The Maggie

by James Dillon White

  ‘Surely it’s clear enough.’

  ‘And another thing,’ Campbell said, recovering his sense of humour, ‘when you were in my office the other day, did you by any chance take my fountain pen?’

  ‘Really, Mr Campbell, I . . .’

  ‘Here, let me speak to him.’ Marshall took the phone before any more valuable minutes could be wasted. He said pleasantly, ‘Mr Campbell? Calvin B. Marshall speaking. I’m sorry to trouble you. We seem to be causing you quite a bit of bother . . . Yes, I’ve just come up to get things straightened out . . . Yes, at the Central. I’d be very much obliged if you could manage to spare me a few minutes . . . Here? That’s very kind of you. Thank you, Mr Campbell.’

  Pusey, watching him replace the receiver, was both indignant and defensive. ‘Well, I mean to say, if you’re in a man’s office and other people come into it and begin discussing the same subjects with you, surely it’s reasonable to assume . . .’

  Marshall patted his arm. ‘Take it easy, Pusey. There’s no need to get into a panic. It won’t help matters to try to blame this man Campbell for your mistakes.’

  ‘Well, if I may say so, Mr Marshall, I think the fact that you spoke to Captain MacTaggart yourself . . .’

  Marshall accepted the point. ‘All right, Pusey. It doesn’t matter who’s to blame. I’ll have it sorted out in an hour. You’d better book sleepers for us on the night train to London.’

  Still offended, Pusey took up the telephone. ‘Hello, operator.’ He said indignantly to Miss Peters, ‘He even had the effrontery to ask if I’d taken his fountain pen!’

  Pusey’s indignation had a chance to smoulder in the next half-hour. Although the CSS offices were not a great distance from the Central, Campbell was not a man to waste shillings on taxis unless speed was essential, and now, enjoying the thought of all the trouble MacTaggart had caused, he preferred to walk. It was therefore with the greatest good humour that he knocked at the door of Marshall’s suite, only to be met by a severely businesslike Miss Peters, with Pusey glowering in the background.

  ‘Ah, Mr Campbell. So there you are at last!’

  ‘Good evening, Mr Pusey.’ Campbell felt rather than saw the figures in the corridor and turning, bewildered, he saw that Fraser, the reporter, and Sarah MacTaggart had followed him grimly through the streets. He made a shrugging gesture, disowning responsibility, and explained, ‘There’s a reporter from the Star and a . . .’

  ‘If you’ll step this way,’ Pusey interrupted pompously, and led the way into the inner room – Marshall’s room. The door was opened and closed too quickly for him to realise that Miss Peters was at that moment being brushed aside by two people who could make the difficult situation practically impossible.

  In the inner room Marshall was standing by the window with the Star. He still found the adventure almost incredible and he looked up with amusement as Pusey entered.

  Pusey waved an introduction. ‘Mr Campbell, Mr Marshall.’

  For a moment the two men eyed each other warily but with respect. Then Marshall held out his hand. ‘How do you do, Mr Campbell? It’s very kind of you to give us your help in this matter.’

  ‘Not at all, Mr Marshall.’

  ‘Sit down, won’t you? Can I offer you a drink?’

  ‘I’ll have a whisky, thank you.’

  Marshall gestured to Pusey. ‘And a Vichy water for me.’ He picked up the newspaper again and showed it to Campbell. ‘Quite a boat. Is that MacTaggart?’

  Campbell made no attempt to hide his smile. ‘Aye.’

  Pusey, who was telephoning for the drinks, could not see how anyone could find this disgraceful episode funny. His fingers drummed nervously, the brow was furrowed with responsibility. ‘Room service?’

  He knew when Miss Peters came fluttering into the room that you could never be sure that there were not new trials and irritations to meet. She tripped across to him and whispered, ‘Mr Pusey, if you could spare a minute . . .’ It was the first time he had seen Miss Peters scared.

  He followed her irritably outside and was startled by what he saw. Standing with feet astride and arms akimbo, Sarah looked like some vengeful goddess; Kali, perhaps, dressed – but not too well dressed – in western garments. In the background, and obviously enjoying the situation, was the reporter, Fraser.

  Pusey’s nostrils quivered with disapproval. ‘Miss Peters, who are these people?’

  ‘People, indeed! I’ll ‘‘people’’ you, young man,’ said Sarah coming menacingly forward, with bag swinging.

  ‘Really, madam, I only asked . . .’ said Pusey, backing away in alarm.

  ‘Then if that’s the way ye ask I’ll have to learn ye some manners.’

  ‘No, no. I’m sorry.’

  She paused, undecided, as though she would still dearly love to swing her bag at him, despite his apology.

  With a trembling voice Pusey turned to Fraser, ‘And who – who are you please?’

  The reporter grinned, ‘My name’s Fraser.’

  ‘Fraser?’

  ‘I’m a reporter on the Star.’

  ‘A reporter! Was it you who wrote that . . . that . . .?’

  Fraser nodded cheerfully. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, I think you can take it, Mr Fraser, that you are not welcome here, not welcome at all.’

  ‘Does that go for me?’ Sarah demanded menacingly.

  ‘No, no. Indeed not, madam. I was just going to ask . . .’

  ‘What I’m here for? Well, I’ll tell ye. Ye’ve concocted some scheme with that blackguard brither of mine, Peter MacTaggart.’

  ‘No, madam, I assure you . . .’

  She said fiercely. ‘This Puffer you hired to go . . .’

  ‘We didn’t hire a Puffer . . .’

  ‘It says in the paper you did! Are your goods aboard it or not?’

  ‘Yes, but they won’t be for long.’

  Their attention wavered towards a waiter who had come in, with silver tray carrying whisky and Vichy water. Directed by Miss Peters he made for the door of Marshall’s room.

  Sarah started indignantly as she followed the implication. She pushed past the outraged Pusey. ‘Here, I’ll no’ be put off by any underlings. I want to see the owner.’

  ‘Please, madam . . . Please!’

  ‘Out of my way, young man, ’less ye want a clout.’

  ‘But please, madam. If you could just wait one moment.’ Pusey danced before her like a fencing master, anguished, outraged, but determined that she should not pass.

  Meanwhile in the inner room Marshall was beginning to feel uneasy. He watched the waiter hand Campbell a glass of whisky but he refused his own Vichy water. He looked out over the street and then, as the waiter left, turned anxiously back to Campbell.

  He said, ‘Well, I don’t want to go to the police, but I can tell you right now that from the look of her,’ he slapped his hand against the newspaper, ‘and the way this character MacTaggart navigates, I want my cargo off that boat. If your boat is available from tomorrow morning, let’s radio MacTaggart to put into the nearest . . .’

  Campbell shook his head. ‘Ye canna do that. They’ve no radio.’

  ‘But whoever heard of a cargo vessel without radio?’

  Campbell said gently, ‘You understand, they usually carry coal or . . .’

  Marshall put his hands to his eyes. ‘Coal! And I’ve got four thousand pounds’ worth of stuff aboard it, that’s taken me months to get together.’ He sat down on the table, determined to remain calm. ‘How do I get in touch with them?’

  Campbell said, ‘I can give ye a list of harbour and pier masters and their telephone numbers.’

  Marshall jumped up with enthusiasm and made for the door. ‘That’s fine. I’ll have Pusey start on it right . . .’

  His voice trailed off as he opened the door and saw the wretched Pusey defending himself from Sarah. ‘What the heck!’

  Red-faced and malevolent, Sarah switched her attack to him. ‘Ah, here ye are, then! And is tha
t the kind of man ye are, to do a helpless old woman out o’ her rights?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, madam?’ he said. ‘All right, Pusey, let’s go into my room and find out what this is all about.’

  As he turned masterfully he caught an impression of Campbell’s smile, then he was borne forward by the urgent tide of plaintiffs.

  Pusey: ‘Really, madam, I must insist. I – I’m sorry, Mr Marshall . . .’

  Miss Peters: ‘This lady says she is . . .’

  Sarah: ‘Don’t you dare to touch me, young man. I’ll have you know I’m the rightful owner of the . . .’

  Marshall held up his hands. ‘Here, just a minute.’ He squared his shoulders and spoke in his Overseas Manager’s voice. ‘Please! What is all this? Who is this lady?’

  In the momentary silence Sarah pushed herself before him. She said with emphasis, ‘Sarah MacTaggart, the legitimate owner of the Puffer, and I’m here to tell ye that whatever money it is that ye owe, it’s to be paid to me, or I’ll go to the police.’

  Marshall said, in a reasonable tone, ‘Well, Mrs MacTaggart . . .’

  ‘Miss!’

  ‘Well, Miss MacTaggart, I’m sorry to have to inform you that I don’t owe any money at all. On the contrary! Your father, by resorting to tactics . . .’

  ‘He’s no’ my father, he’s my brither, the blackhearted . . .’

  Marshall held on to the table. He said with a slow, measured calmness, ‘Whoever he is, he practically stole four thousand pounds’ worth of goods. By sheer misrepresentation . . .’ He stopped, bewildered, as he saw another face in the nightmare, a young man standing behind this formidable female, a young man writing down all that was being said. Marshall pushed past Pusey and Miss Peters. He pointed wildly: ‘Who – what – who is this . . . ?’

  The young man said cheerfully, ‘My name’s Fraser, Mr Marshall. From the Glasgow Star.

  It took a full minute for this to sink in. Then Marshall snatched the paper from the table. He shouted, ‘What? Do you mean . . . ? Are you the one who thinks all this is so funny?’

  It was a comparatively easy matter to get rid of the reporter, but it took all Miss Peters’ diplomacy, all Marshall’s determination, all Pusey’s vicarious courage, to dispose of Sarah. At last as she was persuaded, foot by foot through the outer room and into the corridor, and as she departed with swinging bag and umbrella rampant towards the stairs she still continued to voice the most slanderous accusations against Marshall, the CSS, her brother, the unfortunate Pusey.

  Marshall came back mopping his brow. Never had he felt less like a Napoleon of commerce. He needed encouragement. On the table was his glass of Vichy water and a whole bottle of whisky. He poured the Vichy water into a vase of flowers and topped up his glass with whisky.

  As he lifted the glass and sipped gratefully he was aware of Campbell at the window, watching him with amusement. Campbell said, ‘Ye’ll no’ be wanting to tackle that fearsome body again, Mr Marshall.’

  Warmed by the whisky, Marshall nodded. ‘If her brother’s anything like that!’

  From the window they watched Sarah emerge from the swing doors into the street. The commissionaire saluted deferentially, motioned with white glove towards a taxi, and received a buffet for his pains from Sarah’s handbag.

  ‘What a woman!’

  Campbell sat at the table and wrote out a list from his pocket book. He said, ‘Here’s the list I was promising ye – all the harbour and pier masters. The Maggie’ll no’ be so far.’

  ‘Is she a fast boat?’

  ‘Fast!’ Campbell exploded. ‘If McGregor, the engineman, really sets his mind to it she’ll do maybe three knots – four if they’re really pushed.’

  Marshall finished his whisky. ‘And my cargo’s on that!’ He held out his hand. ‘Well, Mr Campbell, I’m extremely grateful for your help in this matter. I’ll get Pusey to phone these numbers straight away. It shouldn’t be long before we contact MacTaggart, then I reckon everything will be under control.’

  Campbell looked at him doubtfully, aware that Marshall still had little idea of the man he was up against, but remembering how much he had suffered already he thought it would be unkind to inform him of the suffering still to come.

  When Campbell had gone Marshall settled down to work. Peace returned, and confidence. From his chair he could see, as he dictated to Miss Peters, the gaunt outline of the city: office buildings, dingy pubs, an arcade of shops. Beyond the roofs the factories rose, square and practical; tall chimneys, a haze of smoke, a crane moving like a finger above the docks. By altering the position of his chair a few inches he could look right down to the street where the office workers were flowing relentlessly along the pavements, across the roads, to be drawn, fifty, sixty at a time, on swaying trams. Factory workers passed on their way to a late shift. A few people, elderly women and courting couples, paid their shillings at the grille and went doubtfully into the lighted cinema down the road. Life was normal again.

  ‘We should like to be sure of delivery . . .’ With notebook open on her knee, pencil poised, the immaculate Miss Peters gently prompted.

  ‘Sorry!’ Marshall jerked back to his letter. ‘We should like to be sure of delivery before the 27th instant.’

  In the next room Pusey was working methodically down the list. ‘Hallo, hallo. Greenock 61827? Is that the pier master?’ Occasionally, like a warning rattle, the telephone bar would be irritably tapped. ‘Hallo, miss. That was the wrong number you gave me. Well, I assure you! I asked plainly enough for . . .’

  After dinner they returned to work. The hours lost in flying to Glasgow must be recovered somehow. Fortunately, by returning on the night sleeper, the journey back to London would cost them nothing in precious hours and minutes. A necessary extravagance was the telephone call from Marshall’s wife.

  He spoke to her quietly, almost deferentially, in a tone he used to no other person. ‘That’s right, honey, just a routine business matter . . . Uh-huh, either by train tonight or on the first plane tomorrow morning . . .’

  As he spoke, Miss Peters came quickly into the room. She started to withdraw, but, as Marshall raised his finger, she remained. He saw that the strain of the day’s business was beginning to show even on her usually untroubled brow. She stood fidgeting nervously until he finished.

  ‘If I have to stay over, I’ll ring you later tonight. . . . Yes, that’s right. Well, thanks for calling, honey. Good night.’

  He replaced the receiver, and turned with a smile of encouragement to Miss Peters. At least, this absurd episode had left no mark on him.

  Miss Peters said, ‘I’ve just had a call from the harbour master at Greenock, Mr Marshall. He says the Puffer arrived there ten minutes ago . . .’

  Marshall nodded with satisfaction. ‘Good. Now, here’s the plan. First, tell Pusey to . . .’

  Miss Peters interrupted him with hysteria in her voice, ‘But, Mr Marshall, he said that when he gave them your instructions . . .’ She faltered, seeing his expression.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Marshall. They just sailed right out again!’

  Chapter Eight

  The Maggie steamed peacefully northwards through the blue waters of Loch Fyne. It was a perfect day. Along the shore the pleasant countryside, rolling hills, heath-land, dark pine woods, showed clearly in the sunlight. A landward breeze flecked the water with white and filled the sails of passing yachts. Seagulls circled patiently over their wake and sometimes, wearying perhaps of the laggardly progress, came down to rest on the stern rail.

  On deck the scene was as peaceful and untroubled as the day. McGregor was sitting on his hatch reading a comic book. Nearby the mate lay full-length in the sunshine as he struggled, not too successfully, with the intricacies of his concertina. Only the boy was working. He was scrubbing the deck – not because he had been told to do so, but because of his fierce inarticulate loyalty to the Skipper and the Skipper’s boat.

  From his wheelhouse the Skipper shouted down to McG
regor, ‘See if ye can’t get another half-knot out of her. She’s not making more than five.’

  Without looking up from his comic McGregor answered, ‘She’s making six!’

  ‘Five at the outside.’

  ‘She’s making six!’

  The Skipper replied diplomatically, ‘Then see if she’ll do seven.’

  McGregor rose slowly and came across the deck. ‘She’ll no’ make seven, ye know that! What’s the matter with ye? Considering that ye’ll no’ spend a penny to get her boilers cleaned . . .’

  The Skipper said guardedly, ‘Never mind about that. If we’re to get to Kiltarra by . . .’ He looked up, distracted by an aircraft that was diving down towards the loch. With the sun behind it and the cloudless sky it was difficult to see, and the Skipper turned to face McGregor, who was standing, full of argument, below his wheelhouse.

  The engineman said, ‘Who was it put the boat on the subway?’

  ‘I’ll have no insubordination aboard my vessel,’ the Skipper threatened.

  ‘Insubordination! Who was it who was too drunk to find the way out of Campbeltown harbour last . . . ?’

  His voice was smothered by the roar of the engine as the aircraft, flying low over the water, swept a matter of yards, it seemed, above the deck. Startled by the suddenness the engineman almost jumped overboard. The boy looked up astounded. Even the mate jumped to his feet.

  ‘What in the name of goodness!’

  They stared as the plane banked and turned.

  ‘It’s coming back.’

  They made for cover, the Skipper into his wheelhouse, McGregor into the engine-room, the mate flat on the deck. But the boy, with the courage of indignation, saw, as he thought, one of the passengers behind the pilot; and the passenger was Pusey.

  As the plane banked and climbed, McGregor clambered from his hatch with an ancient, double-barrelled shotgun. The Skipper shouted, ‘If he does it again, give him both barrels!’

  But there was no cause for bloodshed. The plane, climbing steadily in the hard sunlight, flew down the loch until it was lost to sight and the engine was only a faint receding drone. As the crew of the Maggie stared into the distance they waited in silence, loth to voice the fear they all had. At last the boy said, ‘Captain, sir. Did ye no’ see who was in it?’