Dark Side of the Street - Simon Vaughn 01 (v5)

by Jack Higgins

  He patted her on the shoulder awkwardly and pulled away, taking out his cigarettes and lighting one. Looking for a change of subject, he remembered what Chavasse had said.

  "What went on between you and Paul? When he passed me on the way down he seemed pretty excited about something."

  She got up, took a comb from the pocket of her coat and ran it through her hair. "He was asking me questions about the other people who came here, that's all."

  "Like George Saxton and Ben Hoffa?"

  "That's right."

  "And what did he want to know?"

  "If I'd seen them leave."

  Youngblood frowned. "And did you?"

  She shook her head. "The others who came used to stay two or three days, but I never saw either of your friends again after I brought them up here."

  Youngblood stared at her in horror as the full implication sank in. "Jesus Christ!" he whispered.

  In the same moment, both barrels of a shotgun were fired in rapid succession, the sound echoing flatly through the rain as it drifted up from the valley below.

  He turned to the door and the girl grabbed his arm. "Don't go, Harry--don't go!" she screamed.

  He struck her across the face with the flat of his hand, sending her backwards into the hay. "You bitch!" he said. "You dirty little bitch! You've sold us out!"

  And then he was gone and she picked herself up and stumbled after him, crying hysterically.

  When Chavasse reached the farmyard he paused, suddenly uncertain, not even sure what he was looking for. If his suspicions were correct, if Saxton and Ben Hoffa had never left this place alive, their bodies could be anywhere. Tossed into a peat bog or simply buried a foot under the surface somewhere out there on the moors, they could lie for five hundred years without being discovered.

  He went inside the farmhouse and stood in the stone flagged passageway for a moment, wondering what to do next, conscious of the eerie silence. There was a door to his left and one on the right leading to the parlour and living room respectively and the kitchen was at the far end. And then he noticed another under the stairs.

  When he opened it, unpleasant, dank odour drifted up to meet him from the darkness below. He fumbled for the light switch and clicked it on to disclose a flight of stone steps. He went down cautiously and found himself in a narrow whitewashed passage that turned into another, various storerooms leading off on either side.

  There was the usual accumulation of rubbish that was to be found in the cellars of any old house and many of the rooms had obviously been used to store provisions in other days. He was wasting his time, so much was obvious and he turned and went back along the passage.

  "Doing a bit of exploring, eh?" Sam Crowther said from the top of the stairs.

  He was standing in the doorway, a double-barrelled shotgun under one arm. Chavasse paused fractionally at the bottom of the steps and kept on going.

  "That's right. Hope you don't mind."

  "Not at all." Crowther moved back into the passageway, a jovial smile on his face. "And where's Mr. Youngblood?"

  "Somewhere around."

  "And Molly?" Crowther chuckled, somehow contriving to make even that sound obscene. "Happen they're together, eh?" And he dug his elbow into Chavasse's ribs.

  "I wouldn't know about that."

  In spite of Crowther's unctuous smile an indefinable air of menace hung around him and danger crackled in the air like electricity. Chavasse waited, tense and ready for anything that was to come, uncomfortably aware of the dull ache from his stitches, knowing that, to all intents and purposes, he might as well be one-armed.

  Crowther leaned forward and winked in a conspiratorial fashion. "There's summat you might find very interesting out back, summat I wouldn't show to everybody. Seeing as how we're alone, this might just be the time."

  He turned, walking ahead along the passageway and Chavasse followed him out through the kitchen. He led the way across the yard and opened a gate leading into a small courtyard. The only thing it seemed to contain was an old well surrounded by a three foot circular brick wall. Billy stood beside it, a stupid fixed grin on his ugly face, his great hands curved slightly as if he was waiting for something.

  "Let's have it off then, Billy, lad." Crowther chuckled. "Nothing like a piece of female flesh for splitting the opposition. Mind you my Molly's no oil painting, I'll grant you that, but she's got the necessary and after five years inside Mr. Youngblood's not going to be too choosy now, is he?"

  The barrel of the shotgun jabbed Chavasse in the back and, as the cover came off the well with a crash, he pivoted sharply, his left arm trapping the barrel against his side, the edge of his right hand slashing Crowther across the side of the neck so that he cried out in pain and staggered back.

  Chavasse pulled the shotgun from under his armpit with his right hand, thumbing back the hammers awkwardly as he ran for the gate. As he started to turn, Billy gave a cry of rage and lurched forward.

  He was like some primeval beast lumbering in for the kill, the nightmare face contorted with rage, great hands outstretched to rend and tear. Chavasse didn't even let him get close. He swung up the shotgun one-handed, resting the barrels across his left arm and fired. The first shot caught Billy in the chest, stopping him dead in his tracks, the second blew away half his face, scattering blood and brain across the cobblestones, driving him back against the well. He hit the wall, jack-knifed and disappeared without a cry. There was a single splash and then silence.

  Crowther lay on his face moaning softly and Chavasse dropped to one knee beside him and searched his pockets. He found a handful of cartridges and reloaded the shotgun, then he gave Crowther a kick in the ribs and stood back.

  "On your feet."

  Crowther scrambled up, backing against the wall of the courtyard. Chavasse moved in and rammed the muzzle of the shotgun under the man's chin.

  "Saxton and Hoffa, they're down there, aren't they?" Crowther hesitated and the muzzle dug painfully into his flesh. "Aren't they?"

  Crowther nodded fearfully. "That's right."

  "How many more?" Again he hesitated and Chavasse thumbed back the hammers of the shotgun.

  "For God's sake, don't shoot!" Crowther cried. "Four--that's all."

  "That's all," Chavasse said in disgust, fighting back the inclination to pull the trigger. "Then other people were passed through safely?"

  "That's right. I was only obeying orders."

  "I bet you were. The people you passed on? Where did they go to next?"

  "I wouldn't know." The barrel of the shotgun was raised menacingly and he cried out in alarm. "It's the truth, I tell you. I used to drop them ten miles from here at a crossroads to be picked up by someone else."

  There was the sound of running feet and Youngblood called through the rain from the house. "Drum--where are you?"

  "Out here!" Chavasse replied.

  Youngblood arrived a moment later and paused in the gateway. "What happened here?"

  "They thought I might be more comfortable down the well, but Billy decided to try it instead. You'll be interested to know that's where Saxton and Ben Hoffa are."

  Youngblood crossed to Crowther. "You dirty bastard."

  Very slowly, but with infinite menace, he searched the older man, tossing the contents of his pockets carelessly onto the cobbles. He found a wallet which appeared to contain fifty or sixty pounds and nodded to Chavasse.

  "This should be useful. What's he told you?"

  "Everybody didn't end up down the well. Most of the clients were passed on."

  "Where to?"

  "He doesn't know. Says he drops them at a crossroads about ten miles from here to be picked up."

  Youngblood turned on Crowther and laughed harshly. "Are you trying to tell me you never hung around to see what happened, never followed anybody? In a pig's ear, you didn't."

  He sank his fist into the pit of Crowther's stomach so that he screamed and doubled over, falling to his knees. A foot caught him a glancing blow o
n the shin and he fell over backwards.

  "Now try him," Youngblood said.

  Chavasse dropped on one knee beside Crowther and raised his head. "He means business--I'd talk if I were you."

  Crowther nodded, a dazed expression in his eyes and wiped blood from his cheek. "All right, I'll tell you. I did follow clients twice."

  "What happened?"

  "They were picked up by a furniture van and dropped off on the outskirts of Shrewsbury."

  "Then what?"

  "They waited on a certain bench and were picked up by the same person each time--a blind woman with a guide dog. Her name's Hartman--Rosa Hartman and she lives at Alma Cottage, Bampton. She's some sort of a clairvoyante."

  At that moment, the girl arrived, panting and out of breath, her face flushed. She poised in the gateway and looked around her wildly.

  "Are you all right, Harry?"

  Youngblood turned and went towards her. "If I am, it's no thanks to you, you rotten little bitch. I could have been at the bottom of that well by tonight and no questions asked."

  She was crying, her face looking uglier than ever and pawed at his chest. "I didn't know, Harry. I didn't know."

  "Do you think I came over on a banana boat or something?" Youngblood said and he grabbed her hair viciously, wrenching back her head.

  Chavasse moved across the courtyard in three quick strides and pulled him away. "Leave her alone, Harry. She'd nothing to do with it. All she ever had were suspicions and if she hadn't mentioned those, I probably wouldn't be here now."

  Behind them, Crowther saw his chance and ran for a gap in the wall where the brickwork had crumbled. Youngblood turned with a cry of alarm, but he was too late and Chavasse grabbed his arm to hold him back as Crowther ran for his life through the undergrowth on the other side of the wall.

  "Never mind him--we've got to get out of here."

  They went out into the main courtyard and the girl plucked at Youngblood's sleeve. "You'll take me with you, Harry?"

  "Do me a favour," Youngblood said and pushed her away violently.

  "But you can't leave me," she pleaded. "Not now."

  "What's she talking about?" Chavasse demanded.

  "How the hell should I know?" Youngblood said impatiently. "I'll get some food from the house and we'll get moving. I suppose we'd better take the Ford."

  "Please Harry!"

  The girl was crying bitterly and Chavasse looked at her, a frown on his face. He didn't like leaving her, if only because Crowther might return. On the other hand she would be nothing but a hindrance. Or would she?

  He put a hand on her shoulder. "Molly, can you drive?"

  She looked up eagerly. "Of course I can."

  "What are you up to?" Youngblood demanded.

  "I was just thinking," Chavasse said. "What if we run into a road block somewhere. It's always possible. If the girl drove a mile in front in the Ford and we followed in the cattle truck, there'd be time for her to turn back and warn us."

  Youngblood nodded slowly. "You know, I think you've got something there." He turned to Molly and put a hand on her shoulder. "Think you can do it, kid?"

  She gazed up at him, an expression of pure joy in her eyes. "Just try me, Harry. Just try me."

  Five minutes after the truck had rolled away down the track, Sam Crowther emerged from the trees at the back of the farm and limped across the yard. His mouth was badly swollen and his chest hurt so that he could hardly breathe.

  He leaned over the sink, holding his head under the cold tap and when he straightened, reaching for a towel, he found Simon Vaughan standing in the open doorway.

  "Hello, Mr. Smith," Crowther said uncertainly. "I didn't expect to see you."

  "Just thought I'd look in to see if everything had gone off smoothly," Vaughan said. "You look as if you've been in the wars, old man."

  "Nothing I couldn't handle." Crowther's brain worked overtime. "You've brought the money with you, I hope."

  "You've disposed of them already?" Vaughan said. "I must say that's very efficient of you. Where are they?"

  "In the well at the rear."

  "Mind if we take a look?"

  Crowther hesitated. "You won't see much. Stillsuit yourself."

  It was still raining when they went into the courtyard and approached the well. The stench was appalling, but such was the depth of the shaft that it was impossible to see what lay at the bottom.

  "So you put them down there, did you?" Vaughan said.

  "That's right."

  Vaughan sighed. "You know you really are the most awful liar. I've just walked over the hill, old man. I saw Youngblood and Drummond drive away in that cattle truck of yours."

  Which was true, although he had missed Molly's departure in the Ford by five minutes.

  "You have a daughter, don't you? Where is she?"

  "I reckon she's cleared off," Crowther whispered.

  "I see. Did you tell our friends about Alma Cottage at Bampton and Rosa Hartman?" Crowther's face was his answer and he shook his head gently. "You shouldn't have done that, old man. You really shouldn't."

  His right hand came out of his pocket and swung up, the blade of a flicked knife springing into view, the point catching Crowther under the chin and shearing through the roof of his mouth into his brain.

  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, travelling 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 E
OKA 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 average 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?"