Dark Side Of The Street

by Jack Higgins

  “All right,” Hoffa said. “Just’one more thing— what do I call you?”

  “Anything you like, old man.” He grinned amiably. “What about Smith? Yes, I think I’d like that. I’ve always wondered what it must be like to be called Smith.”

  “And where in the hell did the Baron pick you up?” Hoffa asked.

  Smith smiled again. “You’d be surprised, old man. You really would.”

  He led the way across the clearing into the wood, following a narrow path through the trees which later joined a broad dirt track. A few yards further on they came to a derelict water mill beside a stream and in a courtyard at the rear behind a broken wall, a black Zodiac was parked. A moment later they were driving away, bumping over the rutted track, finally emerging into a narrow country road.

  “Let’s get one thing clear,” Smith said as he changed into top gear and drove rapidly away. “We’ll be together in this car for approximately forty minutes. If anything goes wrong, you’re a hitch-hiker and I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  “All right,” Hoffa said. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Ail in good time. We’ve some business to settle first.”

  “I was wondering when you’d get round to it.”

  “Hardly likely to forget a thing like that. Your share of the Peterfield Airport Robbery was exactly £320,000. Where is it?”

  “How do I know I’m going to get a fair shake?” Hoffa demanded.

  “Now don’t start that sort of nonsense, old man. The Baron can’t stand welshers. We’ve kept our part of the bargain—we’ve got you out. You tell us where the cash is and that completes what we call Phase One of the operation. Once we’ve got our hands on the money, we can start Phase Two.“

  “Which includes getting me out of the country?”

  “With a new identity nicely documented, plus half the money. I’d say that was a fair exchange for twenty years on the Moor.”

  “How can I be sure?”

  “You’d better be, old man. You aren’t going to get very far on your own.”

  “You’ve got a point there. Okay—the money’s in a steamer trunk at Prices’ Furniture Repository, Pimlico, in the name of Henry Walker.”

  Smith gave him a look of blank amazement. “You must be joking.”

  “Why should I? They specialise in clients who are going overseas for a lengthy period. I paid five years in advance. Even if it isn’t collected on time it’s safe enough. They’ve got to hang on to it for ten years before they can do anything—that’s the law.”

  “Is there a receipt?”

  “You won’t get it without one.”

  “Who has it?”

  “Nobody—it’s at my mother’s place in Kentish Town. You’ll find an old Salvation Army Bible amongst my gear. The receipt’s hidden in the spine. Fair enough?”

  “It should be. I’ll pass the information along.”

  “And what happens to me?”

  “You’ll be taken care of. If everything goes according to plan they’ll start Phase Two, but not before the Baron has seen the colour of your money.”

  “Who is the Baron anyway? Anyone I know?”

  “That sort of question just isn’t healthy, old man.” Smith shrugged and for the first time, the slight, characteristic smile was not in evidence. “You may meet him eventually—you may not. I honestly wouldn’t know.”

  The rest of the journey was passed in silence until twenty minutes later when they arrived at a crossroads and he slowed to a halt. “This is where we part company.”

  On either hand the main road was visible for a good quarter of a mile, a narrow ribbon of asphalt falling across wild and rugged uplands. It was completely deserted and Hoffa frowned.

  “What happens now?”

  “Stand at the edge of the road like any normal hitch-hiker and you’ll be picked up in approximately ten minutes if our man’s on time.”

  “What’s he driving?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. His opening words will be: ”Is there anywhere in particular you’d like me to take you?“ You must answer: Babylon.”

  “For God’s sake, what is all this?” Hoffa demanded angrily. “Some sort of game?”

  “Depends how you look at it, doesn’t it, old man? He’ll tell you Babylon’s too far for him, but he can take you part of the way.”

  “Then what happens?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” He leaned across the opened the door. “On your way, there’s a good chap and the best of British luck to you.”

  A moment later Hoffa found himself standing at the side of the road a bewildered frown on his face, the Zodiac a fast-dwindling noise in the distance.

  It was quiet after a while, the only sound the wind whispering through the long grass and a cloud passed across the face of the sun so that suddenly it was cold and he shivered. There was a desperate air of unreality to everything and the events of the afternoon seemed to form part of some privileged nightmare.

  He checked the watch Smith had given him on the helicopter. An hour and ten minutes since the ambush of the Land-Rover. From now on anything might happen. There was sweat on his forehead in spite of the cool breeze and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. What if some well-meaning farmer drove by and decided to offer him a lift? What was he going to say?

  Somewhere in the distance, an engine sounded faintly and when he turned to look, a vehicle came over the crest of the hill. As it approached he saw that it was a tanker, a great six-wheeler, its body painted a brilliant red and it rolled to a halt beside him.

  The driver leaned out of the cab and looked down, a craggy-faced man of sixty or so in an old flying jacket and tweed cap, a grey stubble covering his chin. For a long moment there was silence and then he said with a pronounced Scottish accent, “Is there anywhere in particular you’d like me to take you?”

  “Babylon,” Hoffa told him and the breath went out of him in a long sigh of relief.

  “Well, now, that’s a step too far for me, but I can take you part of the way.”

  He opened the door and stepped on to a ladder that gave access to the filling point on top of the tanker. To one side was a steel plate about two feet square painted black which carried the legend:

  Danger—Handle with care—Hydrochloric Acid. He felt for a hidden catch at the base of the plate and it swung open.

  Hoffa climbed up and peered inside. The compartment was about eight feet by three with a mattress as its base and he nodded briefly. “How long?”

  “Six hours,” the driver said. “No light, I’m afraid, and you can’t smoke, but there’s coffee in the thermos and some sandwiches in a biscuit tin. Best I can do.”

  “Can I ask you where we’re going?”

  The driver shook his head, face impassive. “Not in the contract, that one.”

  “All right,” Hoffa said. “Let’s get rolling.”

  He went through the hatch head-first and as he turned to face the light, the cover clanged into place, plunging him into darkness. Panic moved inside him and his throat went dry and then the tanker started to roll forward and the mood passed. He lay back on the mattress, head pillowed on his hands and after a while his eyes closed and he slept.

  ==========

  At that precise moment some ten miles away, the man who had called himself Smith braked to a halt in the High Street of the first village he came to, went into a public telephone box and dialled a London number.

  A woman answered him, her voice cool and impersonal. “Worldwide Exports Ltd.”

  “Simon Vaughan speaking from the West Country.”

  The voice didn’t change. “Nice to hear from you. How are things down there?”

  “Couldn’t be better. Our client’s on his way. Anything on the news yet?”

  “Not a murmur.”

  “The lull before the storm. You’ll find the goods in a steamer trunk at Price’s Furniture Repository, Pimlico, in the name of Henry Walker. The receipt’s in the spine of
an old Salvation Army Bible amongst his gear at his mother’s place in Kentish Town. I shouldn’t think a nice young lady welfare officer would have too much trouble in getting that out of her.”

  “I’ll handle it myself.”

  “I wouldn’t waste too much time. It’s almost five o’clock. The furniture repository probably closes at six. Might be an idea to give them a ring, just to make sure they’ll stay open for you.”

  “Leave it to me. You’ve done well. He’ll be pleased.”

  “Anything to oblige, old girl, that’s me.”

  Vaughan replaced the receiver and lit a cigarette, a slight far-away look in his eyes. “Oh, what I’d like to do to you, sweetie,” he murmured softly and as he returned to the car, there was a smile on his face.

  ==========

  Hoffa came awake slowly and lay staring through the heavy darkness, trying to work out where he was and then he remembered and pushed himself up on one elbow. According to the luminous dial on his watch it was a quarter past ten which meant they had been on the go for a little over five hours. Not much longer to wait and he lay back again, head pillowed on his hands, thinking of many things, but in particular of how he was going to start to live again—really live, in some place of warmth and light where the sun always shone and every woman was beautiful.

  He was jerked out of his reverie as the tanker braked and started to slow. It rolled to a halt, but the engine wasn’t turned off. The hatch opened and the driver’s face appeared, a pale mask against the night sky.

  “Out you get!”

  It was a fine night with stars strung away to the horizon, but there was no moon. Hoffa stood at the side of the road stretching to ease his cramped limbs as the driver dropped the hatch back into place.

  “What now?”

  “You’ll find a track leading up the mountain on the other side of the road. Wait there. Someone will pick you up.”

  He was inside the cab before Hoffa could reply, there was a hiss of air as he released the brake and the tanker rolled away into the night. Hoffa watched the red tail lights fade into darkness, then picked up his rucksack and moved across the road.

  He found the track without any difficulty and stood there peering into the darkness, wondering what to do next. The voice, when it came, made him start in alarm because of its very unexpectedness.

  “Is there anywhere in particular you’d like me to take you?”

  It was a woman who had spoken—a woman with a pronounced Yorkshire accent and he peered forward trying to see her as he replied, “Babylon.”

  “Too far for me, but I can take you part of the way.”

  She moved close, her face a pale blur in the darkness, then turned without another word and walked away. Hoffa followed her, the loose stones of the track rattling under his feet. In spite of his long sleep, he was tired. It had, after all, been quite a day and somewhere up ahead there had to be food and a bed.

  They walked for perhaps half a mile, climbing all the time and he was aware of hills on either side of them and the cold chill in the wind and then the track turned a shoulder and below in a hollow beside a stream was a farmhouse, a light in the downstairs window.

  A dog barked hollowly as she pushed open a five-barred gate and led the way across the cobbled yard. As they approached the front door, it opened suddenly and a man stood there framed against the light, a shotgun in his hands.

  “You found him then, Molly?”

  For the first time Hoffa had a clear view of the girl and realised with a sense of surprise, that she couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty years of age with haunted eyes and a look that said she hadn’t smiled in a long time.

  “Will you want me for anything more tonight?” she said in a strange dead voice.

  “Nay, lass, off you go to bed and look in on your mother. She’s been asking for you.”

  The girl slipped past him and he leaned a shotgun against the wall and came forward, hand outstretched. “A real pleasure, Mr. Hoffa. I’m Sam Crowther.”

  “So you know who I am?” Hoffa said.

  “They’ve been talking about nowt else on the radio all night.”

  “Any chance of finding out where I am?”

  Crowther chuckled. “Three hundred and fifty miles from where you started off. They won’t be looking for you round here, you may be certain of that.”

  “Which is something, I suppose,” Hoffa said. “What happens now? Do we move into Phase Two yet?”

  “I had a telephone call from London no more than an hour ago. Everything went as smooth as silk. You’ll have no worries from now on, Mr. Hoffa.” He turned and called over his shoulder, “Billy—where are you, Billy? Let’s be having you.”

  The man who appeared in the doorway was a giant. At least six feet four in height, he had the shoulders and arms of an ape and a great lantern jaw. He grinned foolishly, a dribble of saliva oozing from the corner of his mouth as he shambled into the yard and Crowther clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Good lad, Billy, let’s get moving. There’s work to be done.” He turned and smiled. “This way, Mr. Hoffa.”

  He led the way across the yard, Hoffa at his heels, Billy bringing up the rear and opened a gate leading into a small courtyard. The only thing it seemed to contain was an old well surrounded by a circular brick wall about three feet high.

  Hoffa took a step forward. “Now what?”

  His reply was a single stunning blow from the rear delivered with such enormous power that his spine snapped like a rotten stick.

  He lay there writhing on the ground and Crowther stirred him with the toe of his boot. “In he goes, Billy.”

  Hoffa was still alive as he went headfirst into the well. His body bounced from the brickwork twice on the way down, but he could feel no pain. Strangely enough, his last conscious thought was that Hagen had been right. It had been his funeral after all and then the cold waters closed over him and he plunged into darkness.

  2. Cops and Robbers

  WHEN THE NOON whistle blew a steady stream of workers began to emerge from Lonsdale Metals. In the cafe opposite the main gates Paul Chavasse got to his feet, folded his newspaper and went outside. It was precisely this busy period that he had been waiting for and he crossed the road quickly.

  The main entrance itself was blocked by a swing bar which was not raised until any outgoing vehicle had been checked by the uniformed guard, but the workers used a side gate and crowded through it slowly to a chorus of ribald comments and good humoured laughter.

  Undistinguishable from the rest of them in brown overalls and tweed cap, Chavasse plunged into the crowd, working against the stream. He met with some good natured abuse as he forced his way through, but a moment later he was inside the gate. He moved through the crowd, glancing quickly through the window of the gatehouse on his left, noting the three uniformed security guards at the table, coffee and sandwiches spread before them, an Alsatian squatting in the corner.

  The workers were still moving towards the gate in a steady stream and Chavasse passed through them quickly, crossed the yard to the main block and entered the basement garage. He had spent the previous night poring over the plans S2 had provided until the layout of the building was so impressed on his mind that he was able to move with perfect confidence.

  There were still one or two mechanics about, but he ignored them, mounted the ramp, walked behind the line of waiting vehicles parked in the loading bay and pressed the button for the service lift. A moment later he was on his way to the third floor.

  It was strangely quiet when he stepped out and he paused, listening, before moving along the corridor. The door to the wages office was on the third from the end and marked Private. He glanced at it briefly in passing, turned the corner and opened a door which carried the sign Fire Exit. Concrete stairs dropped into a dark well beneath him and on the wall to his left he found what he was looking for—a battery of fuse boxes.

  Each box was numbered neatly in white paint. He pushed the handle
on number ten into the off position and returned to the corridor.

  He knocked on the door of the wages office and waited. This was the crucial moment. According, to his information, the staff went to lunch between noon and one o’clock leaving only the chief cashier on duty, but nothing was certain in this life—he had learned that if nothing else in seven years of working for the Bureau and there were bound to be days when someone or other decided to have sandwiches instead of going out. Two he could handle—any more than that and he was in trouble. Not that it mattered—it all came down to the same thing in the end and he smiled wryly. On the other hand it might be amusing to see just how far he could go.

  A spyhole flicked open in front of him and he caught the glint of an eye.

  “Mr. Crabtree?” Chavasse said. “I’m from Maintenance. There’s been a partial power failure on this floor and I’m checking each office to find the cause. Is everything all right here, sir?”

  “Just a moment.” The cover of the spyhole dropped into place. A moment later there was the rattle of a chain, the door opened and a small white haired man peered out. “The lights don’t seem to be working at all. You’d better come in.”

  Chavasse stepped inside, noting in that first quick moment that they were alone and Crabtree busied himself in locking and chaining the door again. He was perhaps sixty and wore neat gold-rimmed spectacles. When he turned and found the muzzle of a .38 automatic staring him in the face, his eyes widened in horror, his shoulders sagging so that he seemed to shrink and become visibly smaller.

  Chavasse stifled a pang of remorse and tapped him gently on the cheek with the barrel of the automatic. “Do as you’re told and you’ll come out of this in one piece—understand?” Crabtree nodded dumbly and Chavasse produced a pair of handcuffs from a pocket in his overalls and gestured to a chair. “Sit down and put your hands behind you.”

  He handcuffed Crabtree quickly, secured his ankles with a length of cord and squatted in front of him. “Comfortable?”

  The cashier seemed to have made a remarkable recovery and smiled thinly. “Relatively.”

  Chavasse warmed to him. “Your wage bill here runs you between forty and fifty thousand pounds depending on the amount of overtime worked. What’s the figure this week?”