The Screaming Gull

by Angus MacVicar

  “Hell!” I exclaimed under my breath, heedless of the fact that within the last few days I had become a fluent swearer. “What are we to do?”

  “Ssh!” warned Lawson. “Can’t you hear if there’s any sound inside?”

  “The rain’s making such a row!” I complained. “Wait! I believe there’s someone talking.”

  The downpour crackled on the slates overhead and hissed on the gravel at our feet; but faintly, as if from a great distance, we could hear a low murmur behind the curtains. Not a single word, however, could we divorce from the general muffled background of confused noise. I was so angry and so physically uncomfortable that I forgot to be afraid.

  “Not much good waiting here!” muttered Lawson. “We might as well be miles away.”

  “If Merriman was here he could have gone in and bearded them in their own den. He could have passed himself off as a member with that tattoo-mark on his arm. He knew all the passwords, too.”

  “But look here, Bill!” said Lawson abruptly. “We don’t even know, you must remember, that there is a meeting of ‘The Screaming Gull’ going on in there.”

  “There’s something fishy happening, at any rate. Why should two cars be here at this special time?” To our left was a porch jutting out from the front of the farmhouse. We approached it cautiously and found a door. Lawson gripped the handle, and, turning it quietly, pushed. The door swung open with no more noise than was being caused by the rain.

  “So far so good!” breathed my companion. “They must feel pretty safe here in the wilderness, not to have locked this door.”

  I don’t think that he had any set plan of campaign; certainly I hadn’t. Be that as it may, however, we suddenly found ourselves groping through a wide hallway, filled to overflowing, it seemed, by overcoats, hats and walking-sticks. On our right we found a passage and at its farthest end we saw a pool of light issuing from beneath a closed door.

  “That’s the room,” whispered Lawson. “Funny there’s no one on guard here, at any rate.”

  My heart was thudding now like a trip-hammer and I became reconciled to my wet feet and dung-bespattered clothes.

  Closer we crept to the door and the hum of talk inside the room became loud and fairly clear as we hesitated some ten yards from our objective. Individual words were now occasionally audible. I heard mention of my own name and of Merriman’s, and once I heard the unknown persons talk of the Blind One.

  Someone with a deep, masculine voice said:

  “That was a neat dodge of the Blind One’s to substitute Taylor’s body for Merriman’s. Taylor was dying anyway, and serve him right for being a treacherous little hound. Reid did well to shoot him. And Mason’s a good actor, too. He played Anderson’s part well at the hospital.”

  I clutched Lawson’s arm tight in my excitement. Then a girl spoke:

  “But the dodge, as you call it, didn’t prove of much use. Merriman and Anderson have escaped. And after that message over the wireless people are beginning to doubt whether Merriman is dead or not.”

  The deep voice returned:

  “Merriman is at least incapacitated. Not much danger from him.”

  “How do you know?” retorted the girl. “He’s the toughest of the lot.”

  “This doesn’t get us any nearer solving the problem of Lawson’s identity,” said another man with a deep, authoritative voice. “Nor does it help us in our effort to release Wotherspoon, Reid, and Mason. Lawson is in this part of the country and God knows how many more of his kidney. They’re getting hot on the track of the Blind One, and if they find her before our last meeting on Wednesday, when she proposes to divulge her final plans, all our work in the great cause will have gone for nothing.”

  I was trembling with amazement and I could hear Lawson’s breathing become quick and nervous. Here, at any rate, was definite proof of my innocence of murder. Closer we crept to the door, for in our present position it was a strain trying to catch every word.

  My foot touched what at first I took to be a loose flag. I placed my weight on it with some care. Then, in a moment of incredible fright and mental agony, I realized that the flag must have been a kind of burglar-alarm.

  High above our heads, as if from the roof of the farmhouse, came a shrill, eerie cry… like the screaming of a gull. The ghastly sound shrieked and whined until my nerve almost went. And at last, after a long moment of utter quiet, the whole house was in an uproar.

  Inside the room came sudden shouts and the trampling of feet. Lawson flashed on his torch, for all efforts to hide our movements were now useless, and he dashed back along the passage for the hallway. I scrambled and stumbled behind him.

  We were in the front garden and dashing for the gate, pursued by an indescribable clamour, when someone shone a searchlight on us from one of the windows on the second storey. The farmhouse must have been the local headquarters of the society, for it was apparently well stocked with gadgets to frustrate a raid such as we had carried out.

  “Pull your hat down!” commanded Lawson. “Keep your coat collar up! They mustn’t recognize us.”

  Half a dozen men came running down the gravel path about twenty yards behind us. And as we reached the gate a revolver bullet whined past my head. Steadily the searchlight kept us within its blinding radiance, and I thought we were beaten. But Lawson saw a chance of escape.

  “The cars!” he gasped. “The front Morris!”

  He leaped into the driving-seat and jammed the mixture lever to ‘Start’. I switched on the engine and the lights and put my foot on the self-starter. Without a moment’s trouble the engine was purring like that of an aeroplane.

  “Thank God the Morrises can start first time in an ice-factory!” exclaimed Lawson. “Here goes for death or glory!”

  He let in the clutch and we bumped off down the rutted road as fast as we dared without danger of breaking a spring. The rain was still pouring down and cascades of water splashed all round us as the Morris reared and staggered over the cart-tracks.

  I don’t know if the men behind were afraid of damaging the car or if they had only a few bullets between them; but after the first shot had narrowly missed my head at the garden gate our pursuers did not fire again until we had gathered considerable speed. One of them, however, managed actually to overtake the car, and, jumping on to the running-board, he thrust his revolver into my face. I struck up his weapon with my left hand and hit him hard on the nose with the butt of the automatic which Lawson had given me. He fell back into the mud with a groan to which I listened with some satisfaction.

  I was beginning to enjoy myself a little. Merriman wasn’t dead, and I had actually shown courage enough to hit a man who had threatened my life with a gun. The doubts and fears which had troubled me at the outset of the adventure were no longer in evidence… And Maureen loved me. Wait until we got back to the hotel! Wait until I told her of our hectic adventures! I shouted derisively at the poor creature whom I had struck, and Lawson laughed rather hysterically.

  But as I shouted a fusillade of shots rang out behind us. Two bullets hit the back of the tonneau, two went through the hood and shattered the mica of the rear window, while another struck the spare tyre, bursting it with a shattering report. Luckily, however, the tyres on which we were running escaped damage.

  “Take a pot at them!” commanded Lawson. “Show them you can use a gun as well as they can!”

  The lights of the other Morris were now on, and between their glare and the bright beam of the searchlight we dashed along as if under the midday sun. The engine of the car behind started roaring.

  “They’re coming after us, Lawson!”

  “Damn it, Bill!” shouted the Secret Service man. “Use that gun!”

  I broke two of the side-screens on my left and leaned out. I had never used a revolver before, but I took what I thought was steady aim at the lights of the pursuing car and fired. My arm shot up with the concussion of the explosion and instantly the searchlight was extinguished.

 
“Good Lord!” I exclaimed. “I’ve smashed the searchlight!”

  “Great!” yelled Lawson, who had no idea that actually I had aimed at the car. “Try the bonnet of the Morris now. Maybe you’ll put the engine out of action.”

  Going on previous experience I directed my shot this time at the ground in front of the car, which was now hurtling after us at a wild pace. But though my arm again jerked up I appeared to do no damage on this occasion. Our enemies, however, retaliated at once; for from the pursuing Morris came two spurts of flame and one bullet at least struck the side of our vehicle, to ricochet into a deep puddle to the left.

  We plunged and leaped along that road in mad fashion, and I marvelled at the skill of Lawson’s driving. But on the right of the track was a deep ditch which I viewed with some concern.

  “They’re gaining on us!” I muttered.

  “Shoot!” roared Lawson. “Keep on shooting!”

  Obediently I leaned out and again tried a pot-shot. Nothing happened. I felt now as if I were in a nightmare and that no matter how much I tried to accomplish my objective I was bound to fail. Our pursuers were gaining and we still had three-quarters of a mile to cover before reaching the main road and civilization.

  Once more I essayed a shot. And this time I almost leaped from the car with pleasurable excitement. A soft report echoed behind us.

  “By Jove!” I yelled. “I’ve burst one of their tyres!”

  “Bill the Cowboy!” shouted Lawson. “Terror of the Range!”

  “But… great heavens! They’ve capsized or something! The car took a wild leap into that ditch and now the lights have gone out!”

  “Serve them right! Never mind them. We’ve got to get back to Campbeltown.”

  *

  All danger of pursuit had passed, and we were jogging along steadily, leaving the farmhouse-farther and farther behind.

  “A good night’s work!” I sighed.

  “It was!” agreed Lawson. “We know that Merriman is still alive. We know that the Blind One hasn’t yet given her final orders for the first of February and that, therefore, if we can deal with her before the meeting on Wednesday, we have a good chance of winning our game.”

  “I hope they didn’t recognize us.”

  “I don’t think they would. The only man who might have seen our faces was the fellow you sloshed with your gun. The others only saw our backs. And probably none of them ever set eyes on us before.”

  We emerged at last on to the main road and made speed for Campbeltown. By my watch I saw that it was only about five o’clock. No one would yet be stirring in the countryside.

  I was in a kind of exhilarated mood. I wanted to shout and sing. But I refrained, on account of the many houses situated by the roadside near the town. I began to picture the glowing report of our night’s work, which, very soon, we should be giving to Maureen and Peter. I began to picture Maureen’s welcome — the warm light in her eyes and the close grasp of her arms. I began to picture Peter’s eyes goggling at the tale of our wild race down the rutted cart-road.

  The storm no longer caused me annoyance, though the rain was lashing in upon my shoulder through the broken side-screen, and drops oozed between my collar and my neck. Even the chill draught playing on my left ear now provided me with no excuse to exercise my new-found power of profane speech.

  “Lawson,” I said suddenly, “you remember that time I hit the searchlight? I was aiming then for the bonnet of the car behind us.”

  I could dimly see his clean-cut, white profile and his keen eyes staring ahead into the pool of radiance created by our headlights. His slim hands were steady on the wheel.

  “Is that true, Bill?” he laughed, and I perceived that he also was in a victorious mood. “You’re a remarkable customer!”

  “I’m beginning to think that I’m a damned lucky customer,” I returned. “I was lucky at Cairngarroch when I rescued Merriman. I was lucky in Edinburgh to escape from Wotherspoon and his friends. I was lucky — er — to have met Maureen. And I was extraordinarily lucky tonight to have shot out that searchlight.”

  He was silent for a moment.

  “You know, Bill,” he said at last, “I’m glad you’re in with us on this game. You’re exactly the type of person that gets results against an efficiently organized gang. They never know what you’re going to do next, for the simple reason that you don’t quite know yourself. They have a chance of finding out the plans of the Secret Service men because, in the main, they are all mapped out well in advance. But they can scarcely foresee the actions of a person like yourself. The Secret Service is like a battering-ram whose approach they can observe some distance away. They have plenty of time to erect screens to keep it safely out of reach of their machinery. But you are like a grain of sand, blown in on the wind, which causes friction before its presence is suspected, and is liable to wreak havoc with the cog-wheels.”

  “You are getting quite lyrical, Lawson,” I remarked.

  He grinned, and lifting one hand from the wheel he stroked gently one end of his tiny moustache.

  “Anyone,” he chuckled, “is liable to become lyrical about a man who is brought up in a kind of hot-house atmosphere and then suddenly begins to throw his weight about to considerable purpose.”

  “But I can’t help myself,” I explained. “It’s all forced on me. I’ve got to throw my weight about or I’ll hate myself forevermore. I’m terrified of being hurt; but I’m more terrified of my conscience — and of what Maureen would think of me if I let you all down.”

  A great gust of wind, striking the front wheels of the car, almost jerked the wheel from Lawson’s grip. The subject dropped.

  *

  About a mile outside Campbeltown we ran the old Morris into a side road and walked the remainder of the journey. We didn’t want to have on our hands a strange car about which awkward questions might be asked by the police.

  We entered the hotel by the same bathroom window as we had used for an exit four and a half hours ago. But when we got to the lounge it was empty.

  “It’s funny,” I said rather disappointedly. “I thought Maureen would have waited up.”

  “She’d be tired,” Lawson returned easily. “No doubt she’s in her bedroom now, sleeping soundly and dreaming of you, Bill! And I don’t mind telling you that I’m for my bunk, too, after I get a wash.”

  He went off quietly to his room. But I remained irresolute in the lounge. I had a look at my clothes. My shoes and trousers were splashed with mud and dung. One sleeve of my sopping-wet coat was torn at the elbow where I had put my arm through the side-screens. Then I had a look at my mind. I wanted to see Maureen. I wanted to tell her of what had occurred at Innish-na-gobhar Farm. I wanted to see if she were safe.

  I snapped out the lights in the lounge and walked steadily along the corridor to her bedroom. I knocked lightly on the door.

  Chapter 12

  The hotel was very still as I stood outside Maureen’s bedroom door, waiting for her answer to my knock. I could hear faintly the wind whistling in the chimney-pots and the rain lashing on the windows at the rear of the house.

  “Maureen!” I called, and knocked more loudly.

  I began to think that behind the door was a strange quiet. Without entering, one can generally tell a room in which a person is sleeping; for the soft sigh of breathing may be heard or an occasional rustle as the sleeper moves. And even though these sounds are not in evidence there is the queer instinct which tells of a human presence. On the other hand, the chill, dead silence of an untenanted room can nearly always be recognized.

  I had not expected to find Maureen absent, and it took some time, therefore, to make me realize that this very silence derided my repeated knocks. But when the knowledge came at last, I gripped the handle of the door with trembling fingers and entered quietly. The room was in darkness, but I found a switch on the wall and snapped on the lights.

  The bed, I saw at once, had not been slept in, and feverishly I looked about me to discov
er if Maureen’s suitcase was to be found. But nowhere could I discover evidence that she had occupied the room.

  Vividly there came back to me her faltering expression of fear on the previous night, and I found that I had to bite my lower lip hard to keep control of my terror. Then my eye lighted on the envelope on the dressing table. I snatched it up and saw that it was addressed to ‘Mr. William MacNair’.

  The note inside was short and for a moment I could not quite grasp its meaning.

  Bill darling [it ran]. Forgive me for leaving you for a little while. My father’s chief agent has come to town and he has phoned me to meet him on urgent business. I have taken Peter to look after me. Don’t worry, dearest. If you return well from your visit please take care of your health in the future. I shall see you, I hope, before you leave on your fishing expedition. Always your Maureen.

  When understanding came I made directly for Lawson’s room. He was in the act of donning vivid green-striped pyjamas, when I burst in, closing the door quickly behind me.

  “What’s the trouble?” he exclaimed. “You’re white as a sheet.”

  “Maureen and Peter have gone,” I said. “Read this.”

  His hand strayed to his moustache as he read the note and his dark eyes were bright when at last he handed it back to me.

  “So Merriman has come to Campbeltown,” he murmured. “There may be others, too. Surely he is recovering well from his wound.”

  “But why did Maureen go off like this? Was her business so urgent that she should have had to go before we came back?”

  “Must have been,” returned Lawson coolly. “Good lord, man! Don’t worry. Maureen and Peter are quite able to look after themselves.”

  “But the whole thing may have been a trap! How could Merriman know that Maureen was here in the hotel?”

  “He probably has been reading the Sunday papers. Putting two and two together he would come to the conclusion that Mr. and Mrs. William MacNair were you and Maureen. Then ‘Mr. Levison’ the friend of the family, would suggest my name to him… And further, Bill, it’s far more likely that Merriman should have spotted us than any of our enemies. They didn’t discover our identity on the Kilkerran, and until about an hour ago we’ve done nothing to arouse their suspicions.”