Dark Side Of The Street

by Jack Higgins

  “So it would seem,” Youngblood said, his face dark.

  Vaughan registered innocent surprise. “Don’t tell me he didn’t take you into his confidence?”

  Youngblood didn’t seem to hear him. His face had gone white and a vein bulged in his forehead just above one eye. He turned suddenly, plunged towards the companionway and went up on deck.

  Vaughan started to laugh, his bound hands stretched out before him across the table and Molly, who had just come in from the galley, stood staring at him, a mug of coffee in one hand.

  “Now I call that very, very funny indeed.” He looked at her enquiringly. “Don’t you think so?”

  She eased past him on the other side of the table, a look of fear on her face and went up the companionway quickly.

  Vaughan’s smile disappeared and he was on his feet in an instant and moving towards the galley. He went straight to the cutlery drawer next to the sink, opened it and searched for the bread knife. He closed the drawer on the handle so that the blade stood up and set to work on the rope that linked his wrists. He was free within a couple of minutes and hurried back into the saloon.

  He dropped to one knee, opened the locker beneath the bench seat and felt for the secret catch. He had made his choice in advance and stood up, the Sterling submachine gun in his hands. He checked the action quickly, then went up the companionway to the deck.

  Youngblood was at the rail, binoculars raised as he searched for Chavasse through the mist and Molly stood at his left side holding his mug of coffee.

  “Can you see him?” she said.

  Youngblood nodded. “He’s still on the beach. Must be looking for a way up.”

  There was an audible click behind them as Vaughan cocked the Sterling and Youngblood swung around.

  “Nice and easy,” Vaughan said. “And don’t try anything silly and heroic, there’s a good chap.”

  The girl gave a tiny cry of alarm and dropped the mug of coffee on the deck, clutching at Young-blood’s sleeve. He pushed her away violently.

  “Get off me, you stupid bitch!”

  “Now then, old man, don’t lose your temper. Just walk along to the wheelhouse and get this tub moving.”

  “And where are we supposed to be going?” Youngblood said.

  “Straight into harbour as fast as we can. I want to be on hand when your friend Drummond turns up at the house, just to see the look on his face when he finds us all waiting for him.”

  ==========

  Chavasse shrugged off the aqualung, stripped the great rubber fins from his feet and left them in a crevasse in the rocks which seemed to be well out of reach of the sea.

  The cliffs towered above him into the mist, black and green, glistening with rain and spray, certainly completely unclimbable at this point and he started to work his way along the narrow strip of beach, clambering over boulders, in one place wading waist-deep, hanging on to the rocks for dear life as the sea threatened to pull him out again.

  He spent at least twenty minutes in this way and at last found a section where several great fissures and gullies presented an easy if strenuous route to the top.

  He climbed steadily, pausing for a breather halfway up, turning to look out to sea. The mist seemed to have thickened again and he could see no sign of the Pride of Man and he turned and started to climb.

  The sound of the sea faded behind him, but in spite of the coldness of the rain and wind, he sweated heavily in the close fitting rubber suit and the pain in his left arm was constant and nagging, refusing to go away, even when he didn’t use it. Blood trickled from beneath the rubber cuff of the sleeve in a thin stream, indicating the probability that some of the stitches had burst, but there was nothing he could do about that now.

  He scrambled over the edge a moment or two later and lay face down in the wet grass for a while. Finally, he sat up and looked at Youngblood’s watch. It was almost half past eight—later than he had imagined and he got to his feet and started up the gentle turf slope.

  He reached the top and crouched suddenly. Below him was a large natural crater about fifty feet deep and two hundred across and a helicopter was parked squarely in the centre.

  The other side of the crater was fringed by a line of pine trees, but there was no sign of the house which, from what he recalled of the map, was lower down the slope towards the other side of the island.

  He went down into the crater and ran toward the helicopter quickly. It stood there waiting for him, strangely alien in that grey world of mist and rain and he clambered up the side ladder and unscrewed the engine canopy quickly.

  There were several things he could have done to put the machine out of action without damaging the engine, but he had no time for such niceties. He selected a large and jagged stone, clambered back up the ladder and proceeded to smash as much as he would within the space of thirty seconds, paying particular attention to the fuel supply. As the fumes of the high octane petroleum drifted into the damp air, he dropped to the ground and moved across to the shelter of the trees.

  The house stood in another hollow a couple of hundred yards down the slope on the other side of the trees, but he was unable to see the inlet from that position. There was a path over to the left and he cut across to join it and started to run down towards the house.

  He crouched beside a bush on the edge of the wood, the revolver in his hand and looked across a neglected lawn at the rear of the house towards a stone terrace and french windows. One of them stood slightly ajar, the end of a red velvet curtain billowing out into the rain.

  He crossed to the house keeping to the line of a hedge for shelter and moved to the french windows. The curtains were completely drawn so that it was impossible to see inside. He hesitated for only a moment, then pulled the curtain back and stepped in.

  The room seemed to be in complete darkness, which was only an illusion of course, but before his eyes had a chance to become accustomed to the change of light, something hard was rammed against the side of his head.

  A familiar voice said, “I’ll take that, old man,” and the revolver was plucked from his grasp.

  A light was snapped on in the same moment. There were five other people in the room besides himself. Vaughan, who stood on the right, a Sterling sub-machine gun in his hands and Youngblood and Molly over by the door, guarded by a grey-haired ageing man whose brown face was a patchwork of wrinkles.

  The man who got up from the easy chair by the empty fireplace to come forward was one of medium height and wore a thigh-length hunting jacket with a fur collar, a green Tyrolean hat slanted across a surprisingly amiable face. He was obviously somewhere in his sixties and carried himself with the assurance of the natural aristocrat.

  “Come in Mr. Drummond or should I say Mr. Chavasse? We’ve been waiting for you.” He laughed lightly. “Welcome to Babylon.”

  12. Alas Babylon

  YOUNGBLOOD PUSHED FORWARD, bewilderment on his face. “What is all this?”

  “You might well look puzzled, Mr. Youngblood,” Stavru said. “Allow me to enlighten you. Your friend Drummond is in reality an agent of the Special Branch at Scotland Yard. His name is Chavasse—Paul Chavasse—and he was apparently put into Fridaythorpe Gaol to keep an eye on you. It would seem your bid for freedom was anticipated.”

  “A copper?” Youngblood said. “Him?” He laughed incredulously. “Not in a thousand years. I can smell one upwind a mile away. If he’s a copper, I’m a monkey’s uncle.”

  “So?” Stavru turned to Chavasse, eyes narrowed. “I value your expert opinion. It would seem Mr. Chavasse may well be an agent of another sort.” He nodded to the grey haired man. “Take Mr. Youngblood and the young lady down to the cellar, Gledik, then I want you to go and make the helicopter ready for flight. We leave in thirty minutes.”

  “Now look here…” Youngblood started, but Gledik simply stepped back and took careful aim with the Luger he was holding.

  “You’ll have to excuse Gledik,” Stavru said. “A session with the AVO in Bu
dapest involved him in the loss of his tongue, but he’s extraordinarily efficient. I would do what he says if I were you.”

  The door closed behind them and he turned with a smile and produced his cigarette case. “Do have one, my dear chap, and let’s get down to business. You and I are, how would you put it, professionals? We know the score.”

  Chavasse accepted the cigarette and a light. “Depends on how you look at it.”

  “What are you—M.I.5 or 6?” Chavasse didn’t reply and Stavru’s eyebrows raised fractionally. “Something special eh? A compliment, I must say. I like the fake robbery touch to get you into prison. Highly ingenious.”

  “Actually it was the real thing,” Chavasse said, deciding for the moment to keep things on the same level. “We felt that only the best was good enough. I must say you’ve got quite an organisation.”

  “As the advertising types are so fond of saying, we try to give our customers a service.”

  “Some service. An early grave for the suckers like George Saxton and Ben Hoffa who were mug enough to fall for the glossy brochure and allowed their cash to pass over in advance.”

  “Strange as it may seem, Mr. Chavasse, there is no one quite as gullible as your professional criminal. Their capacity for swallowing any kind of a tall story, hook, line and sinker, never ceases to amaze me.”

  “And the ones—the ones you pass on who ended up East of the Iron Curtain? They must have been gold on the hoof.“

  “Very much so, I assure you. In fact it occurs to me that certain parties on that side of the political fence might be more than interested in bidding for you, my friend. Every man has his price, in more ways than one.”

  Chavasse flicked his cigarette out into the rain. “In the circumstances, I’m sure you’ll appreciate my understandable curiosity as to how you found out about me?”

  Stavru crossed to an oak sideboard and poured himself a brandy from a cut glass decanter. “A very recent discovery, I assure you, but like a good journalist, I never disclose my sources. And now you must excuse me. I have certain preparations to make before we leave.” He nodded to Vaughan. “Take him down to the others, Simon, then come back here.”

  “Youngblood and the girl—what’s going to happen to them?” Chavasse said as Vaughan pushed him towards the door.

  “They will be well taken care of, I assure you.”

  Stavru turned, dismissing him completely and Vaughan opened the door. “Don’t take it to heart; old man. They won’t feel a thing—really they won’t. I give you my word.”

  ==========

  The cellar into which Vaughan pushed him was in almost total darkness, a patch of light showing from a tiny window on the other side which was far too small to be used as an exit.

  As the door closed behind him there was a rustle on the other side of the room and Youngblood came forward.

  “Who’s that?”

  “It’s me—Paul.”

  There was a moment of stillness during which Chavasse prepared himself for some sudden blow, but it never came and when Youngblood spoke, he sounded strangely subdued.

  “Those things he said about you upstairs—they were all true?”

  “That’s right.”

  Youngblood turned away, exploding angrily. “Me, Harry Youngblood, taken in by a bloody copper.”

  Chavasse could have pointed out that without his assistance, Youngblood’s journey would have come to an abrupt halt at Wykehead Farm, but he knew that he would be wasting his time.

  “If you want to know, I couldn’t care less about you and your friends and I’m not a policeman. Stavru happens to run a nice little sideline in the sale of state secrets and traitors to people who aren’t on exactly friendly terms with our government. The department I work for has one main interest—to see that he’s stopped.”

  “Which would include making sure that I went back to gaol for fifteen years,” Youngblood said. “Or did you intend to let me go free?”

  “That kind of decision isn’t mine to make.”

  “My God, after all I’ve done for you.” Young-blood turned away, shaking with rage and Molly moved out of the darkness to clutch at his arm.

  “What’s going to happen, Harry?”

  He turned on her angrily, shoving her violently from him so that she hit the opposite wall. “Get away from me, you stupid little whore.”

  She sank on to a bench, crying steadily and Chavasse lit a cigarette. “Does that make you feel any better?”

  “Why don’t you get stuffed?” Youngblood peered out of the window for a moment and turned suddenly. “What happens now? Did he give you any idea?”

  “Do I have to draw you a picture?”

  “Maybe I could make a deal?” Youngblood said eagerly.

  “With what? He’s got your diamonds, hasn’t he? What does he want with you? You’re supposed to be at the bottom of the well back there at Wykehead.”

  “But there must be something,” Youngblood cried and there was an edge of hysteria in his voice.

  Chavasse moved past him, pulled himself up to the window and looked out at ground level across the courtyard. As he watched, Gledik appeared from the trees and ran across to the house quickly.

  Chavasse dropped to the ground and turned with a faint smile. “I think we’ll see some action soon.”

  It came within three or four minutes. Footsteps hurried along the passageway, the door was thrown open and light flooded in as Vaughan appeared. He had discarded the machine gun and now held a .38 revolver in his right hand. Strangely enough, he seemed rather amused.

  “Count Stavru would like a word with you if you can spare a minute, old man,” he said to Chavasse. “And be warned—he’s very annoyed.”

  Chavasse glanced at his watch. It was almost nine and he shrugged. “My time is your time. I’ve certainly nothing better to do.“ He turned to Youngblood. ”If I’m not back in fifteen minutes send out the dogs.“

  But Youngblood failed“ to respond, turning away with an angry exclamation and Chavasse sighed and moved out into the passage ahead of Vaughan.

  Stavru was standing by the fireplace talking to Gledik in Hungarian and he turned quickly as Chavasse and Vaughan came in. He was like a different man, the skin drawn tightly over his cheekbones, the eyes cold and hard.

  “I understand from Gledik that the engine of the helicopter has been damaged beyond repair. Presumably this was your doing?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That was very foolish of you.”

  “I don’t think so.” Chavasse walked to the sideboard and calmly poured himself a glass of brandy. “You’re not going anywhere, Stavru. You’re finished—all washed up. Before we left Upton Magna last night I phoned through to my headquarters in London. I told them about Longue Pierre and they did a quick check and came up with you, so now everyone’s happy. By the way, I shouldn’t waste your time trying to get hold of World Wide Exports today—I don’t think they’ll be open for business.”

  Stavru turned to Vaughan. “You think he is telling the truth?”

  “Very probably.”

  “Which means his friends may come down on us at any time.”

  “That’s right,” Chavasse said smoothly. “Courtesy of the Royal Navy.”

  Stavru shrugged. “The situation is certainly inconvenient, but not impossible. The Pride of Man is a very fast boat. We can be in French territorial waters within ten minutes of leaving here.”

  “You can always try,” Chavasse said, inventing freely. “But I think you’ll find that the French coastguard and police are prepared in advance for just such a move.”

  “It would seem you have thought of everything.” Stavru walked to the french windows and stood there looking out at the rain. Suddenly he swung around and there was something close to excitement on his face. “But perhaps not?” he said softly and turned to Vaughan. “Get Youngblood up here, Simon, and quickly. There’s no time to lose.”

  “There’s no way out, you know,” Chavasse said.


  “You have a saying, do you not, Mr. Chavasse? Desperate situations breed desperate remedies.”

  He poured himself another drink and a moment later, Youngblood was pushed into the room. He stood there, hands clenching and unclenching nervously, a wary expression on his face and Stavru moved to meet him.

  “Mr. Youngblood, I have just discovered some rather unpleasant news. Mr. Chavasse’s wolves could apparently descend on us at any moment.”

  “That’s your hard luck.”

  “And yours—or do you look forward to your return to your cell at Fridaythorpe for the next fifteen years?”

  Youngblood’s face was his answer and Stavru laughed gently. “Then we can do business. I understand that at one time you were a Petty Officer on torpedo boats in your Royal Navy and that after the war you were engaged in the running of contraband across the channel.“

  “So what?”

  “You brought the Pride of Man over from England by night in not very pleasant weather which would seem to indicate your competence. Could you sail her to Portugal?” He turned to Chavasse. “I should perhaps explain that the boat is registered in Liberia. It would therefore be completely illegal for even the Royal Navy to attempt to board her at sea.”

  “Her range is only six hundred,” Youngblood said. “You’d need enough extra juice for another three or four hundred miles, just to take care of contingencies.”

  “There is plenty of petrol on the jetty in twenty gallon drums.”

  “All right—what’s in it for me?”

  “Your continued freedom and, of course, your diamonds or their equivalent in Swiss francs. As a matter of interest, I would be setting up a new organisation in Tangiers. I think we might do very well together.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Harry,” Chavasse said. “You’d never get across the Bay of Biscay in a boat like that. It’s the wrong time of year.”

  “Who says I wouldn’t?” Youngblood smiled recklessly. “I’d take that tub to hell rather than go back to Fridaythorpe.” He turned to Stavru. “How do I know I can trust you?”