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 screamed.
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.
