He heard her talking of Glendale — of what her father had told her about his native parish — but he could only reply in jerky monosyllables. He made a desperate effort to concentrate on the rhythm of the waltz, but without success.
A vivacious couple bumped him in the back. He lurched forward, and the toe of his shoe caught in the hem of her dress. He saw her look of consternation.
He stopped abruptly and let her go.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I'm a rotten dancer. You'd be much better with Dr. Cameron.”
She caught his hand. “Oh, no! I was enjoying myself. My frock's not torn. And anyway — it wasn't your fault. Those people banged into us.”
But he was adamant. Doggedly, he led her back to where Hugh was standing against the wall, smiling. She sighed a little, and he failed to notice the wistfulness in her eyes as he left them together.
His evening had been spoilt, and he was glad when “Auld Lang Syne” was over and the dancers began to move towards the waiting cars outside. In his heart was anger — anger against something he could not define. It might have been his own ineptitude as a dancer.
But his sense of duty was unaffected. He and his fellow-policeman remained close to Veronica Jane and Hugh. Experience suggested that this was a danger-period. Jostling crowds always provided opportunities for a criminal.
As they made their way into the dimly lit vestibule, Kenneth noticed two men in dinner jackets whom he had not seen at the Gathering. Despite a superficially festive air, their expressions were hard and somehow out of place at a dance.
Suddenly they pushed against Hugh. It might have been unintentional, but with an upsurge of alarm Kenneth saw that Veronica Jane had been separated from her partner. Laughing ruefully, but obviously unsuspicious, she was being jostled by the strangers towards the street.
He acted at once. He made a sign to the other detective, then like a rugger forward butted his way through the crowd. He heard women exclaim with annoyance as he shouldered them aside, but paid not the slightest attention.
He reached Veronica Jane. She gasped as he lifted her in his arms, almost without effort. Someone knocked against him and tried to knock him down; but he was as tough as nails and his training in the commandos had taught him how to deal with a situation like this. He maintained his balance, confident that there was little real danger as long as he kept hold of Veronica Jane and remained within sight of the crowd.
“Put me down! You're hurting me!” she gasped, struggling violently.
Her hair tumbled across his face. Her white fur-wrap fell from her shoulders, and his fingers sank into her bare arm. He held her to him and buffeted a way outside. To his relief the two strangers seemed to have vanished, and without further interference he reached Dr. Cameron’s red sports car, which was parked beside the kerb.
He kicked open the door and dropped his burden into the passenger-seat, just as a perturbed and breathless Hugh put in an appearance.
"What the devil do you mean?” demanded the young doctor.
A pulse beat in Kenneth’s jaw. "What the devil do you mean?” he retorted. "Allowing Miss MacKay to be separated from you like that! I thought you were here to take care of her! Anything might have happened!”
Hugh made no reply, but his face grew white. It was Veronica Jane, her cheeks flaming, her fur-wrap gathered close, who aired her views in forthright fashion.
"There was no danger at all!” she exclaimed. "You did it to annoy Hugh. You — you’re insufferable!”
He stood there, looking down at her. He was satisfied in his own mind that two agents of Max Bergman had made an attempt to kidnap her. The attempt had failed, but they would certainly try again. Though it might be distasteful to him, he saw his path of duty more plainly than ever.
"I may be insufferable,” he returned, dourly, "but you’ll have to try and put up with me from now on. You’re going to Glendale tomorrow? Right! Well, I’m coming with you. And whether you like it or not I’m taking you there personally in a police-car”
She made a sign to Hugh. The red car moved off, leaving Kenneth alone on the pavement.
His fellow-detective came up and touched his arm.
"That’s that,” he said. "By Jove — she’s a smasher!”
Kenneth came out of a brown study. "Smasher!” he exclaimed. "She’s a damned little pest!”
Chapter 3
Duet In Two Keys
It is remarkable the difference a night's sleep can make in a person’s mood.
At the Kintyre Gathering, Kenneth had been convinced that the two hard-faced men in dinner-jackets intended to capture Veronica Jane. In the morning, however, conviction was replaced by annoying uncertainty. Might not the whole incident have been distorted in his own anxious mind? Might not the men have been ordinary, unmannerly individuals, looking for friends they had promised to take home?
Like himself, the other plain-clothes policeman had failed to recognize them as known suspicious characters.
Veronica Jane’s mood had also changed.
On the previous night she had resented Kenneth’s rough and cavalier treatment. From Hugh Cameron and other young men she was accustomed to receive gentle courtesy — even in a crisis; and by using her like a sack of potatoes and dumping her callously in the car, this tough and unpredictable policeman had momentarily injured her self-respect.
But now, as she began to pack her things for the journey to Glendale, her mood was more equable. She still disliked the idea of being “pushed around” by a policeman — especially as she could see no reason for his anxiety on her behalf; but though she refused to admit the truth even to herself, a growing interest in that policeman as an individual tended to overcome her resentment.
Hugh saw her at breakfast. According to a telephone message received early that morning from the C.I.D., Detective-Sergeant MacDonald was due to call with a car at ten o’clock, and the young doctor expected her to show some lack of enthusiasm at the prospect. Instead, he was surprised to observe a gay sparkle in her eyes.
“Look,” he said, helping her to a plate of porridge from the sideboard, “I’m due back at the hospital today, as you know. But if you’d like me to run you down to Glendale instead of that awful policeman, just say the word and I'll get another chap to take my place.”
“That’s sweet of you, Hugh,” she answered. “But I shouldn’t dream of interfering with your job.” She poured milk on her porridge and sighed. “No, I’ll just have to bear with him, I guess.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. After all, he’s amusing in some ways.”
Hugh frowned. Her tolerant acceptance of the situation caused him vague misgivings.
“I wonder if he means to stay in Glendale while you’re there?” he said, sitting down opposite her.
“Maybe. I’ll do my best to get rid of him, of course. But does it matter all that much? You’ll be coming down for the weekends, won’t you?”
“You bet. I’ll be with you every minute I can spare.” He grinned, shyly. “That is, if you can put up with me.”
Her eyelashes fluttered. “I don’t think that will be difficult,” she said, with a smile.
He experienced a sudden thrill of satisfaction. It amazed him to think that for a moment he had actually been jealous of a rough-mannered policeman. It was obvious now that Veronica Jane — bless her! — had merely assumed a lighthearted manner in order to make things as easy as possible for everyone concerned.
“Take good care of yourself, won’t you?” he said. “That MacDonald chap is an officious blighter — in spite of the way he goes on I don’t think there’s any real danger. But — well, you never know.”
She nodded. “If anything happens I’ll telephone you at once. But you needn’t worry, Hugh. Uncle Bill is behind all this. He and my father are a pair of old fusspots!”
Uncle Bill — in other words Superintendent William McIntosh — was at that moment interviewing a grim-faced young man at C.I.D. Headquarters.
“That’s the trouble, sir,” Kenneth was saying. “Miss MacKay dislikes me intensely — after last night. She told me so herself. I wondered if someone else might take her to Glendale, and…”
“Rubbish, man!” exclaimed the Superintendent. “It’s your case, isn’t it! What does it matter whether she likes you or not? This is a professional job. You don’t want her hanging round your neck, do you?”
“No, sir.” Kenneth flushed. “But for her own sake”
Bulldog Bill brushed the argument aside. “Veronica Jane is charming,” he said, “but a trifle spoilt. She needs discipline. You can supply it!”
“I — er — I beg your pardon, sir”
“And in any case,” continued the Superintendent, concealing with difficulty his amusement at the other’s shocked expression, “in any case you should know by now that women don’t always say what they mean.” He leaned weightily forward. Supporting his elbows on the desk, he wagged a gnarled forefinger. “MacDonald,” he said, “don’t tell me you’re going to allow a girl of twenty-two to interfere with your duty?”
It was a shrewd thrust. His subordinate stiffened.
“No, sir. But…”
“Right, then. Off you go. I’ve put things right with the Kintyre Police, and they’re expecting you. Collect Veronica Jane in half-an-hour. Sergeant Gillespie has a car waiting for you in the garage.”
Kenneth reflected bitterly that you might as well argue with a lump of teak as with this hard-hearted old tyrant.
“Very good, sir,” he said gruffly, and turned on his heel.
But as he reached the door, Bulldog Bill called after him. “We’ll do our best at this end to locate and identify the Actor. In the meantime, remember what I said. Fraser MacKay is my friend. If his daughter comes to any harm, I shall hold you personally responsible… Good morning.”
Veronica Jane had called the Superintendent “an old fusspot”. But what Detective-Sergeant MacDonald called him under his breath as he left the room was quite unprintable.
Fifteen minutes later, at the wheel of a shining black saloon, he was driving along Kelvin Way en route for Hillhead Crescent. He heard the University clock chime a quarter to ten and eased his foot on the accelerator: it would be a mistake to arrive too early…
The chimes were also heard by Veronica Jane.
She had just said good-bye to Hugh as he made a hurried departure for the hospital at which he worked. Now, her baggage stacked outside the front door, she was in the drawingroom, awaiting her escort.
Mrs. Cameron — an acute observer — wondered why her guest should be so restless, so eager to sit by the window which overlooked the street. She wondered, too, why she should have chosen to make-up carefully and to put on her most attractive suit. After all, a tedious car-journey of over a hundred and fifty miles was scarcely the occasion for elaborate adornment.
Surrounded by a litter of discarded newspapers, Mr. Cameron did his best to while away the time by criticizing an article on shipbuilding which had appeared in that morning’s Gazette. As the University clock boomed out, he consulted his watch and remarked testily that like everything else in the country nowadays the University was behind time…
The chimes were noted, too, by Max Bergman — alias the Actor. In his room at a small hotel in Great Western Road, he listened as they died away, drumming with the fingers of his right hand on the arm of his chair. Then he nodded to the two hard-faced men seated on the opposite side of the electric fire.
“A quarter to,” he said, with his gentle, fatherly smile. "I think we ought to leave in another five minutes.”
Grey-haired, slim and of medium height, Max Bergman was a man whose age might have been anything from forty to sixty. His smooth, clean-shaven face was long and ascetic, like a bishop’s, and his blue eyes appeared to mirror a warm and kindly nature. You liked him at once — though whether you continued to like him or not depended on circumstances.
The strange thing was that his companions, who were several inches taller and almost double his weight, seemed to regard him less with affection than with acute uneasiness. They were old associates, summoned to Glasgow from the underworld of London to help in the delicate task assigned to him by Mike O’Sullivan.
In the unconventional circles in which they moved, these men were called Mullingar and Wilkes. From a boxing-ring in Poplar, and a strong-man act at a third-rate music-hall, they had graduated to their present position in even more questionable society. From Max Bergman’s point of view, their chief asset — apart from their physical prowess and habit of obedience — was that so far they had avoided arrest and had, therefore, no place in police records.
Mullingar, who had red hair, was slightly more intelligent than the balding Wilkes: otherwise they were not unlike each other. Their grey, lined faces had a common cragginess, and their eyes betrayed the bleak anxiety of the criminal.
As the Actor spoke, Wilkes got up from his hard-backed chair and switched off the electric fire. Then, collecting three suit-cases which lay on a stand at the foot of the bed, he left the room without a word and made his way downstairs.
“Think we'll pull it off this time?" inquired Mullingar, helping the Actor into his overcoat.
Max Bergman shook his head. His smile was reminiscent of a father humouring an eager boy.
“We'll see. If we're lucky on the road — well and good. If not, then we shall have to be patient and look for another opportunity in Glendale." His accent was neutral — the basic accent of a man accustomed to playing many parts. “The main thing is that we should remain unidentified and above suspicion. My only anxiety is that the police may have spotted you and Wilkes last night at the Kintyre Gathering.
“That performance," he remarked, without raising his voice, “was an unparalleled piece of stupidity. I hate to remind you, but if anything like it happens again I shall send you back to the gutter — where you belong."
Mullingar’s left hand gripped the edge of the table. In spite of his bulk he seemed to cower away from the slim, smiling man who stood before the wardrobe mirror, arranging the folds of a warm, grey scarf.
“I'm sorry, Max. If it hadn't been for young MacDonald"
“That will do. Wilkes should have the car ready by now. Let's go."
In the red-carpeted hall downstairs Bergman paused at the reception-desk to pay the bill to a languid, middle-aged woman with ear-rings and plaits of black hair twined closely about her head. She was the proprietor’s wife and had obviously seen better days.
“I do hope you and your friends have been comfortable, Mr. Smith?" she said, in a genteel accent.
He bowed, peeling a number of pound notes from a thick roll. “Very comfortable, thank you.”
Such a gentleman, she thought, priding herself on an instinctive ability to know a gentleman when she saw one. “We may be back tonight,” he went on, ‘'though I’m not quite sure. It depends on — well, a number of things.”
She put the money away in an antiquated cash-register and offered him a handful of silver change.
“Please let the maids have it,” he said, with a confidential smile. “After all the Hydro-Electric Board is paying all our expenses.”
She made a quick mental calculation. The change amounted to seventeen shillings. Half-a-crown each for the three maids left nine-and-sixpence for herself.
“So kind of you, Mr. Smith,” she cooed. “I’m afraid I didn’t realize you were Government officials.”
"Yes — from London. There’s been some trouble with the new Hydro-Electric Scheme in the Kintyre area, and I’ve been sent with two engineers to have a look round. We’re going there today.”
She nodded. The information did not interest her a great deal, but it registered — and that had been Max Bergman’s main objective. It was highly improbable that the police would ever make inquiries at this obscure hotel, but if they did — well, Government officials named Smith were legion and ought to arouse no suspicion.
After a few mor
e polite remarks he took his leave, rejoining Mullingar and Wilkes in the grey car. Presently they moved off into the traffic of Great Western Road, heading west…
*
Meanwhile a shining black saloon nosed quietly to a standstill outside the front gate of Number Nine, Hillhead Crescent. Sitting by the drawing-room window, Veronica Jane saw it at once.
“Oh — there he is!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet, and Mrs. Cameron noted with interest the colour which came suddenly to her cheeks.
Mr. Cameron led the way downstairs and helped Kenneth to stow her luggage in a capacious boot. The car did not obviously belong to the police; and its driver — hatless and wearing a grey flannel suit — was by no means a typical policeman. Obviously in good physical training, and with a hint of pugnacity in his square chin, he might have been a young city man whose chief ambition was to become a rugger international.
Veronica Jane kissed her hostess, then shook hands warmly with Mr. Cameron. Kenneth held open the rear door of the car.
She scarcely glanced at him as she stepped inside, but in spite of her apparent unconcern she was well aware of a certain hard enmity which brightened his eyes. She had expected as much. After all, it was only a few hours since they had exchanged uncomplimentary and even violent words. Nevertheless, she experienced a qualm of disappointment.
As he shut the door and went round to his own seat in front, Kenneth discovered that for the first time in an exemplary career he was inclined to rebel against the dictates of duty. This long journey was going to be difficult and unpleasant — of that he was convinced. He had no small talk, no training in the art of amusing a pretty girl; and if Veronica Jane had disliked him before, it was certain that she would wholly detest him by the time they reached Glendale. Why had Bulldog Bill chosen him — of all people — for this nerve-racking and unrewarding task?
The car glided away, with Mr. and Mrs. Cameron waving cheerfully from the steps. Then, as he turned into Great Western Road, heading west, Kenneth heard a small sigh from the back seat.
Escort to Adventure Page 3