“You are Mr. MacPherson?” queried the big man, suavely.
“I am,” said James. “Editor of the Campbeltown Gazette.”
Such was his password in respectable circles.
The other stood almost immovable, his eyes unwinking, poised straight as a reed on the balls of his toes. James faced him fair and square, and almost involuntarily his wide, sloping shoulders hunched slightly forward, as they had done on certain notable occasions in the ring when the fight had tended to go against him.
“You are interested in the Allan murder?”
James nodded, and wondered how this individual was so certain that the Rev. Archibald Allan had been murdered. The afternoon was very quiet and hot and the long quay seemed absolutely deserted, even the lighter had ceased to discharge its coal. The winch no longer rattled, and the cart had disappeared in the direction of the town.
“Then I have news which will surprise you,” said the stranger.
“May I ask your name?” asked James.
He noticed in an uninterested kind of way that a large closed car was proceeding slowly down the quay in their direction, driven, possibly, by a chauffeur sent from the country to await the arrival of the afternoon steamer. He was early on the scene, thought James dimly; the Dalriada was not due for another hour.
“My name is Eoamunn O’Hare.”
Again James found himself staring into the green, luminous eyes, and again he felt their terrible power. But this time he was prepared for the ordeal. There was in his nature a streak of extreme “dourness” — a legacy handed down, perhaps, through generations of hardy Highland clansmen, and toughened and strengthened by contact with the universal “dourness” of America. Never had James’s blue eyes appeared so sullen as they did now; never had his pointed chin seemed so resolute. He knew nothing about the science of hypnotism, but no damned Irish blackguard was going to impose upon his will without experiencing some difficulty in the effort. He was puzzled at the new experience, and a little afraid, but his stout heart refused to be daunted. So confident was he, indeed, of his defence against the other’s evil influence that he smiled crookedly as he noted a small bead of perspiration stand out on Mr. Eoamunn O’Hare’s left temple.
But as he smiled he glanced swiftly to one side, and in a fraction of time he realised that his instinctive suspicion of danger had not been unfounded. Too occupied in his battle with the quick will of the stranger, he had failed to observe that the large closed car which he had seen making its way towards them had stopped and turned near by, and was now standing in such a position that it cut off all view of himself and Mr. Eoamunn O’Hare from passers-by on the street.
And Mr. Eoamunn O’Hare’s great hands, the hairy fingers half-clenched, were slowly moving upwards towards his throat.
CHAPTER III
James stepped quickly to one side, and prepared to deliver a smashing left hook. Possibly Mr. Eoamunn O’Hare did not foresee this sudden action, for he had obviously expected partly to hypnotise his victim and then swiftly to overpower him by his own special methods. Indeed, it transpired later that Mr. O’Hare seldom failed to exert his sinister influence over those with whom he chose to deal. But someone else, apparently, had been fully prepared for just such an emergency as James’s stubborn will had brought about.
“If you strike, I shoot.”
Dropping his arm and turning quickly, James saw that the driver of the big car — a short dapper man clad in grey flannel trousers and a brown tweed jacket — was standing carelessly by his charge, a stubby revolver in his hand. His small, wizened face was puckered in an elfin grin.
It is a curious trait in human nature that the meeting of a crisis, from which one has cringed in dread, leaves the mind strangely cool and even satisfied. The reason may be that all the faculties are suddenly strung up to their highest pitch in a fierce endeavour to find what best ought to be done, thus allowing no place in the brain for the sensation of fear.
The fact remains, at any rate, that James, who would have been the first to deprecate a description of himself as a calm and fearless individual, became at that moment possessed of an icy courage. Yesterday, had it been put to him that on the following day he would be placed in this unusual and dangerous situation, he would have laughed scornfully. “Utter nonsense!’’ he would have said. “And even though I did find myself boxed up like that I’d probably dissolve into tears and howl for mercy.” But, as has been made apparent, James’s predictions would have been rather at fault.
It was not borne in upon him forcibly that Mr. Eoamunn O’Hare and his henchman must in some way be implicated in the murder of the Rev. Archibald Allan … and probably in other crimes yet undiscovered. His life, therefore, was at the moment not worth more than a twopenny stamp. He knew of no other matter with which he was concerned that would involve him in such a desperate predicament. But, even with regard to the murder, why exactly had he been singled out for this unwelcome attention? James was of the opinion that the attack could have been motivated by one consideration only — that of revenge. It would be common knowledge in the district by this time that the editor of the Gazette had been the first to realise the significance of the red marks found on the body of the Rev. Archibald Allan, and those responsible for the minister’s death must, therefore, be well enough aware of the fact. He had been successful in putting one spoke in the wheel of their terrible activities: apparently they had decided that he should not repeat the performance.
James did not believe, however, that Mr. Eoamunn O’Hare and his present ally would have any inkling of his work at the telephone that morning; for he had not mentioned to a single person the results of his activities in that direction. And he prayed fervently that such would prove to be the case. But then the chilling thought struck him that since no one knew of these calls but himself, therefore if anything happened to him their whole significance might be lost for ever to the police. If anything happened … But why should he begin to imagine things?
“An interesting tableau!” remarked James. “Apparently, Mr. O’Hare, with all your excess avoirdupois, you were afraid to tackle me yourself.”
If he had intended to anger the big man, his attempt, to all outward appearances at any rate, was unsuccessful; though for a moment a quick gleam lit up the green eyes.
“Afraid, Mr. MacPherson!” exclaimed O’Hare with a thick-lipped smile. “By no means! Will you please step into my car?’’
The stubby revolver in the driver’s hand focused on James’s left breast. The editor of the Gazette wanted to fight, and to fight hard; but he had a great deal of interesting information still to communicate to Inspector McMillan and to the Fiscal … and while there was life there was hope. He had not the slightest doubt but that if he offered resistance at the present juncture he would be shot down without compunction. Walking unhurriedly to the big Daimler, therefore, he climbed inside, the driver holding open the door. O’Hare followed, cat-like, behind him. Producing a long-bladed knife from a hidden sheath at his waist-belt, the big man held it against James’s right side.
“We shall now drive through Campbeltown,” he said, “and thereafter proceed in the direction of Blaan. While we are proceeding through the streets you will remain sitting bolt upright, apparently engaged in friendly conversation with myself. You will nod to acquaintances, as if nothing were amiss. Otherwise I shall plunge this knife into your liver.”
“As you say, Mr. O’Hare,” returned James, without a tremor.
A certain unpleasant reaction, however, was now beginning to set in after his period of cool and calculating thought. Once more the evil face of Davisson’s “Balor” — that incarnation of coarse and awful sin — flashed athwart his memory.
“Ultimately, of course,” added his companion, ‘‘you shall die at any rate.”
“The common lot of frail humanity,” retorted James.
The big car purred smoothly along the quay, past the Royal Hotel and into Main Street. The pavements were fairly busy,
and James was observed curiously by many people. Dutifully he smiled and nodded. A sudden lump came into his throat as he saw Mrs. Kelly, his landlady, emerging from a grocer’s shop near the post office and bearing sundry parcels. One of them would contain the cold ham which was an invariable adjunct to his Wednesday’s tea.
They passed the White Hart on the left, and swung out towards the Big Kiln Brae. Just on the turn they had to stop for a few moments in order to allow a large motor-bus room in which to turn. And in the days to come James blessed that bus for many reasons.
As the Daimler drew up, close to the kerb, he was suddenly aware of a girl in a white tennis frock standing on the pavement, not two yards away from the car. She was the only person within his limited view, and her gaze rested steadily upon his face.
James winked at her with his left eye — the eye farther away from O’Hare and the eye which O’Hare could not see. The girl remained staring at him disdainfully. James, motionless beside his captor, the long-bladed knife pressed tightly against his ribs, continued to wink in curious fashion, and his heart thumped with suppressed excitement when at last he saw her expression change ever so slightly … For he had closed his left eye for three short periods, three long periods, and again for three short periods, and there were few people who did not know one combination of letters at least in the Morse code.
Out in the country the murmurous quiet of summer lay over the fields. Above the soft hum of the car, which moved along at leisured pace, James could hear the lazy drone of innumerable insects — the drowsy sound of June.
Neither he nor Mr. Eoamunn O’Hare appeared to be inclined for conversation, though the latter gave the impression of being constantly on the alert for any untoward movement on the part of his captive. Once or twice James thought of risking a sudden, quick lunge for O’Hare’s wrist; but the unrelenting pressure of the knife on his side always proved a sure deterrent.
At first only arable land lay on either side of the broad, tarred road. Dotted here and there in the cultivated fields labourers toiled, busy at the turnip-thinning, the work to which the farming community in Kintyre is generally devoted at the time of year. Patiently the workers moved along the green rows, on their knees, their backs hunched and their hands jerkily uprooting the unwanted plants. A few of them turned as the car passed by to survey it lazily but without great interest. In the meadowland great herds of Ayrshire cattle lay contentedly in the sun, or stood sleepily in the shallow, cool streams. Several cars streaked past the Daimler, moving in the direction of Campbeltown … It was all so homely, so commonplace. James wondered if he wouldn’t wake up soon and smile at his dream.
As they came near the place on Lagnaha Brae where the body of the Rev. Archibald Allan had been found on the previous night, James said:
“You remarked some time ago, Mr. O’Hare, that you had something of interest to tell me in connection with the Allan murder.”
“I could tell you who killed Allan and why he was killed,” replied Mr. O’Hare suavely. “Perhaps I shall do so before the day is out, so that I may view interestedly the reactions of a journalist who has in his possession the greatest ‘scoop’ of the present century, but at the same time is unable to publish any part of the amazing story.”
Gradually the face of the country changed. Moorland and heather began to encroach upon the rich low-lying fields, and before long great tracts of waste land skirted the highway. Even in the midst of summer a desolate and lonely atmosphere permeated the region, where the only sign of life was the noisy, quick rise of a young grouse. The road wound steadily upwards, like a white tape placed over a dark cushion.
James knew that if the journey continued they would before long run down into the fertile valley of Blaan, where dwelling-houses were plentiful by the roadside. But then, would the journey continue? … Now that he seemed absolutely alone with his captors for the first time he felt desperately bleak and forlorn. Not even the memory of the girl in white could comfort him.
Of course, the expression on her face had meant nothing more than surprise at his strange behaviour: he had been a fool ever to have counted upon it; ever to have built up his hopes on such a frail chance. And yet she had been a girl whose thin, oval face had betokened intelligence. Also, thought James queerly, she had been very sweet … But even though she had interpreted his signal correctly, what could she do to help him? What chance had she to help him? Could she be expected to match her wits against the utter coolness and audacity of Mr. Eoamunn O’Hare?
Where was O’Hare taking him, he wondered? James was well acquainted with the people in this part of Kintyre, and he could not imagine anyone who would be inclined to harbour individuals like O’Hare and his companion. His captors were evidently in no great hurry, at any rate, for the Daimler was moving along at a speed of little more than twenty-five miles an hour. Their confidence in their ability to keep without the scope of police investigation must be profound — for what reason James could not at the moment understand.
Five miles out from Campbeltown they began the long descent of Killellan Hill, and as they rounded the first bend on the winding brae the sound of a motor-horn blared behind them. James started, and his pale cheeks flushed. Could he dare hope? Could he dare hope?
O’Hare pressed the knife warningly against his side, turning at the same time to glance hastily out of the rear window. He saw a blue two-seater car driven by a girl in a white tennis frock, whose sole companion seemed to be a young, fair-haired clergyman.
“All right, Muldoon!” he called out to the driver through the speaking-tube. “Let them pass.”
Muldoon slowed down perceptibly. The blue two-seater came abreast of the larger vehicle and passed it. James, holding his breath, caught a glimpse of a determined little profile …
“Damn!” ejaculated Muldoon suddenly. “What’s she up to?”
The two-seater had swiftly drawn over to the left side of the road and was coming to a stop immediately in front of the Daimler. Muldoon jammed on his brakes savagely. The engine stalled.
James saw the folding cover of the dickey-seat at the rear of the small car swing upwards, and the flash of a blue uniform. In that instant, while the attention of Mr. Eoamunn O’Hare was momentarily distracted, he clutched the thick, hairy wrist of the latter’s knife-hand. His memories of the next few minutes are somewhat involved.
With an intense muscular effort he wrenched the knife from his companion’s hard, animal-like grasp, and it went crashing through the glass of one of the side windows. Next instant he found himself encircled by two huge arms which threatened to crush out the life from his body. In the confined space he had no chance to use his knowledge of boxing with effect. James, therefore, to whom the etiquette of the ring was all very well in its own place, brought up his right knee with startling suddenness. O’Hare gasped in agony, and his grip on James loosened.
The latter drew back his left arm, and from a sitting position, delivered a short, tearing jab to his opponent’s flat face. With a roar of pain O’Hare half rose in his seat, and James, in a daze, saw foam flecks gather at the corners of his contorted mouth. His own face twisted in agony as the other’s great fist thudded on his shoulder.
Like tigers they grappled again, just as James had a fleeting glimpse of two policemen — Sergeant MacLeod and Constable Wallace, he thought — standing on the roadway, watching the fight with some concern, and holding between them a dishevelled Muldoon. The girl in the white frock stood near by, while a tall, blond young man, wearing a clerical collar and a faultlessly tailored grey suit, held open one door of the Daimler.
“Go it, MacPherson!” said the latter calmly. “I’ll get his legs in a minute.”
James was hazily aware of a feeling of surprise at the youthful minister’s unflurried demeanour, but the business on hand was too hectic for him to think much about it at the moment. O’Hare was fiendishly strong, and he was seeking with his terrible hands for James’s neck. His flat, dark face was distorted with rage and fru
strated cruelty: two swollen veins pulsed and throbbed on each side of his bullish throat.
Suddenly James yelled, and kicked out madly with his foot; for O’Hare’s strong white teeth had sunk into his left forearm, bared in the heat of the battle. But as his grip of the big man’s wrist weakened from very agony, a kind of miniature earthquake took place, and O’Hare was hauled forcibly out of the car on to the hard roadway, still clawing and holding James.
The young minister who had caused this upheaval knelt on top of the half-stunned criminal, while Sergeant MacLeod, leaving Muldoon in the safe keeping of Constable Wallace, placed the handcuffs in position.
“Excellent work!” smoothly commented the fair-haired clergyman.
James recognised him now as the Rev. Duncan Nicholson of St. Kiaran’s Church, Blaan, who, as clerk to the renowned Presbytery of Kintyre, had on several occasions conversed with the editor of the Gazette with regard to local church news. A graduate of Glasgow University, he had come straight to Blaan from his studies two years before. His father was the head of a big wireless concern having its headquarters in Sauchiehall Street, and Nicholson had taken charge of his parish with the highest credentials. The Blaan people liked him on account of his almost unfailing good humour.
He was as tall as James and probably about the same age; but there the likeness between the two young men abruptly ended. For whereas James was pale, lean-faced and gloomy-eyed, the Rev. Duncan Nicholson was stoutly ruddy, and his glance was frank and vastly calm. James — except when in the ring — tended to be rather awkward in his movements, while the other walked with smooth, correct and unhurried step. James seldom smiled, and when he did, it was sometimes rather sourly; but this young minister beamed impartially upon everyone. James’s hair was red, plentiful and unruly: the minister’s was fair — almost yellow — and brushed sleekly back. If it came to a test of strength, one would have said, looking at the Rev. Duncan Nicholson’s powerful wrists, that he would have had some advantage over James. This, however, was not strictly the case.
Death by the Mistletoe Page 4