Escort to Adventure

by Angus MacVicar

  Suddenly he turned to Veronica Jane. “Are you convinced now?" he said.

  Though paler than usual, she managed a wry smile.

  “I — think so," she returned.

  The stranger coughed. “Could you — er — tell me what it's all about?" he remarked, with an apologetic air. “My name’s Hector MacNab," he went on and added: “I really enjoyed it. Hope you didn’t mind my — er — butting in?"

  “Mind!" exclaimed Kenneth. “Thank the Lord you showed up when you did, or we'd have had it…”

  “Tell you what," he said, brushing particles of peat and heather from his flannels, “let's go on to Inverary now. When I fix things with the police we can have lunch together, and we’ll tell you the whole story. Does that suit you, Miss MacKay?"

  “Sure."

  The thin man looked shy but was evidently gratified by the invitation.

  “Thanks a lot," he said. “I'll help you put these men into the back of the car. Then I’ll trail along behind, just in case of accidents. We should make Inverary in about twenty minutes, eh!”

  ‘'About that,” agreed Kenneth.

  Half-an-hour later they had laid their evidence, and Mullingar and Wilkes were in gaol for the first time. Their language on the subject of Max Bergman, who had so callously deserted them, was a source of amusement to the Inverary police; but it confirmed Kenneth’s theory that the Actor had been sent across the Atlantic by the O’Sullivan gang.

  His description — for what it was worth — was telephoned to the C.I.D. in Glasgow, and Superintendent McIntosh, uneasy at the turn events had taken, promised that a thorough search would be put in hand at once. But Kenneth was convinced it would prove unsuccessful. Being an American, Bergman was almost completely unknown to the Scottish police. Besides, he would now be working alone, and his skill in disguise was notorious.

  The situation, though naturally a source of anxiety, afforded Kenneth a certain amount of satisfaction. It would demonstrate to Veronica Jane that he hadn’t, after all, been making a mountain out of a molehill. It would also be a valuable lever in forcing her to take more stringent precautions.

  During the short run to Inverary he had suggested that in the circumstances she might like to return to Glasgow. She had insisted, however, on carrying out her programme as planned; and he had been inclined to agree that she would be as safe in Glendale as in town. Safer, possibly — as Bulldog Bill pointed out over the phone. The Actor could operate in the crowded streets with much less risk of detection than in the open country, where, in spite of any disguise he might assume, he would be liable to be more conspicuous.

  “But don’t you think you’ve scared him off for good?” said Veronica Jane, as they lit cigarettes after an excellent lunch in the Campbell Arms.

  Hector MacNab, now aware of the principal facts of the situation, shook his head. “Excuse me saying it, Miss MacKay — but judging by the glimpse I had of Mr. Bergman, I’m pretty sure he’ll try again.’’

  “I’m quite sure,” said Kenneth, flatly. “Though of course he may be caught now,” he added, ''before he can do any harm.”

  “In any case,” continued Hector, with animation, “you needn't worry. Sergeant MacDonald and I will be able to deal with him, if he tries any tricks.”

  Veronica Jane looked surprised. “Are you going to Glendale, too?”

  Hector blushed to the roots of his untidy black hair. Though probably older than Kenneth, embarrassment made him appear very young and helpless.

  He stirred, awkwardly. “Er — as a matter of fact I wasn't going anywhere in particular, and I thought — well, if I could be of any help — that is, of course, if you don’t object”

  His high-pitched voice trailed off, and Veronica Jane stepped smiling into the breach.

  “Why should we object? I guess it’s a free country. And I’m sure Sergeant MacDonald will be delighted to have you near him in Glendale — in case of emergency.”

  “I certainly will!” said Kenneth.

  Hector was so pleased that his huge, knuckly hand moved in a gay gesture and upset his coffee-cup. Deep-set dark eyes glinted with dismay.

  “Gosh!” he exclaimed. “Look what I’ve done to the tablecloth!”

  Veronica Jane mopped up the mess with a paper napkin.

  “It’s all right,” she comforted him, in a motherly way. “Sergeant MacDonald will give the waitress a good tip.”

  With a fleeting smile, Kenneth nodded. He was trying to place this gawky, impulsive stranger with the bony face, big hooked nose and wide, sensitive mouth. He was obviously a man of education, yet his clothes were worn and threadbare; and in spite of his quick, decisive action during the fight, there was something of the backward child about him, too. Kenneth had the impression that he had seen him somewhere before…

  He decided on a leading question.

  “On holiday?” he inquired.

  Hector sat bolt upright, and the back of his chair gave an ominous creak. He glanced round anxiously, but no harm seemed to have been done.

  “I’m always breaking things,” he confessed.

  “You're so tall,” said Veronica Jane, with sympathy. “My father's the same — absolutely fatal to modern furniture!''

  “Er — quite,” chuckled Hector, regaining his equanimity. “Though mind you, I'm quite at home with engines — motorbikes and things.”

  Then he went on: “You were asking if I'm on holiday, Sergeant MacDonald. Well — not exactly. You see, I do a bit of painting, and a printing firm in Glasgow wants some pictures of Kintyre — for calendars, in fact — and when you mentioned Glendale — well, it's got the loveliest scenery in the whole peninsula, if I remember right.”

  Suddenly Kenneth's memory became crystal clear.

  “I've got it,” he said. “You're Hector MacNab, the artist. Am I right?”

  Hector blushed again.

  “I say,” he returned, with boyish pleasure, “have you heard of me?”

  “Of course! I remember seeing your photograph in one of the papers. You gave up painting at the beginning of the war — didn't you? — to join the R.A.F. You took part in the Battle of Britain and got two D.S.O.’s"

  “So that accounts for the stone-throwing act!” interrupted Veronica Jane, and Hector squirmed like a small boy receiving an unexpected compliment.

  “Then weren't you wounded?” said Kenneth.

  “Yes. Matter of fact I spent four years in hospital.”

  “Oh, how awful!” Veronica Jane put a sympathetic hand on his arm.

  “But I'm all right now,” he assured her, quickly. “The worst of it is, I find it difficult since the war to — to make a living. Most people seem to have forgotten me.”

  There was a small silence. But every girl asks the same question of a man in whom she is interested, and Veronica Jane eased the awkward moment by putting it.

  “Are you married?”

  He rubbed his craggy cheek. One foot caught the leg of the table, and the cups and saucers danced. Kenneth clutched his plate and steadied it on the edge of disaster.

  “No — not married,” said Hector. “All I can afford is a motor-bike.”

  She smiled. “Maybe you'll find someone nice in Glendale!”

  But he shook his head. "I’m scared of women as a rule.” Her expression became innocent and childlike. “Then you ought to take lessons from Sergeant MacDonald,” she said. “He knows how to keep them in order!”

  Kenneth was so plainly embarrassed that Hector, in spite of a natural diffidence, hastened to his defence.

  “Oh, I say — you must be wrong about that!” he protested, mildly.

  Veronica Jane was taken aback.

  “You men always support one another, don’t you!” she exclaimed, a trifle piqued that her joke had misfired. Then she laughed. “But perhaps you’re right, Mr. MacNab,” she admitted. “It depends such a lot on the girl.”

  She smiled to Kenneth across the table, and to his surprise her right eyelid seemed to flicker. Though i
nstinct told him that it wasn’t the first time a movement of her eyelashes had been a man’s undoing, his heart beat faster. What was she trying to convey? Was she telling him that her joke meant nothing and that in spite of their recent approach to the edge of a quarrel she wanted to be friends? Was she sharing her pleasure in Hector MacNab’s company? Or was she merely flirting because it was a habit and she couldn’t help it? The more he knew of her, the more inexplicable she became.

  “Look here,” said the artist, leaning forward with great earnestness. “There’s just one thing. Would you both please call me Hector? My friends always call me that. Mr. MacNab is terrible!”

  His ingenuousness was hard to resist.

  “Of course,” said Veronica Jane. “Hector it is.” Kenneth agreed cordially and added: “By the way, have you thought of where you’re going to stay in Glendale?” “No. That didn’t occur to me.” Hector looked anxious.

  “Could you suggest — I mean”

  “Miss MacKay is stopping at the big hotel down by the shore,” explained Kenneth. “But I’ve arranged for a room for myself with Mrs. Connacher — my old nurse. She takes summer visitors, but it’s fairly quiet just now and she ought to be able to put you up as well. Nice little cottage she has, outside the village.”

  “Oh — thanks! I should love that. But you’re sure I’m not being a nuisance?”

  “Certainly not!”

  Hector sighed contentedly. He was full of admiration for his new friend, like a small boy who has discovered a competent and appreciative uncle.

  “Do you belong to Glendale?” he asked.

  “I was brought up there. My father used to be parish minister,”

  “My father was born in Glendale, too,” put in Veronica Jane, who was beginning to think that the men had forgotten her. “I'm just longing to see it!”

  Hector’s angular face grew thoughtful. “It must be nice to have a place like that — somewhere you can call home. My people were on the stage. I think they came from Glasgow, but I can’t be sure. Matter of fact,” he explained, with a disarming smile, “I myself was born in a train between Perth and Aberdeen. Perhaps that’s why I’ve never really settled down.”

  Presently they decided to move on. It was after two o’clock and Glendale was still eighty miles away. Kenneth had a final word with the Inverary police and promised that along with Miss MacKay and Mr. MacNab he would be available to give evidence when Mullingar and Wilkes came before the Sheriff for trial.

  Then he helped Hector into his waterproof and goggles.

  “We’ll go on ahead,” he proposed. “I’ll see Mrs. Connacher and get everything fixed up before you arrive.”

  “Oh — splendid! But if Kathleen Mavourneen does her stuff, I shouldn’t be far behind you. Kathleen’s my bike,” he explained, with a touch of pride.

  As far as Veronica Jane and Kenneth were concerned, the remainder of the journey was interesting but uneventful. At first, obviously determined to forget hard words, they discussed Hector and the odd story of his life. They were nearly at Lochgilphead before they mentioned Max Bergman and posed the question uppermost in their minds. Would the Actor be caught, or would he escape to make another attempt to carry out Mike O’Sullivan's orders? In the event of Bergman remaining at liberty, Veronica Jane promised faithfully to obey all instructions issued by her official escort. But Kenneth still detected — or thought he did — a hint of rebellion in her voice, and he was uneasy.

  There was one thing he admired her for, however: she wasn't afraid. Most girls, he imagined, would have been terrified by what had happened in Glen Croe; but Veronica Jane, as far as he could see, was affected very little. He was beginning to believe that there was more solidity in her character than he had at first realized. Like her father, probably. In Glendale the MacKays had always been reckoned a hardy race. And yet she looked — and acted sometimes — like a flighty schoolgirl. He was puzzled.

  “Why so pensive?" she asked, as they approached Campbeltown along the winding coast road.

  He started. “I was thinking about you," he admitted.

  “About me?" She was obviously surprised. After a moment she added: “Well — go on."

  He hesitated. “I was thinking how lucky I am," he said, gruffly, “that you're not hysterical or easily frightened."

  She looked away. The side-window was open and a breeze swept some golden curls across her eyes. That may have been why she looked more serious than usual.

  “So you don't entirely disapprove of me?"

  He couldn't quite think of what to say.

  “I — er — good Lord, no!" he stammered, his hands moving restlessly on the wheel. “It's not my place — I mean, if ever I gave you the impression that I — that I disapprove of you, then I apologize. But…"

  “Forget it, Sergeant MacDonald! It was just an idle thought." She turned and smiled at him. “In spite of all the arguments we've had, you'll show me around Blaan, won’t you? Take me to see people who knew my father — that kind of thing?"

  He took a firmer grip of himself. “I'd very much like to," he said, “if you won't find it a bore."

  “A bore?" She puckered her forehead. “Why should it be?"

  “Well — er — you're so gay, so — so modern. Somehow…"

  “Somehow my high heels and lipstick don’t go with ploughed fields and seaweed on the shore. Is that it?"

  “Yes. But…"

  “Sergeant MacDonald," she said in a level voice, “we seem to be in the mood for compliments, so let me tell you something. I thought once that you were a little bit pompous and — well, never mind. Now I believe you’re just plain innocent!”

  He remained silent. It was impossible to know what she meant. At times her conversation was like quicksilver. You tried to get hold of it, but it slipped away and you had no answer to the problem. In vain he searched his mind for a suitable reply.

  ‘‘You probably think I’m the reverse of innocent?” she went on. “All right then. I’m a gold-digger.”

  He stared at the road in front, still vainly endeavouring to overtake the darting stream of her ideas. She looked away again, seeing the green fields dotted with placid Ayrshire cattle.

  “But what does it matter,” she said, finally. “You’re only interested in me as a job. Isn’t that so?”

  He was thinking about a number of things — young Dr. Hugh Cameron, for instance, and the fact that her father was a highly paid executive in the New York Police Force; but mainly he was cursing himself for being an uncultivated boor.

  “That’s not so,” he said at last, risking another lightsome joke at his expense.

  Surprisingly enough, however, she said nothing at all to that and was quiet for a long time.

  She was still quiet — as if something had perplexed her — when they topped a rise and saw the village of Glendale. It lay beneath them in a green strath, sheltered by hills on either side. Tea-time smoke was rising from its chimneys. A mile beyond it the sea glinted as it pushed against wide, yellow beaches. Across channel, the round hills of Ireland were smudges of darker blue against the sky.

  Kenneth pointed to a farmhouse and steading built in the hollow of a distant hillside.

  “That’s Drumeden,” he told his companion. “Where your father was born.”

  She came out of her daydream. “Oh, no! Is it really? Are we almost there?”

  “Yes. There’s your hotel — through the trees yonder.”

  She studied the scene. The countryside was spread out before her like a patchwork quilt of green and brown. She saw woods which grew thickly on the western hills and small, purple islands lying a few miles off-shore. Sunlight made it a picture of serenity, of security. It was unlike anything she had seen, for she had been brought up in the noisy confusion of New York, and all the farming countryside she knew was flat, limitless prairie-land. And yet, having heard her father talk of Glendale, she did not find it strange. She felt, indeed, that she was coming home.

  But all at onc
e she shivered.

  “Three weeks till my father comes,' she said. “What will happen before then, I wonder?"

  For once Kenneth took the initiative in changing the mood of their conversation.

  “Hector will have broken most of Mrs. Connacher's furniture," he chuckled. “And your nose will have turned red with the sun."

  She glanced at him in astonishment. Then she laughed.

  “Say — that's not bad for an old sobersides!" she exclaimed.

  Chapter 5

  Glendale

  After seeing Veronica Jane settled in the hotel, Kenneth drove back to the grey stone cottage on the outskirts of the village. There he was given a matter-of-fact welcome by a smallish, bright-eyed lady clad neatly in a plain black dress and coloured apron.

  When he visited Glendale, Kenneth always stayed with Mrs. Connacher — or Nellie Brown as the neighbours called her. That had been her maiden name, and in Glendale it was a woman’s maiden name that counted.

  She had been a servant at the Manse and his faithful nursemaid until he went to school. Then — in a moment of absent-mindedness some people said — she had married an elderly ploughman.

  Her happiness with Davie Connacher had been short-lived, however, for he had died of influenza within a year of their wedding, leaving her in possession of the roomy cottage but of very little else. For a time she had found it hard to make ends meet; but with the help of the minister and a few well-to-do farmers, who gave her laundry work, she had come to terms with life at last.

  After the war, when money was plentiful, she had prospered by letting rooms to summer visitors.

  In spite of her grey hair and slight build, Nellie was strong and active. Her tongue was active, too, and woe betide any youthful bandit who was caught trying to steal the gooseberries and currants in her garden.