by Jack Higgins
The door opened behind him and a tall gaunt man with sunken cheeks and dull eyes came in. Like Pentecost he wore a heavy rubber apron.
"Anything I can do, Mr. Pentecost?"
"I'm all through here for tonight, George," Pentecost said. "Her cranium will have to wait till tomorrow. I've got rather a lot of paperwork to get through. Help me put her in the tank, will you?"
He hosed the body down quickly, flushing away the blood and they lifted her between them into a large glass tank of formaldehyde. The body slid under the surface with a soft splash and turned over several times before settling a foot or so from the bottom, the long hair fanning out in a most lifelike manner.
"A shame, isn't it, Mr. Pentecost?" George said. "She was really beautiful."
"Beautiful or ugly, young or old, this is what they all come down to in the end, George," Pentecost said cheerfully. "Has everyone else gone?"
"Yes, sir."
"No need for you to hang around. As I said, I'll be here for quite some time."
"I'll go then, if that's all right with you, Mr. Pentecost. I did promise to take my wife out for a meal."
"Try the Golden Dragon on Michener Street," Pentecost advised. "They do a really excellent Chow Mein."
"Well, thank you, sir. I think we will."
George withdrew and Pentecost went to the sink and washed the blood from his arms. He removed his rubber apron, went into the private bathroom at the other end of the embalming room, stripped and showered. The warm water made him feel pleasantly relaxed and afterwards, he stood in front of the mirror, humming softly as he changed into a soft white shirt, black tie and a beautifully tailored suit in dark worsted.
With his snow white hair and gold rimmed spectacles, he looked remarkably as one might have expected the director of Long Barrow Crematorium and House of Rest to look. Certainly there was no resemblance to Harry Marks, the second rate confidence man who had served three terms of imprisonment as a young man before learning the facts of life.
Things were very different now and he went through the embalming room and moved along the corridor, his feet silent on the thick carpets. An indefinable aura of dignity pervaded the whole establishment, there was no question of that. There was polished wood and brass everywhere and flowers and cut glass winking in the soft light from the shaded lamps.
Which was as it should be. This was, after all, the last earthly resting place for so many people. Strange that its fortunes should have been founded on murder, morally at least, although a court of law would probably have found that there was no case to answer.
Poor Alice Tisdale, on the other hand, might have thought otherwise. A lonely old widow of seventy with a pension and PS13,000 in the bank, she had been captivated by the considerate stranger who had offered her his umbrella one rainy morning on the front at Brighton.
Once installed as chauffeur and general handyman at the house in Forest Hill, Harry Marks had put into operation a programme scientifically designed to break first the old woman's spirit and then her health. She had died of the combined effects of malnutrition and senile decay leaving faithful Harry all she possessed and the two cousins and a nephew who had attempted to contest the will got nowhere.
But Harry Marks belonged to another world. Now there was only Hugo Pentecost and Long Barrow, had been at least until the arrival of Smith the previous year with his quiet, cultured voice and distressingly accurate knowledge of Harry Marks and his past activities. So, when the whip cracked, he had to jump. Still, one could only be philosophical about these things and life had an interesting habit of turning full circle. His chance would come and when it did . . .
As he went down the beautiful marble staircase he was thinking of the new incinerator, installed only the previous week, which could consume a human body in fifteen minutes. Not like the older ones which took up to an hour and a half and were so inefficient that it was usually necessary to pound up the skull and pelvis afterwards. Come to think of it, Smith wasn't particularly big. It would probably take no longer than ten minutes in his case.
As he crossed the foyer at the bottom of the stairs and walked towards his office, he became aware of a young woman standing at the reception desk.
She turned awkwardly. "I'm looking for Mr. Pentecost."
"I am he. What can I do for you?"
Pentecost's habitually soft tones carried a sharper edge than usual. The young woman was plain--in fact, rather ugly. He could have forgiven her for that, but the shabby coat and poor quality shoes, the scarf bound round the head peasant-fashion, reminded him too much for his peace of mind, of a childhood spent amidst the poverty of Whitechapel. And then there was her voice with its broad northern vowels--an accent which had always offended him.
"It was a relative I really wanted to see you about. My great aunt."
"She has just passed on?"
"This morning. I'd like to arrange for her to be taken care of. You are Mr. Hugo Pentecost?"
"Yes, I am he." Mr. Pentecost sighed. "My dear child, you have my deepest condolences, but I must point out that we offer a very specialised service here and one that is rather expensive."
Searching desperately for an answer to keep the conversation going, Molly remembered her own mother's recent death and something Crowther had mentioned.
"There was an insurance."
"May I ask how much?"
"Two hundred pounds. Would that be enough?"
Pentecost warmed to her, his voice deepening appreciably and he placed an arm around her shoulders. "I'm sure we can manage something. Perhaps you could return in the morning."
"I'd hoped to settle things tonight. Is it too late?"
"My staff have all gone home. I'm completely alone here." He hesitated and greed won. "But why not? It won't take long to settle the essential details. Come into my office."
He opened the door and showed her inside. It was furnished in excellent if rather sombre taste and he motioned her to a chair and sat down behind his desk.
He opened a large desk diary, produced a black and gold fountain pen. "Just a few details--your name?"
"Crowther--Molly Crowther."
"Address?"
"I'm not sure." He looked up with a frown and Molly said hesitatingly, "It's on the road that leads to Babylon."
In the silence which followed, he sat staring at her, his slight polite smile wiped away. "I see."
He closed the desk diary, opened a drawer and put it away, at the same time taking out a .38 revolver with his other hand and slipping it into his pocket, an act which completely escaped the girl's notice.
He stood up. "Would you kindly come this way?"
Molly got to her feet, panic moving inside her. She hadn't the slightest idea what to do next and reached out to touch his arm timidly as he brushed past her.
"There's nothing to worry about," Pentecost said reassuringly. "We'll talk upstairs."
She followed him up the stairway and along the quiet corridor at the top. He paused outside a leather covered door, opened it and stood back for her.
The room was a place of shadows and she moved inside uncertainly. The first thing she noticed was the heavy smell of formaldehyde and then she saw the body floating in the tank tinged with green in the subdued light, hair trailing like seaweed. Her throat went dry and she turned with a gasp as the door clicked shut.
Pentecost paused beside a bench to open a large mahogany case of surgical instruments. He selected a razor sharp scalpel and held it up to the light, examining the edge of the blade with a slight frown. Quite suddenly he reached out, grabbing her by the coat, pulling her so close that their faces were only an inch or two apart. The smoothness, the suavity had disappeared--even the voice had changed as he touched the edge of the blade to her skin.
"I don't know what in the hell you're playing at, but there should be two of you, that I do know. Where's your friend? Quick now or I'll slice your throat."
And Molly, pushed beyond endurance, shoved him away wildly and scr
eamed.
The Ford was parked in the shadows beneath a clump of beech trees a hundred yards up the road from the main gate of the Long Barrow estate.
Through the trees, Youngblood could see the dim bulk of the house, a light shining in the porch. It was the sort of Gothic pile built on the high tide of Victorian prosperity by some self-made pillar of Empire. In the darkness and rain, it was impossible to see much of the grounds, but from the size of the house, they were obviously extensive.
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!"
"You took your own sweet time getting here, didn't you?" Youngblood said furiously.
Chavasse ignored him. He heaved Pentecost to his feet and shoved him into a chair that stood beside a small deal table. Pentecost seemed completely dazed and wiped blood from his mouth mechanically with the back of one hand.
"My name's Drummond and this is Harry Youngblood," Chavasse said. "Perhaps you've heard of us?"
Pentecost nodded. "You're the two who escaped from Manningham hospital yesterday. I read about it in the paper."
"Were you expecting us?"
Pentecost hesitated and Youngblood took a step forward, right fist clenched. "Let me speak to him."
Pentecost shrank back defensively, one arm raised. "There's no need for that. I'll tell you anything you want to know."
Chavasse nodded to Youngblood. "All right, give him a chance." He repeated the question. "Were you expecting us?"
Pentecost shook his head. "I had a phone call this afternoon so I was expecting somebody. I didn't know it was going to be you two."
"Who gave you the order?"
"He calls himself Smith. That's all I know about him."
"Can you describe him?"
"Good looking, well spoken." He shrugged. "You'd think he was upper-crust until he starts to work."
Youngblood frowned across at Chavasse. "Mackenzie?
"It certainly sounds like it." Chavasse looked down at Pentecost again. "Are you expecting him?"
"He didn't say anything definite."
Youngblood had walked across to inspect the ovens and now he turned. "Do you treat everyone Smith sends you like this?"
Pentecost shook his head. "I pass most of them straight through."
Youngblood stared at him in genuine horror. "Most of them?" He turned to Chavasse. "For Christ's sake, find out what we have to know and let's get out of here. This bloke gives me the creeps."
"The people you passed on," Chavasse said. "What was their destination?"
