The Complete McAuslan (69 page)

‘Who else would it be but the Admiral?’ snapped Jimmy. ‘He’s ben in herself’s office wi’ the gadgers and Inspector MacKendrick, planning his bluidy campaign, like Napoleon he is. No, they haven’t found the stag, so he’s turning his fury on the Dipper, wi’ the bile spilling out of him.’ He dropped his voice. ‘The gadgers think they have their eye on the still, is that not the case, Rory?’ He glanced at the portly Sergeant, who was looking stern and official and trying to pretend he wasn’t taking sidelong keeks through the open door of the drawing-room, where the dinner guests were having coffee – it probably wasn’t often that he got this close to the High Life.

‘The gadgers’ information is aaltogether confidential,’ he said importantly. ‘Classified, and canna’ be divulged.’

‘Classified your erse and parsley,’ said Jimmy vulgarly. ‘Who d’ye think ye are, the Flyin’ Squad? If it’s all that confidential, why are you turnin’ my hotel into a damned circus? We havnae got the Dipper’s still – or maybe you think Bridie the linen-mistress is his confederate, aye, his gangster’s moll! Polisl’

‘I’ve got something else for you, Rory,’ I said, and told him about the missing 15-cwt. Jimmy whistled and muttered ‘Dalmighty!’ and the Sergeant produced his notebook and said this was very serious and the Inspector must be informed instanter. He set off majestically for my aunt’s office, and I learned from Jimmy that neither McAuslan nor Macrae had been seen since the public bar closed in the afternoon. I asked him to send out scouts, discreetly, and followed the Sergeant.

The office was like an ops room on D-Day; Operation Dipper was in full swing. The Admiral, duffel-coated and binoculared, had an Ordnance Survey map spread out on the desk, and was poring over it making little barking noises; with him were the Inspector and two solid-looking men in dark coats who must be the gadgers from Glasgow, and the Admiral’s stalker and a uniformed constable stood uncomfortably in the background. Unconcerned at all this official activity, Aunt Alison was seated in stately calm in her armchair; she was in evening dress, smoking a cigarette in a long holder, and knitting – a triple combination I have not seen elsewhere. She winked imperceptibly at me and grimaced towards the desk, where the Admiral was issuing his signals to the fleet, and loving it.

. . . and your party will take position on the north shore of the loch, Inspector, is that clear?’ So the Dipper’s still was afloat this time. ‘My party will be to the south. That should make it airtight. Lights on at my whistle, but not a moment before. Got that? You have the warrant, and will effect the arrest-and you gentlemen will make the confiscation! Capital! Right!’ You could see he hadn’t enjoyed himself so much since Jutland, rubbing his hands and looking like a triumphant toy bulldog. ‘Well, Sergeant, what is it, what is it? Come along, come along, man!’

The Sergeant told him, and the Admiral glared, bewildered. ‘What? A truck? What truck, man? Whose truck? Your truck? Is this true, Dand? Stolen?’

‘Takken awaay wi’oot the consent o’ the owner,’ the Sergeant corrected him. ‘By pairson or pairsons unknown . . .’

‘Yes, yes, yes! An Army truck? What has that . . .’ He gave a sudden cry of ‘Ha!’ and leaped vertically. ‘A truck! My God – the deer! That’s it – those infernal poachers have stolen it, to move the stag!’ He thumped the desk with his fist, something I thought they did only in novels. ‘That’s it, Inspector! Look here!’ He pounced on the map. ‘There are only two ways to Ben Vomach for a vehicle . . . the Kildurn road, there . . . and the dead-end from the lodge, d’you see? They must be blocked at once!’

He wasn’t slow, I’ll say that for him – but then you can’t afford to be, if your job has been warping aircraft carriers through the Magellan Strait. I hadn’t linked the truck’s disappearance with the poachers, but it made sense: every local vehicle must be known and accounted for, and here was the perfect one dropped in their lap. Thank God the non-driving Macrae and McAuslan were in the clear . . . I wouldn’t be, if the Colonel got to hear about it.

My aunt counted her stitches, put down her knitting, and rose. ‘I think all this excitement calls for a little refreshment,’ she said, smiling at the Sergeant and gadgers. They looked hopeful, and with a glance at the Admiral and Inspector, deep in their map, she went out.

Meanwhile dissension seemed to be breaking out in the High Command. The Inspector, a young, slow-spoken man with a fledgling moustache, was plainly doubtful about undertaking two separate operations with limited resources; one or the other should be postponed, or ‘I can chust see us faalin’ between two stools, sir. Aye, I can that.’ The Admiral wouldn’t hear of it: didn’t the Inspector realise, for heaven’s sake, that the stag would be halfway to Glasgow by morning? As for delaying the Dipper raid, it was unthinkable; give the scoundrel another twenty-four hours and he’d have his still dismantled or moved or presented to a museum, dammit! The Inspector, sweating visibly, spoke of ‘a waant of personnel’, and was told not to be so damned defeatist, it was simply a matter of intelligent planning. They argued back and forth, the Admiral’s voice and temperature rising with each objection, until he pointed out sternly that
he
was chairman of the Watch Committee, and before that majestic title the Inspector finally gave way, red and resentful.

‘We must divide our forcesl’ snapped the Admiral, bursting with initiative. ‘Inspector, I leave it to you to post men on those two roads to intercept the thieves. I shall proceed to Lochnabee, as planned. Certainly I shall need additional men. Sergeant, you will see to it.’ That took care of that, apparently. ‘If communication is necessary we shall send messengers here, to the hotel, which is our base . . . with Mrs Gordon’s permission, of course,’ he added with a placatory smirk to Aunt Alison, who was ushering in two maids bearing loaded trays.

‘How exciting,’ she said. ‘Are we being commandeered?’

Good heavens, no, cried the Admiral, simply a matter of convenience, central point, lines of communication. ‘And I’m sure, gentlemen,’ he added impressively, ‘that I speak for us all when I say how grateful we are to Mrs Gordon for . . . ah, for so kindly allowing us to use her premises, and so graciously – ’

‘Och, stop behaving like Rommel, Jacky,’ said my aunt. ‘I didn’t allow anything. You just breenged in as usual. Tea or coffee, Inspector? Or a little of the creature? And don’t tell me you’re on duty . . . I won’t have that.’ She patted his arm conspiratorially. ‘Help yourselves, gentlemen. There are the sausage rolls, Rory . . . Janet, a glass for the Admiral, and those sandwiches . . .’

‘I say, this is awfully kind of you, Alison,’ protested the Admiral, ‘but I’m afraid we really don’t have time – ’

‘You wouldn’t send men out on the hill at night without something in them?’ Aunt Alison reproved him. ‘Not from this house! No water for the Admiral, Janet . . . Those are smoked salmon, Jacky – your favourite. Now, are our friends from Glasgow being attended to? That’s a grouse pâté – you won’t get that in Craigs or the Ca’doro. Sit you down, constable, and put your feet under the table . . . Rory, is that the single malt? Good lad, don’t let the sausage rolls defeat you. . .’

She moved about the room, recommending and directing, seeing that plates and glasses were refilled, and even the Admiral had to admit it was a sound basis for the labours ahead. The police and gadgers obviously agreed, from the way they were engulfing the delicacies; I noticed that Janet removed an empty Glenlivet bottle when she went out for a fresh tray of sandwiches, and the Admiral allowed my aunt to prevail on him to try the pate, and then really, Alison, we must be moving . . . well, just a spot of the ten-year-old, then . . . capital . . . not too much . . .

‘It’s a lot better for you than gin,’ smiled Aunt Alison, pouring. ‘There, we’ll make a Highlandman of you yet. Not that we haven’t tried . . . how many years has it been?’

‘Lord, I hate to think! Let’s see . . . I bought Achnafroich in ’32 . . . or was it ’31 . . . yes, March, ’31, but I’d been coming up for years before that, you remember . . .’ He sipped and reminisced, with my aunt smiling encouragement, and when he looked at his watch she remarked that he seemed to be in a most ungallant hurry to be off, which kept him protesting through another glass of the ten-year-old.

All told I’d say that collation occupied half an hour, by which time the troops were pink and contented. Finally the Admiral called a halt, thanked Aunt Alison on behalf of them all, and dispatched them to the vehicles. As they trooped out he turned to her, looking contrite.

‘I say, Alison, I do apologise again. We’ve put you to enormous trouble – shocking imposition, I mean, intruding on you like this . . . but I’m sure you understand that I . . . well, I mean . . .’

‘You wanted to give me a chance to line up with the landed gentry, didn’t you?’ she teased him. ‘Well, it was nice of you, and I’m touched. Now, off you go, and I hope you kill a lot of Germans.’

‘Oh, really, Alison! I do wish you’d be serious! It’s no laughing matter – and I’m sorry, but I must ask again . . . we’re going to be short-handed, so will you please allow me to take your people along? We need every —’

‘I’ve told you, you’re at liberty to approach any employee of mine, and if he wants to go, well and good.’ She sat down and picked up her knitting. ‘But it’s up to them; I can’t order them.’

‘My dear, if you’ll forgive me, that’s nonsense. One word from you -’

‘Well, I won’t say it, and that’s flat.’ She gave him her gentlest blue-eyed smile, like the Rock of Gibraltar, and he let out a whoof of despair and impatience, said he
did
wish she’d be reasonable for once, it would make things so much easier, and stumped reproachfully out, returning immediately to thank her again for the drinks and canapes, and finally departing. Even with the door closed we could hear him trumpeting orders in the hall.

‘Now you ken how the French Revolution started,’ said Aunt Alison. ‘Confound those McLarens!’ She threw down her knitting and said something ugly in Gaelic. ‘And confound Jacky for a meddling wee ass! Could he not let the Dipper alone?’ She lit a cigarette and got up, tapping her foot. ‘That boy Macrae of yours. Where did you say he was from?’

‘Macrae?’ I was startled. ‘Aberfeldy. He used to be ghillie thereabouts.’

‘Macrae! God save us.’ She gave her sharp laugh. ‘There’s a name for a Highland midnight. And you’re sure he’s not about?’

‘Not since this afternoon. Auntie dear,’ I said, ‘what’s happening? ’

‘That remains to be seen,’ she said. ‘Dand, I want you to go to Lochnabee with Jacky.’

‘What? I can’t get mixed up in that sort of thing! I’m a soldier! Besides, I’m shot if I’ll help nab the Dipper ―’

‘I’m not asking you to. Just do as you’re told.’ Immediately I was six years old again. ‘Stay with Jacky and see what happens. Off you go, double quick. Now.’

When Aunt Alison says ‘now’ in that quiet way, she means yesterday. I went, and found the Admiral marshalling his squadrons in line ahead on the gravel. The police car and farm lorries were roaring off in pursuit of poachers, leaving the Admiral’s limousine, the gadgers’ car, and an antediluvian shooting-brake packed with the Admiral’s shock-troops, three or four ghillies from his own estate. He hailed me with enthusiasm. ‘Ha! In for the kill, eh? Good show! Off we go, Cameroon !′ We sped into the night, the Sergeant breathing heavily beside me in the back seat, the car redolent of the hotel’s malt, and all the way to Lochnabee the Admiral, up front, told me what a wonderful woman Aunt Alison was, but headstrong, did I know what he meant? Pity, because she had such brains and character, and could have been such a helpful influence on the restless Jacquerie if only she would take her responsibilities more seriously . . . charming, though. Pity she hadn’t been out in Wei-hai-wei when he was a young lieutenant . . . yes, wonderful . . . I looked at the back of his reddened neck, the ageing pocket Dreadnought suffused with gin, and thought of my late uncle, tall, dark, handsome Alastair of the lazy smile . . . it would have made you weep, it really would.

Lochnabee is a hill loch on the high tops, cold and black as a witch’s breath, and lonely, with not a tree or a bush for miles. The last place you would choose for making funny whisky unless you were a crazy old brock like the Dipper. It was a bare two hundred yards wide, and the only road was a rough track up which we bumped and rattled in the dark – if the Dipper didn’t know we were coming he must be stone deaf. We stopped a half-mile from the loch in surroundings straight from Macbeth, Act One, and the stalker scouted ahead and presently came back with the word: there was a boat on the loch.

‘That’s him!’ cried the Admiral. ‘Right! Pay attention! Right! Sergeant, Dand, stay with me! Cameron, keep the engine running! The rest of you know your positions! Move quietly′ – this with his car back-firing like a Bofors – ’spread out, and wait until I bring up the car! Then I shall give the signal, and on with the lights! Got that? Remember, our man will make for the shore, so be on the look-out! He may put up a fight! Right . . . !’

It was a farce from start to finish. We waited by the car, the Admiral stumping up and down muttering ‘Right!’ and striking matches to look at his watch; when he shouted ‘Right!’ for the last time we drove the final half-mile at top speed on side-lights which is no joke halfway up a Scottish mountain, and came to a shuddering halt with the loch glinting palely in front of our bonnet. The Admiral leaped out, blowing a whistle, the headlights were switched on full, and the powerful torches of the gadgers blinked on from the other shore. Sure enough, there was a boat in the middle of the loch, with three men in it, and one of them was shouting:

‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing, scaring the fush? Get away, you with your pluidy motor car, and put out those pluidy lights!’

‘He’s bluffing!’ roared the Admiral. ‘Sergeant, do your duty!’

The Sergeant lumbered forward and fell in the loch. The Admiral swore on a high note, the sounds of altercation between the boat and the watchers on the far shore floated across to us, and the Sergeant emerged like some great seabeast and shouted: ‘In the King’s name!’ It may have been an oath or an announcement of majesty, but it got a great horselaugh from the boat, and at that moment the car’s headlights went out.