Jonathan gazed into the darkness. He had learned more than he had bargained for. But just under eight hours ago he had also thought his number was completely up. “Now that depends on a man called Harrison,” he said.
“Clapper’s manager? He’s down in Manchester, under a fog.”
“The fog will lift. And he has a private plane, which Clapper is going to get him to put at our disposal.”
“Stone the crows,” Fergus said. “You just had me talking, you did.”
“Even amateurs are allowed a trick or two.”
“So what the hell, Mr. Anders? You’ll never get to Tiree by nine o’clock now.”
“So what the hell, Fergie, I don’t have to. You talk too much. Figure it this way. The train was hung up for half an hour while they chased us. So it won’t be getting into Glasgow on schedule. So she can’t possibly make it to Renfrew much before nine. And she’s traveling by a regular flight, so she can’t possibly take off until nine-thirty. And being Anna Cantelna, as you keep reminding us, she’ll have allowed for all possible delays, knowing there are only a couple of flights she could catch. So my guess is she won’t be leaving until somewhere about ten. Maybe even later. So she can’t possibly be in Tiree before eleven. And you know all of that, old friend, because it isn’t going to take her drifter more than three hours to make Barra Head, which puts her time of departure from Tiree at noon, if she’s going to rendezvous her trawler at three this afternoon. Your time, Fergie.”
“Stone the crows. You’ve a brain like a computer.”
“So we can still catch her?” Helen cried.
“We’ve still a couple of hours to play with,” Jonathan said with a confidence he did not altogether feel.
The trapdoor lifted, and Clapper Bronson peered in. “You guys still alive down there? The cops have cleared off. I think we could all have a bite of breakfast.”
“Boy, does that sound good.” Helen scrambled to her feet, stood underneath the aperture. “Let’s have the rope.”
“Coming down!”
“What’s the weather like?” Jonathan asked.
“The gale’s cleared off, for the time being, anyway. Sun’s shining and all. Could be a nice day.”
“There we are, Fergie,” Jonathan said triumphantly. “Is Harrison on his way?”
“Not yet,” Clapper said. “Apparently it’s still like a pea soup over the north of England. He’s just been on the blower, hopping mad. They’ve told him he’s stuck in there for the rest of the day.”
Fergus MacLennan broke into a chorus of “The Volga Boatman.”
Chapter Ten
MacNeill spread Jonathan’s clothes on the bed. “Here we are, Mr. Anders. Dry, and clean, and pressed. You’ll feel better when you’re wearing your own things again.”
Jonathan gazed out of the window. The sunshine was quite brilliant now, and the moor had turned into a glowing purple. It was impossible to imagine there had been snow out there last night, and blowing a gale. Now there were only sheep everywhere, grazing.
“What do you think of the weather, Mac?”
“Ah, well, Mr. Anders, it’s very pleasant just now. But you see those little wisps of cloud? That’s wind on its way. We’re in between storms, if you want my opinion. It’ll be blowing again by this afternoon.”
“Oh, cheer me up. Any news from Mr. Harrison?”
“Ah, well, Mr. Anders, on the radio it says the weather is still very bad over the north of England. I’ve never been to England myself, you’ll understand, but they do say it’s a terrible place for fogs and the like. But he’ll be here, you can be sure of that. There’s no stopping Mr. Harrison when he has somewhere to go.”
“How close is the airfield he uses?”
“Why, he lands right over there, Mr. Anders. On that smooth piece of meadow beyond the dip. We keep it just for him. No sheep allowed in there.”
Jonathan stared up at the empty blue sky, sighed. It was nine-thirty. Anna Cantelna was getting farther away from him with every second.
MacNeill seemed able to read his mind. “Mind you, Mr. Anders, the seas will still be very high. Oh, aye, that lady you’re after will have a time of it.”
Jonathan wondered what Craufurd would say when he discovered half of Scotland knew what was going on. But what Craufurd was going to say about this entire business did not bear considering. “That won’t stop her. Is Mr. Clarence finished rehearsing yet?”
“Well, Mr. Anders, he’s hardly begun, and Miss Irene keeps him at it until lunchtime, most days. But I should not think she’d object to your watching. Your young lady is in there already.” He closed the door behind him.
In fact, Jonathan thought as he finished dressing, Helen seemed to have abandoned her interest in their adventure. He did not blame her. After everything she had been through, this warm and comfortable and relaxed atmosphere was insidious. Too insidious. He wondered what Clark was doing. The bookstore opened at nine, so he should be there already. If he was going.
He stood in the corridor. He could not hear a sound. The quiet was part of the hypnotic effect of Castle Bronson. He opened the door next to him, closed it again; the room clearly belonged to Irene. He tried the next, found himself in a large bedroom decorated with photographs of pop groups and film stars, most autographed “To the one and only Clapper, with love.” A black-and-silver dress suit hung in the wardrobe. Once again he stood at the window and surveyed the sky. Once again it was empty.
He glanced at the desk, and saw Fergus MacLennan’s Luger automatic pistol. A deadly weapon seemed out of place in Castle Bronson. But at the same time it was reassuring, reminding him that he was not, after all, in the middle of some fantastic nightmare. He picked it up, removed the magazine. There were five bullets left. He slapped the clip back into the butt, dropped the pistol into his pocket. Its weight would serve to reinforce his sense of urgency. Besides, he couldn’t take a chance on Fergus MacLennan’s walking this way.
He went downstairs. Fergus MacLennan and Murdoch sat opposite each other at the huge table in the hall, playing pontoon. “The top of the morning to you, Mr. Anders,” Fergus said cheerfully. “Oh, yes, it’s a lovely day, all right. Just the weather for a sea voyage. That’s five under, Mr. Murdoch. You owe me five shillings.”
“He ought to be locked up,” Murdoch complained.
“There’s a thought,” Jonathan agreed, and went into the sunken living room. Mrs. Bronson sat in front of the log fire, knitting what appeared to be a kilt.
“Mr. Anders!” she boomed. “You look almost human again. Nothing like a square meal to make a man feel himself, I always say.”
“Why isn’t MacLennan in some sort of custody?”
“Well, he is, isn’t he? Murdoch is keeping an eye on him. We can’t keep him locked up, can we? I mean, we can’t hand him over to the police without handing you over as well. And anyway, we’ve only your word for it that he is an enemy agent. I think we’re doing the best we can.”
“I’d like a word with Clarence, if I may.”
Mrs. Bronson glanced at the clock over the mantelpiece. “You’ll have to wait a while, I’m afraid. We work first and play later in this house. Why don’t you just sit down and relax? I’m sure you’ve had a very tiring time.”
“I wish I could make you understand that I have a job of work to do.”
Mrs. Bronson peered at him between her needles. “But you can’t do it until Peter Harrison gets here. And what happens then depends on what Peter makes of you. You may as well accept that. Clarence wouldn’t dream of doing anything Peter didn’t approve of.”
“And suppose I tell you we just can’t wait that long?”
Mrs. Bronson laid down her knitting. “My dear Mr. Anders, how far do you expect us to go? Look, we’ve pulled you off the moor, concealed you from the police, given you breakfast. Now, you can believe me, we only want to get rid of you. At least, I only want to get rid of you, whatever plans Clarrie may have for your blonde girlfriend. I hope Peter Harrison
is going to put a squelch on that idea too.”
“Allow me,” Jonathan said, and went up the stairs on the far side of the room.
“You can’t go in there,” she shouted.
But Jonathan had already thrown open the door, to pause before the blast of darkness and noise which seemed to throw itself at him.
“Well, shut it!” Irene shouted. “For Pete’s sake, what’s the matter with everybody today?”
Jonathan closed the door behind him, leaned against it, peered into the gloom. Clapper Bronson stood on the stage beneath a single dimmed bulb, and swayed, and clapped, and sang. The rehearsal room was nearly as large as the hall, and each thud of Clarence’s hands boomed like a drum, while his voice, surprisingly deep and full of tune, followed the beat. The words were irrelevant; Jonathan had a strong impression of having stepped backward in time, to some gathering of cavemen carrying out a ritual sacrifice in their subterranean caverns. He had an overwhelming urge to participate.
Certainly Helen was long gone. She had regained her suit, also cleaned, and stood against the far wall, gazing at the singer, not consciously dancing in time to the music, and yet moving, up and down and to and fro as if hypnotized. Irene was closer to the stage, also bumping rhythmically, but accompanying herself with snapping fingers and obviously analyzing the performance. Then she struck a gong with the flat of her hand. The noise exploded in the sealed room like a gunshot, and continued reverberating for several seconds. Clapper ceased singing and gazed at her, his hips still rotating.
“Take it again from the top,” she said. “And put a little more boomph into it.” She came toward Jonathan, and the beat began once more.
“Can he put anything more into it?” he shouted into her ear.
She made a face at him, opened the door, and stepped outside. Mrs. Bronson hovered on the mezzanine. “He just walked in, Irene. I’m sorry.”
“Forget it.” Irene appeared to fall down the steps, collapsed over the side of an armchair, legs waving in the air. She took off her glasses and dropped them on the floor. “Sure Clarrie can put more boomph into it. He’s just lazy. Eh, Mrs. B?”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” boomed Mrs. Bronson. “And how is the new number coming?”
“I figure we’re about there. Eh, Jonny?”
“It was marvelous,” Jonathan agreed. “Sent me all the way. Now Irene, as your boss isn’t coming, I wonder if you’d lend me your Land Rover.”
Irene swung her legs to the floor and sat up. She swept her hands over the polar bear in front of her, regained her glasses, stuck them on her nose. She got up and stood at the window. “It’s not on. We’re fifty miles from the nearest airport, even supposing we could guarantee you a flight. And it’s a quarter to ten, and Pete is still holed up in Manchester. He flies a Beechcraft, not an executive jet. Even if he took off this moment he couldn’t . . . well, now, what do you know.”
Mrs. Bronson and Jonathan joined her at the window to watch the little twin-engined aircraft circle out of the sky.
*
Peter Harrison was in his late thirties. He was fairly tall, and solidly built without being heavy. He wore horn-rimmed spectacles and his black hair was graying at the temples. His features were unremarkable, and his expression placid. His mohair suit was as conservatively cut as anything Craufurd might have worn. He suggested a junior executive in a small and unprogressive corporation. Only the hazel eyes behind the spectacles gleamed with a perpetual inner alarm. He climbed down from his aircraft and watched the Land Rover bouncing toward him. As it stopped and debouched its occupants, he removed his glasses and polished them with a piece of tissue paper.
“Irene!” he said, his voice crisp. “What is Clarence doing out in this freezing wind?”
“I told you you should have stayed home,” Irene hissed. “Now get back in the car.”
“Am I glad to see you, Mr. Harrison,” Jonathan said.
“We thought you weren’t coming at all,” Helen explained.
Mr. Harrison looked each of them up and down, and then did the same for Mrs. Bronson. “Reporters!” he said at last. “Somebody had better explain. You start, Chu-chu.”
“Well, you see, Peter,” boomed Mrs. Bronson. “I suppose it is a little confusing . . .”
“Irene!”
“Coming, Peter.” Irene clambered down from the rear of the Land Rover, where she had been wrapping Clarence’s throat in a scarf. “What I don’t get is how you’re here at all. Just a couple of hours ago you were on the phone from Manchester, saying you were stuck in there for the morning.”
“Brainwave!” Mr. Harrison permitted himself a brief smile. “The weather improved just a little right after I’d hung up, so I told the Traffic Control I just had to get away, because my poor old mother was dying and I wanted to be at her bedside. Well, they stretched a point, under the circumstances, especially knowing it was clear up here. I left them in tears, all but.”
“That was a terrible thing to do, Peter,” Mrs. Bronson said.
“Correct! As ever, Chu-chu. But as I always say, all’s fair once it’s business. And I’m here, that’s the important thing.”
“You can say that again.” Jonathan agreed.
“Why does he call you Chu-chu?” Helen asked Mrs. Bronson in a penetrating whisper.
Mrs. Bronson shrugged. “He always has. Something to do with a train, I believe.”
“Now!” said Mr. Harrison. “I want to eat the biggest breakfast you can raise, and then we’re away. Clarence is due in London this afternoon.”
“London?” Irene cried.
“London!” Mr. Harrison repeated. “The deal of a lifetime. Your lifetime, Clarence.” He climbed into the Land Rover and sat behind the wheel. “The Dingoes have all come down with the Asian flu. This time last night George MacKenna was going out of his mind. But the moment I heard the news I was on the telephone, and he fell for it. It’s top of the bill for Clapper if he’s there by this evening for rehearsal.”
“We can’t,” Clarence protested.
“Boy!” said Mr. Harrison. “Will you let me decide what we can and what we cannot do?”
“You don’t understand, Peter,” boomed Mrs. Bronson.
“Chu-chu! You talk too much. I don’t know what’s been going on up here, but whatever it is, snap out of it and listen to some straight sense. How many times has Clarence been Number One? Just once, and ‘The Highland Beat’ was released a year ago next month. Now you’re not going to tell me the current number isn’t as good? It’s better. But it’s not going to get any higher than Number Two. And why? Because the Dingoes are stuck in there at One. This is our chance to knock them off that spot. Do you know what show I’m talking about? The world-wide hookup that’s celebrating the new communications satellite they pushed up last week. Six hours of nonstop variety, from New York to Tokyo and back again. And our Clarence is going to be topping the British bill. You top that one, Chu-chu.”
“Well, if you put it that way . . .”
“That’s a big show,” Irene muttered uneasily.
“Big!” said Mr. Harrison. “You don’t think Clarence can do it? Clarence can do anything. He just hasn’t had the chance yet.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Irene said. “Of course he has the talent, but he simply hasn’t got the experience of anything more than guest shots.”
“Arguing! Always arguing, and that kind of argument is downright disloyal. We’re due in London for tea, and at the studio by five. Let’s go.”
“Wait a minute,” Jonathan protested.
Irene shook her head. “Not now, Jonny. Not now.”
“It has to be now. Mr. Harrison, I want to borrow your plane for a couple of hours.”
Slowly Mr. Harrison turned his head. “Again?!”
“I have got to get to Tiree, this morning.”
Mr. Harrison looked at Irene. “Explain!”
“Jon is some kind of government agent who’s chasing somebody who’s gone to the Hebrides,” Cla
rence said.
“Police!”
“Oh, no,” Jonathan said. “As a matter of fact, I’m wanted by the police.”
“Unbelievable!” Mr. Harrison commented. “Listen, my boy. Who you’re chasing and who’s chasing you means nothing to me. Just as long as I get Clarence back to London this afternoon, you can stay here for the rest of your life. Now let’s go.”
“But this is a matter of national importance!” Jonathan shouted.
“Amazing!” Mr. Harrison’s gaze was pitying. “Clarence is going to be a matter of international importance. Tomorrow. That means he has to be in London today.”
Jonathan gazed at the aircraft. The Luger nestled in his pocket, but now wasn’t the time.
“Come on, Jonny,” Helen said. “We’re licked and you know it. Anyway, you’ve covered all the odds. I’ll bet Clark and your friends are flying north at this very moment.”
“Landing on Barra,” he said miserably, and sat in the back of the Land Rover.
Mr. Harrison drove very fast, discovered every undulation in the track, scattered sheep. “Listen!” he said enthusiastically. “Let me tell you who else is on the bill. The Applejack Kid, and the Lower Species, and the Agonies, and Angela, of course. Think of that, Clarence. All supporting Clapper Bronson. I’ll tell you, boy: Tomorrow night will make you the biggest thing since the Beatles. Do you have any idea what kind of an audience is going to be looking in? Two hundred million is a conservative figure. And they’re all going to be wild about you. Because do you know how I see the program? You’re booked for three numbers. We’ll start with ‘The Highland Beat,’ remind everybody just how good you are. Then we’ll do the current number. And then we’re going to spring the new one on them.”
“It doesn’t even have a name yet,” Irene cried.
“Think! It’ll give you something to do on the flight. I want some alternatives by the time we reach London. Clapper sings it for the first time tomorrow night, and I’ve a recording session lined up for Wednesday morning. It’s going to sell two million. And that’s another conservative estimate.” He braked the Land Rover in the courtyard, stepped down. Fergus MacLennan gloomed at him from the doorway. “Not another G-man?”
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