Dark Side of the Street

Pentecost panicked completely, his face turning grey. 'It's the truth, I swear it! On my mother's grave I swear it!'

'You never had a mother,' Youngblood said in disgust and he hooked away the chair with a foot so that Pentecost fell to the floor.

He lay there shaking with fear and Chavasse looked down at him coldly. There was an account to be settled here, but that would have to wait until a more appropriate time.

He slipped the revolver into his pocket and took Molly's arm. 'Come on, let's get out of here.'

'What about this?' Youngblood asked, stirring Pentecost with a foot.

'There's nothing he can do,' Chavasse said. 'If he tries to warn them we're on our way, they'll want to know how we found put where to head for in the first place. How long do you think he'd last after that?'

Pentecost looked at him over his shoulder, eyes widening as the significance of what Chavasse had said sank home and Youngblood laughed harshly.

'You've got a point there. No reason he shouldn't take a rest for a little while though,' and he kicked Pentecost in the side of the head.

Pentecost rolled over, struggling for breath, aware of the clang of the door closing at the top of the steps and then he plunged into darkness.

Pain exploding in a chain reaction brought him back from darkness as someone slapped him across the face and a voice repeated his name over and over again. He opened his eyes and stared up into Simon Vaughan's pale face.

'You do look a mess, old man. Presumably they've been and gone?'

Pentecost pushed himself up on one elbow. 'There were three of them,' he croaked. 'Not two like you said. Two men and a girl.'

'So that's where she got to! Dear me, I have been careless. Unfortunately I had a little mechanical trouble with the car on the other side of Worcester. I was delayed for the best part of an hour.' He helped Pentecost to his feet and sat him in a chair. 'When did they leave?'

Pentecost looked at his watch and found that it was almost seven o'clock. 'It can't be more than half an hour.'

'I see. You told them where to go, did you? Bragg's Boatyard, Upton Magna?' Pentecost stared at him, uncertain of what to say, so confused by the pain in his head that he was unable to think straight and Vaughan sighed. 'You shouldn't have done that, you know.'

'I couldn't help it,' Pentecost said wearily. 'They'd have killed me if I hadn't told them. You could probably still catch them.'

'I'm sure I can,' Vaughan said. 'I have two considerable advantages. A very fast car and the fact that I know exactly where I'm going. They, on the other hand, will have to stick to the backroads and check every signpost and the Dorset countryside can be very confusing at night.'

Pentecost stirred uneasily as Vaughan moved round behind him. 'You know your trouble, old man? You think you've got brains, but you haven't-just a certain amount of low cunning. I can't say it's been a pleasure.'

His clenched right fist rose and descended in a hammer blow that splintered the bone at the base of Penetcost's skull. He gave a strange, choking cry and would have tumbled from the chair if Vaughan hadn't held him upright.

He walked round to the front of the chair quickly, dropped to one knee and then straightened, Pentecost draped across his right shoulder in the fireman's lift.

Vaughan crossed to the oven Pentecost had turned on and switched it off. As the flames died away, he opened the glass door and the seven-foot base plate rolled out smoothly on its castors. He dropped Pentecost on to it, arranging his limbs neatly, pushed the plate with its burden back inside and closed the glass door.

He paused to light a cigarette, then pulled the switch. Pentecost's body seemed to jump out of the darkness as great tongues of flame sprang from the brickword to envelop it. His clothing ignited in a second and then, incredibly, an arm was half raised, flaring like a torch and the body moved.

Vaughan watched with interest for a couple of minutes, then closed the outer steel door, turned the dial up to maximum and went up the stairs quickly.

A mile the other side of Gloucester, he pulled up at a phone box and dialled World Wide Exports in London.

'Hello, sweetie, I'm afraid things didn't go according to plan at all here. Our friends are now on their way to Dorset.'

'That's a great pity. What are you going to do about it?'

'I think I'd better handle things personally from now on. I'll see they get the usual transportation, but somehow, I don't think they're going to manage to raise a landfall.'

'That sounds promising. I'll pass the message along.'

'You do that. I'll follow in another boat to report personally. Should be there for breakfast.'

'I'll let him know.'

The line went dead and Vaughan moved out, whistling softly, got into the Spitfire and drove rapidly away.

10

Three to Four- Rain Squalls

Upton Magna was a fishing village which in other times had enjoyed a considerable importance, but now its population had dwindled to little more than two hundred and there were few boats in the small harbour.

Bragg's boatyard was out on the point beside an old stone jetty, a collection of dilapidated clapboard buildings, untidy stacks of ageing timber and a line of boats hauled clear of the water that looked as if they never expected to sail again.

It was just after half past nine when Vaughan entered the village and drove along the main street. There was a small, whitewashed public house about half way along with a car park behind. He left the Spitfire there, well out of sight in the shadows, and went the rest of the way on foot.

There was a light at the window on the right of the front door of the house directly underneath the faded board sign that carried the legend George Bragg-Boat-builder- Yachts for hire. He went up the steps to the rickety porch and peered in through the window.

The room was half office, half living quarters and hopelessly cluttered and untidy. Beyond the wooden reception desk beside the entrance, George Bragg was reading a newspaper at a table which seemed to be covered with a week's accumulation of dirty dishes.

He was well into his sixties, a great bear of a man with a grizzled untidy beard. He got to his feet and, to Vaughan's surprise, reached for a crutch. He picked up an enamel mug and hobbled to the coffee pot on the stove, his right foot dragging awkwardly in a plaster cast.

Vaughan pushed open the door and went inside. Bragg turned quickly in surprise, still holding the mug in one hand and the coffee pot in the other.

'I wasn't expecting you, Mr. Smith.'

'What happened to the foot?' Vaughan said.

Bragg shrugged. 'Bloody silly, really. Tripped and fell over a pile of scrap on my way through the yard the other night.'

'Tanked up to the eyeballs as usual no doubt,' Vaughan said. 'How bad is it?'

'I've broken a couple of bones.'

'Good! As it happens that suits me very nicely. Is the Pride of Man ready for sea?'

'As always, just like you ordered. Are you taking her out?'

He was a man stamped with failure. It showed clearly in the broken veins on his face, the bleary drink-sodden