“Quick, Peter!” I said “Where’s your — er — mother?”
Behind a great pile of newly hooped herring-barrels we were out of earshot of others on the quay. And it was fortunate that such was the case, for in his excitement Peter’s accent returned in its full vigour.
“She’s gaun ower tae Ringan the nicht, wi’ a big crood o’ local leaders o’ ‘The Screamin’ Gull’. Merriman has been tellin’ her a’ the secret signs o’ the Society an’ she’s putt the gull on her airm wi’ a ‘delible pencil!”
He paused to let me flavour the sensational information to the fullest extent.
“Go on, Peter!” I exclaimed. “Where’s Merriman? How did you get in touch with him?”
The story he told me was irregular and disjointed, but from the various lurid details which he supplied with gusto I was afterwards able to piece together a coherent whole.
One surprising item of news of which he had knowledge was that Dr. Anderson of Cairngarroch was not, as I had suspected, in league with ‘The Screaming Gull’, but had actually been a victim with Merriman of the organization. On the previous Thursday the small dark man and his patient had set out from my aunt’s cottage in an ambulance hired from a reputable Stranraer firm, the driver having been the only other person in the vehicle.
About five miles of their road had been covered when they were forced to stop to allow a big touring Rolls room in which to turn. No sooner had they come to a standstill, however, than three strangers armed with revolvers — from Merriman’s description Peter imagined them to have been Wotherspoon, Reid and Mason — had leaped into the ambulance from the manoeuvring car. One of them sat beside the driver and had threatened to shoot him did he not follow the Rolls to an unknown destination. The other two had covered Anderson and the wounded Merriman in the rear.
And it had been during the journey which followed that the strangers, in conversing with one another, had referred to the Cow and Calf as Ringan and Oa. Merriman had at last stumbled upon the vital fact, for which he had searched so long and for which he had trailed Reid to Cairngarroch. Captive as he was, the moment must have been a bitter one for him.
They had driven quickly to a lonely cottage, somewhere in the moorland country above Stranraer, where Anderson, his patient and the chauffeur had been bundled into an outhouse. They had remained there for over twenty-four hours and had known nothing of the substitution of a dying man for Merriman and of Mason’s impersonation of Anderson until Friday evening, when they were able to make their escape.
*
The outhouse in which they found themselves had been warm and comfortable enough. There had been straw on the floor and an oil stove had been lit to give warmth. Food also had been supplied to them at regular intervals by a slatternly girl who had handed it through a small, foot-square window at the rear.
Merriman, though suffering a good deal of pain, had actually grown much better during this period of quiet. Anderson’s case of instruments and dressings had been left with him, and he was able to attend to the Secret Service man’s wound at intervals. Why they had been treated with so much consideration Merriman could not quite understand, though he had a notion that Wotherspoon and his friends wanted to keep him alive until they had time to worm out of him the extent of the knowledge which I had gained from him.
Peter had been greatly delighted by the way Merriman had talked about the MacNair family.
“Dunbar is the snag,” he had been chuckling. “Dunbar has made them jumpy. He’s upset all their calculations, because they don’t know what he’s going to do next. They can deal with a Secret Service man, because, after all, he works to a certain routine; but Dunbar is fresh to the game… and is therefore unexpected in his actions. The MacNair family is a perfect combination.”
Throughout Thursday night and Friday morning the cottage had been very quiet. The prisoners had heard the Rolls and the ambulance leave the backyard shortly after their arrival, but though the tourer had not returned, the ambulance had come purring past the door of the cottage at about five o’clock in the afternoon. As I knew, however, Wotherspoon, Reid and Mason had journeyed to Edinburgh on my trail.
During this time Anderson had been feverishly trying to discover some method of escape, but it was not until about three o’clock in the afternoon that he suddenly thought of cutting a hole in the door with a surgical knife, to find out whether the key were in the outside of the lock.
The task had occupied the better part of an hour, having been accomplished by the doctor and the chauffeur working in turns. By great good luck the key was found protruding on the outside, and Anderson, thrusting his hand through the hole, had been able to turn it and swing open the door. It was now almost completely dark and they were able to slip away from the vicinity of the outhouse unobserved, Anderson and the chauffeur supporting Merriman between them.
They found the ambulance in a kind of stack-yard behind the cottage and, starting it up, they bumped along a muddy side road until they reached the main thoroughfare. Finding their bearings, they had made for Glasgow. There, in an evening paper, they had been confronted by the startling intelligence that a warrant had been issued for my arrest on the charge of murdering Merriman.
The chauffeur had later returned to Stranraer with his vehicle, with strict injunctions from Merriman to keep quiet about what had occurred until after the first of February and to offer his employers a trumped-up story about a breakdown. Only in the event of my being arrested did Merriman intend to expose the fraud of the substituted bodies, for it was his plan to render ‘The Screaming Gull’ uncertain of their ground. And he knew that if once he were questioned by the police the whole affair would have to be made public and the consequences might prove disastrous. Not until he had identified the Blind One and collected sufficient evidence to imprison her and the ringleaders of her society did he intend to summon police assistance.
Once in the city Merriman had refused point-blank Anderson’s request that he should go to the Western Infirmary to rest his wound. The Secret Service man had decided to take the doctor into his confidence and had told him the truth concerning his business. As his wound seemed to be progressing as favourably as possible, Anderson had reluctantly consented to allow him to visit the Scottish Regional wireless station, where, by the courtesy of the officials, Merriman had been able to broadcast his startling message. When he showed them his badge of office they had raised no objections.
*
On the night of their escape, Merriman and Anderson had stayed at the Central Hotel in Glasgow, and Anderson, much to Merriman’s delight, had decided to remain with his patient until the affair of ‘The Screaming Gull’ had been settled for good or ill. His practice in Cairngarroch was small, and urgent cases could be dealt with by medical men from Stranraer.
In the Sunday papers they had seen the account of the outrage on board the Kilkerran and had immediately realized what had been happening. In the meantime Merriman, who had spent the whole of Saturday in bed, had had from his room a telephone conversation with Sir David MacLaren in Edinburgh and through him had got into touch with a certain Andrew Gray, a commercial traveller, who happened to be at the moment in Glasgow, and who happened also to be wearing in a discreetly hidden place a small badge exactly similar to Merriman’s own.
A little before midnight on Sunday the three men had set out for Blaan in Kintyre in Gray’s car. About four o’clock in the morning they had arrived at Dalbeg, where an old friend of Merriman’s — Professor Campbell, whom he had met while engaged on the Mistletoe Murders case — gave them a ready welcome.
Immediately on their arrival Merriman had got Gray to telephone the White Stag Hotel in Campbeltown where, as they knew from the Sunday papers, the MacNair family was staying. As it happened, Maureen, who had been sitting up for us, answered the phone herself; and she and Gray, with whom she had worked on several occasions, at once recognized each other’s voices. She and Peter had immediately left the hotel, for they were uncertain w
hen Lawson and I would get back and Merriman had been insistent that they should set out for Dalbeg under cover of darkness. Gray had picked them up in his car a little distance out of the town.
“That was Gray that brocht me in tae Cam’eltoon the day,” said Peter. “He’s wan o’ the boys. Lawson will know him fine. What he said aboot pickin’ me up was a’ bolney! He’s a great man at his job tae. Merriman putt him tae the signs an’ secrets o’ ‘The Screamin’ Gull’, an’ when he was on his rounds among the Cam’eltoon shops the day he picked up a wild lot o’ news frae a fellow Bailie Grant — a draper — who says that some big meetin’ his frien’s were tae hould on Wednesday in Ringan has been changed tae the nicht. An’ Bailie Grant tellt Gray — thinkin’ he was wan o’ themsel’s — that their big co — coop is fixed noo for Wednesday instead o’ Friday. Grant tellt Gray somethin’ aboot a raid that was made last nicht on Innish-na-…na-…och whatever ye ca’ the place. Merriman was laughin’ when me an’ ma mither tellt him who was daein’ the raidin’. He says ye’ve gi’ed them a proper scare.”
“But is this Gray fellow not going with Maureen to Ringan? He has learned the secret signs as well as she has.”
“Naw,” replied Peter. “They decided this efternane that it was enough tae risk jeest wan o’ them. Gray was awfu’ keen on the job, but Miss MacLaren insisted on drawin’ lots. She went away at wance tae see thon meenister — the Castlebrae Kirk man — tae tell him that she had been at his service an’ had understood his palaver. She cam’ back jeest afore Gray an’ me left Dalbeg tae say that she had got roon’ him an’ that he believed in her. A’ the local leaders o’ society — includin’ ma mither! — are makin’ for Ringan in a motorboat at five o’clock frae Blaan. That’s why yer lass wasna able tae come an’ see ye the noo.”
“But what’s the idea — going to Ringan as one of the Society?”
“As far as I can unnerstan’ it, she’s wantin’ evidence. Merriman’s decided tae tak’ his big chance the nicht. He’s been telephonin’ the Inspector o’ police in Cam’eltoon an’ Sir David MacLaren a’ efternane. Three boatloads o’ policemen are tae gang ower tae Ringan aboot seven o’clock the nicht. They’re tae surround the castle o’ Lady O’Brian, an’ when Miss MacLaren has got a’ the evidence she wants she’s tae fire a revolver that she’s got in her stockin’ as a signal for them tae rush the hoose. If the thing comes aff there’ll be a big round-up o’ a’ the rest o’ the members in Scotland on Tuesday. Miss MacLaren’ll ken frae what she hears on Ringan where a’ the different sections o’ the Society are — are — ”
“Concentrated,” I suggested.
“Ay. That’s the word.”
“Does Merriman want Lawson and me to go to Ringan, then?”
“Oh, ay. He sent me tae tell ye their plans an’ that ye are tae be sure tae be in Ringan the nicht. Everything depends on the nicht.”
“What are you going to do, Peter?”
“I’m gaun back noo tae Dalbeg. Merriman’s orders. The commercial traveller’s pickin’ me up ootside the White Stag Hotel. Him an’ me’s gaun on tae Ringan when it gets dark in Professor Campbell’s wee motorboat. It’s jeest aboot an hour’s sail frae Blaan, but Merriman says ye’ll tak’ dooble that time gaun frae Cam’eltoon.”
“So long, then, Peter!” I knew it was useless to try and dissuade him from visiting Ringan. “Take care of yourself, old man.”
“So long, faither. Don’t get ower rash yersel’! Oh, an’ yer ‘wife’ says I’m tae tell ye that whatever happens ye’re tae mind that she — that she — och! If she wasna my ain mither I’d ca’ her jeest — jeest sloppy!”
I felt my heart leap, for I knew what Maureen had been wanting to tell me.
*
Once on board the Noblesse I gave Lawson the gist of Peter’s story. He nodded gravely.
“Merriman’s right,” he said. “He’s doing the right thing. It’s a big gamble, but it may come off. If it does, and we capture the Blind One and her chief accomplices, then that should mean the end of ‘The Screaming Gull’. If it doesn’t — well, why worry! Never meet your troubles half-way. I’m glad Gray has put in an appearance. But I wish Maureen — ”
“I know what you’re thinking,” I returned.
“Maureen’s taking a terrible risk. I’m desperately anxious. But I’m terribly proud, too. And somehow I’ve got a feeling tonight that she’s going to win. Maureen can’t fail…”
“So she sent you her love!” smiled Lawson. “Strange what a woman can do for a man. Half an hour ago you were the picture of misery. Now, even though you’re actually looking into the bright eyes of danger you’re as mettlesome as a young colt.”
“I know,” I answered shortly, as he smoothed delicately his little black moustache. “I don’t suppose the thought of your wife and Mary will help you at all in this business?”
“Sorry, Bill,” he said.
When the skiff began to bury her sharp nose in the choppy water at the entrance to the Loch, Lawson and I retired from the bow to the shelter of the little many-windowed wheelhouse, where an electric bulb was glowing dimly.
Williamson was there, a watchful eye on the helmsman. In his mouth he held gingerly a filthy old clay pipe which possessed only half a stem. He spat with every evidence of enjoyment on the spotless deck, and I was amused to notice above the level of the helmsman’s eyes a black-printed warning: ‘No Spitting Allowed’. Old Williamson saw my glance. He grinned.
“It was masel’ putt it up,” he explained. “I’m gey angry when I spit, but what can I dae aboot it? I canna throw masel’ aff the boat!”
The helmsman, an apparently sleepy-eyed youth with fair, curly hair, spoke with easy familiarity.
“Ye’re comical, boss!” he said.
It was almost dark when we plunged through the narrows between Davaar Island and the mainland and started to climb the marching, inexorable waves of Kilbrannan Sound. The five men, who, besides Williamson and the helmsman, made up the crew of the Noblesse, had disappeared from the deck into the forward cabin, and were now, according to old Williamson, probably engaged in a game of ‘Nap’. How they could play cards, with the little vessel pitching and rolling in what to me was a vastly alarming manner, I could not understand.
The Davaar lighthouse sent its beam flashing into our eyes every five seconds, and within the strip of brilliance we could see almost a dozen small craft like the Noblesse pirouetting and bowing in the tumbling, foaming water. When the illumination from the island disappeared, their mast-head lights surrounded us like dancing fire-flies.
I had never been in a skiff in a wild sea, for though I had been brought up in the fishing port of Stranraer, my family had always scoffed at my requests to be allowed to spend a night with the fishermen. I was too delicate, they said. Now, however, even with a task of the utmost danger and difficulty in front, I felt exhilarated by the adventure. I enjoyed the leaping, sinking motion and the wild striving of the Noblesse to overcome the threats of the creaming waves. I clung tightly to a rail which ran round the interior of the wheelhouse, hip-high, and endeavoured to balance myself to the reel of the little vessel. Lawson stood unsteadily in front, to the right of the helmsman, while old Williamson, the Hoodie to his friends, still smoking his foreshortened clay pipe, swayed precariously on the youngster’s left. I had an idea that the motion of the vessel was not proving altogether agreeable to Lawson.
The thud of the crude-oil engines sounded steadily, unfalteringly far below us, though at times, when the Noblesse pecked at a more notable wave than the rest, the screw would race madly on top of the water.
My chief wonder had to do with the steering of the little boat. To my untrained eye there was no guide in sight for the helmsman, save the flashing light on Davaar, which, every second, was receding farther and farther behind. The glass front of the wheelhouse was streaming with spray, and it was only by straining my eyes that I could discern through the growing darkness ahead the faint outline of the bow, dipping and swayi
ng. Yet the fair-headed youth at the wheel and old Williamson himself did not seem unduly anxious about running aground. And the other skiffs, whose lights bobbed on either side of us, seemed, even in the wild darkness, to be keeping strictly parallel courses.
There was, of course, a compass in a binnacle behind the wheel, but I could not see that it would be of use to the steersman in the narrow confines of Kilbrannan Sound, with boats hemming him in on either side. Besides, it seemed to me as if the youth deliberately avoided consulting the instrument.
We were almost half a mile to the north of Davaar when Lawson, dropping his Jewish accent, addressed Williamson in a clipped, curt sentence.
“We will give you twenty pounds,” he said, “to go off your course a little and land us on Ringan.”
The Hoodie almost let the ‘cutty’ drop from his mouth. Then he removed it carefully. The young helmsman jerked the wheel ever so slightly in his surprise, and I saw a sudden white burst of spray gleam on the starboard bow.
“Ringan!” exclaimed the skipper. “If ye’re feelin’ groggy, it wad be easier tae putt ye back tae Cam’eltoon.”
“We’re not feeling sick,” returned Lawson. “My friend and I are Secret Service men, Mr. Williamson. It’s a matter of life or death. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you of this before, but we were afraid the news of our trip might reach the wrong ears.”
He fished in the inside pocket of his jacket and drew out a certain little silver badge which he showed to Williamson. I could see the steersman’s eyes threatening to pop from his head.
“Twenty pounds,” murmured the old man, removing his blue peaked cap, and scratching his shining head. “What for should you be payin’ me twenty pounds?”
“In return for putting you to some trouble and inconvenience,” answered Lawson. “Ringan’s a good few miles out of your course, isn’t it?”
“Ay’deed!” said Williamson. “But if ye can guarantee tae me as wan gentleman tae anither that ye’re gaun tae dae the country a service by gaun ashore on Ringan I’m no’ wantin’ twenty pounds. So — get roon’ tae it, Jimmy! Mind yer weather as ye turn!”
The Screaming Gull Page 15