  As she accepted a light she leaned towards him, confidentially. “Maybe you think I'm too young for cigarettes?"

  “No — no indeed!" he replied. “It's just that — well — “

  He was interrupted, mercifully perhaps, by the arrival of coffee on a silver tray. She poured out and handed him his cup.

  “Now," she said. “I'm simply dying to know why a lovely big police officer should want to see a dowdy little stranger like me!"

  He swallowed a mouthful of red-hot coffee. A lovely big police officer! No one had called him that before — and thank heaven Sergeant Gillespie hadn't heard it! And who — except herself — would ever dream of applying the adjective “dowdy" to anyo
ne as outwardly attractive as Miss Veronica Jane MacKay?

  Was she pulling his leg? He glanced in her direction, warily ignoring the conspicuous perfection of her legs; but she appeared to be as dewy-eyed and guileless as before. Then he remembered she was American — and Americans, as he had learned from various contacts with the Marines, were apt to be colourful and ingenuous in their mode of speech.

  He cleared his throat — a trifle pompously. ‘'Didn't your father tell you he was writing to my Chief?”

  “Your Chief? Oh, you mean the Superintendent — Uncle Bill! Yes. Poor father — he did mention that.”

  Kenneth took another sip of coffee. “Superintendent McIntosh,” he said, with an effort, “has given me the job of protecting you.”

  “Oh!” She was genuinely taken aback. “But surely the O'Sullivan gang won't follow me to Scotland?”

  “You never know.” Again he fingered his collar. “They're playing for big stakes. However,” he assured her, quickly, “there doesn't seem to be any immediate danger, so I shan't be a nuisance. I — er — I mean”

  “You mean you won't be trailing me around everywhere I go?” A flash of mischief returned to her eyes. “Too bad! Especially when I've so much shopping to do.”

  “So much shopping?”

  “Yes — you could carry my parcels!”

  He flushed. It came to him suddenly that her guileless air was a sham. She was making fun of him — had all along been making fun of him. Annoyance mingled with his embarrassment.

  “As you say, I shan’t be trailing you around,” he replied, assuming a protective armour of dourness. “Nevertheless, I must ask you to comply with a few simple rules.”

  She saw at once that she had upset him and tried to make amends.

  “Why — of course!” She smiled an apology. “I was only joking about the parcels.”

  He ignored the friendly gesture. He had a job to do. Time he was getting on writh it — quickly and efficiently as a good policeman should. The state of his private feelings was beside the point.

  “First of all,” he began, “you must never go out alone after dark.”