Free The Maggie by James Dillon White Page B

relaxed tone of his voice the reporter knew that everything had been settled. MacTaggart had been beaten. The Puffer Story was finished. He felt something more than disappointment – resentment, animosity almost, towards this sleek, efficient American, with his secretary, his public relations officer, his expensive clothes, bottles of Vichy water . . . the power of money.
    Marshall was holding up the evening copy of the Star . ‘Well, now, Mr Fraser, I ask you. Don’t you think this is a little too much?’
    â€˜Too much, Mr Marshall?’
    The American leaned across the table. ‘Look, yesterday you had a good laugh at my expense, and I let it ride. But there’s no need to make me out a complete fool, is there?’
    â€˜I certainly didn’t intend to be offensive, sir.’
    â€˜I’m not saying you did. But you seem to be trying to make a career out of my difficulties. Why?’
    The reporter explained seriously. ‘You don’t understand, Mr Marshall. These old Puffers are public characters in Scotland. They’re news when anything happens to them. They’re not much to look at but they’re popular . . .’
    â€˜Well, they’re not very popular with me!’
    â€˜No, sir, but they are held in great . . . I won’t say esteem, but . . . well, people like them. We build big liners up here, Mr Marshall, the biggest in the world. But the Puffer’s the little chap. The public always likes the little chap.’
    In the other room a telephone started to ring. It went on ringing as Marshall continued to speak.
    He said, ‘That man MacTaggart is an out-and-out scoundrel, and you know it! That tub of his is a disgrace. But you seem to get a big kick out of it. You seem mighty glad when he gets away with murder!’
    The reporter gave a disarming grin. ‘Oh, yes, indeed, sir.’
    â€˜Well, Fraser, I can take a joke as well as the next man, but there’s nothing very funny about this . . .’ He broke off in annoyance, realising that Miss Peters had gone and that the telephone was still ringing in the other room. He walked masterfully to the door. The outer room was empty, but the telephone kept on with its shrill ‘Brr-brr: brr-brr’ as though it hardly cared that it was disturbing Mr Calvin B. Marshall.
    â€˜Just one moment.’ Marshall strode up to the telephone.
    â€˜Hallo, hallo. Yes. Marshall speaking.’ His frigid voice thawed a little. ‘Oh, Mr Campbell, what can I do for you?’
    The broad Scottish voice touched with a note of humour came over the wires: ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Marshall, but I’ve just had a message from Captain Anderson at Ardrishaig. He says he hasn’t been contacted by anybody. The Maggie hasn’t returned.’
    Marshall’s confidence, built up by years of efficiency and success, was roughly shaken. He tried to think, but another telephone was ringing now, the one in the room he had just left. He hesitated, undecided, and then seeing the reporter’s enquiring gesture, he nodded for him to answer it.
    He turned back to the telephone he was holding. ‘But – I don’t understand. It’s almost ten o’clock. There must be some mistake.’
    â€˜There’s no mistake, Mr Marshall.’
    â€˜But Pusey is actually on board the thing. How could they . . . ?’ He stopped and looked towards Fraser, who had come to the adjoining door.
    Fraser said, ‘Mr Pusey is on the other line.’
    â€˜Well, thank goodness!’ He spoke into his telephone, ‘Hang on a second, Mr Campbell. Pusey’s just rung in . . .’ He laid down the receiver and hurried into the inner room.
    As he picked up the other phone he saw the reporter watching him intently, expectantly. He thought to himself, ‘Whatever’s happened I must keep calm. I must keep calm!’
    â€˜Hello, Pusey.