For a moment Veronica Jane was silent. Then she spoke, in an uncertain voice. “That’s not exactly the kind of thing my grandfather would say.”
He shook his head. “It isn’t.” They stopped and leaned together on the fence, looking across the Bay of Dunaverty. The carefree expression had gone from his eyes. He said abruptly: “Gosh — I’m an awful fool!”
She looked startled. “Why, my dear?”
“Because — well, because I can’t get you out of my mind.”
“As a part of your job, you mean?”
"No. As you, yourself."
She smiled at him. "Is that so foolish?”
"It's darned foolish!’’ he exclaimed. "I oughtn’t even to be telling you.’’
In spite of the weight of years she attributed to him, he looked so young and anxious and defenceless that in her heart she longed to comfort him and resolve his doubts. But before she could answer he went on: "I — I can’t keep this to myself any longer, Veronica Jane, even though I know it’s unfair to you — and to Hugh Cameron. But — well, the fact is I think about you so much that I’ve become a complete failure as a policeman.’’
She moved slightly, so that as they stood together by the fence her shoulder rubbed against his arm. "So I’m not just a case to you after all?’’
"No. I used to believe that The Science of Police Detection had an answer for everything. But it hasn’t. Not for this…
The waves lapped softly against the sandy beach, a hundred yards away. The oyster-catchers stood motionless at the edge of the tide. Far across the channel the blue hills of Ireland were lazy in the sun. She looked up at him with eyes which, no longer teasing or demure, would have betrayed their secret at once to almost anyone except her present companion.
"Kenneth,’’ she said, quietly, "you seem to have got hold of the wrong idea. There’s no question of you being either fair or unfair to Hugh or me. I like Hugh, but…”
Then, invading the remote valley of their thoughts, there came the snarl of an engine. It was Kenneth who swung round first. He saw the red car jerking to a halt beside them.
"Where have you been, Veronica Jane?” Hugh Cameron leaned against the wheel, his eyes puzzled and a little hurt. "The lunch gong went ages ago, so I told Mrs. McShannon I’d come and look for you.’’
"Lunch?” she said, turning from the fence in a dreamy kind of way.
"Yes, lunch! Come on, or we’ll have no time for our walk to Drumeden.’’
"Very well,’’ she answered.
As she climbed in beside him she glanced up and said: “An revoir, Kenneth. As I told you, we may come to see Mrs. Connacher in the evening. After dinner.’’
“All right,” he replied. “Take care of yourselves this afternoon."
His jaw was set, but she noticed that he was trembling…
In his own mind Kenneth was convinced that as far as Veronica Jane's affections were concerned he ran a poor second to the young doctor. Despite his occasional bouts of masterful action, he was essentially modest and as yet not quite sure of himself, a fact of which Bulldog Bill had long been aware; and the idea had never entered his head that Veronica Jane might regard him as anything more than someone to tease — like a faithful St. Bernard. Cameron was almost ten years younger, much better looking in every way, much more accomplished and with a fine medical career ahead of him. In Kenneth's opinion no girl could possibly prefer a rather dull policeman, whose annoying sense of duty made him a spoil-sport at every turn.
And yet, as the red car swung round in the road and spurted off towards the hotel, and he himself began to stride back in the direction of the village, happiness lay in the background of his thoughts. Instinctively he felt that between Veronica Jane and himself there existed understanding — a friendship which could survive doubts and fears and jealousy and suspicion. Not love, of course — her love was reserved for Hugh Cameron — not love, but a spark of intimacy which he counted very precious and which he resolved to cherish with the utmost care.
He was in good spirits when he sat down to lunch with Mrs. Connacher, Sheena and Hector — and made Sheena blush by telling her how much Veronica Jane had admired her hat. Afterwards he and Hector sat in deck chairs on the sheltered side of the house, smoking and feeling generally lazy after the satisfying meal. Kenneth’s mind was for the moment relaxed and divorced from his job; but Hector, rushing in where angels might fear his tread, brought anxiety back with renewed sharpness.
“Excuse me if I'm speaking out of turn," he said, with a sidelong, apologetic look, “but have you any ideas yet about Max Bergman? I mean — he’s probably in Glendale. But who is he?’’
Kenneth flung away the stub of his cigarette and sat up, clasping his hands about his knees. “I wish I knew," he answered, and his brow furrowed as he tried to fight down the panic which always assailed him when he imagined Veronica Jane in the clutches of the Actor. “He's here all right.
I was attacked by him.”
“What!”
“Yes. Last night, you remember, Veronica Jane and Hugh Cameron went to see Wee Ned. Well, I did my stuff as watchdog. Good thing I did, too. Max Bergman was trailing them. I spotted him and after a scuffle was able to head him off.” “But — but” Hector spluttered — “but didn’t you recognize him? I mean…”
“It was too dark — and I saw him only as a shadow. At one point he clocked me one on the shoulder with a pistol. A bit painful at the time — but today it's all right.”
“Gosh. Did Miss MacKay and Dr. Cameron know about it?”
Kenneth nodded. “I told them — and interrupted love’s young dream or something. Cameron wasn’t any too pleased. Of course, Veronica Jane's a bit more reasonable.”
“And you’ve nothing else to go on? No clue?”
“Not a thing. Though I had an odd experience after the service today. You and Sheena and Mrs. Connacher had gone off home, and I was left in the porch with Professor Symington. Just previous to that I had a queer feeling — a kind of warning of danger. I could have sworn that Max Bergman was close beside me somewhere.”
“Oh, I say!” Hector's deck-chair creaked, and he looked excited. “That’s important, you know.”
“Think so?”
“Yes. Feelings like that are always right. I get them often, and I'd trust them far more than logical reasoning. After all, logical reasoning depends on the human brain, which is always imperfect. But instincts have nothing to do with human fallibility… Sorry, Kenneth!” Hector grinned, uneasily. “I’m away on my hobby-horse again!”
“That’s all right. I used to believe in science. Now I’m not so sure.”
Hector frowned in an effort of thought. “Well, never mind that. The main thing is — who were there in the porch?” “Scores of people, unfortunately.”
“But most of them would be local. I mean, you could write off pretty nearly everybody except — well, except the hotel guests and Professor Symington.”
“That's true, I suppose.”
“Who were there from the hotel — besides Veronica Jane and Dr. Cameron?”
“Colonel Huskisson-Smythe, Arthur Paterson, the honeymoon couple — and Miss Cunningham. But it’s no good, Hector. I’ve tried hard, and I just can’t picture any of them as the Actor.”
“What about Symington?”
“If he’s the man, then Max Bergman must be an absolute genius.” Kenneth ran stiff fingers through his hair. “But as you say, if my hunch is right, one of those people must be the Actor. In any case, who else could it be?”
Hector sighed. “Can’t you think of something unusual about any of them? Something out of character, for instance.” “No. I’ve studied them, thought about them till my head’s in a whirl. I’ve actually spoken to them all, with the exception of the honeymooners — Mr. and Mrs. Ericson — but there’s nothing, nothing I can spot wrong with them.”
“All plain and above-board?”
“Yes.” Suddenly Kenneth paused, as if not quite so certain o
f his ground. “Though it’s funny, Hector,” he went on. “For the last couple of days I’ve had the impression at the back of my mind that I did notice a peculiarity about one of them. I keep telling myself it’s nonsense — a species of wishful thinking. But it persists.”
“How do you mean?”
Kenneth shook his head. “I don’t know what I mean — that’s the worst of it. I’ve tried time and again to remember what it was I noticed, but I just can’t.”
“Have you investigated Professor Symington?”
“Yes. The Campbeltown police seem to think he’s genuine enough, though they’re making a final check up and should be getting in touch with me again this afternoon or evening.” “You don’t think he’s the man you’re after?”
“Frankly, I don’t. He drums his fingers — as the Actor does; but then, lots of people have that habit… I may as well admit, Hector, I’m as worried as hell. It’s like working in a fog.”
From the open scullery window around the corner came the rattle of dishes being washed at the sink. Mrs. Connacher was humming one of Moody and Sankey's most cheerful hymn-tunes. Sheena's efficient heels clicked backwards and forwards on the cement floor as she dried the crockery and conveyed it to the kitchen dresser.
"You're worried about Veronica Jane?"
"Yes." Kenneth leaned even farther forward, cupping his chin in his hands. "I feel I shouldn't even let her out of my sight. But it's so darned difficult — with Cameron there. I believe he's taking her for a walk up to Drumeden this very minute."
Hector's eyes were warm and compassionate. "That shouldn't be dangerous. Young Cameron looks as if he might give a good account of himself in an emergency."
"I know. But he hasn't my training. He's not suspicious. The Actor could take him by surprise quite easily."
"Then why don't you go with them?"
"That's what I should do. I’m well aware of it, Hector. But — let's face it, I’m not the efficient policeman any more. I don't want to butt in… Damn it — that does sound weak, doesn't it?”
"It sounds human," replied Hector. "But isn't there a way out?”
"There is, actually. Professor Symington wants me to meet him at the dam this afternoon, so that he can explain about his fossils. If I go, I could keep an eye on things — to some extent at any rate. The trouble is, I'm expecting the Campbeltown police to get in touch with me — about Symington himself."
"I could take a message," said Hector. "Sheena and I were going for a stroll down to the shore, to talk about my picture, but it looks as if it might rain again."
The air had grown colder, and dark clouds were edging up behind Cnoc Ban, threatening the sun. It appeared as if the weather of the previous afternoon and evening might be repeated. The sunshine would fade, draining all the colour from the land, and Glendale would shrink and grow cold under a mantle of rain. But the rain would not come for an hour or two yet.
Kenneth shivered. The change in the atmosphere coincided with the change in his mood. With Veronica Jane beside him, nothing had seemed difficult. His doubts and fears had been smoothed away by her gaiety. Now, lacking her presence, he felt tired and stale and pessimistic.
He rose to his feet, folded his deck-chair and placed it against the wall of the house. "I think I’ll go up to the dam,” he said. “Good of you to bear with my moans, Hector. And I'd be much obliged if you'd take a message for me — if one comes.”
“Yes. Don't worry about that,” replied the other, awkwardly. “Only too glad to help.”
“But there's no point in cancelling your walk with Sheena. It'll be dry until four o'clock at any rate, and if the police do come, Nellie can tell them where you are.”
Hector nodded. “All right, Kenneth. Whatever you say. And — well, good luck with everything, old chap…”
Chapter 13
The Crouching Dog
As Kenneth flung a waterproof over his shoulder and marched off across the fields towards the shoulder of Cnoc Ban, he had a conviction that events were nearing a climax. He was a Celt, as his surname implied, and though his self-imposed discipline had tended to make him disregard the premonitions of his race, he still continued to experience them. And never had a premonition been stronger in his mind than at this moment. The Actor was ready to strike — where, when and how he couldn't tell. But the end of the affair was imminent: he was sure of that. His battle of wits with Max Bergman was about to be won or lost.
Then, roughly a hundred yards away, he saw a lean figure breasting a whin-covered slope. The figure stopped suddenly and waved a cheerful greeting. He recognized Professor Symington at once: the bare, grey head, the glinting spectacles, the wiry wrists sticking out of short coat-sleeves like the arms of a scarecrow. In that moment — in a blinding flash — he remembered…
An hour before, Max Bergman had watched Veronica Jane and Hugh Cameron leave the hotel and set out over the hill towards Drumeden. Like a good general, he saw his chance and took it. He followed them, keeping out of sight behind the heathery dunes with which the lower slopes of Cnoc Ban were sprinkled.
As they disappeared over the crest of the first long ridge he quickened his pace. He knew this part of the country fairly well. About half-a-mile farther on, high above the dam, was a slab of rock shaped like a crouching dog, past which they were bound to go if they followed the rough track. By making a detour among the heather to the right, and running part of the way, he could reach that boulder a few minutes before them and remain hidden behind it.
Bergman fingered the pistol concealed in the pocket of his coat. This was his opportunity. Sunday afternoon, with everyone off their guard, including, it seemed, Detective-Sergeant MacDonald. Boldness paid. He could deal with young Cameron, carry off MacKay’s daughter and leave her in the place he had decided on — and still be back in time to establish a rough alibi. If an alibi were needed, which he doubted. No one had shown the slightest suspicion of his disguise. Later on that night, he could slip away unobserved, pick up his hostage on the way to the car and drive off in the dark. He knew a house in Glasgow where he could take the girl — and no questions asked…
Veronica Jane and Hugh had no inkling of danger. She was thinking about what had happened after church. He was feeling somewhat cheated out of a gay weekend.
“What's worrying you?’’ he asked, as they topped the ridge and followed the path along the other side. “You’re different. Is the idea of Max Bergman getting you down?”
She was suddenly contrite. And being impulsive and warmhearted she caught his arm and squeezed it. “No — I feel quite safe with you. What do you find different about me?"
“I don’t know. We had good fun in Glasgow, but now you're so quiet, as if you were thinking a lot.’’
“I guess you didn’t believe Americans could think!’’ she teased him.
He chuckled, in spite of himself. Then he grew serious again. “I know all this is a horrible strain," he said. “No wonder you feel a bit down. It's just that — well, I thought I could cheer you up, and I can’t,”
“But you can cheer me up, Hugh. You cheer me up no end. Even though I’m quiet I’m as happy as anything, really.” “That chap MacDonald — he doesn’t seem to be much good.” Hugh frowned, pulling down the corners of his mouth. “He ought to have nailed the Actor by this time. It’s his job.” She took her hand from his arm. “Sergeant MacDonald's doing his best. He’s getting thin with worry.”
He glanced at her with suspicion. He said: “You’re pretty observant, aren’t you?”
She didn’t answer. His criticism of Kenneth had annoyed her; but she was determined not to make this too obvious.
Only now was she beginning to realize all that Kenneth had done for her and how ungratefully she had treated him. And yet, in spite of everything, she knew that he still liked her. He could still call her beautiful. That was why she was quiet. She was trying to make a plan by which she could show her gratitude, a plan which would show him how sorry she was that at the beginnin
g, against his better judgment, she had treated the whole affair as a joke. For it was now plain that as far as her feelings for Detective-Sergeant MacDonald were concerned, the joke was on her.
“Darling,” said Hugh, abruptly, “forgive me for being impatient — and impertinent, too. The trouble is, you mean such a lot to me. I — I wonder you don't see it.”
The moorland was quiet, but clouds were rising up behind the western hills and it was growing colder. A thin wind began to stir the clumps of heather which bordered the path. A few hundred yards in front a grey boulder shaped like a crouching dog changed colour as the sun momentarily disappeared. She had a feeling of arid frustration. Hugh was becoming more and more irritating. Last night among the sand dunes he had acted like a brash college boy. Today, when she and Kenneth had been in the midst of a deeply personal conversation, he had come butting in at exactly the wrong moment. Now he was on the point of making love to her again.
She liked Hugh. In Glasgow he had been an entertaining and stimulating companion. But things had changed. Though she still considered him a good friend, his compliments made her impatient, and the idea that he might try to kiss her, which in the past would not have disturbed her unduly, was an unpleasant one. If she let him kiss her she would feel guilty — unfaithful even. Unfaithful? To whom would she be unfaithful? Only too well she knew the answer.
Summoning up all her feminine craft, she tried to divert the conversation into a different channel.
“Hugh — you say the nicest things,” she smiled. “Like your father. He always pays women such wonderful compliments. How are your parents, by the way?”
He was astute enough to realize that she was stalling — that in fact she was eager to prevent their talk becoming too intimate and personal. And as they approached the dog-like boulder a startling idea came to him. He remembered details and fitted them into place. Her determination to wait behind after church that morning. Her quick defence of MacDonald when he had criticized him…
Jealousy dried up his throat. Could it be that…?
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