Jack Higgins - Dark Side of the Street

Youngblood turned to look at him briefly. "How do you feel?"

"My arm hurts like hell, but I can use it, which is something. What about you?"

"I'm enjoying myself. There's been quite a sea running for an hour or more now. Likely to get worse before it gets better."

"Will it affect our time of arrival?"

"If you'd like to take the wheel I'll have another look at the chart."

Chavasse squeezed past, slipping into the pilot's seat and Youngblood went to the chart table. He made one or two calculations and threw down his pencil, stretching his arms.

"We could be a little earlier than I thought. It all depends on the way the weather goes. Think you can handle her for a while?"

"I don't see why not."

"I'll take a break-maybe Molly can find me something to eat. Afterwards, we'd better talk things over. We still don't know what we're getting into. Maybe it's about time we put the squeeze on our friend."

Chavasse nodded. "We'll see."

The door banged and he leaned back in the seat, one hand on the wheel and lit a cigarette. Already the darkness was fading, a faint pearly luminosity touching the water and he strained his eyes into the grey waste of morning, wondering what lay ahead.

One thing was certain. Whatever other difficulties might present themselves, in the final analysis, his greatest problem was still going to be Harry Youngblood himself and what to do with him.

He remembered their first meeting in the cell at Fridaythorpe and how it had confirmed the impression he had already gained from a close study of the man's file at Bureau headquarters. That in spite of the newspaper stories and romanticised magazine features, Youngblood beneath it all, was a brutal and resourceful criminal who would smash down anything or anybody that got in his way and who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

Having said that, the fact remained that for many weeks they had been comrades of a sort in that strange sub-world that is life in any large prison. On the other hand, if Chavasse had not gained possession of Smith's gun the night of the break from the hospital and forced the issue, Youngblood would never have taken him along, in spite of the fact that Chavasse had saved him from death, or at least serious injury, on two occasions in the machine shop.

And then there was Molly. If she'd turned her back at the farm, things would have taken their usual course and their journey might have ended at the bottom of Crowther's well and yet Youngblood had been prepared to ditch her without a qualm until it had become obvious that she might still be useful.

Even at the end and in spite of the fact that Chavasse had pulled him out of trouble again at Long Barrow, Youngblood had been prepared to leave in the boat without him. He was without a single redeeming feature, a selfish egomaniac who had never in his life thought of anyone besides himself. Plenty of men had spent their early years in an orphanage, others had known a hard war-how many had taken Harry Youngblood's road?

Chavasse sighed heavily and dropped his cigarette to the floor. All true, every word of it, which didn't make it any easier to send him back to gaol for another fifteen years-possibly even more now.

He looked back on his own four months inside, remembering the filth, the squalor, the grey faces, the long empty days and was suddenly almost physically sick so that he opened a window quickly and drew in great lungfuls of damp salt air.

The door swung open behind him and Youngblood came in grinning hugely, rain on his face. "I haven't felt like this for years. My God, Drum, I realise what I'd been missing."

He took over the wheel and Chavasse leaned against the door watching him. He knew his stuff, there was no question of that and he increased speed, racing the dirty weather that threatened in the east.

The Pride of Man soared over the waves like a living thing, water cascading across the prow in a green curtain and Youngblood laughed aloud in a kind of ecstasy.

Chavasse found it impossible not to respond. "A hell of a change from that cell in Fridaythorpe."

"Fridaythorpe?" For a brief moment Youngblood's smile was wiped clean. "I'll tell you something, Drum," he said, his face all iron. "I'd send this tub to the bottom and go with her before they'd get me back there."

He increased power, the Pride of Man lifting out of the water and Chavasse, feeling unaccountably sad, turned and went out on deck.

He had a bacon sandwich and more coffee with Molly and then went to check on Vaughan. He was lying on his bunk face to the wall and when he turned, looked paler than ever.

"What's wrong with you?" Chavasse demanded, hauling him into a sitting position.

"Some people have the stomach for this kind of life, old man-others haven't. They said Nelson was sick every time he put to sea or didn't you know?"

Chavasse pulled him off the bunk, pushed him along the passage way to the saloon and shoved him down into a chair.

"How about some coffee?"

"Now that I wouldn't mind."

Chavasse nodded and Molly filled one of the enamel mugs and pushed it across the table. Vaughan lifted it in both hands, his wrists still tied.

"I don't know how long it will stay down," he said. "But we can but try."

Chavasse lit a cigarette and put it between Vaughan's lips. "And now we talk."

"Do we, old man? That's nice."

"It won't be if you persist in being awkward. Who are we going to find on Longue Pierre-the Baron?"

"God help you if you do."

"What kind of a set-up does he have there?"

Vaughan smiled pleasantly. "Now you really can't expect me to answer that. A breach of faith."

Chavasse sighed. "You know you're putting me in a very awkward position. I may even have to send Youngblood down to talk to you and I wouldn't like that."

"He doesn't worry me in the slightest."

"He should do. I think you're forgetting an important item. I'm just an amateur compared to Youngblood. He knows that if they get their hands on him he goes back inside for fifteen years and they'll watch him every minute of the time. He'll never get out again."

"So what?"

"He'd cut your throat if he thought it was necessary to prevent that happening."

Vaughan showed not the slightest sign of fear, but he stopped smiling and frowned slightly. He was, in fact, remembering Rosa Hartman's prediction and he smiled again, nodding to himself. No, he would not make it easy for her. If death was to come, then it must find him-he would not go looking for it.

"All right," he said calmly. "The Baron may be on the island or he may not-I honestly don't know. He doesn't come in by boat usually. He has a private helicopter."

"Owned by World Wide Exports of London?"

Vaughan's eyes widened in amazement, then narrowed. "I say, you do know a lot, don't you? Now that is interesting. I'll be perfectly honest, old man, and say that I never was very happy about you from the start."

"How big a staff does Stavru keep up at the house?"

Vaughan shrugged. "It depends. Most of the time, there's just a caretaker-a trusted old retainer called Gledik. The Baron-or should I say the Count-is very feudal, you know. Always going on about happy days in dear old Hungary. Loathes the commies."

"But isn't above doing business with them when he has some expensive merchandise to sell?"

"Just like Alice-curiouser and curiouser." Vaughan's eyes flared with a strange green light. "I've a nasty feeling we've all been had where you're concerned, old man."

"Isn't that a shame?"

Chavasse killed the conversation stone dead at that point by hauling Vaughan to his feet, running him back along the passageway and locking him in his cabin. When he returned to the saloon, Molly was still sitting at the table. It was obvious that the conversation had been completely meaningless to her and he paused and tilted her chin.