The Screaming Gull

by Angus MacVicar

  I hoped the strangers would not see the way in which I had begun to tremble. I tried to keep on breathing gently and easily as if I were still asleep, but I found the task difficult. I felt as if I were being slowly suffocated.

  The man with the deep voice spoke again.

  “You’re getting nervous, aren’t you, Reid?”

  “Not nervous. Just a little anxious. I wish to God February the first was past!”

  “Wait for it!” said his companion roughly. “Trust the Blind One to lay all her plans carefully. See how neatly she eliminated Dunbar, who may have learned something. Even though he slipped from the taxi, a suspected murderer won’t get much encouragement from MacLaren… I wonder if this is the fellow?”

  “If it is, then he’s shaved off his moustache since I saw him at Cairngarroch. But the clothes are identical. And though he lost the trail for a good part of the night, Mason is positive that this is the same man who jumped from MacLaren’s window about two in the morning. Probably he has shaved off his moustache as a disguise. It would certainly improve his looks!”

  Cowering down in the chair, I gave a little snore. The man with the deep voice seemed to take no notice of my effort.

  “We must make sure of him,” he muttered. “Mistakes are costly on this job.”

  “Don’t I know it! If we are caught, Wotherspoon, it means execution for high treason.”

  That snore, well-intentioned though it had been, was to prove my undoing. I stirred restlessly, as if I were about to awake; for I had been suddenly assailed by the first vague twitching of an unfortunate sneeze, caused, no doubt, by my artificial grunt. It was going to be rather an alarming event, I imagined, and I had to do something about it quickly.

  “Ssh!” It was Wotherspoon, the deep-voiced man, who suddenly gave the warning. “He’s wakening… Try and identify him if he gets up. The stock market was rather weak yesterday. Don’t you think so, Reid?”

  “De Havillands were fairly good, while International Nickel seemed — ”

  The sneeze was fast approaching when I yawned, stretched my arms and opened my eyes. Then:

  “Atisshoo!” I let go.

  As I looked at the two men opposite I pretended to be startled. One — Wotherspoon obviously — was built massively and possessed protruding eyes which seemed to be pulled downwards at the outer corners by his heavy jowls. On his left cheek I noticed a large mole of an unusual square shape. Reid, a tall, athletic individual, was bright and alert. He had dark waved hair and looked like a stage dancer. But his mouth was weak.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” I said. “I thought I had the room to myself.”

  “It is rather chilly this morning,” remarked Wotherspoon, his bulging eyes on my freshly shaven face. “Being in the open all night is rather conducive to a cold, especially at this time of the year.” I tried not to look guilty.

  “My dear sir,” I said, “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand you.”

  “Perhaps not,” returned Wotherspoon with an offensive leer. “Perhaps not.”

  I got up and moved towards the door, conscious of the close scrutiny which I was forced to undergo. I called myself all sorts of names for being a coward, but I was too scared of giving something away to engage them in conversation, as a more hardened adventurer would have done. Besides, I knew that Peter might return at any moment and arouse further complications.

  *

  My ‘son’ came back to the hotel at nine-thirty exactly, his face beaming and his body resplendent in clean and extremely well-fitting brown clothes. He bore a bulky suitcase and was panting a little under its weight.

  We retired to our room, and when I had changed we came down to a hearty breakfast, very affectionate as a father and son should be. Though I kept a sharp lookout for Wotherspoon and Reid they were at the time nowhere to be seen.

  As a matter of fact, we were the only people in the dining room. In this respect I was duly thankful, for Peter’s choice in plus-fours was highly original. My suit resembled nothing so much as a fancy dress costume representing a chessboard.

  Peter, who from a distance did not look more than twelve years old, enjoyed the fun immensely. He chatted on steadily through the meal, touching on subjects as diversified as football and the ethics of begging, and only twice, I think, had I to check him for his accent. He seemed to be a born actor, and a species of the Oxford accent did not appear to be difficult for him to accomplish. But my mind was occupied with the conversation I had overheard between the strangers in the smoke room, and I was anxious about Maureen’s safety and my own. Besides, I was utterly bewildered by all this strange talk concerning ‘The Screaming Gull’ and a mysterious personage known as the Blind One.

  *

  I took Peter with me when at eleven o’clock I set out for my meeting with Miss MacLaren. When I said we were going to meet a lady my ‘son’ grew remarkably excited. His stylish accent was immediately forgotten.

  “Is she yer wife or yer lass?” he inquired

  “Neither,” I replied, rather taken aback. “Actually she’s an important member of the gang to which I belong.”

  “Naw!” he exclaimed. “Weel, mind ye. I’m under naebody’s orders but yours, mister. I’m no’ muckle cairin’ for weemin’!”

  “Wait till you see her, Peter! You’ll do anything for her!”

  “Ha! I kent it fine!” he remarked cryptically, and a puckered smile chased across his little, old face. “Ye shouldna ha’e putt on thae wild-lookin’ claes. An’ thae specs! Ye’re no’ ill-favoured, specially wi’oot that wee scab o’ a moustache. But she’ll no’ think muckle o’ ye in that rig!”

  “Shut up, lad!”

  “Oh, ay! Sorry, faither!”

  “And talk decent English!”

  “Okay!”

  On a hoarding near the Caledonian Hotel I saw the first of the posters, and for once I had a glimpse of my face in print. Peter’s attention, too, was attracted by the notice and he went forward to examine the text.

  “Wanted for Murder” [he read out slowly, remembering this time my instructions about his accent], “William Dunbar, last seen on twenty-fourth January in Cairngarroch, Wigtownshire. Believed to have fled north, probably to Glasgow or Edinburgh. Aged twenty-seven. Height, five feet ten inches. Sturdily built. Long fair hair, parted on left side. Short military moustache. Fair complexion. Wearing blue serge suit and brown velour hat and having blue cloth overcoat.”

  Peter whistled softly. Then he looked at my picture, which, I saw, had been reproduced from an enlargement kept by Aunt Jane on a small table in her parlour. I watched the strange, doubtful look creep into his face. At last he looked up at me.

  “Are ye the man?” he asked simply.

  All round us people were scurrying and hurrying in different directions. The roar of the traffic was stunning and frightening and it echoed in my head like the sound of a waterfall.

  I nodded. I wanted to tell a lie; but I hadn’t the courage.

  “An’ did ye dae the bloody thing?” he asked, and his pale blue eyes were angry.

  “No. I didn’t, Peter.”

  “Weel… that’s a’richt!”

  We continued our walk through the murky morning, jostled and jostling in the crowds. A smir of soft rain, scarcely different from the fog which hung in wisps at the street corners, began to fall.

  “I’ll tell you everything later, Peter,” I said. “I should have told you before.”

  “Does the lassie ken aboot this — business?”

  “Yes.”

  “An’ does she believe ye guilty?”

  “No,” I answered. “She doesn’t… She’s a great girl!”

  “Ha!” he said again. “An’ dae ye no’ think I’m a great lad?”

  “Why?”

  “’Cos I dinna think ye guilty either.”

  “That helps a lot, Peter.”

  We were only a few hundred yards away from the meeting place outside McVitie’s, and my hands were becoming a little clammy
with excitement and anticipation, when Peter spoke again.

  “Ye couldna murder anybuddy, mister!”

  “What’s your reason for being so sure, old man?”

  “Ye havena got the guts… I mean, yer he’rt’s ower mealy. If ye had been a murderer ye’d ha’e kicked ma backside this mornin’ when I spoke tae ye comin’ ower the wa’.”

  I saw that what Peter said was meant to be a compliment and an expression of faith in my righteousness. I tweaked his ear, therefore, and he grinned.

  When we reached the frontage of the great restaurant in Princes Street I could see no sign of Maureen.

  *

  Peter and I stood rather dejectedly on the kerb, watching the huge black minute-hand of the clock on the tower on our left creep up from five minutes to twelve to the moment that the hour struck. Then, with jerky movements, it began to descend on the other side of the dial.

  To our right, across the valley, the mass of Edinburgh Castle loomed up, strangely dreary and forbidding in the rain-haze. Princes Street Gardens were covered by a clinging mist which seemed to rise like smoke from their rich soil.

  In spite of my uproarious suit of plus-fours, no one seemed to take particular notice of us; for in Edinburgh, where kilts and broadcloth are to be seen at every corner, a man’s clothing has to be remarkable indeed before it creates even slight attention. I began to feel utterly forlorn and afraid, and I began to believe that to maintain my courage Maureen’s help had now become absolutely necessary in frequent doses.

  It was twelve-fifteen exactly when the excitement began. Peter said afterwards that during the following half-minute he had been more scared than ever previously in his young life.

  “Gosh!” he exclaimed suddenly. “What’s that?”

  I, too, had heard the curious sound which wailed clear and high above the continuous roar and hiss of the traffic. At first I was at a loss to identify what common noise it resembled; but suddenly the truth struck me and a spasm of fear shot through my body. It was exactly like the scream of a seagull, magnified many times.

  People on all sides of us, hurrying in the wide street, stopped and looked round to discover the origin of the shrill, eerie sound, and for a moment a strange quiet descended on the busy thoroughfare. I found myself muttering:

  “‘The Screaming Gull’! ‘The Screaming Gull’!”

  I believed that the call had come from some car passing along the street, for it had seemed to rise up directly from among the stream of vehicles. And, indeed, subsequent investigations by the police showed that it had emanated from a specially constructed bugle, employed by the driver of a big Daimler to indicate to his confederates that he had arrived on the scene of action. In the disturbance which later occurred the car had quietly slipped away.

  All that was clear to me at the time, however, was that the scream had been a signal of some sort; for just as the crowds lost interest I was suddenly aware that three men, wearing constables’ uniforms, were standing on either side and in front of me. I shivered, and Peter’s hand groped for mine. His little puckered mouth had grown tremulous, for the police were his hereditary enemies.

  The broad, powerful officer in front stepped up to me quickly.

  “William Dunbar,” he said, “I arrest you on a charge of murdering Charles Merriman. Anything you say may be taken down in evidence against you.”

  *

  Before the final issue in the queer business of ‘The Screaming Gull’ I was to experience several moments of bitter fear and humiliation; but not one of them, I think, recurs to me quite so vividly as this instant of utter terror. The night of sleeplessness and anxiety through which I had passed may, of course, have had something to do with the fact. Things seemed to spin around me, and my knees appeared to be incapable of supporting my weight. The big clock-tower opposite swayed like a leering giant and then receded into the distance until it became small and insignificant. The roar of the traffic on Princes Street grew dim and remote, and I suddenly wondered if I were dreaming.

  Memories flashed through my brain — memories of Aunt Jane, of my sister Annie, of Merriman, of Maureen. And as I thought of Maureen’s sweet eyes and the courage-giving clasp of her hand I steadied my reeling senses. With a sharp sweep, as if I had been looking at it through a faulty telescope and had at last found the correct focus, the clock-tower came back to its normal position. The far-off sound of the traffic roared again in my ears, monotonous and loud. I remember distinctly feeling Peter’s little, hard hand gripping my thumb in desperate fashion, causing a good deal of pain in my arm.

  All ways of escape seemed to be cut off, and I looked rather despairingly into the face of the constable who was about to clutch my shoulder. And then, simultaneously, two different, astonishing questions leaped into mv mind. Was it not strange, I thought, that an ordinary constable should have been entrusted with the arrest of a murderer? And where had I seen this big policeman before?

  “I’m innocent!” I began.

  But even as I spoke I glimpsed the queer square mole on the left cheek of the man in front of me. And then at once I recognized the protruding eyes and deep bass voice. It was Wotherspoon, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

  I looked to my left and saw that the man there, wearing the blue uniform, was none other than Reid. The individual who had come up from the right I had never seen before. He was young, lean, and wiry, but curiously enough his close-cropped hair was iron-grey His eyes were cruel.

  My first coherent sensation, following the discovery, was one of relief. The whole affair, obviously, was a rather crude plan, calculated to take us by surprise, and the three men who had accosted us were no more policemen than Peter and I were.

  The big man put his hand on my arm and over his shoulder I saw a small red Humber — a sports model with a black hood — draw up about ten yards away. There was a girl at the wheel. And as I recognized Maureen I yelled to Peter:

  “Fight for it, lad! That’s our friend in the red car!”

  I lashed out at Wotherspoon’s legs with my right foot, and he crashed to the pavement with a smothered shout of pain. Reid leaped to the assistance of his companion, but I struck out blindly, and thankfully felt my fist meet the hard bone of his cheek. It was the first time I had used my hands to injure an enemy, and I felt like a heavyweight champion. I almost shouted in triumph.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I observed a remarkable thing. The third of the bogus policemen came rushing for me, a truncheon swinging in his hand. But as he ran forward Peter MacSporran knelt down suddenly before him, and I was satisfied to see the lean grey-headed youth fall headlong with a grunt of fear and surprise.

  Peter was on his feet like a flash.

  “That’s settled them!” he gasped.

  “Into the back of the red car, lad!”

  Though the affair was over almost in a couple of seconds a crowd was already gathering and two burly individuals in bowler hats were bellowing for help. I think they were probably plain-clothes policemen. But before anyone could act I had scrambled into the front seat of the red Humber beside Maureen, and Peter had taken a nose-dive into the tonneau.

  “It’s me — Dunbar!” I gasped. “Quick, Maureen!”

  She must have been scared, but outwardly she remained calm enough and her presence of mind did not fail her. Scarcely looking at me, she let in the clutch, and the Humber was off down the broad street with a scream and a roar like an aeroplane. Fortunately no genuine uniformed policemen appeared to be in the vicinity at the moment.

  Glancing back, I saw Wotherspoon and company rise quickly and disappear up the only side street in the vicinity, pursued by the gentlemen in the bowler hats, while a little knot of people still continued to discuss excitedly the remarkable occurrence which they had witnessed.

  “Good lord!” I said at last when we had reached the comparative seclusion of Church Street in the West End. “That was a narrow squeak! They weren’t policemen at all. More of Merriman’s enemies, apparently.”
r />   I felt weak now and my hands shook annoyingly. My fervid hope was that Maureen would not observe my trembling.

  “What an amazing person you are, Mr. Dunbar!” she said quietly at last. “And what a sight! I should never have recognized you! You’re exactly like a short-sighted bookie. Probably the crowd on Princes Street thought you were a welsher… And who’s the plucky little boy?”

  Peter, apparently, had very acute hearing.

  “I tellt him he shouldna ha’e putt on siccan claes when he was meetin’ ye!” he remarked, chuckling. “An’ if ye want tae ken who I am — weel, he’s ma faither!”

  “What!”

  The Humber swerved a little, and glancing down I saw Maureen’s eyes cloud over in some strange fashion.

  “He is my son — for the moment… I adopted him at six o’clock this morning. Miss MacLaren, meet Peter MacNair and his father, William MacNair.”

  “What next!” sighed Maureen, but she was smiling now and driving perfectly.

  “That’s just what I was wondering,” I said. “Where are we going?”

  “To Glasgow,” she replied, “eventually. But we’re not taking the direct route, in case anyone takes a notion to follow us. We’ll dodge about a bit.”

  *

  We were silent for a time, while the Humber made its way through the gradually thinning traffic and emerged at last from broad, quiet streets into the open country. A red, wintry sun, slowly sinking in front, was spreading a queer half-light over the flat fields; and a few gaunt trees, straining upwards among the dripping hedges, gave a desolate, cold aspect to the landscape. Looming out of the north, a great black cloud promised more rain.

  Peter spoke from the back.

  “Man,” he said, “this is a gran’ caur ye’ve got, lassie!”

  “D’you like it, Peter?”

  “I dae that… Miss MacLaren, are ye no’ Heilan’ — like masel’? Ye’ve got a Heilan’ name.”

  “Oh, I’m a Highlander all right. Your — er — father hasn’t much chance against us, has he? A poor, lonely south-country man.”

  “He says ye’re his boss, anywey,” remarked Peter, without strict accuracy.