Years of single-handed endeavour had given her an independence of spirit and sharpness of speech which were apt to intimidate a stranger. But Kenneth was aware of the loyalty and goodwill lurking behind her slightly acid expression.
“Come away in,” she said, catching his sleeve. “You’ll be needing a cup. The kettle’s just on the boil.”
“It’s never off the boil in this house!” he answered, putting down his case and hanging his overcoat on the wooden hall-stand. “How many cups of tea do you have every day? Is it seven — or eight?”
As she led him into the kitchen, she allowed herself the dicker of a smile.
“I often told you before — when you were a laddie. But if it amuses you, I’ll tell you again. I have one when I get up in the morning. Then another at breakfast. And a wee cup in the forenoon, just for the thirst. One after dinner, and another in the afternoon if anybody comes in. Then one at tea-time — and one for my supper, of course.”
He laughed. Standing before the highly polished steel range, with the willow pattern plates on the mantelpiece above, he put his arm round her narrow, square shoulders.
“Nellie — you’re just the same!” he said.
Mrs. Connacher was surprised by the warmth of his mood. Though she was fonder of Kenneth than of anyone else, affection hadn’t blinded her to a knowledge of his faults, the most serious of which, in her opinion, was his complete absorption in his work as a policeman. Lately she had missed the fun which had been characteristic of his boyhood. She had suspected — to her inward dismay — that he was becoming old and staid before his time. On his last visit, a year ago, he had sat in his room for hours on end, studying books which had appeared to her heavily uninteresting. And though he had explained that he was working for an examination, this had not seemed to her a valid excuse for avoiding the social round in Glendale. Life, she considered, was a series of examinations, and if you allowed anxiety over them to turn you into a hermit, then what was the use of living at all? Now, however, she detected a change in him — a change for the better. His eyes were brighter and more alert, and a spark of youthful high spirits seemed to have ousted the prosaic policeman.
Kenneth himself could feel a difference in his outlook; but whether it had been caused by his fight with Mullingar or by his oddly inconclusive verbal sparring with Veronica Jane, he could not decide. Perhaps it was simply the result of being in Glendale again — with the added mental stimulus of a lurking danger.
Whatever the reason, he felt happy to be sitting there with Nellie — drinking tea and learning all the latest news of the parish.
“While I remember,” he said, suddenly, “have you room for another chap besides myself? Hector MacNab, the artist. He ought to be here any minute now on his motor-bike.”
She gave him a landlady’s look, her mouth thin and wary. “A friend of yours, Kenneth?”
“Well — we met for the first time today. I know about him, though. He’s shy and a bit awkward, but I’m certain you’d like him.”
“Very well. As long as he hasn’t forgotten his ration-book. I’ve plenty of sheets and things, and three folk will be almost as easy to look after as two.”
“Three folk?”
“Yes. There’s a schoolteacher staying with me, too. Just temporary, until the summer. A young lassie — new out of college.”
“I didn’t know that.” Kenneth sounded almost severe.
“Sheena Mathieson her name is,” continued Nellie, unperturbed. “You ken her fine — the postman’s daughter… Och, it’s thrang I’m going to be with you all!” she added. “But I like to have young people about, as long as they behave themselves!”
“I could easily go to the hotel,” he began; but she interrupted him with a formidable rattle of her teaspoon.
“Don’t haver, Kenneth!”
Then all at once she smiled, with a suggestion of cunning. “But I forgot. The American girl is staying at the hotel. Maybe you would like to be near her?”
He frowned. “Don’t you haver, Nellie! That girl is just part of my job.”
“Oh, indeed! Is she a policewoman, then?”
He saw that like a spaniel she was nosing gently after news; and as she would have to hear the story sooner or later in any case, he decided to tell it now.
He explained how Fraser MacKay in New York was on the trail of the O’Sullivan counterfeiting gang; how Mike O’Sullivan had threatened to kidnap Veronica Jane if the investigation wasn’t scrapped; and how, in order to keep her safe until the case against the gang was complete, Fraser MacKay had sent his daughter to Scotland, under the care of his friend, Superintendent McIntosh.
“But she’s no safer in Scotland than in America,’’ he said. “O’Sullivan is determined to stop the prosecution. He’s sent Max Bergman over here — a criminal they call the Actor — and this afternoon in Glen Croe, if it hadn’t been for Hector MacNab, he might have got away with Miss MacKay.”
He described what had happened and told of Bergman’s escape.
“That’s the position,” he told her, finally. “I’ll ring up the Superintendent first thing tomorrow, and if the Actor hasn’t been caught by that time, then for the next three weeks — until her father puts paid to O’Sullivan — Miss MacKay is going to be in danger. And my job will be to protect her.”
For a moment Nellie’s cup remained poised between its saucer and her mouth. Then she took a gulp of tea.
“I never heard the like!” she exclaimed, her grey eyes narrowing. “Kenneth — you’ll have to be careful!”
“Oh, I’ll be all right. But I’m worried about Miss MacKay. Bergman made a mistake this afternoon. He won’t make another.”
“The rascal!” she cried, with a formidable frown.
But presently a different aspect of the situation occurred to her. “Imagine Fraser MacKay’s daughter here in Blaan! He and I were at school together. You’ll need to bring her to see me.”
“I will, Nellie.”
“She's not a snob, eh?"
“No — I don't think so."
“If she's like her granny she'll be gey throughhither!"
Gey throughhither! Kenneth couldn't help smiling at the aptness of the description. He was about to enlarge on the subject of Veronica Jane when the noise of an approaching motor-cycle surged into the peace of the afternoon.
“That'll be Hector now," he said, as the chattering sound increased in volume. “I told him exactly where to find the cottage, so…"
There was a squeal of skidding tyres outside, a shout, a girl's shriek of dismay. Then an ominous crash and an abrupt silence as the engine of the motor-bike coughed loudly and immediately stopped.
Mrs. Connacher and Kenneth sprang out of their chairs in alarm and hurried to the window. They saw Hector sitting on top of his machine, which was lying flat in the middle of the road. His goggles hung like a bib around his neck, his mouth was slightly open, and he wore an expression of horrified astonishment. A few yards away, a girl in a raincoat was kneeling on the gravel at Mrs. Connacher's front gate. An attache-case lay open beside her, and books were strewn helter-skelter across the road. Thick dark hair fell to her shoulders; her face was red, and she was glaring at Hector with a look of fierce animosity.
“Bless my soul! He's run her down!" exclaimed Mrs. Connacher, rushing to the door with her teacup held high like a torch. “It’s my lodger, Sheena Mathieson, back from school."
Kenneth had to use all his self-control. Unlike his old nurse, he saw at once that no serious damage had been done, and this new evidence of Hector's flair for the unintentionally dramatic was the drollest thing he had come across for a long time.
He ran outside in Nellie's wake. But as he reached the path to the front gate, complications were setting in. The girl had picked herself up and was collecting her books, but Hector still sat on his bike, stricken and helpless. A maroon-coloured bus was waiting to get by on one side. On the other, a lorry loaded with artificial manure was whining to a halt.
>
As Kenneth came on the scene, the drivers of both vehicles began to sound their horns in a strident chorus.
Sheena Mathieson swept the last of her books into her case.
“Are you hurt, lassie?” cried Mrs. Connacher, bustling round like a fussy hen.
“No!” The reply came abruptly. “I jumped aside in time — then I slipped and fell.”
The young schoolteacher turned and regarded Hector as if he were some distasteful animal. “Get up, you silly man!” she exclaimed. “Can't you see you’re holding up all the traffic in Glendale?”
He seemed to understand at last that his victim was alive and uninjured. Like a sleeper emerging from a nightmare he looked about him. His eyes widened as he saw the bus and the lorry.
“Gosh!” he mumbled and scrambled hastily to his feet.
Stifling his amusement with an effort, Kenneth helped him to lift the motor-cycle, knock it out of gear and trundle it inside the gate. Then the bus and the lorry passed by, the drivers waving cheerfully as they proceeded on their lawful occasions.
But there was nothing cheerful about Hector. From his six foot three inches of lean misery, he looked down on Sheena, whose dark head scarcely reached his shoulder.
“I say — can you ever forgive me? I tried to swing in at the gate and — and didn’t realize you were going in, too.”
Sheena sniffed.
Mrs. Connacher looked at Hector.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “Are you…?”
It was Kenneth who answered. “Yes, he’s your new lodger, Nellie — Hector MacNab.” Then, unable to contain himself any longer, he leant on the gate-post and roared with laughter.
For a moment the others stared at him in shocked surprise. But finally Nellie’s uncompromising mouth began to quiver. And Sheena, whose sense of humour was never far from the surface, suddenly forgot her trampled dignity and burst out laughing, too.
Hector saw that he had avoided disgrace. He caught Sheena’s eye and grinned happily. His introduction to Glendale had been unusual; but after all it seemed to have broken nothing but the ice.
“Come in, come in," said Mrs. Connacher, wiping her eyes. “We all need a fresh cup after that!"
Sheena was the daughter of a former postman in Glendale, and Kenneth remembered her as a little girl at school. He found himself at ease with her at once. A week ago it would have been different; but recently events had driven him to the conclusion that in comparison with Veronica Jane all other girls were entirely innocuous.
Hector, too, quickly settled down and did his best to make amends for the unfortunate accident which had heralded his arrival. His quaint, shyly told stories of the R.A.F. and of his work as an artist soon captivated both Sheena and Mrs. Connacher; and though before the night was out he had broken a cup and saucer while helping to dry the supper dishes, they readily forgave him.
Next morning after breakfast, as further evidence of contrition, he made a point of accompanying Sheena on her way to school, carrying her case. His lanky figure was a source of keen interest to the children, but to the surprise of their teacher, they saw nothing funny about his awkward, ungainly manner. They were obviously delighted, too, when he consented to take part in a game of "rounders" before the school went in.
Kenneth took the opposite road to the hotel.
When he got there, Veronica Jane was still in the diningroom. He decided, therefore, to call Superintendent McIntosh on the manager’s private telephone and was connected almost at once.
“Morning, sir. MacDonald here. Any news of Bergman?"
“None. The grey car was found abandoned in a side-road near Arrochar — three suitcases aboard. One of them had theatrical stuff inside — false hair, gum: that kind of thing. But he himself has vamoosed — vanished."
“I was afraid of that, sir."
“However, we still hope to catch up with him. We’ve had a hint from America that he has one unmistakable habit. An unconscious habit, I believe. When facing a problem he’s inclined to drum with the fingers of his right hand. On a table, against his own leg — whatever is handy."
“I noticed something like that in Glen Croe.”
“You did, eh? Well, he’s pretty sure to put in an appearance in Glendale sooner or later, so keep a sharp look-out, MacDonald. What’s the position there? Many strangers?”
“A few visitors in the hotel. Plenty of workmen, too — at the big dam they’re constructing for the Hydro-Electric Board.”
“All right. I’ve asked the Kintyre police to give you all the help they can, and they’ll check suspicious characters. But it’s mainly up to you, my boy. Bergman may assume any kind of disguise, and if I’m not mistaken he’ll go into action again quite soon… By the way, how’s she behaving?”
“Er — you mean Miss MacKay?”
“Yes, Veronica Jane.”
“Very well indeed, sir. She’s got plenty of courage.”
“I should have expected that. But don’t let her take advantage of you, MacDonald. I mean, she’s young, full of the joys of life. She probably thinks you’re a bit old and sedate, and if she gets a chance…”
Kenneth’s voice was cold as he cut in. “I think I can handle this job, sir.”
There was a slight pause, and it was just as well that Kenneth didn’t see the broad grin with which Bulldog Bill favoured a portrait of the Lord Provost of Glasgow which decorated one wall of his room at C.I.D. Headquarters.
“Naturally you can handle it,” said Bulldog Bill. “I shouldn’t have asked you to do it if I had thought otherwise. At the same time…”
“Sir,” said Kenneth, still smarting under the reference to his age and sedateness, and more on his dignity than ever, “I hope you don’t imagine that Veronica — that Miss MacKay is a flippant, flighty kind of girl?”
“No, no,” muttered the Superintendent; but Kenneth was warming up and in no mood to suffer interruptions.
“She has a much more serious side to her nature,” he went on. “She’s brave, loyal, with a genuine affection for her father’s native place. I made a mistake myself at first…”
Suddenly he realized what he was saying and broke off in confusion.
At the other end of the line, the Superintendent’s face was a study in delighted surprise. He had caught a glimpse of a new MacDonald — the real MacDonald, perhaps — warmly human beneath his armour of grim efficiency. Affection softened the contours of Bulldog Bill’s craggy jaw. Then he pulled himself together.
“All right, all right!” he barked into the mouthpiece. “But take my tip and proceed with caution. If I get any more news of Bergman I’ll send you a telegram. But keep your eyes skinned! If anything happens to Veronica Jane, remember you will be held responsible!”
“Yes, sir,” said Kenneth meekly and hung up.
He turned to find Veronica Jane standing in the passage, a few yards away. She was looking at him with an oddly intent expression. He wondered, panic-stricken, if by any chance she had overheard part of his conversation with the Superintendent; but almost at once she smiled, and he told himself that his sudden suspicion must be unfounded.
“Been calling your best girl?” she asked, her lashes drooping a little.
He grinned. “Not quite. That was Superintendent McIntosh, my beloved Chief.”
“Uncle Bill! Isn’t he a darling? But fussy — definitely fussy.”
She led the way to a seat at a big bay window which overlooked the North Channel. The morning sun laid a bridge of gold from Ringan Isle to the shingle beneath them. “Did he ask for me?” she said.
“Of course. The whole C.I.D. is in a turmoil on your account.”
She was wearing a plain green linen frock, and the sunlight spangled her hair.
“Have they caught Bergman?” she asked, quietly.
“No. They found the car, though.”
“Then we may expect trouble?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Well, don’t look so pessimistic, Sergeant MacDon
ald. You and I — and Hector — surely we’re a match for any Actor!”
“We’d be a match for him if we knew how and where he’s going to attack.”
She leaned forward and touched his knee. “Uncle Bill said I could depend on you. He thinks you’re a super detective, you know.”
He looked out of the window. Some distance away a big double-furrowed plough drawn by a tractor was turning up twin furrows of glistening earth. Seagulls squabbled for worms behind it.
She noticed something different about him. Before this, he had seemed hard, even grim. Now there was a hint of boyish uncertainty in his expression.
“I thought I was a good detective too,” he admitted. “I worked hard enough at any rate. But now, I don’t know. I have to learn about — a lot of things.” Suddenly he turned to her. “Sorry! It’s too soon after breakfast for psychology. Anyway, we may have a few days’ grace before Bergman tries again.”
“Yes. Don’t let’s worry in the meantime.” She took a cigarette, and lie lit it for her. “Tell me — how is Hector?”
“Hector!” Suddenly he laughed and leaned forward. “Look here — I must tell you what happened when he arrived yesterday!”
Veronica Jane was delighted with the story. She promised to have tea in the cottage that afternoon, so that she could have another talk with the pleasant but violently destructive artist and make the acquaintance of Mrs. Connacher.
Kenneth told her, too, about Sheena Mathieson.
“Is she pretty?” she asked, after a short silence.
“In a way. She’s dark, of course — rather quiet and proper.”
“The studious type?”
“She’s not dull, if that’s what you mean.”
“Did you knew her before?”
“As a little girl — yes. When I joined the Force at first and used to come home for holidays she’d follow me around everywhere I went.” He smiled. “She has a higher opinion of policemen than some people!”
Pencilled eyebrows rose. “I guess I know what she’s like,” remarked Veronica Jane, sweetly. “She’ll make a good faithful wife for someone — but her figure will be gone when she comes to middle-age!”
Escort to Adventure Page 6
