Escort to Adventure

by Angus MacVicar

  “I — er — well" Kenneth almost choked.

  “Take my advice," continued the relentless reformer, “and sign immediately. When I think of your poor wife and six children left behind in Glasgow…"

  “Look here I…" interrupted Kenneth, appalled; but before he could say any more, Mrs. Connacher, her shoulders shaking, had hurriedly conducted her guest indoors. He was left alone with Veronica Jane.

  Her long lashes flickered as she bent down to pluck a sprig of wallflower. “I — I just couldn’t help it," she confessed, with the shy air of a naughty child. “She kept trying so hard to reform me that it was getting me down, so I thought I'd switch her energy on to you and Nellie."

  “Six children!" he said.

  “Yes — and coming home intoxicated every night and beating your wife. But don’t worry, Kenneth" — she laid a gentle hand on his arm — “no one will believe her!"

  All at once he saw the funny side of it. He began to smile. She looked up at him, her eyes shining, and clapped her hands. Then they leaned against the fence together and shook with laughter.

  “Honestly,” he exclaimed, “you’re just about the pink limit! You deserve — oh, I don’t know what you deserve!”

  “A beating?”

  “Probably.”

  “There you are, you see — I wasn’t so far wrong about that imaginary wife of yours! I guess you have violent tendencies.”

  They laughed again, and before he quite realized what was happening, her arm was in his. She looked down at her openwork sandals.

  “Poor Kenneth!” she said, softly. “Am I an awful burden for you to bear?”

  He chuckled. His emotions were youthful and carefree and happy. He had forgotten about duty and his career — about Professor Symington and the fingers that drummed on the arm of the chair.

  “Awful!” he answered. “Worse than six children any day!”

  There was a quick, almost imperceptible pressure on his arm.

  “Never mind,” she went on, “you can have a holiday this weekend. I had a phone-message last night, and Hugh Cameron is coming today — in time for luncheon. He’s staying at the hotel, so I guess he’ll look after me till Monday at any rate.”

  All the joy went out of his morning. Veronica Jane’s friendships had nothing whatever to do with him. That was self-evident. Yet he felt an unpleasant surge of emotion — an emotion that in the end he had to admit to himself was plain jealousy. And in this state of mind he was ready to believe that her show of friendliness had been caused not by a liking for himself but by her keen anticipation of the young doctor’s company.

  He swung away, and her arm slipped out of his. He failed to see the shadow in her eyes; and even had he done so, it is questionable if he would have understood its meaning.

  “Dr. Cameron didn’t make much of a show of guarding you at the Kintyre Gathering,” he said. “And you must remember that I’m responsible for your safety — not him.” “I do remember that,” she replied. “But I thought you'd welcome a chance to get rid of me for once.”

  “Why” he began, impulsively; then he turned and faced her. “There’s something in what you say,” he lied. “Nevertheless, my duty is plain. When Dr. Cameron is here I must forbid you to go far from the hotel in his company.” He towered above her — big and dark and strong. She looked very young in comparison; and yet it was his angry eyes which looked away first, daunted by the reproach in hers.

  He expected a scornful reply and was astonished when she said quietly: "Very well, Kenneth. I shan’t go for any long runs in his car, if that’s what you mean. But I — I didn’t think you disliked Hugh so much.”

  He frowned. “I don’t dislike him.”

  Suddenly, as he looked down at her flushed face and golden hair — at her warm red lips and rounded chin — a desperate desire took hold of him, contracting his throat and making his pulses beat. “It’s not that,” he said, taking a step towards her.

  He saw her eyes widen and heard the quick intake of her breath. The silk of her blouse trembled on her breast. He caught her hands so tightly that she winced.

  “Veronica Jane,” he muttered. “I…”

  Then the spell broke. Mrs. Connacher appeared at the door. “Come on, you two,” she said. “The kettle’s boiling, and if you leave me alone any longer with that missionary wumman I’ll have hysterics!”

  After drinking a cup of tea, Kenneth made the excuse that he had business to attend to and left the three ladies together in Mrs. Connacher’s sitting-room. He did not notice the venomous glance directed after him by Miss Cunningham, or Veronica Jane’s uncertain smile. But Nellie did. She noticed everything.

  He was unhappy — and uneasy. The notion came that events were overpowering him: events which might mean the ruin of his career and — far more important — the destruction of his personal happiness.

  First he went to the garage where he had left the police-car and looked it over. One of the plugs required cleaning; and when he had seen to this he got Jamie Smith — once the Glendale coachman — to top up with petrol, oil and water. It was as well to be ready for any emergency.

  For a while he discussed Jamie’s rheumatics; then he went off to the kiosk, called the Campbeltown police and got their report on Professor Symington. It brought him no peace of mind.

  Professor Symington — a notable figure in Scottish archaeological circles — was a bachelor, with no permanent address, and on this account his movements were difficult to trace in detail. Shortly after New Year he had gone on a lecture tour in the United States, and as far as the police could find out, his next appearance had been in a Glasgow hotel only three days ago. He had called at the offices of the Hydro-Electric Board in Bath Street, with a request that he should be allowed to inspect their excavation in Glen Eden. This request had been cordially granted, and the Secretary of the Board — who knew Mr. Woodward — had got in touch with the laird at once and made arrangements for the Professor to stay at Glendale House.

  On the surface everything was quite ordinary and above board; and the Professor’s physical appearance was exactly right according to photographs and the casual description of friends. But there was no actual proof that the laird’s guest wasn’t Max Bergman. It was three days ago that the Actor had fled from Rest-and-be-thankful, back in the direction of Glasgow.

  “Get in touch with headquarters,” Kenneth said to the station officer. “Ask them to make further inquiries in America.”

  “Right you are, Sergeant. But it’s my opinion Symington is okay. He’s too well known. Bergman would never risk an impersonation like that.”

  “You don’t know Bergman!” returned Kenneth and rang off.

  At this point he would have liked a talk and perhaps some advice from Superintendent McIntosh; but the head of the C.I.D., as he knew only too well, frowned on subordinates who got jumpy and pestered him with anxious telephone-calls. He was on his own. Veronica Jane’s safety — as the Chief had pointed out more than once — was his responsibility, and his alone. If he shirked that responsibility then he wasn’t fit to be a member of the Force.

  He walked down by the shore, where little waves ran up the beach, sparkling in the sun. Sheena’s yellow frock was a shred of colour against the distant grey rocks. Slightly above her he could see Hector, long and spidery, at work on his canvas. But he didn’t disturb them. He was in no mood for talk.

  The idea persisted in his mind that daunting events were about to happen. Somewhere — in a disguise he could only guess at — the Actor was perfecting plans for Veronica Jane’s capture; and when the time was ripe he would attack. But how? And when? And where?

  Kenneth’s nerves were becoming taut. He could face danger and quick action with the gaiety and abandon of his commando training. It was this waiting, this uncertainty that he disliked.

  Besides, from where he stood on the sand-dunes below Dunaverty he had a clear view of the hotel; and he wanted to see Hugh Cameron’s red sports car arriving there. When that
happened he could relax his vigilance to some extent, though on the other hand it would heap added fuel on the fire of his personal jealousy.

  Once again he found a part of his mind wishing fervently that the job of protecting Fraser MacKay’s daughter had been given to someone else; for he was aware that his habitual efficiency was being thoroughly upset by her warm and disturbing influence. At the same time, however, another part was filled with gratitude that he had been privileged to know her. In short, what the Superintendent called ‘The human factor” was now obtruding itself violently into the smooth, impersonal development of his career, with results so far reaching that even Bulldog Bill could never have foreseen them.

  About half-past twelve he saw the small red car sweep up the drive to the hotel. A man stepped out. There was a flash of white at the front door as Veronica Jane hurried forward to meet her friend…

  Abruptly Kenneth turned away, astonished to find that he was trembling; and as he tramped across the links towards Ned MacCallum's cottage, he fought hard against what he imagined to be his own weakness.

  Wee Ned was sitting by a peat fire in the kitchen, his right leg supported on a stool.

  "How are ye, Kenny boy!" he exclaimed in delight. "I kent fine ye'd come to see me."

  "How's the foot, Ned?"

  "Och, no'saebad.lt was gey sore at the time, though… Sit doon, lad. Sit doon."

  For an hour Wee Ned regaled his visitor with light-hearted gossip about the poaching expedition. According to him, Veronica Jane was "the very spit o' her granny", while Hector had proved himself to be an apt pupil at the long net.

  "I only wish ye’d been there yersel'," the rabbit-catcher concluded, smoothing back his whiskers to bite on a freshly filled pipe. "The lassie was kind o' missin' ye, I think."

  Kenneth got to his feet. "She's not interested in common, five-eights policemen!’’ he replied, though even as he spoke he was ashamed of himself. "So long, Ned. See you again tomorrow, probably."

  He had lunch alone with Mrs. Connacher, for Sheena and Hector, having hurried through their meal, were already back at work on the shore.

  As they lingered over the inevitable cup of tea, they saw the onion-seller go swinging along the road past the window, whistling “La Donna e Mobile '. His wares hung in strings from a pole balanced on one shoulder; and he looked much more jaunty and confident than he had done before, when his identity was in question. He wore a new cloth cap, and his dark cheeks were freshly shaved.

  A suspicion stirred in Kenneth's mind, only to be dismissed at once. He told himself that he was becoming altogether too fanciful. His nerves were assuming the upper hand. Time he pulled himself together.

  His old nurse divined his thoughts.

  "It's the same man all right," she said, with an understanding smile. "If you noticed, he had a scar on his neck. It's still there."

  "I saw it, Nellie. But scars can be faked."

  She looked down at the pattern on the tablecloth. "You're worrying a lot, aren't you?" she said.

  "I am a bit.”

  “Not just because it's a tricky case?”

  “No.”

  “I ken how it is.” The prim hardness left her face. “But there's a bit o' advice I'd like to give you,” she went on. “There's some women never wear their hearts on their sleeves. I'm one myself. Jane Dallas was another. And I'm thinking her grand-daughter is a member o' the clan as well.”

  He looked at her quickly.

  “At times,” she continued, “books and study are no good. When that happens you have to depend on the heart. Never deny the heart, Kenneth. If you do it'll break you.”

  His jangling nerves were in some degree soothed and steadied. He reached across the table and patted her hand.

  “Thanks, Nellie,” he said, briefly.

  But his uneasiness soon returned, stronger than ever. About half-past two he went along to the kiosk and phoned up the hotel. Morag McShannon betrayed no surprise at his inquiry.

  “As far as I know they've gone for a walk up by Glen Eden,” she said.

  He put down the receiver thoughtfully. Veronica Jane should be safe enough in Hugh Cameron's company. Besides, Glen Eden was a busy place, with plenty of workmen within call if anything did happen.

  Then a disturbing idea occurred to him. This was Saturday afternoon, and no work would be going on at the dam. The place would be deserted — as it had been in the old days, when black-faced sheep and hill cattle were its sole inhabitants.

  Apprehension impelled him towards the Glen. If he encountered Veronica Jane and Hugh Cameron he would probably appear to them as a snooper and a spoil-sport, but he couldn't help that. If Veronica Jane were in danger, his duty was to be at hand to protect her if the necessity arose.

  Impulsively, without even going back to the cottage to tell Nellie what he intended to do, he set off across the fields, heading for the shoulder of Cnoc Ban and the shadowed depths of Glen Eden beyond.

  The sunlit morning had given place to a colder afternoon. A thin haze, creeping in over the sea, blotted out the sun and covered distant objects with a film of grey. Knowing the weather signs of Glendale, Kenneth was fairly certain that rain would come before nightfall.

  Up on Cnoc Ban, wind rustled through the twigs of heather. It was the only sound.

  He looked into Glen Eden far below. Its sides were grey in the misty light. The river running down to the partially completed dam was the colour of lead. The concrete curve itself looked like a pale structure of paper — an artificial thing entirely out of place in the wild valley. On its summit stood four steel cranes, their spindly arms drooping disconsolately.

  To begin with, Kenneth could make out no sign of life at all; and he decided that Veronica Jane and her companion must have already paid their visit. By this time they were probably on their way back to the hotel. Lucky I missed them, he thought.

  Suddenly, however, a movement occurred on the far side of the valley — in the enormous gash which had been cut in the peat and clay to enclose the foundation of the dam. At first he thought it was an animal — a Highland stirk, perhaps, nosing among the torn-up turf for succulent roots.

  Then he saw it was a man…

  Quickly he strode downhill, his legs jarring against hidden rocks at almost every step; but the man in the cutting remained absorbed in his task. Sometimes he would kneel down as if he were digging. Then he would straighten up and put something into a sack.

  The steep side of the Glen flattened out and became level ground; but Kenneth's pace did not slacken. On his right the high, smooth belly of the dam towered above him. He skirted the raw edge of the excavation and approached the man from the mossy green slopes of the lower glen.

  Then he knew that it was Professor Symington. Almost at the same moment the archaeologist looked up and recognized him. He waved the small steel trowel with which he had been working.

  “Ah — Sergeant MacDonald! I'm glad to see you.”

  Kenneth stood on a lip of turf. “Good afternoon, Professor. Any luck?”

  The older man sighed and straightened his back. He wiped his earth-stained hands on a pocket-handkerchief.

  “No,' he replied, looking up rather glumly. “I've been here since early morning, and my only important find so far has been a flint arrow-head, which may or may not be of the Mesolithic period.” He lifted his sack of chips and clambered out of the excavation. “However,” he went on, “I hope I may find something better tomorrow. Being Sunday, I’ll have the place all to myself.”

  His narrow shoulders drooped, as if with fatigue; but his eyes were bright and keen behind the high-powered spectacles.

  “I hope so, too,” returned Kenneth, and added: “Have you seen any other people in the Glen today?”

  Professor Symington frowned and shook his head. “Not since the workmen left about twelve o'clock.”

  “I see.” Kenneth felt the wind grow colder — a warning of imminent rain. “Have you finished for the day?” he asked.

 
The archaeologist nodded. “I should be glad of your company back to the village,” he said, a question in the lift of one grey eyebrow.

  “Right-ho. But we'd better hurry or we'll be soaked.”

  They took a comparatively easy route, following the downward course of the Glen for nearly half-a-mile before attempting to climb out on to Cnoc Ban. Kenneth offered to carry the sack of chips, a courtesy warmly appreciated by his companion.

  As they toiled up the long slope and came within sight of the distant hotel, Kenneth saw a group of people resting on a wide boulder about a hundred yards away. They were laughing and talking, obviously undisturbed by the threat of rain.

  He recognized Veronica Jane's shining hair and Hugh Cameron's University blazer. Along with them were four other guests from the hotel — the shy honeymoon couple, Colonel Huskisson-Smythe and Paterson, the golfer. It seemed obvious that on their way back from the dam Veronica Jane and her companion had encountered the others on a shorter walk and had stopped for a smoke and a chat.

  As Kenneth watched, they got up from the boulder, threw away their cigarette-stubs and set off in a straggling bunch for the hotel. His fears for Veronica Jane, it seemed, had been groundless; and he felt a good deal better.

  Professor Symington was surprised at his sudden change of mood.

  Chapter 10

  Second Encounter

  Nerves — and a distressing human weakness. That was his trouble. The job had become too personal, with the result that he was forgetting completely all he had learnt in The Science of Police Detection. The calm of the policeman had given place to a highly strung anxiety on behalf of Veronica Jane. The Actor — hidden, mole-like, liable to erupt into drastic action at any moment — was getting him down.

  All this Kenneth admitted to himself that Saturday evening as he sat alone in his bedroom, reading occasionally and watching the rain-clouds rolling in over Cnoc Ban. But he could suggest no remedy to himself. If he had any clue to go by, he could be up and doing, following the scent like a trained retriever. But there was no clue to the Actor’s identity. He might be anyone — Professor Symington, Colonel Huskis-son-Smythe, Arthur Paterson. Without a staff of plain-clothes men to assist him, he could not possibly keep watch on them all at once; and apart from remaining constantly with Veronica Jane, the logical thing was to wait for his opponent to make the first move and then retaliate at once.