The Screaming Gull

by Angus MacVicar

  “That’s exactly the position.” For the first time I noticed the dark rings beneath Maureen’s eyes. “Of course, I shall keep in touch with my father, and he may be able to tell us about the work of his other agents. Even though we fail, they may be successful… Poor Daddy! He was terribly upset over your escape last night, and if he knew that I had joined forces with you he would be crazy with anxiety.”

  “And what wud he say if he kent aboot me?” asked Peter, breaking a silence.

  “Goodness knows!” exclaimed Maureen, and then she laughed. She was plucky, every inch of her. “He’d probably dissolve into tears!”

  “That wud be a gey daft thing tae dae, in ma opeenion! Plenty time tae dissolve intae tears when the Blin’ Yin does her stuff! But I’m no’ scared o’ an auld wife that canna see. I thocht it was the bobbies ye were up agin.”

  Peter’s remark started a new train of thought in my head.

  “Maureen,” I exclaimed, “why doesn’t your father call in the police to assist him?”

  “Simply because if the police were consulted ‘The Screaming Gull’ would learn exactly how much we know of their affairs. Didn’t I tell you that even some of the police are suspected of being members of the society? As it is, ‘The Screaming Gull’ know as little about our doings as we know about theirs. Perhaps even less. Further, if the police were told of the affair a wholesale panic might be aroused in the country, and foreign governments might seize their opportunity to attack. Europe, as you know, is at the moment on the very edge of a volcano, and the slightest spark would be sufficient to raise a conflagration. This is a Secret Service job, pure and simple.”

  “I see,” I said. “I’m very dense, aren’t I?”

  “It remains to be seen,” replied Maureen.

  She smiled and my heart leaped unaccountably. In spite of her capable and shrewd outlook upon life, Maureen was a disturbing sort of person to smile at a fellow.

  *

  We remained at the inn until the rain slackened shortly before eight o’clock. By that time our plans for the next few days had been fully discussed. Peter and I were almost overcome by sleep; but Maureen still appeared to be as fresh as paint.

  She had obviously been prepared for business before setting out from Edinburgh; for about seven o’clock she had taken her suitcase upstairs and had completely changed her clothes in one of the bedrooms.

  No longer was she neatly and trimly dressed. Her heavy brown tweed costume was loose-fitting and old, and her brogues were stout and obviously well-used. Her hat was a floppy cloth affair which I detested as being the worst possible setting for her delicate little face; but which I approved of utterly as a disguise. On her arm she carried a light waterproof.

  “Gosh,” said Peter, “ye’re near as wild-lookin’ as ma faither!”

  “Then I must be bad!” smiled Maureen. Suddenly she added: “I think, Peter, you’ve been forgetting lately your nice new genteel accent. You never know who may be listening.”

  “Sorry, mither!”

  At eight we bade the landlady of the Stirling Arms goodbye, and the good woman expressed her pleasure at being made responsible for Maureen’s suitcase and the red car. The latter had been locked in an old disused horse-box in the yard.

  “Nobody shall harm it, madam,” she said in her soft voice. “And you will be back for it — when?”

  “A week tomorrow,” said Maureen casually. “We ought to have finished our walking-tour by that time.”

  “And our little boy,” I said, “will be looking forward to more of your excellent Irish stew and cider.”

  Stirling was only three miles off along the main load and we tramped the distance through a thin smir of rain which followed the downpour. It was fairly dark, but behind the heavy clouds was the moon; and we had no difficulty in finding our way to the town.

  Peter and I were as tired as cart-horses when we arrived at the Royal Hotel in Main Street, and my hands were a little unsteady when I signed the book for us all as ‘Mr. and Mrs. William MacNair and Peter MacNair’. My ‘son’ and I occupied a room next door to Maureen’s. Both of us, I think, were asleep two minutes after our heads touched the pillows.

  *

  I awoke in the darkness, with my heart beating in suffocating fashion. Somewhere in the hotel a clock with a mellow chime struck four. Had Maureen, in the next room to us, screamed? Or had I been having a nightmare?

  Everything now seemed still, save for the wind sighing in the eaves and Peter’s steady breathing in the bed near the door. I was in an agony of indecision. If I were to rush through to Maureen’s bedroom, only to find that I had been mistaken about her cry, she might not understand my anxiety and our friendship might be irretrievably damaged. On the other hand, were I to remain where I was, cowering beneath the blankets, Maureen might be hurt or carried off under my very nose. I knew well enough by this time the resources of the enemy.

  Something stirred sharply in the adjoining room, and as I heard the creaking movement I made up my mind. Flinging off the blankets I tiptoed past the soundly sleeping Peter to the door and went outside into the corridor. I was thankful to know that even if I were seen entering Maureen’s room at this time of night no one would be in the least surprised, for was I not her ‘husband’?

  Softly I turned the handle, and, closing the door behind me, I switched on the electric light.

  She was sitting bolt upright in her bed, both hands clutching the edge of a blanket to her breast. Her rounded arms gleamed rosy and exquisite. Her hair was loose, and a long, dark tendril lay over one side of her forehead. She was pale, and her blue eyes, matching the slight silk garment that she wore, were big and round. They stared at me in a kind of haughty, questioning way.

  “I thought — I thought I heard you scream, Maureen,” I stammered. “Did you?”

  “No. I didn’t, Bill.”

  I must have looked rather queer standing there in the cold, clad only in my rumpled pyjamas.

  “Then I’m sorry. I — I was worried.”

  I could not be quite certain about her thoughts. To all outward appearances she was calm enough, and even a little annoyed at my sudden entrance at this strange hour. And yet I wondered why she should be breathing so jerkily, and why, as I continued to stand irresolute, her cheeks grew warm.

  She was so lovely. And not once before had I seen her look so fragile and so desirable. A sweet perfume filled the room, making me a little lightheaded; and I was assailed by a strange emotion — one which in my sheltered life I had never before experienced.

  A ghastly thought flashed in my mind. I wanted to gather her little, slender, silk-clad figure into my arms; to kiss her lips, to kiss the soft white contour of her throat. And I was her ‘husband’… She must have seen the temptation marked on my face and the bitter struggle by which I strove to overcome it; for I felt my jaws tighten and the blood thumped in my temples.

  But suddenly I knew that I had beaten down the devilish thing that had suggested itself to me. I felt weak and desperately ashamed. I looked over at Maureen, and to my complete surprise I saw that she was smiling, quite unafraid, and in the frank, comradely way that I had come to love.

  “Aren’t you cold, Bill?” she asked.

  “No,” I answered.

  I went over to her side, and, lifting one small, ring-less hand, I kissed it. As I did so, I thought she gave a queer little gasp.

  “I’m going, Maureen,” I said. “I’m sorry if — if…”

  She laughed very softly. Slowly her hands, still grasping the protecting blankets, slipped down from her breast. With a quick movement she lay back and snuggled beneath the bedclothes.

  “Don’t say any more, Bill,” she whispered. “Go back to bed, and — sweet dreams. Good night, again!”

  I closed her door quietly behind me and went back to my room. Peter was still sleeping the sleep of the just, his flaming red head a splash of vivid colour against the white pillow. I think I rather envied him at that moment.

&nbs
p; *

  In the morning we came down to breakfast almost together. Peter manfully greeted Maureen as an affectionate son should. His loud voice held no trace of a Glasgow accent. But I searched her eyes for traces of annoyance resulting from the incident which had taken place during the night. They were clear and untroubled, however, and met mine with the old friendliness. In fact, for a fleeting moment I believe that they held something even warmer and more tender than mere friendship. Then I dismissed the idea fiercely.

  As we passed through the hallway outside the dining-room, I picked up a copy of the Daily Courier, which had not yet been taken from its folds. The flaring headlines across the front pages were startling.

  ‘VOICE FROM THE DEAD’, they announced. ‘WAS IT MERRIMAN WHO DIED IN STRANRAER? STRANGE MURDER MYSTERY.’

  Chapter 6

  The article which appeared below the arresting headlines must have caused considerable excitement even in the breast of the necessarily hardened night-editor of the Daily Courier. To Maureen, Peter, and me it was astounding and mightily puzzling.

  I noticed other people in the big, low-ceilinged dining room, most of whom, I imagined, were commercial travellers, open their newspapers and discuss the startling intelligence with more animation than is usual in human beings at 8.30 in the morning. A photograph of myself — obviously reproduced from the same print as that used by the police — embellished the sensational letterpress in the Daily Courier, and I was thankful for more than one reason that I had shaved off my moustache and donned horn-rimmed glasses.

  The main section of the article ran as follows:

  As reported in our later editions yesterday, a warrant has been issued by the Chief Constable of Wigtownshire for the arrest of William Dunbar, Ashgrove Cottage, Cairngarroch on a charge of murdering Charles Merriman, of whose address and occupation no particulars have become available, and who has apparently, no relatives in existence. Up till a late hour this morning no trace of Dunbar’s whereabouts could be discovered by the police.

  Merriman, on the face of things, gained admittance to Stranraer Cottage Hospital on Wednesday afternoon, suffering from a severe bullet wound above the heart. The patient was accompanied by Dr James Anderson Cairngarroch. who personally vouched for the wounded man’s identity and whose statement led the police to suspect Dunbar of a serious crime.

  Late on Wednesday night the patient died, without having regained consciousness, and his body was removed to the mortuary of the hospital. There, by order of the police, the corpse still awaits burial.

  On Wednesday, it appears, William Dunbar, the suspected man, took the afternoon train from Cairngarroch to Edinburgh; but since that moment all trace of his movements has been lost.

  The affair had at first every appearance of being a reasonably straightforward case, until it took a mysterious and sensational turn last night, about half past nine, when a remarkable interruption was experienced by Scottish wireless listeners.

  Just as the second news bulletin was about to be broadcast, what seems to have been a powerful local station — not yet identified — began to operate on exactly the same wavelength as that employed by the Glasgow transmitter. In consequence the Scottish Regional programme was completely blotted out.

  A thin, weak voice was heard speaking out of the ether, and so far as can be ascertained, the exact words used were: “I am Merriman, who is supposed to have been murdered. My wound causes no anxiety. I have escaped from them. Dunbar is innocent. To those whom it may concern — Nineteen, sixty-nine, seven, thirty-one, sixty-nine, twenty-seven, twelve, fifty-four should read two, three, four, thirty-nine, twenty-seven, eleven ten, fifty-three.” The last part of the message was repeated once.

  Immediately after this amazing speech had come to an end the unknown station ceased to interfere and the Scottish programme re-asserted itself on private sets, to continue uninterrupted until the usual hour of midnight

  To begin with, the matter was treated as a hoax, perpetrated in exceedingly bad taste. But the police, on a slender chance, invited Miss Jane Mathieson, aunt of William Dunbar, in whose cottage at Cairngarroch Merriman is alleged to have received the fatal wound, to visit Stranraer Cottage Hospital and view the body. Miss Mathieson, who has shown fine courage and dignity throughout her trying ordeal, readily complied with their request.

  Later she affirmed definitely that the body is not that of Charles Merriman. The head is completely covered by thin, greying hair; but Merriman’s, she states, was partially bald. In all other respects, however, she could not differentiate between the appearance of the dead man and that of Merriman.

  An attempt was immediately made to communicate with Dr. Anderson, who accompanied the wounded man by ambulance from Cairngarroch to Stranraer, but no answer could be got when his house was rung up.

  It has subsequently been learned that he did not return to Cairngarroch after leaving his patient at the hospital, and a theory that the doctor may have been the victim of foul play has since been put forward by the police.

  A further sensational aspect of the case was revealed to our representative early this morning. The fact has been definitely established that while the ambulance bearing the wounded man left Cairngarroch about midday, three hours elapsed before it arrived at Stranraer, which is only some twelve miles distant.

  *

  We discussed the matter quite impersonally at the breakfast table; for there were about a dozen other people in the room and we had no notion when we should be overheard. I was at a loss to understand the situation; but Maureen, strangely enough, did not seem to be unduly surprised. Peter grabbed the paper when I had finished and proceeded to scan the news with considerable interest. The large sheets caused him so much bother, indeed, that he spilt on the tablecloth most of the gravy on his plate of ham and eggs.

  “Peter, you little imp!” exclaimed Maureen in a maternal tone. “Be careful what you’re doing!”

  “I’m dreadfully sorry, Mamma!” he returned contritely. “Really!”

  The knowing look in his eye as he caught hers rendered her lips tremulous for a fleeting moment. She looked across at me with something like despair.

  “William!” she said “Can’t you speak to the child?”

  “Er — er — be careful, Peter!” I remarked

  “Very well, my dear Dad!”

  “And don’t address your father with such impertinence!”

  Maureen was rather a good actress, I thought, noting that three commercial travellers at an adjoining table had looked across in our direction and were now exchanging amused glances. But at the same time I wished that there had been no necessity for her to wear such ill-fitting and untidy tweed garments. I thought of a diamond set in copper.

  We left the hotel shortly afterwards, purchasing rucksacks and other necessities for our journey before quitting the town of Stirling. On the road Peter marched between us, whistling a tune which I believe is called ‘The Hiker’s Marching Song’.

  “Do you believe it was Merriman who spoke over the wireless last night?” I asked, unable to contain my whirling thoughts. “Mind you, I always believed it strange that he should have died, as the matron said, without regaining consciousness. The last time I saw him he spoke quite rationally, and almost as soon as I promised to go to Edinburgh his fever left him. I had an idea, too, that his wound wasn’t particularly dangerous.”

  Maureen, small and slimly built though she was, strode along easily and quickly; so quickly, indeed, that Peter and I had to do our utmost to keep pace with her. She nodded.

  “Your aunt is perfectly correct about that bald patch.”

  “I know… If the body in Stranraer has a full head of hair then it is certainly not Merriman’s.”

  “What makes me even more certain that Merriman is still alive,” said Maureen, “is that the person whose voice came through the air knows one of the secret codes used by my father in communicating with his agents. After breakfast this morning I went up to my room to decode it. The message m
eans simply that the Cow and Calf are actually ‘Ringan and Oa’.”

  “Then — ”

  “Our objective,” said Maureen, “is Ringan Island off the coast of Kintyre. Oa is its little dependency. That must have been the clue for which Merriman was searching in Cairngarroch.”

  Peter continued to whistle ‘The Hiker’s Marching Song’.

  *

  I can recollect very vividly our leave-taking of Stirling. The morning was fresh and cold, but a watery January sun was drawing a thin ground mist from the sodden fields. The Castle, built on a scarp of solid rock, loomed up high above us, the mightiest thing on an infinite plain. Maureen said she thought it resembled a vast ship on a quiet sea; but Peter, still whistling, took little heed of its grandeur. And the wide panorama of Scotland which lay beneath the ancient tower had for him no particular interest.

  Beneath us, to our left, the eccentric Forth made silver loops across the grey, flat land, and behind us the haughty Wallace monument at Bridge of Allan lifted its head from among the lank trees in farewell. In front, hiding our ultimate destination, were the blue mountains of the west. I felt a little catch in my throat as I watched their piled-up, serried ranks. Maureen was softly repeating their titles — Ben Lomond, Ben Venue, Ben Ledi, Ben Vorlick… It was as if from an outpost in the plains we looked towards a jagged frontier, beyond which lay a new country.

  I had little notion at the time of the strange adventures we were about to know in that new country.

  Late that afternoon Maureen had a guarded phone conversation with her father from Drymen. Sir David MacLaren had been amazed at the strange wireless message, for he, too, had no idea of where the mysterious transmitting station could be situated. He was, indeed, inclined to be sceptical concerning the whole affair. His agents, however, working in various parts of the country, were all converging on Ringan; for it was the only indication of any kind that had been discovered as to the locality of the Blind One’s home.

  One important discovery Maureen’s father had made. A Secret Service man named McGrory, whose special province was among the Irish, had lighted on the fact that a privately owned cargo steamer of some thousand tons, the Dunalbin, was due to sail from Dublin on the thirty-first of January for some unknown destination. Its cargo, apparently, was to consist of nothing more exciting than beer; but while in conversation with the master, McGrory had been intrigued to learn that the beer was to be shipped in long cases… The Dunalbin, therefore, would sail on the thirty-first of January according to schedule, but other, more powerful vessels would also leave port that afternoon.