The laird came fearsomely back, peering into the woods, and fairly bristling with anger. ‘Come on out now. It’ll be better for you in the long run,’ but the mate had obviously joined up with the engineman, for their heavy progress through the woods, back to the canal, could be plainly heard.
Now, obviously, was the time for Pusey to follow, but the laird was standing so close to his hiding place – only a few yards away – that he could not move without risking a burst of shotgun pellets. Besides, he was innocent!
Before he could decide what to do he saw another movement up the hill. The bushes parted and the wee boy, carrying two more pheasants, came cautiously into view. Pusey held his breath, the laird turned, but the boy was down in the long grass in an instant. Infuriated by his helplessness the laird stalked away from Pusey along the edge of the wood, and immediately the boy started a spectacular dash for freedom.
The open ground he had to cover was all downhill. The mate had crossed it in a matter of seconds although it had seemed much longer to Pusey. But the boy was severely handicapped. Two pheasants were almost as much as he could carry, his legs were shorter than the mate’s, and the laird, furiously angry, was now thoroughly aroused. Pusey watched in agony as the boy burst down the steep slope. He ran a few yards and then, just as the laird was turning, tripped forward into the heather. He picked himself up cautiously, but the laird had turned his back again. The boy ran on.
He came into the copse like a small thunderbolt and ran straight into Pusey’s arms.
He whispered hoarsely, ‘Mr Pusey! What are you . . . ?’
Pusey said, ‘You’re to come back to the boat at once.’
The boy looked fearfully over his shoulder. ‘Ssssh! He’ll hear us!’
‘Did you hear what I said? The boat is returning to Ardrishaig at once!’
They both turned, sensing danger, as the laird came cautiously into the woods. He was coming directly towards them but apparently had not seen them yet.
The boy seized Pusey’s arm and tried to pull him into hiding behind a fallen tree trunk.
Pusey protested, ‘Take your hands off . . .’
‘Ssssh!’ the boy whispered urgently. ‘It’s the laird.’ Using all his force he dragged Pusey to his knees. ‘If we’re caught, it’s the jail for us!’
Pusey said, ‘I don’t care if . . .’ He broke off, suddenly alarmed. Then with a show of confidence he added, ‘I’ll not be a party to illegal . . .’
The laird was only thirty yards away now, and by descending more steeply than they had expected he had partially cut off their retreat.
‘Here he comes,’ the boy said. ‘Get down!’
‘But this is . . .’
‘Get down! If he catches us we’ll never get away at all.’ Pusey muttered, ‘This is absolutely ridiculous,’ but as he saw the laird’s red and angry face his false courage deserted him. He dropped beside the boy in the cover of the fallen trees.
‘Come out! You can’t escape! Come out!’
Pusey, with his face pressed to the earth, listened in amazement and horror.
Chapter Eleven
Seldom in Pusey’s blameless life can a single half-hour have been so fraught with anguish. From the moment when he lay on the damp earth behind the tree trunk, with ants crawling over his ankles, the angry laird, armed with a shotgun, only a few yards away, he knew that once again he had allowed himself to be drawn into an indefensible position. If Mr Marshall heard . . . ! He wriggled despairingly as the ants began to crawl up his legs and was rebuked by the boy – ‘Ssssh!’ The laird, realising that the poachers were cornered at last, could afford to wait, and in fact it wasn’t long before the factor’s shout came faintly through the woods.
‘Sir George! Where are ye, sir?’
The laird bellowed with the full force of his lungs, ‘Over here! This way!’
From his hiding place Pusey watched with growing apprehension. Common sense told him that there could be no escape, but while there was even a faint hope . . . He was in quite incredible discomfort. Exploring ants had reached the ridge of his knee, he was bathed in perspiration, but he dared not wriggle.
‘Over here!’ The laird’s battle-cry struck terror in his suburban mind.
Then, coming slowly up the hill, he saw the factor, still armed with his heavy stick, still looking utterly ferocious. Trailing behind was a stout constable.
‘Where are ye, Sir George?’
The laird went bellowing along the wood and the boy, with the keen eye of an opportunist, saw that this might be a chance. He whispered to Pusey, ‘When he gets around those bushes, run for it.’
They waited tensely, and then as the laird went momentarily out of view they scrambled to their knees. They rose cautiously to their feet. For the moment they were hidden.
Pusey heard the boy say, ‘Here, I’ve too much to carry. Don’t leave it. If they find it, we’re done,’ and he looked stupidly down at the pheasant he was holding. Before he could appreciate this further danger the boy was off down the hill and the laird’s bellow came booming through the trees.
‘Over there!’
Pusey looked wildly at the pheasant. He made as if to throw it down, then, remembering the boy’s warning, decided to hold it.
‘There’s another one of them there. A man. Get him!’
The laird’s frantic order was the last ingredient for panic. Pusey turned and ran for his life down the hill.
It was many years since he had run more than a few yards for a bus or a train, and he was gratified, almost exhilarated, by his astonishing turn of speed. Once he had started down the steep hill he had only to keep his feet and nothing could catch him. He ran, stumbled, leaped; he warded himself from trees with his free hand. His jacket was open, his tie flying to the wind. Brambles, bracken, sticks, hidden trunks, were traversed with only a minor damage to his person and rather more serious damage to his shoes and trousers.
‘They’re getting away! After them!’ The laird’s cry spurred him on. The boy was not far ahead now. He could see him running out of the woods into the patch of sunlight beside the canal.
‘After them!’
It wasn’t until Pusey reached the edge of the trees and the level ground along the canal that he realised how far he was from racing fit. Through the last of the trees he had been almost level with the boy, now, in the open, the boy seemed to spurt ahead.
As Pusey faltered, the challenge from the pursuers became more urgent. Looking frantically over his shoulder he saw the laird, still with his shotgun, gaining steadily, and behind him the factor, with the constable far in the rear. He spurted desperately for a few paces, and then with heart thumping madly had to fall into a gasping, shambling trot.
He wasted another precious second by looking back. The laird was close behind now. He could see his ferocious expression and the beaded sweat on his brow. Far behind, the factor had dropped out of the hunt and was being comforted by the constable.
Pusey knew that he couldn’t last much longer. Above his own laboured breath and the thumping of his heart he could hear the determined grunting of the laird. He staggered wildly and only just saved himself from falling. Then, at last, he realised that he was still clutching the pheasant. He flung it violently away, and protested with his last gasping breath, ‘This has nothing to do with me!’
The next moment he felt the laird’s clutching hand at his shoulder, and they were wrestling on the bank of the canal.
‘Hold on, Sir George! I’m coming!’
Stung to a last effort by the factor’s cry Pusey struggled away. The laird, who was also near exhaustion, held him grimly by the lapel.
Then with a resounding tear the lapel ripped away from the coat. Thrown off balance the laird staggered, balanced for an interminable moment with flailing arms, before falling backwards over the canal bank.
He hit the water with a terrible splash. He submerged and came up gasping, ‘Help! I can’t swim! Help!’
Pusey, who had run a few
paces along the bank, hesitated. Then, seeing that the factor and the constable were still some distance away, he knelt on the bank and extended a hand.
His worst failing, as Mr Marshall had often told him, was not knowing his own mind. Just as the laird made a frantic grab, Pusey realised that the factor and constable must catch him before he could drag the laird from the water. He withdrew his hand hurriedly and the laird went under for the second time.
By this time the factor had reached the point on the canal bank and Pusey had staggered a few paces towards freedom. The factor knelt, as Pusey had done, and extended his hand. But the laird’s instinct for self-preservation was confused with an even stronger emotion, a desire to murder Pusey. Still floundering and thrashing the water, he yelled hysterically, ‘Arrest that man! Arrest . . .’ The rest was lost as he sank for the third time.
The unfortunate Pusey had everything against him to the last. Hearing the shout he made the mistake of glancing back. At that moment his weary feet caught on a stone and he fell heavily in the dust.
As he looked up, with all fight gone, he saw the laird being dragged from the water. Although the laird was quite unable to speak he could still gesticulate. He made violent signs at Pusey, and the factor, understanding, left the constable to complete the rescue.
Pusey, who had twisted his ankle, was soon overtaken by the furious factor. Too weak, too lame, too breathless to resist, he waited humbly for the last indignities of fate.
Chapter Twelve
(1)
In his suite at the Central in Glasgow, Marshall was preparing to leave. The small adventure was over, and, by catching the night train, he would only have lost one day. It was quite a story in its way – worth telling to Johnson and Vanders, and young Blair of Asiatic Chemicals. He jotted a note of the Skipper’s name while he remembered it – MacTaggart. Foolish to spoil a story by forgetting the details. MacTaggart: now there was a man!
The door of his room was open and he heard Miss Peters opening the outer door.
‘Oh, good evening.’
A voice he remembered, the voice of the reporter Fraser. ‘Good evening. My editor said Mr Marshall wanted me to stop by and . . .’
He called out, ‘Come in, Mr Fraser.’
The young man came in diffidently, and yet with a certain eagerness as though, even now, there might be some unexpected twist to what he called in his newspaper ‘The Puffer Story’. You never knew with a man like MacTaggart. You could never say the story was finished until the old man was dead or safely under lock and key. Even then . . .
Marshall was saying, ‘Well, Mr Fraser . . .’ He broke off as he saw his secretary. She asked, ‘If you don’t want anything else, Mr Marshall . . .’
Marshall nodded. ‘That’s all right, Miss Peters. If you could call me half an hour before train time.’ From the relaxed tone of his voice the reporter knew that everything had been settled. MacTaggart had been beaten. The Puffer Story was finished. He felt something more than disappointment – resentment, animosity almost, towards this sleek, efficient American, with his secretary, his public relations officer, his expensive clothes, bottles of Vichy water . . . the power of money.
Marshall was holding up the evening copy of the Star. ‘Well, now, Mr Fraser, I ask you. Don’t you think this is a little too much?’
‘Too much, Mr Marshall?’
The American leaned across the table. ‘Look, yesterday you had a good laugh at my expense, and I let it ride. But there’s no need to make me out a complete fool, is there?’
‘I certainly didn’t intend to be offensive, sir.’
‘I’m not saying you did. But you seem to be trying to make a career out of my difficulties. Why?’
The reporter explained seriously. ‘You don’t understand, Mr Marshall. These old Puffers are public characters in Scotland. They’re news when anything happens to them. They’re not much to look at but they’re popular . . .’
‘Well, they’re not very popular with me!’
‘No, sir, but they are held in great . . . I won’t say esteem, but . . . well, people like them. We build big liners up here, Mr Marshall, the biggest in the world. But the Puffer’s the little chap. The public always likes the little chap.’
In the other room a telephone started to ring. It went on ringing as Marshall continued to speak.
He said, ‘That man MacTaggart is an out-and-out scoundrel, and you know it! That tub of his is a disgrace. But you seem to get a big kick out of it. You seem mighty glad when he gets away with murder!’
The reporter gave a disarming grin. ‘Oh, yes, indeed, sir.’
‘Well, Fraser, I can take a joke as well as the next man, but there’s nothing very funny about this . . .’ He broke off in annoyance, realising that Miss Peters had gone and that the telephone was still ringing in the other room. He walked masterfully to the door. The outer room was empty, but the telephone kept on with its shrill ‘Brr-brr: brr-brr’ as though it hardly cared that it was disturbing Mr Calvin B. Marshall.
‘Just one moment.’ Marshall strode up to the telephone.
‘Hallo, hallo. Yes. Marshall speaking.’ His frigid voice thawed a little. ‘Oh, Mr Campbell, what can I do for you?’
The broad Scottish voice touched with a note of humour came over the wires: ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Marshall, but I’ve just had a message from Captain Anderson at Ardrishaig. He says he hasn’t been contacted by anybody. The Maggie hasn’t returned.’
Marshall’s confidence, built up by years of efficiency and success, was roughly shaken. He tried to think, but another telephone was ringing now, the one in the room he had just left. He hesitated, undecided, and then seeing the reporter’s enquiring gesture, he nodded for him to answer it.
He turned back to the telephone he was holding. ‘But – I don’t understand. It’s almost ten o’clock. There must be some mistake.’
‘There’s no mistake, Mr Marshall.’
‘But Pusey is actually on board the thing. How could they . . . ?’ He stopped and looked towards Fraser, who had come to the adjoining door.
Fraser said, ‘Mr Pusey is on the other line.’
‘Well, thank goodness!’ He spoke into his telephone, ‘Hang on a second, Mr Campbell. Pusey’s just rung in . . .’ He laid down the receiver and hurried into the inner room.
As he picked up the other phone he saw the reporter watching him intently, expectantly. He thought to himself, ‘Whatever’s happened I must keep calm. I must keep calm!’
‘Hello, Pusey. It’s about time. Have you started loading the stuff? What? Well, where are you? But, Pusey, all I wanted you to do was to see that . . . Pusey, how could you possibly have been arrested for poaching!’
He was too astonished, too worried, to feel angry that the reporter was watching him with an expression of incredulous delight.
(2)
In the cottage jail beside the Crinan Canal Pusey, looking haggard and drawn, was bleating into the telephone. Beside him the constable listened patiently to the conversation.
‘Yes, sir . . . Yes, Mr Marshall . . . Thank you, sir . . . I will, Mr Marshall . . . Yes, Mr Marshall . . . Good . . .’
As Marshall rang off, Pusey replaced the receiver. He looked quite demented with worry. His lips moved nervously.
Then, pulling himself together, he turned on the constable. ‘That was Mr Marshall, the Overseas Manager of World International Airways. He’s going to contact our legal department immediately. We’ll soon see whether I’m to remain in this . . .’
The constable held out a large, matter-of-fact hand. ‘That’ll be three shillings, sir.’
‘Oh!’ Pusey paid the money with a bad grace. Then he saw where the constable was leading – a small room furnished with nothing but a bed and with its single window barred. ‘Why can’t I take a room at the inn?’
The constable said kindly, ‘I’m afraid ye’ll have to stay where ye are until tomorrow morning when the Magistrate’s ready to see ye.’
P
usey protested angrily. ‘I won’t stand for this! I demand to speak to the Magistrate himself, and at once! Who is the Magistrate, anyway?’
The constable said, with relish, ‘He’s the laird that you pushed into the canal.’
Chapter Thirteen
(1)
The airplane tore across the runway and whipped angrily at the dust as it climbed into the air. The hedgerows, the tall trees, even the massive electric pylons, seemed to cringe beneath its fury. Up steeply; the road, the river, gardens, fields, the whole town of Renfrew, lay prostrate below. Against the urgent wind it struck with irresistible might. Then, still full of roaring anger, it turned towards the sea.
Beside the pilot Marshall sat in grim silence. A map was spread out on his knees, and every few minutes he traced some landmark – a hill, a village, the beginning of a loch – as though he was not in a mood to trust anyone. When he was certain that they were on the right course he picked up a newspaper, the Star, and a note on CSS letter-paper fell out.
‘I’m afraid that the cargo must be aboard our boat by tomorrow afternoon, otherwise it will be necessary for you to make other arrangements.
Yours sincerely,
J. CAMPBELL.’
As he screwed up the letter the newspaper headlines caught his attention. ‘THE PUFFER ESCAPES AGAIN.’ He withdrew into pleasant consideration of what he would do to MacTaggart.
The pilot, a cheerfully obtuse young man, asked, ‘What kind of a boat is it you’re trying to catch?’ He did not see Marshall’s expression and he went on, ‘Is it a Puffer by any chance?’
Marshall grunted, but the pilot took this to mean, ‘Yes.’
He said, with interest, ‘Is it now? Ach, they’re wonderful boats, the old Puffers. Did you read in the paper about the one that got caught on the subway?’
Marshall, who had lost all sense of humour, looked bleakly ahead.
The pilot said, ‘MacTaggart, the skipper is. Ah, there’s a man for ye! What a reputation he’s got! Only last month, in Campbeltown, I seen him so drunk . . . ye wouldna believe!’
The Maggie Page 6
