The Maggie by James Dillon White Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Is she a fast boat?’
    â€˜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 fingerabove 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.
    â€˜We should like to be sure of delivery . . .’ With notebook open on her knee, pencil poised, the immaculate Miss Peters gently prompted.
    â€˜Sorry!’ Marshall jerked back to his letter. ‘We should like to be sure of delivery before the 27th instant.’
    In the next room Pusey was working methodically down the list. ‘Hallo, hallo. Greenock 61827? Is that the pier master?’ Occasionally, like a warning rattle, the telephone bar would be irritably tapped. ‘Hallo, miss. That was the wrong number you gave me. Well, I assure you! I asked plainly enough for . . .’
    After dinner they returned to work. The hours lost in flying to Glasgow must be recovered somehow.