Dark Side Of The Street Read online

  He died instantly and Vaughan pulled out the knife, holding him upright, cleaned the blade carefully on Crowther’s jacket, then pushed him over the wall into the well. He turned and walked away through the rain whistling tunelessly.

  8. Distant Thunder

  VAUGHAN PASSED THE cattle truck within fifteen miles, traveling fast in a green Triumph Spitfire. A mile further on he overtook the old black Ford with Molly at the wheel, but it meant nothing to him. He had never met Crowther’s stepdaughter and had certainly no reason to think she was in any way linked with the fugitives.

  On the other side of Blackburn, he pulled in at a roadside cafe, found a telephone box and called World Wide Exports in London.

  “Hello, sweetie, just thought I’d let you know I checked on our friend and he hadn’t managed to come up to scratch. I’m afraid the two packages are on their way to Bampton.”

  “That’s a great pity. What are you doing about it?”

  “I closed our account with this branch—seemed no point in carrying on and I can be in Bampton before the merchandise. Thought I’d ensure it gets a suitable reception.”

  “I’m not certain that’s such a good idea. I’d better check. Give me your number and I’ll ring back in fifteen minutes.”

  Vaughan left the phone box, sat on the high stool at the counter and ordered coffee. The young waitress smiled when she gave it to him, impressed by the handsome stranger in the expensive clothes, but Vaughan seemed to look right through her and she moved away feeling rather disappointed.

  He lit a cigarette and frowned at himself in the mirror at the back of the counter. It was not that he was remembering what had happened at the farm—he had already dismissed it from his mind as unimportant. He was only interested in what lay ahead, in whether the Baron would decide that he wanted him to dispose of Youngblood and Drummond personally.

  Simon Vaughan was thirty-three years of age, the son of a regular army colonel whose wife had deserted him when the boy was eight months old. From then on life had been a long round of other people’s houses, boarding schools and army stations abroad for short periods. He had developed into a handsome, smiling boy, strangely lacking in any kind of emotional response to life, but pleasant and popular with everyone.

  After Sandhurst he was commissioned into the Parachute Regiment and the first rather unpleasant incident had occurred. Lieutenant Vaughan’s fanatical insistence on discipline and hard training had included the use of pack drill to punish those who failed to meet his standards. In spite of the physical collapse of four men and a slashing report from the battalion medical officer, he had escaped with only a reprimand.

  In Cyprus he had been awarded the Military Cross for personally killing two EOKA members who had holed up in a farmhouse in a village in the Troodos and had defied all attempts to get them out. He had gone in through the roof and had shot it out at close quarters in a manner which had certainly left no doubts about his personal courage, although the discovery that the two insurgents had only one gun between them had left uneasy doubts in some quarters.

  These were finally confirmed when Vaughan, by then a captain, was once again in action, this time in the Radfan Mountains of Southern Arabia playing a savage game of hide-and-seek with dissident Yemeni tribesmen. In an effort to extract information from a Bedouin, Vaughan had pegged him out in the sun and employed methods more popular amongst the tribesmen themselves than the British. The man had died, Vaughan had been relieved of his command and quietly retired to avoid any scandal.

  His father, acting on the advice of the army medical authorities, had persuaded him to enter a private institution for rest and treatment, but after two weeks Vaughan walked out, disappearing off the face of the earth as far as his family was concerned.

  The psychiatrists had experienced little difficulty in making their diagnosis. Simon Vaughan was a psychopath—a mental cripple, a man who was incapable of any ordinary emotion, who lived outside any moral frame of reference whatsoever. The taking of human life affected him no more than would the crushing of an ant underfoot by any aver-age human being. He was the perfect weapon—a blunt instrument with a brilliant and incisive mind and the work he engaged in for his present employer suited his talents admirably.

  A middle-aged woman came into the cafe, ordered a coffee and made for the phone box. Vaughan beat her to it, removing his hat and giving her his most charming smile.

  “Would you mind awfully if I asked you to hang on for a minute or two? I’m expecting a call.”

  The woman smiled, her heart fluttering unaccountably, and put a hand to her hair. “Not at all.”

  “So kind.”

  Vaughan was still smiling at her through the glass when the phone rang and he picked it up instantly. “Hello, sweetie, what’s the good word?”

  “Carry on to Bampton and ensure that the merchandise is forwarded to our contact in Gloucester. Give him a ring and tell him what to expect.”

  “The full treatment?”

  “Absolutely. And Simon, he doesn’t want you to get involved personally unless it becomes absolutely necessary. If the occasion calls for it, then you have a free hand, but for the moment, simply keep an eye on things and report progress.”

  “Will do, sweetie.”

  He came out of the phone box and smiled cheerfully at the middle-aged woman. “Terribly sorry if I’ve held you up. You must allow me to put your coffee on my check.”

  She blushed like a young girl. “That isn’t necessary—really it isn’t.”

  “Oh, but I insist.”

  He left a generous tip and went out, whistling softly and the woman sighed and said to the girl behind the counter, “It isn’t often you meet young men with manners like that these days.”

  The girl nodded. “Still, he’s a real gentleman, isn’t he? Anyone can see that.”

  Outside, Vaughan gunned the motor of the Spitfire and drove rapidly away.

  ==========

  The needle on the speedometer of the old cattle truck obstinately refused to move past thirty-five and it was coming up half past three when they approached Hampton.

  Chavasse tapped Youngblood on the shoulder and pointed to where Molly stood beside the old Ford in a lay-by and Youngblood drew in beside her. It was raining hard, but there was colour in her cheeks and she seemed cheerful and excited when he dropped down to join her.

  “How did it go, kid?”

  “Fine,” she said. “No trouble at all.”

  He turned to Chavasse who came round the front of the truck. “What was that address again?”

  “Alma Cottage.”

  “Could be anywhere.”

  “True—Molly had better go in on her own. We don’t want to make ourselves too conspicuous.”

  Youngblood nodded, took out Crowther’s wallet and extracted five pounds. “You must be running low on petrol. Fill her right up while you’re at it and get me some cigarettes and a newspaper if you can.

  She drove away quickly into the heavy rain and the two men climbed back into the cab of the cattle truck.

  “No road blocks so far, that’s one good thing,” Youngblood said.

  Chavasse shrugged. “We’re more than two hundred miles away from Fridaythorpe now. They aren’t looking for us here—not yet anyway.”

  “Then there was no need to trail along in this old crate,” Youngblood said. “We could have ditched the girl and used the Ford.”

  Chavasse managed to restrain his anger with difficulty. “Maybe you’d prefer to wander round Bampton showing your face all over the place while you try to find Alma Cottage?” he said. “Not me. If we aren’t spread across page one by now then we ought to be.” He shook his head. “She’s earning her keep as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Maybe you’re right at that,” Youngblood said grudgingly.

  “You can put money on it.”

  Chavasse sprawled back in the passenger seat, smoked one of his last cigarettes and went over things in his mind. So far, so good. Crowther�
�s treachery to his employers—the fact that he had followed clients through to the Bampton address— had been a major stroke of luck. Without it, they wouldn’t have stood a chance and the whole business, the long weary months in prison, would have been all for nothing.

  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 track 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 least 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 paneled 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.

  “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.”