Jack Higgins - Dark Side of the Street

"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.