Jack Higgins - Dark Side of the Street

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.

Youngblood turned instinctively to run and then she screamed again and this time called his name. Perhaps what happened next was a reflex action-perhaps it was a product of pride or even shame or of the colossal vanity that knowing her good opinion, refused to let her find him wanting.

He flung open the leather-covered door and went in crouching, aware only fleetingly of the macabre backdrop to what was taking place. Pentecost had Molly back across the bench, a hand at her throat, the scalpel raised threateningly.

As she screamed again, Youngblood grabbed Pentecost by the shoulder, swung him round and knocked him backwards across the bench. The girl flung herself into his arms, her face twisted and ugly with fear and as he patted her reassuringly, Pentecost scrambled to his feet and pulled the revolver from his pocket.

The first clear emotion that exploded in Youngblood's brain was one of anger at his own stupidity in getting involved, and yet in the same moment the over-riding instinct for self-preservation at all costs that was his most outstanding characteristic made him hurl the girl from him and start for the safety of the door.

Pentecost fired once, the bullet drilling a neat hole in the thick glass plate of the tank and formaldehyde jetting out in a bright stream.

Youngblood straightened slowly and Pentecost said, "That's better. Hands on head." He gave the girl a quick push forward. "Now start walking, both of you. I'd like to say do as you're told and you won't get hurt, but my old granny always taught me to tell the truth."

Youngblood moved along the corridor, the girl at his side, her face white. There was no sign of Drummond, but that was only to be expected, he told himself bitterly. The sound of that shot was enough to make anyone run for cover.

They went down the stairs under Pentecost's direction and through a large iron barred door at the back of the hall. When Pentecost switched on the light, Youngblood found himself standing on a landing at the top of a flight of steps dropping down into what obviously had been a wine cellar at one time. Now it was painted neatly in white and black. There was a complicated switchboard on one wall and several steel oven doors in another. Youngblood didn't need anyone to draw a picture for him. This was undoubtedly the crematorium and in spite of the oppressive warmth, he was suddenly cold as he went down the steps.

"That will do nicely," Pentecost said and he moved round to face them, a slight smile on his face. "You know where you are?"

"I don't need any blueprint," Youngblood said.

Pentecost reached for a switch on the wall. There was a sudden roar and when he swung back one of the oven doors, they could see flames shooting from all sides of the brickwork through a heavy, armoured glass door.

"Ten minutes," he said. "That's all it takes and afterwards, a handful of ashes."

The girl gave a sudden desperate sob and half collapsed against Youngblood so that he had to catch her. Pentecost circled them warily and stood with his back to the stairs.

"This is what I call the full treatment," he said. "For most people it's a privilege that costs two hundred guineas. You're getting it for free."

Behind him Chavasse vaulted the rail, landing with a soft thud. Pentecost started to turn, but he was too late. Chavasse moved in fast, sliding an arm around the man's neck and wrenched the revolver from his grasp.

He staggered forward, gasping for breath as Chavasse released him with a shove and Youngblood swung him round, his face white with rage and fear.

"You bastard!" he said. "You dirty bastard!" He grabbed Pentecost by the shirtfront and hit him again and again in the face with his right, solid, heavy punches that drove him to his knees.

Chavasse forced his way in between them, pushing Youngblood back against the wall. "All right-that's enough. We want to talk to him!"