Death by the Mistletoe Read Free Page A

dashing roles.
    “It was,” he replied unblushingly. “But they tell me she’s an uncommonly fine-looking girl.”
    James’s sarcasm was suddenly checked by the whir of the telephone-bell.
    “The damned thing’s been tinkling for the last half-hour,” complained the policeman. “Lightning plays the mischief with a ’phone. But that sounded like a genuine call.”
    He crossed the small office in two strides and took up the receiver.
    “Hullo! … Hullo! … Who’s speaking? Oh, Stewart … What’s the trouble? … What ! … Old Allan? … Quite dead? … Where did you find him? Near Lagnaha … Right! … Struck by lightning, you think, but a queer bruise on his head … Right! I’ll tell the inspector. We’ll be there in a quarter of an hour … Yes, we’ll bring an ambulance.”
    Constable Wallace slowly replaced the receiver on its hook, and his cheeks, usually dark and ruddy, had become almost pinched.
    “That was Constable Stewart, ’phoning from Lagnaha House,” he said, turning to James. “He had been doing duty at a dance in Blaan, and was cycling back to town. Found old Allan lying stark dead near the foot of Lagnaha Brae … ”
    “Good Lord!” exclaimed James. “Not Archie Allan, the minister?”
    The policeman nodded sombrely.
    “Stewart thinks that he was struck by lightning, but there’s a bruise on the head that puzzles him.”
    For a moment Constable Wallace remained staring rather stupidly at James. Then, as a flash brightened the dark office and an ear-splitting peal of thunder sounded overhead, he jerked into action.
    “I must ’phone the inspector and fetch Sergeant MacLeod. Will you get the ambulance, James, and root out Doctor Black? Hire a car for us, too — at the Argyll. See you there … Oh, and you’ll probably be able to come with us — if you want to. McMillan won’t mind … Hurry!”
    “Surely!” said James, and departed.
    In the succeeding ten minutes he had not only carried out Constable Wallace’s instructions to the letter, but had also sent brief ’phone messages concerning the results of the storm in Kintyre to the Glasgow Herald and Press Association.
    Inspector McMillan, Sergeant MacLeod and Constable Wallace, the latter of whom had relegated the task of presiding in the police station to the regular bar-officer, met James and Dr. Black in the Argyll Hotel garage. The police wore heavy mackintoshes, dull and funereal in the dim thunder-light. The engines of the ambulance and of the police car, stationed in readiness near the entrance, were quietly ticking over.
    “Thought you were never coming!” ejaculated the doctor.
    He was fuming with impatience as usual. His lower jaw stuck out to a tremendous extent, and his small military moustache bristled fiercely. A squat, broad little man, he seldom remained in one position for more than a second at a time.
    “Thought, Inspector, you were never coming,” he repeated. “What’s all this about Archie Allan? Young MacPherson can’t — or won’t — tell me a thing. Says he was found dead near Lagnaha. Is that correct?”
    Inspector McMillan, a Skyeman both by birth and persuasion, was a very large and well-fed individual, whose remarkable corporation was at once his own despair and the pride of the remainder of the local police force. He bowed, rubbing his fleshy hands together as was his habit.
    “That is correct, Doctor,” he replied. “Yes. Yes. It is only too true. But these are all the details we have at present.”
    He caught sight of James, who was talking to Sergeant MacLeod, a thin, dark native of North Uist.
    “Well, well, Mr. MacPherson,” he said. “And are you here as usual? You are like a hawk, indeed. Are you coming with us on this sad business?”
    “If you don’t object, Inspector.”
    “No, no. But be careful. Be careful what you send to the papers!”
    The inspector led the way to the waiting car, Dr. Black close at his heels muttering at the imagined delay. James and Sergeant