Dark Side of the Street - Simon Vaughn 01 (v5) (12 page)

"This way," she said and walked to a door at the other end of the hall.

The room was obviously a study with books lining the walls, but a cheerful fire burned in an Adam grate and through the diamond paned window, he glimpsed trees through the rain and a river beyond.

The woman sat on the other side of a small round table and indicated the vacant chair opposite. Chavasse took it and the Dobermann subsided on the floor, its eyes fixed on his unwinkingly.

"Who are you, young man?" Rosa Hartman said.

"Does that matter?"

She shrugged. "Perhaps not. Give me your hand."

Chavasse was momentarily bewildered. "Might I ask why?"

"For me, it is always necessary. I am clairvoyant, surely you were aware of that?"

He took her hand, holding it lightly. It was cool and flaccid, making him remember for no accountable reason, his Breton grandmother, clean linen sheets, rosemary and lavender and then she tightened her grip and he was aware of a sudden tingle as from a minor electric shock. The strange thing was that suddenly, her eyes widened and she reached out and ran the fingers of her free hand lightly over his face.

"Is anything wrong?" he asked.

She shook her head, still frowning. "I expected something a little different, that's all." She held his hand a moment longer and then released it. "Who sent you here?"

"Does that matter?"

"No, you have the password, but I was not expecting you."

"Then you can't help?"

She spread her hands in a vaguely continental gesture. "No arrangements have been made to take you to the next stage. There is no transport ready."

"I have transport."

"I see--you are alone?"

He hesitated. "Yes."

The strange creamy eyes seemed to gaze through him and beyond so that he knew instantly that she was aware that he had lied.

"You can help me then?"

"Yes--yes, I think so. At least I can show you where to go. Whether that will give you what you are looking for is something else again."

It was as if in some strange way she was trying to warn him and he smiled. "I'll take my chances."

"Then go to the desk behind you and open the top right hand drawer beneath the pigeon holes. You will find several copies of the same visiting card. Take one. I should add that I do not know what is on the card nor do I wish to know."

Chavasse got up and the dog stirred uneasily. He ignored it, walked to the desk and opened the drawer she had indicated. The visiting card was edged in black and carried the legend:
Long Barrow Crematorium and House of Rest
--
Hugo Pentecost
--
Director
in neat Gothic script. The phone number was Phenge 239.

"Now please go, young man," Rosa Hartman said.

Chavasse paused, frowning, the card between his fingers. There was something wrong here--something very wrong and then the dog stood up and growled softly. Chavasse took a cautious step backwards. If there was one dog on earth capable of killing a man, it was a Dobermann Pincher. Once launched on target, only a machine gun would stop it.

"You can let yourself out," she said. "Karl will see you to the door."

The Dobermann moved forward at once as if it understood every word she said and Chavasse took the hint. "I'd like to thank you, Madam Hartman. You've been of very real assistance to me."

"That remains to be seen, young man," she said calmly. "Now go."

There was a public telephone box at the end of the lane and he went inside and dialled Bureau headquarters in London quickly. He was through within a matter of seconds and asked for Mallory. A moment later, Janet Frazer's voice sounded on the line.

"I'm afraid Mr. Mallory isn't available. This is his secretary speaking. Can I help?"

"Janet--Paul here." There was a sudden sharp intake of breath at the other end. "Where is he?"

"Foreign Office--a NATO intelligence conference. Where are you?"

"Shrewsbury and hot on the trail. Ever heard of a place called Phenge?"

"No, but I can soon look it up for you." She was back within a couple of minutes. "Just outside Gloucester."

"That's where we're making for now. The whole thing's going perfectly so far. From now on I must have Mallory standing by. Next time I ring, it could be to give him the news he's been waiting for and I'll probably only have seconds."

"I'll tell him."

"Good girl. I'll have to be off."

"Look after yourself."

"Don't worry about me. I'll challenge the gods and make a date with you for next Wednesday. We'll do a show and go on to the Saddle Room afterwards."

"I'll look forward to that."

He dropped the receiver and hurried along the road through the heavy rain. When he reached the lay-by, the girl was sitting in the van and Youngblood was standing by the truck smoking. He moved to meet Chavasse quickly.

"What happened?"

"Nothing much. She gave me this card."

Youngblood read it and looked up quickly. "Was she on the level?"

"How in the hell would I know?"

"Then we could be walking into trouble."

"Naturally."

Youngblood nodded thoughtfully. "On the other hand they're not going to scream for a copper, are they? That's the last thing they'll want to do."

"Exactly," Chavasse said. "Which makes it a nice private fight."

There was an old A.A. book in the Ford and Youngblood leafed through it quickly. "Phenge is just outside Gloucester," he announced. "That's about seventy-five miles. We could be there in a couple of hours if we used the Ford."

"Just what I was thinking," Chavasse said. "I noticed a gate barring a cart track into a wood a little way back. If we ran the truck in there, it could stand for a day or two before anyone discovered it, especially in this weather."

"Fine," Youngblood said. "I'll handle this. You follow on in the Ford."

He was suddenly like a kid on an outing, cheerful and smiling as he clambered up into the truck and drove away.

"He's certainly pleased with life, isn't he?" Chavasse said as he slid behind the wheel of the Ford.

The girl blushed, looking for a moment almost pretty and he was suddenly reminded of an old Breton saying.
Love makes even an ugly woman beautiful
... .

My God, as if this business wasn't complicated enough. He sighed heavily as he released the handbrake and drove away.

As the front door closed behind Chavasse, Simon Vaughan stepped from behind the floor length velvet curtain at the window and came towards the table.

"Glad you were sensible, old girl. I think the whole thing went off very well, don't you?"

"That depends entirely on your point of view."

"He was lying of course--about being on his own, I mean. That was quite obvious. I suppose Youngblood was waiting at the end of the lane to see what happened. Do you mind if I use the phone?"

"You used me. How can I stop you using my phone?"

"Now don't be like that." He dialled a number, long distance on STD and cut in the moment he heard a voice at the other end. "Hugo? Just to confirm your two packages are on the way. Yes, the full treatment. I'll see you later."

He put down the telephone, took out his gloves and pulled them on. "I must be off. I'll be seeing you, Rosa."

The Dobermann brushed past him like a dark shadow and nuzzled her hand. She shook her head. "I don't think so."

"Now don't be silly," he said. "You've been living here on a false passport since 1946--on a false identity, which is even worse. A word in the right quarter ..."

"You mistake me," she said. "It isn't that I've grown brave all of a sudden. I'm too old for the kind of courage that would take. I simply meant
that you
wouldn't be seeing me again."

He was obviously curious. "May I ask why?"

"Because you are going to die," she said simply.

He stared at her, that slight fixed smile firmly in place. "You really mean that, don't you?"

"I have another kind of sight, Mr. Smith or whatever your name is. Death has already marked you out. I can feel it."

And he believed her, that was the strange thing. She knew quite suddenly that he believed her completely and a shiver ran down her spine as he started to laugh.

"You're bad luck, old woman. Why shouldn't I send you on before me?"

He produced the spring blade knife with which he had murdered Crowther and the blade jumped out of his fist with an audible click.

The Dobermann growled, the hair lifting on its neck and she patted it soothingly. "Because Karl would kill you first."

"Proving your prediction in the process? What an admirable pet." Vaughan chuckled as he folded the knife and slipped it back into his pocket. "No, Rosa, we mustn't make it too easy for you. Death must find me--I'll not go looking for him. We've met before. He knows my face."

She heard him go along the corridor outside, whistling tunelessly to himself and the door banged. Somewhere, a small trapped wind circled the room looking for a way out, then died in a corner.

9

Ashes to Ashes

It was very quiet in the embalming room and Hugo Pentecost worked alone, his rubber apron smeared with blood. There was no need for him to engage in the more practical work of the establishment, but he liked to keep his hand in and in any case, there was always a certain pleasure to be derived from a job well done.

The cadaver on which he was engaged was that of a young woman and he was in the process of withdrawing her viscera. It was usual to wear rubber gloves, but Pentecost never could, preferring the additional sensitivity to be found in bare hands.

He had successfully removed the contents of the abdomen and was now on the throat, whistling softly, his arms dappled with blood up to the elbows.

The door opened behind him and a tall gaunt man with sunken cheeks and dull eyes came in. Like Pentecost he wore a heavy rubber apron.

"Anything I can do, Mr. Pentecost?"

"I'm all through here for tonight, George," Pentecost said. "Her cranium will have to wait till tomorrow. I've got rather a lot of paperwork to get through. Help me put her in the tank, will you?"

He hosed the body down quickly, flushing away the blood and they lifted her between them into a large glass tank of formaldehyde. The body slid under the surface with a soft splash and turned over several times before settling a foot or so from the bottom, the long hair fanning out in a most lifelike manner.

"A shame, isn't it, Mr. Pentecost?" George said. "She was really beautiful."

"Beautiful or ugly, young or old, this is what they all come down to in the end, George," Pentecost said cheerfully. "Has everyone else gone?"

"Yes, sir."

"No need for you to hang around. As I said, I'll be here for quite some time."

"I'll go then, if that's all right with you, Mr. Pentecost. I did promise to take my wife out for a meal."

"Try the Golden Dragon on Michener Street," Pentecost advised. "They do a really excellent Chow Mein."

"Well, thank you, sir. I think we will."

George withdrew and Pentecost went to the sink and washed the blood from his arms. He removed his rubber apron, went into the private bathroom at the other end of the embalming room, stripped and showered. The warm water made him feel pleasantly relaxed and afterwards, he stood in front of the mirror, humming softly as he changed into a soft white shirt, black tie and a beautifully tailored suit in dark worsted.

With his snow white hair and gold rimmed spectacles, he looked remarkably as one might have expected the director of Long Barrow Crematorium and House of Rest to look. Certainly there was no resemblance to Harry Marks, the second rate confidence man who had served three terms of imprisonment as a young man before learning the facts of life.

Things were very different now and he went through the embalming room and moved along the corridor, his feet silent on the thick carpets. An indefinable aura of dignity pervaded the whole establishment, there was no question of that. There was polished wood and brass everywhere and flowers and cut glass winking in the soft light from the shaded lamps.

Which was as it should be. This was, after all, the last earthly resting place for so many people. Strange that its fortunes should have been founded on murder, morally at least, although a court of law would probably have found that there was no case to answer.

Poor Alice Tisdale, on the other hand, might have thought otherwise. A lonely old widow of seventy with a pension and PS13,000 in the bank, she had been captivated by the considerate stranger who had offered her his umbrella one rainy morning on the front at Brighton.

Once installed as chauffeur and general handyman at the house in Forest Hill, Harry Marks had put into operation a programme scientifically designed to break first the old woman's spirit and then her health. She had died of the combined effects of malnutrition and senile decay leaving faithful Harry all she possessed and the two cousins and a nephew who had attempted to contest the will got nowhere.

But Harry Marks belonged to another world. Now there was only Hugo Pentecost and Long Barrow, had been at least until the arrival of Smith the previous year with his quiet, cultured voice and distressingly accurate knowledge of Harry Marks and his past activities. So, when the whip cracked, he had to jump. Still, one could only be philosophical about these things and life had an interesting habit of turning full circle. His chance would come and when it did . . .

As he went down the beautiful marble staircase he was thinking of the new incinerator, installed only the previous week, which could consume a human body in fifteen minutes. Not like the older ones which took up to an hour and a half and were so inefficient that it was usually necessary to pound up the skull and pelvis afterwards. Come to think of it, Smith wasn't particularly big. It would probably take no longer than ten minutes in his case.

As he crossed the foyer at the bottom of the stairs and walked towards his office, he became aware of a young woman standing at the reception desk.

She turned awkwardly. "I'm looking for Mr. Pentecost."

"I am he. What can I do for you?"

Pentecost's habitually soft tones carried a sharper edge than usual. The young woman was plain--in fact, rather ugly. He could have forgiven her for that, but the shabby coat and poor quality shoes, the scarf bound round the head peasant-fashion, reminded him too much for his peace of mind, of a childhood spent amidst the poverty of Whitechapel. And then there was her voice with its broad northern vowels--an accent which had always offended him.

"It was a relative I really wanted to see you about. My great aunt."

"She has just passed on?"

"This morning. I'd like to arrange for her to be taken care of. You are Mr. Hugo Pentecost?"

"Yes, I am he." Mr. Pentecost sighed. "My dear child, you have my deepest condolences, but I must point out that we offer a very specialised service here and one that is rather expensive."

Searching desperately for an answer to keep the conversation going, Molly remembered her own mother's recent death and something Crowther had mentioned.

"There was an insurance."

"May I ask how much?"

"Two hundred pounds. Would that be enough?"

Pentecost warmed to her, his voice deepening appreciably and he placed an arm around her shoulders. "I'm sure we can manage something. Perhaps you could return in the morning."

"I'd hoped to settle things tonight. Is it too late?"

"My staff have all gone home. I'm completely alone here." He hesitated and greed won. "But why not? It won't take long to settle the essential details. Come into my office."

He opened the door and showed her inside. It was furnished in excellent if rather sombre taste and he motioned her to a chair and sat down behind his desk.

He opened a large desk diary, produced a black and gold fountain pen. "Just a few details--your name?"

"Crowther--Molly Crowther."

"Address?"

"I'm not sure." He looked up with a frown and Molly said hesitatingly, "It's on the road that leads to Babylon."

In the silence which followed, he sat staring at her, his slight polite smile wiped away. "I see."

He closed the desk diary, opened a drawer and put it away, at the same time taking out a .38 revolver with his other hand and slipping it into his pocket, an act which completely escaped the girl's notice.

He stood up. "Would you kindly come this way?"

Molly got to her feet, panic moving inside her. She hadn't the slightest idea what to do next and reached out to touch his arm timidly as he brushed past her.

"There's nothing to worry about," Pentecost said reassuringly. "We'll talk upstairs."

She followed him up the stairway and along the quiet corridor at the top. He paused outside a leather covered door, opened it and stood back for her.

The room was a place of shadows and she moved inside uncertainly. The first thing she noticed was the heavy smell of formaldehyde and then she saw the body floating in the tank tinged with green in the subdued light, hair trailing like seaweed. Her throat went dry and she turned with a gasp as the door clicked shut.

Pentecost paused beside a bench to open a large mahogany case of surgical instruments. He selected a razor sharp scalpel and held it up to the light, examining the edge of the blade with a slight frown. Quite suddenly he reached out, grabbing her by the coat, pulling her so close that their faces were only an inch or two apart. The smoothness, the suavity had disappeared--even the voice had changed as he touched the edge of the blade to her skin.

"I don't know what in the hell you're playing at, but there should be two of you, that I do know. Where's your friend? Quick now or I'll slice your throat."

And Molly, pushed beyond endurance, shoved him away wildly and screamed.

The Ford was parked in the shadows beneath a clump of beech trees a hundred yards up the road from the main gate of the Long Barrow estate.

Through the trees, Youngblood could see the dim bulk of the house, a light shining in the porch. It was the sort of Gothic pile built on the high tide of Victorian prosperity by some self-made pillar of Empire. In the darkness and rain, it was impossible to see much of the grounds, but from the size of the house, they were obviously extensive.

Footsteps approached through the darkness and Chavasse joined him. "According to the notice on the gate the place closes at six. What time is it now?"

Youngblood checked the luminous dial of his watch. "Six-fifteen."

"Someone drove out while I was down there, but there's still a car parked in front of the house. I could see it from the gate. A Mercedes from the look of it."

"Only the boss man could run a car like that," Youngblood said.

"That sounds logical." Chavasse frowned. "I still feel something stinks about this whole thing."

"Maybe you're right," Youngblood said impatiently, "but where does that get us? We've got to take a chance. We don't have any choice."

"Perhaps you're right, but I always like to hedge my bets." Chavasse leaned in at the window of the Ford and said to the girl, "You could help a lot here, Molly. Like to try?"

"Anything," she said, getting out into the rain. "Just tell me what you want me to do."

"Walk right up to the front door and ask for Hugo Pentecost. Once you're alone with him, spin him some yarn. Tell him your great aunt's died and you want to arrange cremation. At some point in the conversation introduce the word Babylon. I don't care how you do it so long as you say the word. His reaction should be very interesting."

"What about us?" Youngblood demanded.

"We'll take a look from a different direction. I'll try the back of the house, you the front or one of the sides." Chavasse turned to Molly. "We'll be right behind you, Molly. Think you can handle it?"

She nodded and Youngblood moved close to her. "Don't worry, kid. If he lays a finger on you I'll break his back."

They were empty words, brash and arrogant and yet she reached out to clutch his arm at once. "I know I can rely on you, Harry."

Even Youngblood could not avoid what was implicit in that remark and there was a kind of uncertainty in his voice as he patted her on the shoulder awkwardly and replied, "Just yell if you need me and I'll come running."

Chavasse could have laughed out loud if the whole thing hadn't been so damned tragic. In any case, there was no time for tears and he took command with an assumed briskness.

"Let's get moving. You go straight up the drive to the front door, Molly and remember what I said--we'll be right behind you."

The rain passed through the trees with a great rushing sound and Chavasse and Youngblood stood in the shadows by the gate and watched her mount the steps into the porch. Beyond, through a wall of glass, lay the deserted foyer and she pushed open the door and moved towards the reception desk.

Chavasse turned to Youngblood quickly. "That's it. I'll go round to the rear. You look after things from this end."

He disappeared into the trees and Youngblood walked toward the house, keeping to the shelter of rhododendron bushes that grew in such profusion on one side of the drive.

He could still see right into the glass-fronted entrance hall and suddenly, a man came down the stairs, dark-suited and with striking white hair. He stood talking to Molly for a moment or two and Youngblood crouched in the shadows and waited. After a while, they moved through a door to the left and he got to his feet and went closer.

He stood in the shadows at the bottom of the steps and waited behind one of the pillars. Within a few minutes, the door opened and Molly and the white haired man came out and went upstairs.

Youngblood stood there, a frown on his face, wondering what to do next, realising for the first time, and with a kind of wonder, that up until now, Drummond seemed to have been making all the decisions. It was something as prosaic as a sudden increase in the force of the rain that decided him. He ran up the steps quickly, pushed open the heavy glass door and went inside.

It was as quiet as the grave and he hesitated for a moment and then crossed the foyer and went up the marble stairs. He reached the landing above and had only taken a couple of steps along it when Molly screamed.