The Dancing Horse

by Angus MacVicar

  An overwhelming desire had suddenly possessed him. More than anything he had ever wanted before, he wanted to escape from this house in the quiet glen. There was a strangeness about Lady Mary Kennedy — something in her cold and masterful manner that he couldn’t define. But now that coffee and rest were wafting the fog from his brain he felt that he and the News Editor were being ringed round by a spell.

  He started to get up, and Bulldog was about to follow his example, when unexpectedly the door opened. The man with the big moustache and half-hidden scar stood on the threshold. Ranged beside him, bald-faced, hard-bitten, was his companion of the moor. They no longer carried shotguns, but the pockets of their sports coats were wide and deep.

  Donald and Bulldog sat down again.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Ensconced by the coffee-cups, Lady Mary Kennedy fluttered and smiled. ‘Oh, dear!’ she exclaimed. ‘My guests have returned much sooner than I expected. Do come in!’ she called to them. ‘I feel sure you have all met before, though perhaps not socially. Mr. MacPhail and Mr. Grant — Wing Commander Lorne McCall and Mr. Samuel Derringer.’

  The two men closed the door. Donald and Bulldog got up and bowed: there seemed to be no question of shaking hands.

  As they resumed their places on the couch, McCall said: ‘Actually, I had a word with Mr. MacPhail and Mr. Grant last night in the Red Lion.’ His voice was flat and he smiled only with his mouth. ‘I borrowed their ashtray!’

  ‘Of course. You told me.’ Lady Mary turned to Donald and Bulldog. ‘The Wing Commander and Mr. Derringer are here for a fortnight’s rough shooting,’ she explained.

  ‘Their choice of game,’ said the News Editor, ‘is original, to say the least!’

  McCall laughed. ‘Yes. Damned good, old boy! Damned well put!’

  Somewhere outside a night-bird called. It called again, flying away into the lonely quietness.

  ‘You’ll have coffee, won’t you?’ inquired Lady Mary, smiling up at the newcomers. ‘Mr. MacPhail and Mr. Grant have just had some, but I think there’s enough left over.’

  For the first time Derringer spoke. ‘Sure, I’d like a cuppa coffee.’ His harsh drawl was decidedly American. ‘This open air life makes a guy real thirsty!’

  She went to the display cabinet, brought two more cups and filled them. Keeping watch on Donald and Bulldog, McCall and Derringer accepted them and crossed to the hearth. They stood with their backs to the blaze.

  McCall said: ‘Here we have a better field of view, I think.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ Derringer agreed.

  Again there was silence. Then Lady Mary looked over at Donald and Bulldog. ‘I am afraid you have reached the end of your journey,’ she said.

  The room was warm and stuffy. Both men felt perspiration prickling on their shoulder-blades.

  Minutes before they had been congratulating themselves on a near-miraculous escape. Now it was clear that their enemies had left nothing to chance. Every move in the game had been carefully planned. From Towser Lane to Muir’s Hotel and the Black Spout; from the Red Lion to the tragic mirk of Cooper’s Close; from the atomic station via the wide ditch to this lonely house hidden beneath ‘The Dancing Horse’ — all the time they had been hunted and harried into a spider’s web. And, as usual, the spider at the centre was female.

  They had known previously that their efforts to get a story had been crude and ineffective, unworthy of two smart newspapermen. Only now did they realize the full extent of their folly.

  But at least, with courage as their only remaining weapon, they could play the game to the end.

  Bulldog said, quietly: ‘You fooled me, Lady Mary. I didn’t think you were a foreign agent.’

  ‘Didn’t you, Mr. MacPhail? But then you are an exceedingly foolish old man — a bad example to young Mr. Grant.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  We gave you fair warning to keep out — in Towser Lane, on the road from Glasgow to Campbeltown, even in Cooper’s Close last night, after the Wing Commander had left a note in your bedroom. But you would persist in annoying us! You came on, heads down, like silly bulls in a china shop. And so — can you blame us? — we arranged to bring you here. Wing Commander McCall and Mr. Derringer have been very patient, but the result, I think, has justified the means. I didn’t want you to be killed before I had the opportunity of asking a few questions. Tell me, how much have you learned about my work?’

  Her eyes were as cold as the eyes of the snake on the Celtic hearthrug. The muscles of her face had tightened. In a few minutes the talkative, engagingly eccentric lady had become arrogant and dangerous.

  ‘You know,’ said the News Editor, ‘I think I am beginning to understand.’

  She snapped back at him: ‘Understand what?’

  ‘You, Lady Mary.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  He moved farther forward on the couch, hands clasped between his knees. The expression on his broad red face was calm and unflurried, and in the circumstances Donald’s affection for him flowered into admiration.

  Bulldog looked up and said: ‘The critical journals ignored your poetry. Not only that. Your work among the refugees of Europe, though widely publicized, brought no official reward. So you grew bitter. Your journeys to Czechoslovakia and Hungary gave you an opportunity to betray our atomic secrets. In short, your love of humanity has been prostituted to revenge and a lust for power.’

  McCall and Derringer had put their coffee-cups down on the mantelpiece. Derringers right hand was in the capacious pocket of his tweed coat.

  McCall stepped forward and said, harshly: ‘That’s enough, MacPhail!’

  But Lady Mary waved him back. ‘Let him be. He talks like his own rubbishy newspaper.’ More levelly, she went on: ‘I asked, how much have you learned about my work — my work for peace?’

  It was a revealing description of her traitorous activity.

  ‘Until now,’ Bulldog said, ‘we knew nothing about it at all.’

  ‘I see. Then why did you come to Kintyre?’

  ‘I had a feeling. I take it you arranged for the murder of that poor tramp in Soho?’

  ‘A tramp?’ Mouth twisted into a cold smile, she shook her head. ‘He was no tramp. He was a detective who discovered that I bought this house in order to be near the new atomic station.’

  ‘I suspected something like that. So Grant and I followed our noses.’

  Donald knew now why his instinct had caused him to dislike her. Underneath the gloss of gentility her desire for power had been smouldering continuously, like a red peat in the heart of a smoored fire.

  Authoritatively, she said: ‘Have you told anyone?’

  In spite of the letter they had posted to the office in London, Bulldog’s answer was in effect the literal truth. ‘Nobody else knows about you,’ he said, ‘if that’s what you mean. Not yet.’

  She appeared to be satisfied; but Donald was determined to give her no time for reflection. It was also necessary to keep her talking, because when she stopped talking the two men on the hearthrug would assuredly kill them.

  He butted in: ‘Lady Mary! The Kintyre station — what’s so special about it?’

  She smiled, narrowly. “‘Rien ne pèse tant qu’un secret”. Remember La Fontaine? Nothing weighs so heavily as a secret. Especially at the end of life, Mr. Grant.’

  ‘I could bear it,’ he answered.

  ‘I wonder?’ Pleasure in her own evil made her willing to prolong the conversation. ‘But in any case,’ she went on, ‘it is something highly technical. Sufficient to say that a copy of the process was handed to Wing Commander McCall last night, by young Kenyon. At the party.’

  Bulldog was sitting stiff and motionless on the edge of the couch. ‘So it was Jim Kenyon?’

  ‘Yes. A weakling and a fool. It was easy to find his Achilles heel. A wife in Lancashire, a girl in Campbeltown.’

  ‘First you blackmailed him. Then, his usefulness gone, you made
sure of keeping his mouth shut by hanging him?’

  ‘Quite,’ She smiled again, mirthlessly drawing down one comer of her mouth. ‘You see now why I cannot possibly allow you to interfere at this stage.’

  Bulldog said deliberately: ‘I’m no scholar, Lady Mary — but let me quote La Fontaine back at you. “Whosoever is a wolf behaves as a wolf”.’

  She nodded. ‘I shan’t disappoint you, my friend.’

  Donald’s mind was racing. McCall and Derringer were watchful and alert. What could be done to distract their attention, so that he and Bulldog might have a momentary chance of escape?

  The adventure had turned sour. Their light-hearted encounter with the kitten on the train, their Tarzan-like frolics on the roof of the furniture store and on the drying poles in Kinloch Park — in face of imminent death such memories appeared to him now as naïve and almost incredible. The time for fun and games was past. It had come to a raw struggle for survival, and he said a prayer for wit and strength.

  Under cover of the occasional table he touched the News Editor’s foot with his own; and as Lady Mary turned abruptly to the two men by the fire, he bent his head and said, brokenly: ‘Please! Please let me speak!’

  She paused and glanced at him. She said: ‘Your time is short, Mr. Grant.’

  ‘I know. That’s what worries me. Couldn’t we — couldn’t we come to terms?’

  ‘Terms? You mean you’d care to join us?’

  He passed a shaking hand over his eyes. Tm no hero; he confessed. ‘I’m scared! I’m scared to lose my life.’

  McCall laughed shortly. He began: ‘They’re all the same, Lady Mary, I — ’

  ‘Wait, for God’s sake!’ pleaded Donald. ‘I could help you. I’m a newspaperman. I know what goes on. I’ll prove to you that I mean what I say. Give me a chance.’

  She looked at him with contempt. ‘This might be interesting,’ she said.

  ‘May I — may I smoke?’ he said.

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Thanks. You won’t regret this.’ He brought out his case. ‘You see, there’s another station — in Ayrshire. I could tell you something very odd about it.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  Donald was shaking. He was obviously so nervous that when he fumbled for a cigarette the case dropped from his hand on to the floor.

  ‘Sorry! Clumsy of me,’ he said and bent forward to retrieve it.

  But instead of picking it up he caught the end of the rug on which the two men were standing and heaved, suddenly and convulsively.

  ‘Grab McCall, boss! I’ll get Derringer!’

  Bulldog didn’t hesitate. As the two men, taken completely by surprise, fell back into the fireplace, he thrust the occasional table and its contents into Lady Mary’s lap. Then he leapt across the rumpled rug and violently engaged the enemy.

  Meanwhile Donald had thudded on top of Derringer, whose bald head was being scorched by its closeness to the burning peats, and was fighting for possession of his revolver. But it had got stuck in the lining of the thug’s pocket and in the confusion was likely to go off at any time.

  Out of the comer of his eye Donald saw McCall trying to get up. Bulldog aimed a kick at him but missed and overbalanced. Then the man with the big moustache was on his knees and pulling out a gun. For a second Donald forsook Derringer and crashed his fist into McCall’s face. The man sagged away, cursing, and Bulldog had time to recover and kick the revolver from his hand.

  But the momentary side-scuffle had given Derringer his opportunity. Cruelly he brought his knee up into Donald’s groin, and as the latter groaned and bent double, he staggered to his feet and snatched the revolver from his pocket. He aimed and pulled the trigger, and a bullet pierced Donald’s forearm.

  Bulldog swung his right foot hard into McCall’s stomach. The big man fell back against Derringer; but the mantelpiece saved them both, and before Bulldog could renew his attack the American was ready to fire again.

  ‘Kill them!’ shrieked Lady Mary Kennedy. ‘Kill them, you fool!’

  By now Donald had regained his breath. He lunged up for Derringer’s wrist and was about to resume the fight, however vainly, when the French windows opened with a crash. Vaguely he saw a number of dark blue uniforms and a red tammy.

  ‘Stop!’ cried Janet Marshall, coming into the light.

  TWENTY-THREE

  She was pale, but the determination in her chin was evident. ‘I told you, Inspector — they’re all here,’ she said. Looming in the window, MacNiven nodded.

  Beside him, levelling a pistol, stood a small man in a brown suit. He said: ‘Drop that gun, Derringer!’

  The American obeyed, while McCall sagged against the mantelpiece, breathing heavily through an open mouth.

  ‘Sergeant Houston,’ said Inspector MacNiven, ‘take some of the boys in by the front door. Be quick now.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Uniformed men filled the room, and McCall and Derringer were handcuffed and led away. They said nothing. Being professionals they took their defeat sadly, but with resignation.

  Sergeant Houston approached Lady Mary Kennedy, who was standing, stiff and straight, in the centre of the room.

  ‘You — you can’t do this!’ she spat at him, eyeing the handcuffs. ‘You can’t do this in my house!’

  He shrugged. ‘We’ve already done it, your ladyship.’

  ‘Who is this girl?’ she demanded. ‘What is she doing here? I said, what is this girl doing here?’

  There was no answer. Her face became red and ugly and evil. ‘A girl!’ she shouted. ‘A common little slut of a girl! After all I’ve done!’

  ‘Come on, now,’ said Sergeant Houston, persuasively. ‘Never mind the dramatics!’

  But he had to struggle to subdue her, and as he dragged her out to the waiting cars she was sobbing with anger and calling out: ‘It’s not the end of the story! I tell you, it’s not the end of the story!’

  MacNiven and his brown-suited companion raised eyebrows at each other, then went outside to supervise the disposal of the prisoners. For the time being, Donald, Bulldog and Janet Marshall were left alone in the drawing-room.

  Bulldog was dishevelled but otherwise in good shape. Donald, however, found that there are limits to toughness. He sat heavily on the couch, feeling sick and on the point of passing out. Blood was trickling across his left wrist.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ said Janet, kneeling down and rolling back his sleeve.

  ‘Just my arm. I don’t think it’s much.’

  ‘That damned Derringer!’ exclaimed the News Editor, suddenly realizing what had happened. ‘Has he wounded you, boy? By God, if I get my hands on him — ’

  ‘This needs a dressing,’ interrupted Janet, with calm authority. ‘The police ought to have a first-aid kit in one of their cars. Would you get it, Mr. MacPhail?’

  ‘What? A dressing? Aye, sure, Miss Marshall.’

  He went out by the window, slightly dazed at being ordered around by this incomprehensible girl.

  When he had gone, she and Donald looked at each other and smiled.

  ‘Is it very painful?’ she asked.

  ‘A bit.’ The friendly comfort in her voice helped more than anything else to bring him back to normal. ‘But Janet,’ he said, ‘before I go crackers won’t you explain?’

  She sat back on her heels. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, that night at the Minotaur.’ She spoke quietly and sensibly, but a trace of sadness was still there. ‘You see, Peter found a lead on a new Burgess and MacLean conspiracy. All he would say, however, was that he planned to call it “The Case of the Dancing Horse”. Then he was murdered outside Aristide Voisin’s shop, and as Scotland Yard seemed not to be interested — though I know now that they were — I decided to try and discover the truth for myself.’

  ‘And so you did. Through Sorley Hetherington’s picture?’

  ‘Yes. And through the Campbeltown police. I got in touch with them at once
. I gave them my side of the story, and they told me that the only house near “The Dancing Horse” belonged to Lady Mary Kennedy. They told me, too, that her guests often came to the Red Lion to talk to the scientists, so I put two and two together. But Inspector MacNiven wasn’t finally persuaded that I had a case until this morning, when a C.I.D. man came from London — a colleague of Peter’s — ’

  ‘The man in the brown suit?’

  ‘That’s right. He brought evidence incriminating Lady Mary Kennedy. Last night, however, I had seen McCall and Jim Kenyon leaving the Red Lion in Derringer’s Austin-Healey. I followed them on foot and found — and found the body in Cooper’s Close. I was so upset that I rang the police and forgot to give my name.’

  ‘Poor Janet!’

  ‘Meanwhile I had tried to keep you and Mr. MacPhail out of it, because the whole thing was so dangerous. But you were so hopelessly stubborn — as I ought to have known you’d be, with that red hair of yours! — and this morning, after spending a rather sleepless night in private digs recommended by Inspector MacNiven, I decided to follow you. On a bicycle, let me say!’

  ‘Well, I’m damned! And Bulldog and I thought we were tough!’

  ‘Don’t wave your arm, or it’ll start to bleed again!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I saw you on the moor, and when McCall and Derringer began to stalk you, I had all the proof I needed and phoned the police from the telephone kiosk. It seems we arrived just in time.’

  ‘I see.’ After a moment he said: ‘Janet, who was Peter?’

  ‘My brother. Detective-Sergeant Peter Marshall. We had a little house in Bloomsbury.’

  Bulldog came bustling in. ‘Here we are, Miss Marshall. Bandages and some iodine.’

  ‘Oh, good! I’ll have him patched up in a jiffy. You’re not to worry about him.’

  Far from worrying, the News Editor was laughing. ‘What’s got into you, boss?’ said Donald, while Janet dabbed his arm with cotton-wool.