Dark Side of the Street - Jack Higgins [61]
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 attentin 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