The Maggie (5 page)

‘Ye're in Glasgow, Mr Pusey? Well, I must hand it to ye for quick work.' A chuckle; then, ‘Have you seen the
Star
?'

‘The
Star
?'

‘It's our newspaper. There's a picture in it would interest you. The puffer
Maggie
– the boat your cargo's on.'

While Pusey was listening to this, Marshall, following the trend of conversation, had pushed the front page of the
Star
before him. Pusey had time to read the headline and gain an impression of the photograph. ‘Very humorous, Mr Campbell, I'm sure!'

‘No offence, Mr Pusey. I'm glad ye decided to come. There's two people here would like to see ye.'

‘Indeed!'

‘Aye. There's a reporter called Fraser, from the
Star
, and there's a good lady who says she owns the
Maggie
.'

‘Really! Well, I must say that, considering it was your fault that this fraud was perpetrated in the first place, I think it's your duty to come here.'

Campbell said with just a hint of Scottish granite, ‘Well, I don't know if I like your tone, Mr Pusey.'

‘I'm sorry about that.'

‘I don't think I understand you when you say that the CSS bears any responsibility in the matter.'

‘Surely it's clear enough.'

‘And another thing,' Campbell said, recovering his sense of humour, ‘when you were in my office the other day, did you by any chance take my fountain pen?'

‘Really, Mr Campbell, I . . .'

‘Here, let me speak to him.' Marshall took the phone before any more valuable minutes could be wasted. He said
pleasantly, ‘Mr Campbell? Calvin B. Marshall speaking. I'm sorry to trouble you. We seem to be causing you quite a bit of bother . . . Yes, I've just come up to get things straightened out . . . Yes, at the Central. I'd be very much obliged if you could manage to spare me a few minutes . . . Here? That's very kind of you. Thank you, Mr Campbell.'

Pusey, watching him replace the receiver, was both indignant and defensive. ‘Well, I mean to say, if you're in a man's office and other people come into it and begin discussing the same subjects with you, surely it's reasonable to assume . . .'

Marshall patted his arm. ‘Take it easy, Pusey. There's no need to get into a panic. It won't help matters to try to blame this man Campbell for your mistakes.'

‘Well, if I may say so, Mr Marshall, I think the fact that
you
spoke to Captain MacTaggart yourself . . .'

Marshall accepted the point. ‘All right, Pusey. It doesn't matter who's to blame. I'll have it sorted out in an hour. You'd better book sleepers for us on the night train to London.'

Still offended, Pusey took up the telephone. ‘Hello, operator.' He said indignantly to Miss Peters, ‘He even had the effrontery to ask if I'd taken his fountain pen!'

Pusey's indignation had a chance to smoulder in the next half-hour. Although the CSS offices were not a great distance from the Central, Campbell was not a man to waste shillings on taxis unless speed was essential, and now, enjoying the thought of all the trouble MacTaggart had caused, he preferred to walk. It was therefore with the greatest good humour that he knocked at the door of
Marshall's suite, only to be met by a severely businesslike Miss Peters, with Pusey glowering in the background.

‘Ah, Mr Campbell. So there you are at last!'

‘Good evening, Mr Pusey.' Campbell felt rather than saw the figures in the corridor and turning, bewildered, he saw that Fraser, the reporter, and Sarah MacTaggart had followed him grimly through the streets. He made a shrugging gesture, disowning responsibility, and explained, ‘There's a reporter from the
Star
and a . . .'

‘If you'll step this way,' Pusey interrupted pompously, and led the way into the inner room – Marshall's room. The door was opened and closed too quickly for him to realise that Miss Peters was at that moment being brushed aside by two people who could make the difficult situation practically impossible.

In the inner room Marshall was standing by the window with the
Star
. He still found the adventure almost incredible and he looked up with amusement as Pusey entered.

Pusey waved an introduction. ‘Mr Campbell, Mr Marshall.'

For a moment the two men eyed each other warily but with respect. Then Marshall held out his hand. ‘How do you do, Mr Campbell? It's very kind of you to give us your help in this matter.'

‘Not at all, Mr Marshall.'

‘Sit down, won't you? Can I offer you a drink?'

‘I'll have a whisky, thank you.'

Marshall gestured to Pusey. ‘And a Vichy water for me.' He picked up the newspaper again and showed it to Campbell. ‘Quite a boat. Is that MacTaggart?'

Campbell made no attempt to hide his smile. ‘Aye.'

Pusey, who was telephoning for the drinks, could not see how anyone could find this disgraceful episode funny. His fingers drummed nervously, the brow was furrowed with responsibility. ‘Room service?'

He knew when Miss Peters came fluttering into the room that you could never be sure that there were not new trials and irritations to meet. She tripped across to him and whispered, ‘Mr Pusey, if you could spare a minute . . .' It was the first time he had seen Miss Peters scared.

He followed her irritably outside and was startled by what he saw. Standing with feet astride and arms akimbo, Sarah looked like some vengeful goddess; Kali, perhaps, dressed – but not too well dressed – in western garments. In the background, and obviously enjoying the situation, was the reporter, Fraser.

Pusey's nostrils quivered with disapproval. ‘Miss Peters, who are these people?'

‘People, indeed! I'll ‘‘people'' you, young man,' said Sarah coming menacingly forward, with bag swinging.

‘Really, madam, I only asked . . .' said Pusey, backing away in alarm.

‘Then if that's the way ye ask I'll have to learn ye some manners.'

‘No, no. I'm sorry.'

She paused, undecided, as though she would still dearly love to swing her bag at him, despite his apology.

With a trembling voice Pusey turned to Fraser, ‘And who – who are you please?'

The reporter grinned, ‘My name's Fraser.'

‘Fraser?'

‘I'm a reporter on the
Star
.'

‘A reporter! Was it you who wrote that . . . that . . .?'

Fraser nodded cheerfully. ‘That's right.'

‘Well, I think you can take it, Mr Fraser, that you are not welcome here, not welcome at all.'

‘Does that go for me?' Sarah demanded menacingly.

‘No, no. Indeed not, madam. I was just going to ask . . .'

‘What I'm here for? Well, I'll tell ye. Ye've concocted some scheme with that blackguard brither of mine, Peter MacTaggart.'

‘No, madam, I assure you . . .'

She said fiercely. ‘This Puffer you hired to go . . .'

‘We
didn't
hire a Puffer . . .'

‘It says in the paper you did! Are your goods aboard it or not?'

‘Yes, but they won't be for long.'

Their attention wavered towards a waiter who had come in, with silver tray carrying whisky and Vichy water. Directed by Miss Peters he made for the door of Marshall's room.

Sarah started indignantly as she followed the implication. She pushed past the outraged Pusey. ‘Here, I'll no' be put off by any underlings. I want to see the owner.'

‘Please, madam . . . Please!'

‘Out of my way, young man, 'less ye want a clout.'

‘But please, madam. If you could just wait one moment.' Pusey danced before her like a fencing master, anguished, outraged, but determined that she should not pass.

Meanwhile in the inner room Marshall was beginning
to feel uneasy. He watched the waiter hand Campbell a glass of whisky but he refused his own Vichy water. He looked out over the street and then, as the waiter left, turned anxiously back to Campbell.

He said, ‘Well, I don't want to go to the police, but I can tell you right now that from the look of her,' he slapped his hand against the newspaper, ‘and the way this character MacTaggart navigates, I want my cargo off that boat. If your boat is available from tomorrow morning, let's radio MacTaggart to put into the nearest . . .'

Campbell shook his head. ‘Ye canna do that. They've no radio.'

‘But whoever heard of a cargo vessel without radio?'

Campbell said gently, ‘You understand, they usually carry coal or . . .'

Marshall put his hands to his eyes. ‘Coal! And I've got four thousand pounds' worth of stuff aboard it, that's taken me months to get together.' He sat down on the table, determined to remain calm. ‘How
do
I get in touch with them?'

Campbell said, ‘I can give ye a list of harbour and pier masters and their telephone numbers.'

Marshall jumped up with enthusiasm and made for the door. ‘That's fine. I'll have Pusey start on it right . . .'

His voice trailed off as he opened the door and saw the wretched Pusey defending himself from Sarah. ‘What the heck!'

Red-faced and malevolent, Sarah switched her attack to him. ‘Ah, here ye are, then! And is that the kind of man ye are, to do a helpless old woman out o' her rights?'

‘I beg your pardon, madam?' he said. ‘All right, Pusey, let's go into my room and find out what this is all about.'

As he turned masterfully he caught an impression of Campbell's smile, then he was borne forward by the urgent tide of plaintiffs.

Pusey: ‘Really, madam, I must insist. I – I'm sorry, Mr Marshall . . .'

Miss Peters: ‘This lady says she is . . .'

Sarah: ‘Don't you dare to touch me, young man. I'll have you know I'm the rightful owner of the . . .'

Marshall held up his hands. ‘Here, just a minute.' He squared his shoulders and spoke in his Overseas Manager's voice.
‘Please
! What is all this? Who is this lady?'

In the momentary silence Sarah pushed herself before him. She said with emphasis, ‘Sarah MacTaggart, the legitimate owner of the Puffer, and I'm here to tell ye that whatever money it is that ye owe, it's to be paid to
me
, or I'll go to the police.'

Marshall said, in a reasonable tone, ‘Well, Mrs MacTaggart . . .'

‘Miss!'

‘Well, Miss MacTaggart, I'm sorry to have to inform you that I don't owe any money at all. On the contrary! Your father, by resorting to tactics . . .'

‘He's no' my father, he's my brither, the blackhearted . . .'

Marshall held on to the table. He said with a slow, measured calmness, ‘Whoever he is, he practically stole four thousand pounds' worth of goods. By sheer misrepresentation . . .' He stopped, bewildered, as he saw another
face in the nightmare, a young man standing behind this formidable female, a young man writing down all that was being said. Marshall pushed past Pusey and Miss Peters. He pointed wildly: ‘Who – what – who is this . . . ?'

The young man said cheerfully, ‘My name's Fraser, Mr Marshall. From the
Glasgow Star
.

It took a full minute for this to sink in. Then Marshall snatched the paper from the table. He shouted, ‘What? Do you mean . . . ? Are you the one who thinks all this is so funny?'

It was a comparatively easy matter to get rid of the reporter, but it took all Miss Peters' diplomacy, all Marshall's determination, all Pusey's vicarious courage, to dispose of Sarah. At last as she was persuaded, foot by foot through the outer room and into the corridor, and as she departed with swinging bag and umbrella rampant towards the stairs she still continued to voice the most slanderous accusations against Marshall, the CSS, her brother, the unfortunate Pusey.

Marshall came back mopping his brow. Never had he felt less like a Napoleon of commerce. He needed encouragement. On the table was his glass of Vichy water and a whole bottle of whisky. He poured the Vichy water into a vase of flowers and topped up his glass with whisky.

As he lifted the glass and sipped gratefully he was aware of Campbell at the window, watching him with amusement. Campbell said, ‘Ye'll no' be wanting to tackle that fearsome body again, Mr Marshall.'

Warmed by the whisky, Marshall nodded. ‘If her brother's anything like that!'

From the window they watched Sarah emerge from the swing doors into the street. The commissionaire saluted deferentially, motioned with white glove towards a taxi, and received a buffet for his pains from Sarah's handbag.

‘What a woman!'

Campbell sat at the table and wrote out a list from his pocket book. He said, ‘Here's the list I was promising ye – all the harbour and pier masters. The
Maggie
'll no' be so far.'

‘Is she a fast boat?'

‘Fast!' Campbell exploded. ‘If McGregor, the engineman, really sets his mind to it she'll do maybe three knots – four if they're really pushed.'

Marshall finished his whisky. ‘And my cargo's on that!' He held out his hand. ‘Well, Mr Campbell, I'm extremely grateful for your help in this matter. I'll get Pusey to phone these numbers straight away. It shouldn't be long before we contact MacTaggart, then I reckon everything will be under control.'

Campbell looked at him doubtfully, aware that Marshall still had little idea of the man he was up against, but remembering how much he had suffered already he thought it would be unkind to inform him of the suffering still to come.

When Campbell had gone Marshall settled down to work. Peace returned, and confidence. From his chair he could see, as he dictated to Miss Peters, the gaunt outline of the city: office buildings, dingy pubs, an arcade of shops. Beyond the roofs the factories rose, square and practical; tall chimneys, a haze of smoke, a crane moving like a finger
above the docks. By altering the position of his chair a few inches he could look right down to the street where the office workers were flowing relentlessly along the pavements, across the roads, to be drawn, fifty, sixty at a time, on swaying trams. Factory workers passed on their way to a late shift. A few people, elderly women and courting couples, paid their shillings at the grille and went doubtfully into the lighted cinema down the road. Life was normal again.