Escort to Adventure

by Angus MacVicar

  As the night wore on and the wind grew cold and gusty towards morning, they talked of many things.

  Bergman spoke openly of the job of kidnapping Veronica Jane MacKay, so that her father, in return for her safety, might give up his investigation into the O’Sullivan gang’s criminal record. He complained that circumstances had been against him. Mullingar and Wilkes, recommended as assistants, had proved to be broken reeds; and their lack of intelligence had resulted not only in their own arrest but also in putting the British police on their guard. Nevertheless, he thought he might have succeeded in his plan, had it not been for Kenneth.

  “I reckon you’re what we call a leech, MacDonald. Tough as well. Just my luck to run into you.”

  Kenneth had no illusions about this kind of talk. The Actor was attempting to flatter him — to acquire his goodwill against a possible reckoning in the future. But in spite of this, as Bergman continued to speak of his experiences as an American gangster, he found himself becoming interested — even sympathetic.

  “I was born in the Bowery,” his companion said. “My parents died when I was four — of influenza — and I was looked after by a showman who did one-night stands in the slum theatres. That’s where I learned to act — and I guess I could have reached Broadway if it hadn’t been for — well, you were born a law-abiding citizen, MacDonald: I was born a criminal. They told me it was more profitable…”

  Somewhere in the dark cliff a seagull called, and the eerie sound echoed along the ledges. High above, the sky was changing to a paler shade of grey, and the outline of the cliff was emerging from the mirk like the superstructure of some great, fog-bound ship. Kenneth shivered.

  “When did you join the O’Sullivan gang?” he asked.

  “After the war. O’Sullivan reckoned I’d be an acquisition with my disguises — and he was right. He paid me well. For this job I was getting ten grand, plus expenses.”

  The wrind was blowing along the rock in quick whirls and eddies; and Kenneth suddenly realized that the light of day was on them. He could make out the colour of the ledge — a dirty brown, blackened here and there by drips of slimy water. Above him the cliff pointed to the brightening sky.

  He surveyed the ledge itself and saw that it was about twenty feet long and less than a yard wide, bare of vegetation of any kind. Behind Bergman on the one side, and behind himself on the other, it tapered out into nothingness. That they had struck it in their fall was surprising; that they had remained on it a miracle.

  After a while, as daylight strengthened, he forced himself to turn and look over. What he saw made him tense with primitive fear: a drop of almost five hundred feet — down, down to the grey sea crawling in and breaking into wisps of foam against a scattered pile of rocks. Far below he could see gulls wheeling and circling, soaring out and in from the narrow ledges. In front, over Bergman's head, the perpendicular cliff stretched away into the dusky distance, frowning down from an immense height at the tiny, shingly beaches. If he and Bergman moved at all, it seemed, they would slip over into eternity.

  He felt sick — physically sick; but he controlled himself and faced the situation. There was no way of getting up; and the only way down was a long swoop to certain death. If they were to survive, therefore, someone would have to find them and lower a rope. And it might be days before they were found…

  As the dawn changed finally into grey day, he noticed that Bergman was becoming quieter and quieter. He himself was chilled to the bone and both hungry and thirsty; and he imagined that the American's silence was caused by similar discomfort. Then a gull screamed over their heads, as if intent upon dislodging them. Instinctively Kenneth put up an arm to defend himself. The bird swung away but next moment was back, inquisitive and angry as before. Bergman’s face had been buried in his hands. As the gull dived for a third time he looked up and gestured at it, violently. His hand struck the outside edge of the rock and for an instant he looked over. Kenneth saw his face change, its smooth contours creasing into lines of terror. His blue eyes protruded.

  “My God!" he whispered. “I can't stand it! In the dark it wasn’t so bad, but now!"

  The gull winged out over the sea and became a tiny, dazzling spot in the vast distance. One danger had passed, but Kenneth knew that worse was upon him — the danger of being alone on this narrow ledge with a fear-crazed man. A man who could face a knife or a revolver without turning a hair but who — like so many others — was terrified of the high places.

  Bergman looked desperately into Kenneth's eyes at a distance of only a few inches. All at once he wriggled forward.

  “Hold me!” he cried, hoarsely, his hands on Kenneth's shoulders. “Don't let me go!''

  Kenneth lay quite still. “Don't be a fool!" he said. “You're all right. We're safe as houses on this ledge."

  “I can't stand heights!" muttered Bergman, his words stumbling over each other. “I never could. I — I'll go mad if I look down there again.”

  'Then don't look.”

  “I can’t help it. It fascinates me”

  "Pull yourself together, man! Lie quiet and hide your face between your arms.”

  With a shuddering sob Bergman obeyed; and for a time there was no movement on the ledge.

  Between Kenneth's left side and the sloping edge were only a few inches of smooth rock. He was aware of this continually and required all his will-power to prevent himself from looking in that direction. He kept his eyes fixed on the top of the American’s grey head.

  "What’s the time?” whispered the gangster, at last.

  Kenneth glanced at his wrist-watch, fortunately undamaged. "Nine o’clock,” he said.

  "Will — will anyone come to look for us?”

  "I should think so. Though it may be some time before they find my coat. I left it on the moor last night — not far from here.”

  He tried to speak with calm reasonableness, and it had some effect. The gangster’s trembling hands grew still, and there was another silence.

  The wind died, and it became so calm that the sound of the sea rose up in great gusts of noise, as if a giant with a slow drum-bush were striking the bare rock.

  "If — if I get out of this,” said Bergman, his face still covered by his hands, "I’ll go straight. I swear I’ll go straight.”

  From criminals in a tight corner Kenneth had often heard such vows before, and he was unimpressed. "The O’Sullivan gang will be broken up,” he said. "On Fraser MacKay’s evidence. What will you do?”

  "Anything. Anything.” Suddenly Bergman broke off. "Listen, MacDonald — what’s that?”

  Faintly, pulsing out of the unseen lands behind the cliff, there came a musical sound. For a moment Kenneth was puzzled; but very soon the explanation occurred to him.

  "The school bell, Bergman. I’ve heard it said that you can hear it in the farthest corners of the parish. I rather doubted it — till now.”

  “The school bell,” whispered Bergman. “I thought it came from a church. Like when there’s a funeral.”

  “Don’t be morbid, man.”

  “I — I can’t help it. There was a bell like that when Lanny Gibb was shot. And when O'Sullivan’s youngest boy died in a night-joint in a battle with cops…”

  A great shiver passed through him; and the man whose name was a by-word among American criminals, whose cold ruthlessness could put fear into the hearts of thugs like Mullingar and Wilkes, suddenly broke down and wept, weakly and hopelessly like a child. From between the fingers covering his eyes tears fell on the brown rock.

  Then the mood passed. Bergman looked up again, his fear-raddled face close to his companion’s.

  “We’re done for, MacDonald!” he cried. “It’s a sign — that bell!”

  He clutched Kenneth's arms and hands, and the violent movement caused them both to slip nearer the edge. For an instant Kenneth himself was panic-stricken, but almost at once he pulled himself together. Wriggling back to his former position, he caught Bergman's left wrist in a ju-jitsu hold.
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  “Stop that!” he shouted. “Stop it, Bergman!”

  The gangster cried out. “You’re breaking my arm!” he gasped.

  “Then lie quiet! Don't be a fool!”

  Bergman bit his lower lip until it bled; and presently he quietened down. Kenneth eased his hold.

  Time passed. Kenneth could feel the cold seeping into his muscles. He moved slightly, and a stab of pain shot through his thigh. He straightened his leg, gradually easing the cramp.

  He dared not look over the edge, though the desire to do so was insistent and strong. But behind him he could feel the cold, airy emptiness and imagine how the rocks looked far below. He could imagine how a body would fall, loose and whirling, down and down for second after second, until

  He stayed motionless but shifted his eyes so that they no longer focused on Bergman’s body but on the rock-formation less than a foot in front of his face. He stared so long, with the gangster breathing with jerky terror beside him, that the picture of the rock seemed to become permanently imprinted on his brain. The round, discoloured pebbles buried in the sandstone; the weathered indentation where a piece of stone had fallen away; the grey, curled shreds of lichen clinging to the rough edges.

  And the salt smell of the sea and the taste of salt on his lips. And the hush of the breakers far below him. And the flying wind which seemed ready to lift him and thrust him back and over…

  He struggled to maintain a grip of his nerves, while his flesh tensed and crawled. It was as if his muscles were bracing themselves to withstand the impact of a long drop. That had been the cause of the cramp, he thought. He tried to relax, staring at the rock and doing his best to ignore the menace of the terrified gangster by his side. If Bergman started to struggle again, gripping him like a drowning man in his panic…

  The memory of a Chesterton detective story came to him: about a man murdered, it seemed, by a giant club. But what only Father Brown realized was that in fact the man had been thrown from a high window, down and down, and that the giant club had been the very earth itself.

  God, it was cold. The air seemed to be impregnated with chill moisture. Bad for catarrh. Once he had heard a doctor say that Glendale, though its climate might be ideal in other respects, was the worst place in Scotland for catarrh.

  Bergman moved. A loose pebble rattled out from under his scrabbling hand and went over the edge. But that was the last they heard of it. It struck nothing as it swooped down, down, down…

  Bergman’s face was as white as chalk. How fantastic the whole thing was — this gangster with his bare grey head and the woman’s old-fashioned jacket and skirt, spreadeagled on the narrow ledge like some horrible caricature of Charley’s Aunt. A Charley’s Aunt that chewed his thin lips to stifle screams of utter terror.

  A grey-backed gull hovered in beside them, its wings motionless as the wings of a glider, its beady eyes directed on their unprotected backs. Then another gull wheeled in — and another and another, silent, curious, inimical. Were they going to attack? Had Bergman seen them?

  But the gangster’s face was buried in his arms. And as Kenneth waited and watched, with straining eyes, the gulls floated away down-wind, drifting along the topmost edge of the high cliff.

  He was cold; and yet the palms of his hands, pressed tight against the rock, were clammy with sweat. But he fought down his fears with dogged determination.

  It was desperately important that he should keep his nerve, for if once he gave way, and Bergman caught the infection, it would be the end. But his thoughts kept turning and twisting between two subjects — the ledge and the drop — the ledge and the drop. He must try to think of something else — something sane and sensible. He clenched his fists and began to recite to himself passages from The Science of Police Detection.

  At one time he had known the book almost off by heart. Now he found difficulty in remembering even the simplest paragraphs; and in a vague kind of way it occurred to him that by certain standards the manual was woefully inadequate. It contained no guidance, for example, on one's conduct on a high ledge, suspended dizzily between sky and sea.

  Then, by an odd association of ideas, Veronica Jane came into his mind, and the hard edges of panic were smoothed away. After a while he even smiled to himself. Veronica Jane was a continual tonic. No time for stagnation in her company. She would make a wonderful wife, very likely to that self-confident, clever — and undeserving — young doctor. He frowned at Bergman’s bowed head. Why, he wondered suddenly, should Veronica Jane have been born the daughter of an American Police Chief, while he himself laboured in a rut — an impecunious detective-sergeant?

  He heard a sound above him and glanced up. And like a miracle he saw her leaning over the top of the cliff, her face white and tense, her corn-coloured hair blown untidily about her head.

  He blinked. Was he dreaming? Had his long vigil on the ledge made him delirious? Then he knew that the vision was real.

  “Kenneth — oh, Kenneth!” she cried.

  Bergman lifted his head, jerkily. “What is it?” he whispered.

  “Veronica Jane!’’ Kenneth told him. “She’s up there with a rescue-party.’’

  The gangster's eyes widened. A harsh sob rattled in his throat. “How will they get us up?" he said.

  “A rope, likely."

  “It — it's impossible! I can't move, I tell you. I'll slip over."

  He cringed closer, and again those dangerous hysterical hands went out, clawing at Kenneth's arm and neck. One of his feet went over the edge. He felt space beneath him and screamed. He began to slip.

  Kenneth wedged one hand in the crevice which had saved them before. Using all his strength, he held on to Bergman.

  The gangster grew still again, panting, his cheeks blue. Kenneth felt a desperate weakness. He looked up. Hector's lean, pale face was now beside Veronica Jane’s.

  “We’ll throw a rope down," called the artist. “Tie it round you and we'll haul you up."

  The rope came snaking down, bright yellow against the red rock. It struck Bergman on the back, and he reared up on his hands and knees.

  “I can’t do it! I can't go up there!" he screamed.

  He caught hold of his companion again, and they swayed together on the ledge, the rope dangling beside them.

  “Let me go!” panted Kenneth; but the gangster clung to him — sobbing, mouthing strange words.

  Kenneth kept his right hand in the crevice, holding on grimly. His left supported Bergman.

  High above, Veronica summed up the situation quickly, recognizing its tragic possibilities. She came to a decision.

  “I’m going down to help," she told her friends. “I’ll use the other end of the rope."

  “Look here" began Hector; but before either he or Sheena or Hugh could stop her, she had anchored the rope on a piece of rock, tied its end about her waist and was climbing over.

  Kenneth saw her coming, suspended like a fly on the cliff-face. He forgot his weakness in a moment of horror.

  “Go back!" he shouted, violently. “Veronica Jane — go back!"

  “I’m quite safe," she called to him, her voice fragile in the airy space. “You need my help."

  He could not deny it. In fact, Bergman’s actions made it impossible for him alone to fix the rope about the gangster's body. But the sight of Veronica Jane hanging five hundred feet above the sea-washed rocks made him desperate.

  “Go back!" he yelled again. “Hector — don't let her come down!"

  But Hector could do nothing. Already Veronica Jane was within ten feet of Kenneth’s head, descending quickly, hand under hand, her slacks billowing in the wind.

  “You fool!’’ he cried, his voice breaking with strain and helpless anger. “Oh — Veronica Jane, you fool!"

  She was beside them on the ledge. Bergman was still shaking, clinging to Kenneth with weak despair.

  She wasted no time in argument. Supporting her weight on the loop of rope and apparently oblivious to the immense drop behind her, she qui
ckly tied the loose end round the gangster.

  “Hector — Hugh!" she called. “Pull him up.''

  Bergman felt the rope tighten beneath his arm-pits. He shouted and kicked. One of his brogues struck Kenneth’s cheek below the left eye, leaving a red weal. But he could not resist the steady pull, and he was hauled up, higher and higher, shouting in crazy fear.

  Kenneth knelt on the ledge, breathing jerkily. Veronica Jane put an arm about his shoulders.

  “It's nearly over now," she said, quietly. “I guess you’re all in."

  “Why did you risk it?” he returned, his mind on the one subject. “I told you to go back."

  “You'd never have managed Bergman alone."

  “That doesn't matter. I'm responsible for your safety. I promised Bulldog Bill"

  He was becoming a trifle light-headed. The strain of the long hours on the ledge was beginning to take effect.

  “You risked a lot for me," she interrupted. “Can't I return the compliment?"

  He was about to answer when the rope came down again.

  “Your turn," shouted Hector. “Come up along with Veronica Jane… "

  An hour later they were back at the hotel. A police-car had just left, taking Bergman, grey-faced and silent, to the Campbeltown Police Station.

  Kenneth was drinking a glass of whisky in the office when the telephone rang.

  “For Sergeant MacDonald,” said Donald McShannon.

  The voice of Superintendent William McIntosh, Head of the Criminal Investigation Department of the Glasgow police, came booming over the wire. “That you, MacDonald?"

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I hear from the Campbeltown police you've been having fun and games. Why didn't you report to me before now?"

  Kenneth's mouth tightened. He was cold and tired and vividly aware that all the way back from the Borgadaile Cliff Veronica Jane had walked beside and been supported by Hugh Cameron.

  “I haven't had much time, sir," he said.