MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy

by William W. Johnstone

  “Oh, beg your pardon, mate, I didn’t see you coming,” Dowling said.

  “Cochon Américain typique, aussi aveugle que vous êtes stupide,” the Frenchman mumbled.

  “Vous êtes des ceux qui sont aveugles et stupides. Mon ami s’est excuse, mais vous êtes trop le rustre pour être gracieux,” Duff said.

  The Frenchman had called Dowling a blind, stupid pig, and Duff had responded by saying that Frenchman was the one who was blind and stupid, and too much the boor to accept an apology. The Frenchman’s eyes grew large when he heard Duff speak.

  “Yes, I speak French,” Duff said.

  The Frenchman started to walk away and Duff turned his attention back to his friends at the table. A moment later Kelly yelled, “MacCallister, look out!”

  Duff turned just in time to see that the Frenchman had picked up a chair and had the chair raised high, preparatory to bringing it down on Duff’s head. Duff rolled off his seat just as the Frenchman brought the chair crashing down on the table, breaking the plate Duff was eating from and sending food flying.

  Shouting in anger for having missed, the Frenchman raised his chair again and turned toward Duff. From the floor, Duff sent a whistling kick into the Frenchman’s groin. The Frenchman dropped the chair and grabbed himself, doubled over with pain.

  While he was still doubled over, Duff leaped up from the floor, grabbed the Frenchman by the scruff of his neck and the back of his shirt, then started across the floor with him, moving him toward the door. One of the waiters saw what had happened and what was now happening, and he opened the front door, just as Duff pushed the big Frenchman through it. The Frenchman fell forward, his face landing in a pile of horse apples.

  When Duff went back into the restaurant, everyone inside stood and applauded, even including the other Frenchmen.

  “Claude is—as Americans would say, a sorry son of a bitch,” one of the French sailors said. “It is about time someone gave him his due.”

  When Duff returned to the table, he saw that his broken plate had been replaced with a new, fresh serving of haggis, taties, and neeps.

  “I don’t know how you can eat that,” Kelly said. “But the waiter brought you another serving, on the house.”

  Duff awakened the next morning to the sounds of the city. Just outside the window of his hotel he heard a train going by on an elevated track. From the street, five stories below, he could hear the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the ringing sound of iron-rimmed wheels rolling on the paved road. Getting out of bed, Duff moved to the window to have his first real look at New York. With five- and six-story buildings on either side of the street, he felt as if he were looking down a canyon.

  The street was filled with pedestrians and vehicles, hundreds of people strolling to and fro, and dozens of large freight wagons, omnibuses, elegant carriages, buckboards, and surreys. In addition to surface traffic, there was also an elevated railroad and a spiderweb maze of telephone, telegraph, and electric lines. His room had electric lights, and the notice on the dresser proudly proclaimed that telephone service was available in the lobby.

  Duff had heard of a telephone, but he had never seen one, and wasn’t exactly sure how one would work. But after getting dressed, he walked down to the lobby to see how one went about using the phone.

  “What number do you wish to call?” the desk clerk asked.

  “Well, I don’t know,” Duff replied. “I don’t know what you mean by number. I wish to call a person.”

  “Sir,” the clerk explained patiently, “if that person has a telephone, the telephone will have a number. You must know that number in order to put your call through.”

  “Oh,” Duff said. “I’m afraid I don’t know the number.”

  The clerk took some pity on him then, realizing from his accent that he wasn’t local.

  “If you know the person’s name, we can look up the number,” the clerk said.

  “Look up the number? How does one do that?”

  “There is a book called a telephone book. Every person and every business that has a telephone has their name listed in that book, along with the number you need in order to call them. Like this,” he added. The clerk took a phone book from beneath his desk. “Now, what is the name of the person you wish to call?”

  “His name is Andrew MacCallister,” Duff said

  “Andrew MacCallister? Do you mean the famous actor?”

  “Yes, he is an actor.”

  The clerk had opened the telephone book, but now he closed it. “Perhaps you had best find someone else to call,” the clerk said. “Andrew MacCallister is a very famous man. I seriously doubt that he would be up to taking a telephone call from a stranger.”

  “But we are nae strangers,” Duff insisted. “We are kinsmen.”

  The clerk’s interest perked up. “Kinsmen, you say? And your name would be?”

  “MacCallister,” Duff said.

  “The self-same as the actor?”

  “Aye, kinsmen we are.”

  “Then, in that case, I will look up the number for you.”

  The clerk found the number, then told it to Duff. “The number you want to call is 8178.” He handed the receiver to Duff, and Duff looked at it as if unsure what to do with it.

  “Hold it to your ear,” the clerk explained. “When the operator comes on, tell her 8178.”

  “Number please,” a woman’s voice asked.

  Duff took the receiver from his ear and held it up to his mouth. The desk clerk laughed. “Not here—here,” he said, pointing to the little transmitter. Duff nodded, and leaned into the transmitter. “Eight-one-seven-eight!” he shouted.

  “Sir, it is not necessary for you to speak so loudly,” the operator replied.

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right, many do,” the operator said.

  A moment later Duff heard a voice in his receiver. It was tinny, but he recognized it as Andrew’s voice.

  “Cousin Andrew! This is Duff MacCallister,” Duff said.

  “Duff, you are in New York! How wonderful!” Andrew said. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the Abbey Hotel.”

  “Wait in the lobby. I will send a carriage for you.”

  Half an hour later, as Duff disembarked from the carriage in front of Andrew’s apartment building, his cousin came out to greet him.

  “How much do I owe you?” Duff asked the carriage driver.

  “You owe me nothing, sir. It has been paid for,” the driver replied.

  “Duff, it is so good to see you,” Andrew said, extending his hand in welcome. Duff started to pick up his sea bag, but Andrew signaled the doorman and the doorman called to someone inside. A young man hurried out of the large apartment building and picked up the bag.

  “To your apartment, Mr. MacCallister?”

  “I don’t have an apartment,” Duff replied.

  “He means me,” Andrew said with a chuckle. “You aren’t the only MacCallister here.”

  “Right, I suppose not,” Duff said.

  “Yes, Jimmy, take it up to my apartment,” Andrew said. Then to Duff, “Come, I’ll show you where I live. I’m on the top floor; I have a wonderful view of the city.”

  Duff followed Andrew into the building and started toward the stairs.

  “No, this way,” Andrew said.

  “I thought your place was on the top floor.”

  “It is, and it is too far to climb the stairs. We shall take the elevator.”

  Duff had been in an elevator only one time before, and that had been when he visited Glasgow. As he recalled, he did not particularly like the experience, but he said nothing to Andrew as they stepped into the elevator cab.

  “Julius, this is my cousin, Duff,” Andrew said to the uniformed black man who was the elevator operator.

  “It is nice to meet you, sir,” the elevator operator said with a deep, resonant voice.

  “It is good to meet you as well.”

  After the brief elevator ride
, they stepped across the hall where Andrew opened a door, then welcomed Duff inside. The apartment was large and expensively decorated. But the most appealing feature of the apartment was, as Andrew had stated, the “magnificent view” of the city. Because of the height of Andrew’s apartment building, much of the city could be seen, all the way down to the docks, where Duff could see both steamships and sailing ships. He was able to pick out the Hiawatha, just by her topgallant, and he felt a strange sense of attachment to it, as if it were his last connection to Scotland, and by extension, to Skye.

  Andrew walked over to the wall and removed the telephone from the hook. “Eight-three-two-five, please,” he said. Then, “Rosanna, he is here. Yes. We will have lunch together.”

  Hanging up the phone, he turned back to Duff. “I hope you don’t mind that I invited Rosanna to have lunch with us.”

  “No, not at all. I will be delighted to see her again.”

  “How long can you stay in America?” Andrew asked.

  “I’m never going back.”

  Andrew’s expression showed his surprise at the answer. “But your fiancée,” he said.

  Duff was quiet for a moment.

  “Skye?” Andrew asked, the word softly spoken because he perceived that, for some reason, the name was painful to Duff.

  “Skye is dead, Andrew,” Duff said. “She was murdered.”

  “Oh, Duff, I am so sorry,” Andrew said. “Do they know who did it?”

  “Yes, and the ones who did it have already been executed.” Duff did not say that he was their executioner.

  “I am glad that they have paid for their crime. And I am glad that you have come to America. I think making a fresh start will be good for you.”

  “I believe so as well.”

  “We’ll have to find a place for you to stay,” Andrew said. “And, will you be looking for a job?”

  “Aye. I’ve some money, but I dinna know how long it will last.”

  “Good, because I know just the job for you.”

  With an introduction provided by Andrew, Duff began working backstage at a major theater. He was a skilled carpenter, and he had the ability to analyze complex problems and solve them quickly. Within a month, he became a stage manager, an important and most prestigious job. And now that he was securely employed in America, he decided it was time to write to his friend Ian McGregor to tell him that all was well.

  Duff MacCallister

  200 West 48th Street

  New York, NY

  Ian McGregor

  The White Horse Pub

  2 Elway Lane

  Donuun, Scotland

  Dear Ian,

  My heart is still heavy with grief from the death of my beloved Skye, the more so because I was unable to be there for her funeral. But while I was not there in person, I was there in spirit and I know that, even as she sleeps in the arms of our Lord, she is aware of the undying love I have for her. I know too that at the time of her funeral she was surrounded by those who loved her most, and I take comfort from that.

  On the night I left Scotland, I secured passage on a ship bound for New York. I did so by way of working as a crew member during the voyage. It was very hard work, but the very difficulty of the work helped me to deal with the pain of losing the one who was the center of my life. I take respite in the fact that our dear Skye returned my love with equal vigor, though I shall never understand how one as unworthy as I could have won the love of such a wonderful woman.

  I am now living in New York and have gone to work in the theater, the position secured for me by my cousin Andrew. We are in “pre-production” as they say, for the play “The Highlander.” I am told that it was inspired by the visit of my cousins Andrew and Rosanna to Scotland. Of course, Andrew and Rosanna are the principal players of the production.

  I hold the most gratifying position as stage manager. The play will take place in the Rex, an elegant and ample theater which is on West 48th Street at Broadway. You may find this interesting, Ian. The Rex theatre is lit entirely by electricity, the installation personally supervised by the inventor Thomas Edison.

  Please write to me and tell me how you are doing. With shared sorrow for the loss of our dear Skye, I remain,

  Your friend,

  Duff MacCallister

  Chapter Seven

  Scotland—Donuun in Argyllshire

  Postmaster Desmond Henry walked into the office of the Lord High Sheriff Angus Somerled, clutching an envelope to his breast. Deputy Rab Malcolm looked up at him.

  “Postmaster Henry, may I help you?”

  “I would like to speak with the sheriff, please.”

  “What do you want to see the sheriff about?”

  “That would be between me and the sheriff,” the postmaster replied.

  Deputy Malcolm made a guttural sound deep in his throat, then stood and walked into the back office. He returned after a moment with the sheriff.

  “What is this about, Henry?” Sheriff Somerled asked.

  “Is there still a reward being offered for anyone who can tell you where to find Duff MacCallister?” Henry asked.

  “A twenty-pound reward, yes. Do you know where he is?”

  “Let me see the twenty pounds,” Henry demanded.

  Sheriff Somerled nodded at Deputy Malcolm, and Malcolm walked over to a file, opened a drawer, and took our four five-pound notes and handed them to the sheriff. Postmaster Henry reached out for them, but the sheriff pulled his hand back.

  “Where is he?”

  “Well, that’s just it, Sheriff. I will tell you where he is, but you will nae be able to do anything about it. ’Tis out of your jurisdiction, he is.”

  “Where is he?” Sheriff Somerled asked again.

  “He is in New York.”

  “New York? You mean he is in America?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then he did get on the ship that night,” Somerled said, hitting his fist into his hand. “I should have gone aboard to look for him. How do you know he is in New York?”

  “He wrote this letter to Ian McGregor,” the postmaster said, showing the envelope to the sheriff. “It has his return address on it. Two hundred West Forty-eighth Street, New York, New York.”

  “How do we know he is still there?” Deputy Malcolm asked.

  “Because he has a job there,” the postmaster said. “It is clear that he plans to stay for a while.”

  “How do you know that?” Sheriff Somerled asked.

  “I steamed open the envelope and read the letter,” Postmaster Henry said. “I made a copy of the letter before I returned it to the envelope.”

  “Let me see your copy.”

  “That will cost you another twenty pounds,” Henry said.

  “I could arrest you for opening someone else’s mail,” Sheriff Somerled warned.

  “You could. But you may not find another postmaster who is as willing to cooperate with you as I have always been.”

  “Yes, for profit,” Somerled said.

  “One has to make a living, Sheriff. The postal service pays so little.”

  Somerled stroked his chin for a moment, then nodded at Malcolm. “Get him another twenty pounds,” he said.

  Deputy Malcolm got another twenty pounds and gave it to the postmaster who, in return, gave the sheriff a folded piece of paper. “I printed it clearly so you should have no trouble reading it,” the postmaster said.

  Somerled took the piece of paper, opened it, and began reading eagerly.

  “If you will excuse me, I have business to attend to,” the postmaster said. “I must deliver this letter to Mr. McGregor.”

  Because Somerled was reading the letter, he made no response to Henry, who left after carefully putting the money in the inside pocket of his jacket.

  “Anything interesting, Sheriff?” Malcolm asked.

  “How would you like to go to America?” Somerled asked.

  “I’ve always wanted to visit America,” Malcolm replied.

  “I’ll be send
ing you, along with Roderick and Alexander. And I’ll be putting you in charge, knowing how hotheaded and irresponsible my two boys are.”

  “You’ll be tellin’ them I’m in charge, will you not, Sheriff? For without hearing from you, I think they may not listen.”

  “I will tell them and they will listen,” Sheriff Somerled said.

  “Sheriff, ye have no jurisdiction in America. When we find MacCallister, how do you want me to deal with him?”

  “Deal with him? There will be no dealing with him,” Sheriff Somerled said. “I’ll be for wanting you to kill him.”

  Malcolm smiled. “It was hoping, I was, that you would say that. Gillis and Nevin were good friends of mine. I will take pleasure in avenging them.”

  “’Tis for them you be seeking vengeance, and ’tis for their brother that Roderick and Alexander will be doing the same. Don’t let me down, Malcolm. I want Duff Tavish MacCallister killed, and when he dies, there will be no more MacCallisters in Scotland. The two hundred and more years our clans have been at war will come to an end.”

  Aboard the Cunard steamship Etruria

  The young lady’s name was Miriam Phelps, and she was from one of New York’s wealthiest and most fashionable families. This was not her first transatlantic voyage, though it was the first one she had made alone, and she was now coming back from a grand tour of Europe.

  Roderick and Alexander Somerled met her in the first-class dining room, and she had flirted outrageously with both of them. Malcolm had watched with interest how she was playing the brothers against each other. He knew that it was all a game to her, a means of diversion for a very wealthy young woman at whose feet the whole world lay.