Season in Hell by Jack Higgins

Author:Jack Higgins [Higgins, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781439194300
Amazon: 1439194300
Publisher: Pocket
Published: 2009-12-24T00:00:00+00:00

'Yes,' she said. 'That is very definitely it. Another dead end. Back to London, Sean,' and she leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.

It was raining when they returned to Lord North Street, dull, cold November rain. Jago, already back in the flat, saw them arrive and go in. He settled in a chair by the window where he could watch and listen.

Sarah said wearily, 'I'll make some tea,' and went into the kitchen.

Egan stood at the bay window. He lit a cigarette, coughed over it a little, then turned idly to the library table. Eric's blue Moroccan leather diary was on top of a pile of books. He sat in the window seat and started to leaf through the pages, all filled with careful handwriting in Latin, trying to decipher a phrase here and there. He stiffened, staring incredulously at the page before him, and stood up. Sarah came in at that moment with the tray.

'What is it?' she asked, putting the tray down.

'She's here on this page. Look for yourself.' Egan handed her the diary. 'Greta Markovsky.'

She took it from him with a sense of wonder. She hadn't worked through it before; she'd been too upset. But now she sat down and started to read. At that moment, the front door bell sounded and Egan looked out and saw Jack Shelley on the step, a fawn-overcoat draped over his shoulders, the Rolls-Royce parked at the kerb.

Jago had gone into the kitchen to make coffee and he returned to the window in time to see Shelley enter the house. He put his coffee down quickly and turned up the volume on the receiver.

Shelley, in the hall, said to Sean, 'We still aren't making progress. I thought I'd call and see how things were.'

'Well, we are,' Sean said. 'We discovered Eric had a girlfriend, a pusher, who was in court with him on a drugs rap last year. A Greta Markovsky. We went to see her in a drugs rehabilitation clinic outside Cambridge.'

'And?' Shelley demanded eagerly.

'She's topped herself. Took a dive from a fire-escape catwalk, but we've just found her name in a diary the boy left.'

'A diary?'

'Yes, he kept a diary in Latin. That's what he was studying at Cambridge.'

'Well, that's a lot of bleeding good, Latin,' Shelley told him. 'We'll need a sodding professor to translate.'

'As it happens, Mrs Talbot majored in Latin and Greek at Radcliffe.'

They went into the sitting room and Sarah, at the window, looked up, pale with excitement. 'It's all here,' she said. 'Every damn thing.'

She put the diary down, hands shaking, and it was Shelley who put an arm round her. 'You come and sit down. Take your time and tell us.'

'Greta Markovsky recruited him to act as a drug courier, provided him with a false passport in the name of George Walker. She was acting for a man she refers to as Mr Smith.'

Shelley frowned. 'Well, that name doesn't sound any bells. Go on.'

'He was to go to Paris. A cafe by the Seine near the Rue de la Croix called La Belle Aurore.

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