The Dancing Horse by Angus MacVicar

Author:Angus MacVicar [MacVicar, Angus]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Endeavour Media
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

TWELVE

To account for their lateness they told the waiter that they had become involved with the Dramatic Club at Ardshalloch. It was an alibi containing some truth, and they hoped it would get by even in Campbeltown, where police and civilian gossips probably worked hand in hand.

Jimmy smiled and shook his head. ‘That lot!’ he remarked, in a pitying way. ‘No wonder you look a wee bit tired. They would be drinking you under the table?’ His manner of speech was more Highland than his cousin Jock’s, and in fact his home was in Inveraray. He came to Campbeltown for the summer season of tips.

‘They did their best,’ Donald agreed. ‘You seem to have had a quiet night here?’

‘It was busy enough up to ten o’clock. As a rule there’s not much doing after that in any of the hotels. Ardshalloch had a late licence tonight.’

Bulldog sipped his Bulloch, Lade. ‘You had one late visitor at least,’ he said. The chap who went out just now.’

‘Aye, yon was a character if you ask me!’ Jimmy appeared to be entirely open and above-board. The alert expression in his eyes, the long face and narrow balding head, the slightly sardonic smile — all were typical of the Scottish West Coast. ‘He came in after eleven to ask the way to Southend, and och, well — we had a longer crack than I realized. Very interested in the place he was. Especially the atomic station.’

‘I see.’

‘I was wondering if he might be a newspaperman like yourselves?’

Donald shrugged. ‘I don’t think so. Unless he’s one of those American freelances.’

‘He knows about you, Mr. Grant. Says he often reads your sports column.’

Bulldog was too interested to make a cynical comment. He said, quickly: ‘So he was asking about us?’

‘About Mr. Grant, sir. He didn’t mention you at all. He was saying he hoped to meet him some time. That’s why I was a wee bit surprised when you came in and he beat it at once.’

Donald lit a cigarette. ‘A stranger to these parts, I take it?’

‘I never saw him before. And he didn’t tell me his name. But I gathered he was going to Southend on holiday.’

‘Nice car he has, by the sound of it.’

‘Aye, you’re right, Mr. Grant. Now if you’ll excuse me I’ll be tidying up in the bar before the night porter comes in. Will you be wanting another drink?’

‘No, thank you. We’re just going to bed.’

‘Very well. Good night, Mr. Grant.’

‘Good night, Jimmy.’

‘Good night, Mr. MacPhail.’

‘Good night.’

The lounge was quiet, smoke curling in the still air beneath the electric chandeliers. It had become slightly cold, and Donald shivered.

He said: ‘I didn’t like the look of our friend with the tweed jacket. To me he had the face of a killer.’

Bulldog swallowed the last of his whisky. ‘Maybe you’ve got something there,’ he answered, and his tone was bleak.

By morning, however, he had regained his good spirits. Donald, too, was feeling better and less inclined to be nervous about the result of their investigation.

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