The Screaming Gull

by Angus MacVicar

  My feet grew weary and sore, and for a period between three and four o’clock my eyes were heavy with sleep. The bitter wind of Edinburgh, always so much more searching than the breezes of the west, whipped through my cloth overcoat and chilled my body; and for the first time in my life I felt the pangs of hunger and discomfort.

  I longed for daylight and yet in another way I prayed that it should be long in coming, for when the darkness cleared the streets would be crowded with people and I should feel every eye studying my face. And I was worried about food. I had over twenty pounds in notes and silver in my pockets, but I knew that I should be terrified to enter a restaurant and order a meal.

  For a while during my aimless wandering my mind was occupied with Maureen and her father, and I was puzzled to account for the relationship that had existed between them and Merriman. Whatever it was, it had been based, apparently, on the queer, mysterious phrase, ‘The Screaming Gull’. I wished Merriman had been able to explain things to me clearly, for as it was I was working stupidly and gropingly in the dark.

  It was obvious enough, however, that Sir David suspected me at least — if he did not actually believe me guilty — of Merriman’s murder. I did not blame him, now that I came to consider the affair with more calmness; for on its face value my story had been so extraordinary as to have been almost incredible. And then my asking him to explain the mystery of Merriman’s job must have struck him as being decidedly queer in the circumstances, and as exactly the kind of question a bold and daring criminal would ask. I smiled a little wistfully when I imagined myself filling such a role.

  But I felt a glow of warm feeling as I remembered the grip of Maureen’s hand. She believed that I was innocent. There was no doubt of that, though why she had been so certain I could not quite fathom, unless it was that she had seen more deeply into my character than had her father. All I could think about was the gallant way in which she had comforted me and given me a chance to escape. And in another seven hours, if all went well, I should be seeing her again. We were going to work together… and we were going to win. We had got to win, Maureen and I.

  The memory of her fragrance and loveliness acted on me like wine. Gradually my courage — what little I had of it — returned, and I began to consider rather feverishly ways and means of changing my appearance and getting food. Maureen had said I had got to disguise myself in some way, and her orders must be obeyed.

  Granted that I was able to secure possession of a pair of scissors and a razor I considered that I could make a fairly good attempt at altering my general characteristics; for my long hair and short, stubby moustache were the most distinctive features of my rather plain and homely appearance. And with a clean-shaven upper lip and short, trimmed head of hair I imagined I could enter a public place without much fear of being recognized. The majority of people would only take casual notice of the published description of Merriman’s supposed murderer.

  The trouble was to lay hands on a pair of scissors and a razor, and I fretted feebly at my forgetfulness in having left my suitcase in the taxi. To enter a shop and demand the articles would, in my opinion, be worse than madness, because sooner or later the police would learn of the fact and my projected disguise would be of no avail.

  It was evidence of the remarkable change that was beginning to creep over my outlook on life that I decided on burglary as the best means of achieving my end. Three days ago, had I considered at all the possibility of my becoming a criminal, even in a small way, I should have almost swooned in grief and horror at the prospect. Now, however, I considered the affair, if not with coolness, at least with some care. The simple theft of a pair of scissors and a razor would not, I believed, cause much stir in a well-to-do household, and the odds were very much against it ever coming to the ears of the police.

  It was still pitch dark at half past five in the morning, but workmen were already appearing on the main streets, buses were beginning to ply on their prescribed routes and in the distance I heard the bell clanging on an early tram. There was, therefore, no time to lose. I pulled my hat well down over my eyes, turned up the collar of my coat and looked for a quiet street in which middle-class householders would not yet be stirring.

  Michael Lane, which was little more than an alley, looked promising, for there were few electric standards glowing in its narrow, quiet length, and a heavy darkness hung over the unlit parts of the pavements. I slouched down the left-hand side of the lane, therefore, with a muttered prayer that I should meet no one, and keeping close to the low wall which screened off the back premises of a row of large houses, obviously occupied by persons of some wealth. I searched diligently for the glazed window of a bathroom, and by a fortunate chance I glimpsed one which, when I stood at a certain angle, glinted in the light from a big street lamp overlooking a clothes-green.

  Glancing round furtively, I slithered over the wall and sprinted across the stretch of short grass, my heart thudding like a trip-hammer as I ran.

  The window, which was scarcely three feet high by two feet wide, was raised only some eighteen inches above the level of the ground, and I had to kneel when I tried to lift the lower sash. My initial effort proved, however, unsuccessful The window was latched.

  For a moment, not being a habitual night prowler, I was completely at a loss, but almost immediately I remembered that I had a small penknife in my pocket. I took it out with a hand which refused to remain steady and inserted the larger blade in the jamb. I pushed hard to the left, and with what seemed to me to be a shattering noise the latch jumped open. I crouched there motionless on the grass for minutes on end, waiting for a sound which would proclaim that my presence had been detected.

  Time passed, however, and nothing stirred in the house, though for a second or two I imagined I heard a soft, scraping movement in Michael Lane. At last, when the sound was not repeated, I ventured to raise the lower sash. It slid up silently enough, leaving a small opening through which, not without some difficulty, I crept.

  The bathroom was a tiny one, filled with the common pleasant smell of shaving soap, rubber matting and damp towels. Once inside I lit a match and glanced round quickly till I found what I wanted — a small, white-painted shelf above the wash-hand basin. On it, among other toilet articles, there rested a silver-mounted shaving brush, a tube of shaving-cream and a metal-cased safety-razor. On a hook to the left-hand side hung three pairs of scissors.

  Without hesitation I transferred the four articles which I required to the deep pockets of my coat, and with a sigh of relief I regained the clothes-green, closing the window softly behind me.

  I was climbing over the wall, the last obstacle between me and safety, when a small, piping voice sounded from the shadows beneath me.

  “Hey, mister! Whit’s a’ the steer aboot?”

  I confess that my heart took a wild bound and I landed on all fours in the mud of the street, so great was my scare and astonishment. I wheeled round quickly, to be confronted by an urchin, whose figure was that of a boy’s, but whose face was strangely old. As he emerged from the darkness underneath the wall, where, apparently, he had been hiding, I saw that he was clad in disreputable clothes, which comprised a torn and rippled grey jersey, dirty long flannel trousers and heavy hobnailed boots His tousled mop of hair was red as a flame.

  “The devil!” I exclaimed.

  “Naw!” he returned. “I’m Peter MacSporran. Are ye a burglar?”

  I was absolutely at a loss. I might have tackled a large policeman who had caught me red-handed in such a fashion. But this slim child presented me with a problem for which at the moment I could find no solution. We stood, strange company, facing one another rather awkwardly on the dark, still street.

  “What are you doing out at this time of the morning?” I asked hoarsely. “What do you want?”

  He looked up at me, his eyes wrinkling as he endeavoured to make out my features.

  “I micht be axin’ ye the same questions!” he answered with great calmness. “But if ye
want tae ken, ma faither promised me a lashin’ the next time I putt ma heid in the door. That twa two days ago. So I jeest never went hame… A maitter o’ fac’, he’s no’ ma faither at all. But he mairrit ma mither, an’ since she dee’d a year syne he’s been lashin’ me regular.”

  “Hard luck, old man!” I said. “What age are you?”

  “Fufteen.”

  “You’re from Glasgow?”

  “Ay, ’deed! An’ prood o’t! Ma mither cam’ tae Leith when I was twal’ tae be a scullery maid.”

  “I see… Now maybe I’d better be going, Peter.”

  “But are ye a burglar?” he insisted. “Ye look kind o’ feared for wan o’ thae gentry.”

  “Well, no! I’m not exactly a burglar,” I answered. “Not a professional anyway.”

  He seemed to be quite disappointed.

  “I was thinkin’ I micht be an assistant burglar,” he said rather wistfully. “When I seen yes clim ower that wall an’ disappear in by, I sez tae masel’ that I’d ax ye tae tak’ me on… But ye’ll no’ be needin’ me, it seems. An’ I doot I’ll jeest need tae gang hame for that lashin’, ’cos I canna get much tae eat, beggin’ at doors.”

  Now, for all I knew at the time, Peter might have been telling a cartload of falsehoods in order to engage my sympathy; but somehow the possibility of the boy’s being insincere did not strike me until long afterwards. And when I made the necessary inquiries I discovered that after all his story had been perfectly true in every detail.

  All that concerned me at the time, however, was an overwhelming pity which overtook me for the unfortunate, old-fashioned little boy. He seemed so tiny and forlorn, despite his vaunted fifteen years; and my heart was heavy at the thought of the ‘lashin’’ that was awaiting him at the hands of his stepfather. I knew what it was to be hunted and afraid… I spoke, therefore, on the spur of the moment.

  “Come on, Peter,” I said. I’m needing an assistant right enough. And I think you’re the very person I require. You can write a note to your stepfather later on, saying you’ve got work. I don’t suppose he’ll have any objections.”

  His face, illuminated by the light from the big electric standard, puckered up as he smiled. He held out a thin, dirty little paw and I shook it warmly.

  “What’s oor first job, mister?”

  “A wash-up, fresh clothes for us both, and then — a huge breakfast.”

  We found a well-appointed lavatory not far from Michael Lane, and there, immediately on its being opened by an aged and bleary gentleman, I shaved off my moustache and cut my hair short. Peter MacSporran watched the operations with some interest and offered expert comments and practical assistance when the occasion presented itself. It was he, indeed, who made me trim my hair so closely at the back that for days afterwards I suffered from a stiff neck.

  But all the while I was wondering vaguely how my newly-found friend would fit into the scheme of things when Maureen and I tackled the affair of ‘The Screaming Gull’. I was rubbing my face vigorously with a towel when rather an arresting idea struck me.

  My notion was simply this. With my appearance changed as it was, and with Peter MacSporran as my companion, I ought surely to be fairly safe from arrest; for the police would be searching for a single man having long hair and a little moustache. And after some painstaking practice I should be able to pose as a proud father, with Peter as my son. It was a notion which, as I considered it, began to appeal more and more to my fancy. Peter’s presence, I began to believe, would be the most effective disguise that I could accomplish.

  One part of the trouble, however, was that I should look a remarkably youthful parent to have a son as old as Peter appeared to be. To overcome this difficulty I decided that still more preparations were necessary before my new partner and I had our much-needed breakfast, and as I completed the towelling of my face I did some hard thinking. Finally I realized that I must trust the boy to carry out the scheme I had evolved.

  “Peter,” I said at last, “I want you to do certain jobs for me. We’ve got a jolly difficult piece of work ahead of us, and both of us must be disguised… Now, listen carefully, old man. Here is a ten-pound note. Find a good second-hand clothes shop and buy a boy’s suit for yourself. A boy’s suit, mind you, with neat, short trousers. Get a waterproof too, shoes, stockings and nightclothes. Ask the shopkeeper to allow you to change into your new togs on the premises. Then with the money you have left get a plus-four suit for me. You’ll be able to guess my size. Stockings, brogues and pyjamas will be necessary, too, and a cloth cap. Purchase an old suitcase and put all my gear inside it. Then visit Woolworth’s and buy any old pair of spectacles you like. I’m going to make myself a real guy… Understand? When all your shopping’s done report at Collins’s Private Hotel round the corner there, and ask for Mr. William MacNair. That’s not my real name, you know; but it’ll do, won’t it? If they want to know who you are, say your name’s Peter MacNair and that you’re my son. And look here! Try and forget that Glasgow accent when you’re speaking to the people in the hotel!”

  His little, puckered face, now clean and fresh after the hearty scrubbing it had received, was glowing with excitement when I had completed my instructions.

  “Gosh!” he exclaimed. “This is gran’!”

  “Will you manage?” I asked a little anxiously. “Accent and all?”

  “Manage! Man, I could manage far mair as that!”

  “And you won’t be long?”

  “Gi’e me an ’oor!”

  “Right!… And remember, Peter, see that your knees are clean!”

  He grinned, appreciating the joke.

  “Okay, faither!” he remarked.

  It was daylight when we emerged into the street from the public wash-up. The town was fairly busy and a chill fog hung over the serried housetops like a pall. Peter scuttled off at once, without a word, to carry out his commission, while I made my way slowly to Collins’s Hotel.

  I had no idea at the time that I was being followed.

  Chapter 4

  I should have to risk my clothes for the time being, I saw, but I did not think it likely that my very common type of blue serge suit would tend to make the management suspicious of me until they had time to read the morning papers. And by then I hoped I should be a respectable father on holiday with his son, wearing, in all probability, horribly patterned plus-fours — and spectacles — which would render suspicions practically impossible. In my opinion it was better at any rate to get inside a hotel at once rather than to loiter waiting for Peter in the streets, where at any moment I might encounter a smart and vigilant policeman.

  I informed the elderly lady who greeted me in the vestibule of the hotel that I had just arrived in the city from the north and that my son would be along shortly. He had, I said, gone to visit an old school friend of his whose home was only a few blocks away.

  I wanted a double room for a couple of nights. And could breakfast for two be ready in three-quarters of an hour? I should also like to pay for our room in advance. The manageress, who had obviously risen from the ranks of Leith Walk, was effusively glad to accommodate me in every respect.

  I ordered a packet of cigarettes and retired to the smoke room to await the arrival of Peter and to enjoy the new luxury to which Maureen had introduced me earlier that morning. I wished my sister Annie could have seen me there, smoking — and Aunt Jane! Then, for a moment, a sudden heartache again possessed me as I imagined the anxiety which both of them must now be suffering on my behalf… But I stifled it fiercely, for I knew that if once I allowed my thoughts to run riot I should probably go mad.

  I saw by the ornate marble clock on the mantelpiece that it was as yet only half past eight. But already a generous coal fire blazed in the grate and I sank down into one of the big armchairs to stretch out my legs gratefully to the heat.

  I gave myself up to the luxury of ease. Once or twice a little twinge of fear struck me that Peter, with ten pounds in his possession, would conveniently forg
et to return; but latterly I dismissed the thought as being mean and unfair to my friend.

  After a while, when I flung away the stub of my cigarette, I think I must have dozed off for a couple of minutes; for I was suddenly aware that two other men had entered the room and were speaking in low voices at the opposite side of the hearth. I was too lazy even to open my eyes, and I remained stretched out, apparently fast asleep.

  Then all at once I was actually very wide awake, though I believe that I gave no sign of the fact. My whole body tingled and a strange chill came over my heart. But my eyes were tightly shut, and by an effort I allowed my muscles to relax after their first stiffening. What exercised my mind at the moment was whether the affair was a remarkable coincidence or a well-planned encounter such as had occurred in the episode of the taxi.

  “Thank God!” one of the strangers had said. “Merriman is out of the way at last! I blundered badly at Cairngarroch, and my failure didn’t please the Blind One.”

  The thing was almost incredible, and I began to wonder if, after all, I had been dreaming. From the evidence of my senses here before me was the man who had attempted to kill Merriman, first by drowning and then by shooting. But could I believe such evidence? My doubts were immediately set at rest.

  “It seems plain sailing now,” returned the potential murderer’s companion in a deeper, more commanding voice. “Merriman alone had the knowledge to find ‘The Screaming Gull’.”

  “True enough. unless the girl.”

  “What girl?”

  “MacLaren’s daughter. The Blind One thinks she’ll be sent out in Merriman’s place… And she has learned a lot about us.”

  “But what can she do — a woman?”

  “I know. But still, there’s always the danger.”

  “Then she should be silenced — like Merriman.”

  “Not much chance. Her father has plainclothes policemen following her about everywhere.”