Jack Higgins - Dark Side of the Street

But what happened now was even more important. He wondered just how much Rosa Hartman, the blind woman Crowther had mentioned, had to tell them. Possibly very little.

The Ford appeared round a bend in the road and drew in beside them. When Molly got out, she was carrying a carton of cigarettes and a newspaper.

"Alma Cottage is on this side of the village," she said. "I've just driven past it. There's a narrow lane on the right hand side of the road. It's about two hundred yards beyond the bend. The cottage is almost half-way along. It's very pretty."

Youngblood opened the newspaper and his face seemed to jump out to meet him. It wasn't a prison photo, but one taken at the time of his trial on the steps of the courthouse and he smiled out at the crowd, one hand raised in a careless wave.

On the evidence of that photo alone, thousands of ordinary people throughout the country had thought him hard done by, just as today they must be hoping in their hearts that he would escape.

"Not bad, eh?" Youngblood said, unable to keep an edge of pride out of his voice. "We're making the bastards sit up and take notice."

It was still there. The old need for notoriety at any price, the same subconscious urge towards self destruction, but Chavasse said nothing. Beneath Youngblood's picture there was one of himself, but much smaller.

Youngblood chuckled. "They've almost missed you out, Drum. It doesn't even look like you."

Chavasse shook his head. "You can have all the publicity you want, Harry. As far as I'm concerned, I won't be happy till we're both a three-line story at the end of column eight on page twelve."

"And that won't be for a week at least. These newspaper boys know a good story when they see one." Youngblood folded the paper and tossed it into the cab of the cattle truck. "Anyway, let's get moving."

"I've been thinking about that," Chavasse said.

"We could run into trouble-no way of telling. Silly for both of us to go."

"Fair enough." Youngblood grinned and put an arm around the girl. "I'll stay here and look after Molly."

"Suits me," Chavasse said calmly. "If I'm not back in an hour you'd better come looking."

"If I'm still here," Youngblood said sardonically.

Chavasse nodded. "Come to think of it, that does seem to be a distinct possibility. Under the circumstances I'll have half the bank roll-just in case I have to fend for myself."

Youngblood hesitated perceptibly and then produced Crowther's wallet. "Why not?" He counted out twenty-five pounds and gave it to Chavasse together with a handful of loose change. "And how do I know you won't decide to take off on your own?"

"You don't," Chavasse said and he turned and walked away quickly through the heavy rain.

Youngblood looked down at the girl who gazed up at him shyly. Her face was wet with the rain, the eyes shining. Strangely enough, she didn't look half bad and he slipped his arm around her waist and squeezed gently.

"Come on, kid, we could have a long wait. Might as well get into the back of the truck and make ourselves comfortable."

"All right, Harry."

She moved ahead of him and when he helped her up over the tailboard, his hands were shaking with excitement.

The cottage stood well back from the lane, an old grey-stone building half-covered by ivy. The long narrow garden was wet with rain, the only flowers a few early daffodils and he went along the flagged path to the porch. A brass plate at one side of the door said Madame Rosa Hartman - consultations by appointment only.

Chavasse knocked. There was a sudden patter of feet inside like wind through dry leaves, a low growl and then silence. After a while he heard the tapping of a stick, the door swung open and a woman looked out at him.

She was at lesat seventy, her hair drawn back from a yellowing parchment face in an old-fashioned bun. She wore a tweed suit with a skirt which almost reached her ankles and carried an ebony cane in her left hand. Her right hand had a secure grip on the collar of one of the most superb dogs Chavasse had ever seen in his life-a black and tan Dobermann.

A growl started deep down in its throat like distant thunder and she jerked hard on the collar. "Be quiet, Karl. Yes, who is it?"

She had spoken with a slight Austrian accent and as she leaned forward, he got a clear look at the cloudy opalescent eyes.

"I was wondering if you could spare me a few moments of your time."

"You wish to consult me professionally?"

"That's right."

"I only take clients by appointment. I have to be very careful. The law is most strict in these matters."

"I'm only passing through," he said. "I'd really be most obliged. You were very highly recommended."

"I see." She appeared to hesitate. "Your name?"

"Is of no importance," he said. "Only my destination."

"And what would that be?"

"Babylon!"

There was a moment of stillness and then she moved back slightly. "I think you'd better come in, young man."

The hall was oak panelled and very pleasant with hyacinths growing in a bowl on a polished table that stood before a long gilt mirror. She closed the door, releasing her hold on the Dobermann and the dog moved to Chavasse's side.

"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.