'Fine,' Youngblood said. 'I'll handle this. You follow on in the Ford.'
He was suddenly like a kid on an outing, cheerful and smiling as he clambered up into the truck and drove away.
'He's certainly pleased with life, isn't he?' Chavasse said as he slid behind the wheel of the Ford.
The girl blushed, looking for a moment almost pretty and he was suddenly reminded of an old Breton saying.
My God, as if this business wasn't complicated enough. He sighed heavily as he released the handbrake and drove away.
As the front door closed behind Chavasse, Simon Vaughan stepped from behind the floor length velvet curtain at the window and came towards the table.
'Glad you were sensible, old girl. I think the whole thing went off very well, don't you?'
'That depends entirely on your point of view.'
'He was lying of course-about being on his own, I mean. That was quite obvious. I suppose Youngblood was waiting at the end of the lane to see what happened. Do you mind if I use the phone?'
'You used me. How can I stop you using my phone?'
'Now don't be like that.' He dialled a number, long distance on STD and cut in the moment he heard a voice at the other end. 'Hugo? Just to confirm your two packages are on the way. Yes, the full treatment. I'll see you later.'
He put down the telephone, took out his gloves and pulled them on. 'I must be off. I'll be seeing you, Rosa.'
The Dobermann brushed past him like a dark shadow and nuzzled her hand. She shook her head. 'I don't think so.'
'Now don't be silly,' he said. 'You've been living here on a false passport since 1946-on a false identity, which is even worse. A word in the right quarter …'
'You mistake me,' she said. 'It isn't that I've grown brave all of a sudden. I'm too old for the kind of courage that would take. I simply meant
He was obviously curious. 'May I ask why?'
'Because you are going to die,' she said simply.
He stared at her, that slight fixed smile firmly in place. 'You really mean that, don't you?'
'I have another kind of sight, Mr. Smith or whatever your name is. Death has already marked you out. I can feel it.'
And he believed her, that was the strange thing. She knew quite suddenly that he believed her completely and a shiver ran down her spine as he started to laugh.
'You're bad luck, old woman. Why shouldn't I send you on before me?'
He produced the spring blade knife with which he had murdered Crowther and the blade jumped out of his fist with an audible click.
The Dobermann growled, the hair lifting on its neck and she patted it soothingly. 'Because Karl would kill you first.'
'Proving your prediction in the process? What an admirable pet.' Vaughan chuckled as he folded the knife and slipped it back into his pocket. 'No, Rosa, we mustn't make it too easy for you. Death must find me-I'll not go looking for him. We've met before. He knows my face.'
She heard him go along the corridor outside, whistling tunelessly to himself and the door banged. Somewhere, a small trapped wind circled the room looking for a way out, then died in a corner.
9
It was very quiet in the embalming room and Hugo Pentecost worked alone, his rubber apron smeared with blood. There was no need for him to engage in the more practical work of the establishment, but he liked to keep his hand in and in any case, there was always a certain pleasure to be derived from a job well done.
The cadaver on which he was engaged was that of a young woman and he was in the process of withdrawing her viscera. It was usual to wear rubber gloves, but Pentecost never could, preferring the additional sensitivity to be found in bare hands.
He had successfully removed the contents of the abdomen and was now on the throat, whistling softly, his arms dappled with blood up to the elbows.
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
