"What exactly is your plan?" she asked.
He rubbed a hand over the film of dark stubble on his chin. "We'll play up the idea that Cameron had a fall and was knocked out: that in going to look for help Veronica Jane got lost in the hills. I'll let it be known that the police patrol is coming off. Then the hotel people will arrange a search-party. If I'm right about Bergman, he’s almost sure to accompany them, if only to try and put them off the scent. Of course, he may decide to wait until after they've gone and then hurry off by himself to where he’s hidden her. In either case, I'll stick close and see what happens."
“And I'll go with you," said Hector, firmly.
"I can manage myself," Kenneth began; but Mrs. Connacher interrupted.
"Mr. MacNab will go with you," she declared, in a tone which left no room for argument.
"All right." He looked across at the artist. "Thanks, Hector," he said, with a crooked smile.
Having drunk a quick cup of tea, he returned to the hotel and phoned the police. The Inspector listened to the details of his plan and, after a moment's reflection, gave them his blessing. "But in point of fact," he concluded, "we'll keep the patrol on. If Bergman is the person you think he is, he'll have no means of checking up on the story. And if he's someone else, it would be too dangerous to give him a loophole of escape."
"Quite. Thank you, sir," said Kenneth.
Then he took the manager and his wife further into his confidence. Donald McShannon lost some of his taciturnity and willingly agreed to organize a search-party right away.
Morag McShannon said very little, but her bright eyes had a look of tenderness as she went off to brief the waitresses in the story they should tell.
An hour later the guests were still at dinner. Among them, cold and aloof at a corner table, sat Miss Cunningham, grey hair piled high, a band of black velvet about her throat.
It was the youngest waitress who brought in the news with the dessert. The fair-haired American girl was missing. The Campbeltown police had been looking for her, but now they were being taken off and a search-party organized from the Glendale end. It was setting out in thirty minutes’ time.
Watching through a glass panel in the serving-door, Kenneth saw Miss Cunningham listening intently as the honeymoon couple at the next table discussed the sensational intelligence. He saw her, like the others, make haste to finish her meal.
As the guests tramped upstairs he heard her saying to Colonel Huskisson-Smythe: “I shall come, too. I liked the girl. She may have been too casual, too modern in her outlook on life. But her instincts were sound.”
Not long afterwards Hector put in an appearance, and the search-party began to congregate at the back door of the hotel. In addition to the Colonel, Arthur Paterson, Miss Cunningham and the Bricsons, it included two or three farm labourers, a garage-hand, the local postman, a retired shopkeeper and Wee Ned MacCullum — the latter limping a little but determined to be of assistance. As Kenneth and Hector wanted to remain in the background, and Hugh Cameron, now under the influence of a sleeping tablet, was unable to take part, Donald McShannon himself assumed command.
The rain was still falling in cold, drizzling sheets. The Colonel had on an ancient ulster and fishing-boots; Wee Ned wore a stiff black oilskin coat stained with earth from innumerable rabbit-warrens; Miss Cunningham affected a grey waterproof and heavy, utilitarian brogues.
It would be dark in less than an hour, and each second person was provided with an electric torch, the suggestion being that the party should eventually work in pairs. Kenneth noticed that it was Miss Cunningham’s companion — the Colonel — who was given a torch; but he could see the outline of one of her own in her coat pocket.
As they tramped across the high moorland which led to the lower slopes of Cnoc Ban, the manager explained his plan of action. When they reached the entrance to Glen Eden they would spread out and try as far as possible to cover the whole stretch of moorland between the two roads. They would keep in touch — and in line — by torch signals every few seconds; and in case Miss MacKay was lying hurt and unable to move, they would call out at intervals to try and attract her attention.
Dusk was sweeping across the leaden sky when they reached the dog-shaped boulder on Cnoc Ban and saw the traces of blood on the young bracken. The rain had lifted, however, and the wind was sighing through the glen below with an eerie sound. Objects more than fifty yards away were invisible.
“Keep your eyes open,” Kenneth said to Hector. “And stick close to me.”
The party split up into pairs. Acting as a central headquarters, the manager and Wee Ned remained beside the boulder, while the others fanned out to right and left. It was reckoned that when three-quarters of an hour had passed the searchers would be fairly well in position. On a torch signal from Donald McShannon, the line would then begin to move forward.
Kenneth and Hector went off to the left in the wake of Miss Cunningham and the Colonel; and by the time they reached the opposite side of the glen and began the ascent to the plateau beyond, it was almost complete dark except for a vague glimmer of moonlight behind the scudding clouds.
The searchers were supposed to be spaced at about three or four yards; but Kenneth and Hector took care to keep within sight and hearing of Miss Cunningham and her companion. Kenneth’s mind was tense. Would the next hour prove his theory to be correct? Was Miss Cunningham Max Bergman — and would he lead them to Veronica Jane?
As they scrambled on to the plateau, Kenneth saw a shadow dart forward along the high lip of the glen.
The Colonel shouted: “Miss Cunningham — where are you? Where have you gone?”
“Hector,” said Kenneth urgently, “go and quieten the Colonel. Tell him I’ve gone with Miss Cunningham — anything you like… If I want you I’ll shout.”
“But look here”
“Do as I say, man!”
Kenneth moved forward. He could see the angular shadow flitting from boulder to boulder and rapidly outdistancing the line of searchers. Behind him he heard Hector and the Colonel talking. Then the voices died away, and the night closed in about himself and his quarry. Only the occasional cry of a bird and a torch-flicker far in the rear showed that any life existed other than their own.
Miss Cunningham’s footsteps could plainly be heard in the wet, brittle heather. She seemed to be moving steadily to the west, stopping every now and then as if to listen. At these times Kenneth froze in his tracks, taking what cover he could; and at last he became certain that his presence was unsuspected.
Presently he realized that their course would take them near Drumeden Farm. He concentrated on his task, using every well-remembered trick to ensure that his movements were silent and concealed. Sometimes he would think of Veronica Jane, and a pang of intense feeling would invade his heart; but he did his best not to think about her. He had to do his job. More personal considerations must be kept dourly in the background.
Then he knew that Miss Cunningham was heading for a cottage which in his younger days had been the home of the Drumeden shepherd. It was now deserted, as the hill had been given over almost entirely to cattle; but he remembered noticing on his visit to the farm with Veronica Jane that the rusty, corrugated iron roof was still intact. It was situated in a lonely hollow about a mile distant from the farm.
The shadow in front skirted a long tongue of rock and heather and entered the hollow. Beneath his feet Kenneth felt an overgrown, disused cart-track.
Suddenly, as he stepped forward quietly, he stumbled on a hidden rut. He felt himself losing balance and thrust out his hands to break his fall. He came down with very little sound, but as he lay still on the grass he saw Miss Cunningham, twenty yards ahead, stop and look back.
For several seconds nothing happened. Kenneth knew that in his position close against the earth he couldn't be seen. But as he watched, his eyes strained, his nerves taut, Miss Cunningham began to retrace her steps along the track.
Chapter 15
Last Encounter
Though unarmed, Kenneth knew that he would probably be more than a match for Max Bergman if it came to a stand-up fight. But he was unwilling to risk a showdown just yet. By this time, on account of her — or his — actions, he was fairly certain that Miss Cunningham was the Actor. But was Veronica Jane in the deserted cottage? Her safety was his first consideration.
Like a sinister shadow, footsteps soundless on the thick turf, Miss Cunningham came nearer and nearer until at last she was within only a few feet of Kenneth and he could see that she was no longer carrying the umbrella. His heart thumped against the ground, but he held his breath and remained utterly quiet.
She stopped suddenly and peered around her into the dark. Kenneth was convinced she would spot him, lying behind the billowy patch of heather; but it seemed that he was hidden better than he imagined, for after a moment she moved on past him, towards the entrance to the hollow.
He tried to guess what was in her mind. Was it her intention to make sure that she wasn't being closely followed before going into the cottage? From the entrance to the hollow she would be able to see the searchers' flashing lights and calculate how much time she could spend inside.
As the silent figure glided away and merged with the darker shadows of the gorse and heather, he decided to take a chance and investigate the cottage. If the answer to his own question was in the affirmative, then he would find Veronica Jane inside and catch Miss Cunningham unawares when she returned. On the other hand, if his guess was wrong he might lose touch with Miss Cunningham altogether and be unable to pick up her trail again — and she might yet escape with Veronica Jane.
It was a definite risk; but he had no time to weigh the pros and cons. He snaked forward along the track — silently, efficiently, feeling for obstacles with an outstretched hand, the moisture on grass and heather seeping through the knees of his trousers, the night scents of the moorland strong about him.
Presently the cottage loomed up directly in front, only a few yards away. He got to his feet beside a low window, and a glimmer of moonlight showed him a broken pane of glass.
He directed the beam of his torch through the jagged hole. At first he saw nothing but squalid signs of neglect — wallpaper hanging in strips from the walls, cobwebs thick on a rusty grate, dry rot splintering the bare wooden floor. Then a small movement attracted his attention. He swung his light towards the dark corner opposite, and his pulses hammered as he saw the sheen of fair, tumbled hair.
“Veronica Jane!” he whispered. “It’s me — Kenneth! Just one minute…”
He snapped out the torch and went towards the main door on his left. It was unlocked. It creaked slightly as he pushed it inwards, but the possibility that the sound might reach Miss Cunningham did not worry him. He was conscious of excitement and intense relief. He had found Veronica Jane.
Three long strides brought him across the floor to her. He knelt down and untied the gag about her mouth. His penknife sliced through the heavy string on her wrists and ankles.
For a moment she rested, biting her lips as circulation came back painfully to her arms and legs.
“Are you all right?” he muttered. “He didn’t — hurt you?”
“No. But I guess he wasn’t too considerate, either.’’
Her head lay against his shoulder. She seemed to find comfort in his nearness. Gently he brushed a strand of tousled hair back from her forehead.
“Pie’ll be here in a minute,’’ he told her. “I’ll try to arrest him, but if anything goes wrong I want you to get in touch with the search-party at once. They’re only about half-a-mile away — coming in this direction. You’ll see their torches.”
“But Kenneth”
“You must do as I say!”
“Very well… But — oh, I'm sorry giving you all this trouble. I've been a fool. I never suspected Miss Cunningham!”
“Of course you didn't. Neither did I.”
“What about Hugh?"
His voice hardened. “He got a nasty bump on the forehead. Otherwise there's no harm done."
“He couldn't help it, Kenneth."
“It's the second time he's made a mess of looking after you."
He broke off. There was a light step outside, and the door creaked again. Kenneth felt Veronica Jane's taut fingers on his arm.
“I'm going for him," he said, under his breath.
He squeezed her shoulders with rough tenderness. Then he was on his feet and moving towards the door, quiet as a cat.
Against the oblong of the doorway he saw a silhouette. He edged sideways, his hand touching the damp wall of the cottage. The silhouette remained motionless as if listening.
Kenneth's intention was to work his way along the wall towards the door and tackle Miss Cunningham unawares. But luck was against him. As he stepped quietly forward his foot went through a rotten plank in the floor. There was a sharp crack, and as he jumped to the side a beam of light struck him full in the eyes, blinding him. A voice came out of the darkness — a voice not unlike Miss Cunningham's but deeper now and more masculine.
“Stay where you are, Sergeant MacDonald. I have a gun."
He heard Veronica Jane’s quick intake of breath behind him. The next move was his, and for her sake he acted. Rapidly he measured the distance between himself and the door, where Miss Cunningham stood. Then, like a Rugby player, he dived beneath the stabbing ray of light.
He struck the floor and Miss Cunningham simultaneously. As he did so the torch in her hand fell and went out, and a pistol-shot blasted the air above his head. He felt the acrid stench of gunpowder; smoke stung his eyes. Then he was grappling with Max Bergman, his fingers on the wrist of the sinewy hand which held the gun.
“I've got him!" he shouted to Veronica Jane. “I'm all right. Get the others here quickly!"
She obeyed him, racing outside past their struggling figures. He knew that her instinct was to remain and help him; and at the back of his mind there was considerable surprise that for once — against her own inclinations — she should be doing exactly what he told her.
But the thought was soon obliterated by the more pressing problem of disarming his opponent.
That Miss Cunningham was Max Bergman he was now certain. Beneath the waterproof and tweed costume he could feel the hard, strong body of a man. The hand holding the pistol was as powerful as his own. And as they fought for mastery, the female hat and wig were torn off against the jamb of the door.
The American criminal was lithe and sinewy — and he knew all the tricks of a rough-and-tumble. His knee came up viciously, and had it not been for a fast, instinctive turn by Kenneth, the fight might have come to an end at that moment.
But Kenneth himself had been well trained in the art — especially in methods dealing with armed opponents. For some time he could only hold on grimly to the other’s pistol-hand, preventing it from pointing at his own body. Then, suddenly, as they rolled on to the patch of mud immediately outside the door, he saw his chance. He jerked up on his haunches, and Bergman’s arm was twisted cruelly across his shoulder. The Actor grunted with pain, and the pistol fell with a soft thud from his nerveless fingers.
Kenneth exhaled a small breath of satisfaction, let go the other’s wrist and turned, standing upright now, to continue the fight on more equal terms. But Bergman’s next action took him by surprise. The Actor bent down as if in pain, his head on a level with his opponent’s stomach. Then, without warning, he lunged forward, butting Kenneth and flinging him back, breathless, against the wall of the cottage. Next moment he was racing off in the dark towards the mouth of the hollow.
Kenneth’s right hand squelched in the mud churned up by their struggle. His head struck the edge of the doorway, and for a second a red-hot pain blurred his senses. Soon, however, he recovered wits and balance.
Twenty yards away he saw Bergman’s flitting shadow. Jerking himself to his feet, he ran forward in pursuit, one thought uppermost in his mind: if the Actor escaped him now, his rescue of Veronica Jane
would be a hollow victory.
Chapter 16
Borgadaille Cliff
According to her instructions, Veronica Jane found the nearest pair of searchers — they happened to be Donald McShannon and Wee Ned — and gave them the gist of her story. Then she led them hurriedly to the shepherd's cottage, where they were soon joined by several more of the party.
But to their surprise both Kenneth and the gangster had vanished; and though they shouted into the dark there was no response. They did, however, discover Miss Cunningham's torch and her hat and wig — also Bergman's pistol, half-buried in the mud. These objects the manager put away carefully in the pockets of his overcoat, as exhibits for the police on the following day.
Colonel Huskisson-Smythe spluttered in astonishment when Miss Cunningham's real identity was revealed to him; but Hector, nearly as anxious as Veronica Jane about the unexpected disappearance of Kenneth and Bergman, cut short his violent bursts of Hindustani with the suggestion that they should continue the search as already organized, this time for Kenneth instead of for Veronica Jane.
Donald McShannon readily agreed and used his torch to send “carry on" signals to those at either end of the long line. Hector was keen that Veronica Jane, tired out as she was, should go back to the hotel with Wee Ned; but she indignantly and emphatically turned down the idea.
For two hours the search went on — but without success; and it was long after midnight when the manager finally summoned his forces together, explained the situation and called it off, at any rate for the night.
Both Veronica Jane and Hector would have liked it to continue for a while longer, but they admitted that on the dark, difficult moorland further effort would probably be wasted. Besides, though his disappearance was puzzling, they knew that Kenneth was as a rule well able to look after himself. The hotel manager's theory was that he must have forced Bergman to reveal the hiding-place of his car, and had then made the criminal drive him to the Campbeltown Police Station. This opinion found considerable support among the wearied searchers, who by this time were only too eager to get home and into bed.
Escort to Adventure Page 18
