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h the guillotine stood； spared him nothing。 It wasn't meant to； a conspiracy between these four had determined his final agony。
They were taking their time； the masked man checking and double…checking。 So rarely was the death penalty used in France that he needed to savour each occasion。 Particularly in the case of Louis Nevillon。 It was Gallon's finest hour； the peak of a distinguished career in death。
'Have you anything to say？' The priest was standing back as though suddenly he felt guilty about this mental torture； sought to make amends for the sake of his own conscience。
'Ottif Nevillon laughed softly。 'You are a man of God。' A faint sneer。 'So doubtless you are well acquainted with the happenings of the third day following the crucifixion of the man purporting to be the Son of God。'
'I am' a haughtiness。 'Why？'
'Because； my friend；' Nevillon had stopped laughing； his voice a hoarse whisper that all four of them heard clearly； their flesh prickling even before he had got the words out； 'on the third day I shall live and you will fear my ing！'
'This is blasphemy！' the padre paled； almost dropped his prayer book。 'Monsieur Gallon； delay no longer in the name of Our Lord！'
'I shall rise again！' Nevillon repeated and saw the reflection of the executioner's hand on the switch； he heard a faint click but had no time to anticipate the falling heavy blade。
The priest turned his head away； heard the first thud as the knife struck； followed by a lighter one as the severed head rolled into the basket。 A spurting gurgling sound； the main artery jetting； the drain below the basket taking the flow of blood。 Somewhere below； water was flowing to wash the scarlet fluid into the city's sewers。
Gallon paused to survey his handiwork。 Perfect。 So quick； and that was always a pity where a man like Louis Nevillon was concerned。 The two warders just stared； if they came upon a gory road accident tomorrow they would stop and look。 Blood fascinated them； so long as it was not their own。
'Thank you； gentlemen；' Gallon was the formal national executioner once more。 'Your presence has been a great help to me。 The condemned man died quickly and painlessly。' Unfortunately！
Outside； the crowd had fallen silent。 Obscene chanting had died to low muttered conversation and then petered out altogether。 Yvette de Coulon had been avenged。 There was nothing more to stay here for。
Slowly the gathering broke up； began to file away in an orderly fashion。 The watching police bolstered their pistols and breathed an audible sigh of relief。
The Beast of France was no more。 In time the bitter and gruesome memories would fade。 It was all over。
'I say it is impossible！' The prison governor trembled and banged his desk with a clenched fist； causing an open ink…well to overturn and spill its blue…black contents。 'It is absolutely impossible。 This is some kind of joke and the perpetrator will be punished！'
'It is no joke； monsieur；' the deputy governor licked his lips nervously。 'I have been and seen for myself； for； like yourself； I did not believe it at first。 But there is no possible doubt…the corpse of Louis Nevillon has disappeared from the execution chamber； both head and trunk。 All that remains are a few bloodstains that failed to wash away！'
'But how？ And why？
'I wish I knew； monsieur； but I think this is a matter for the Surete。'
An uneasy frightened silence。
*I will e and look。' The governor stood up； a man in his mid…forties who had suddenly aged considerably。 'Perhaps 。。。 perhaps there is some mistake。'
There wasn't； there could not be because there was nowhere in the execution chamber where the decapitated 。body of Louis Nevillon could be lying hidden。 Ashen…faced and trembling visibly； the governor checked the 'basket'； a stainless steel container below the block with a wide drain fitted at the bottom。 Just some blood which was rapidly congealing； nothing else。 The blade rested where it had fallen； a crimson…splattered chunk of honed steel that glinted in the harsh electric light； seemed to gloat as though it guarded some sinister secret。 The rest of the room was bare。
'But how？' the governor wrung his hands helplessly。 'Somebody has stolen it。 The guards 。。。'
'Nobody can escape from here； dead or alive；' the small deputy stated； as though he had rehearsed the sentence word for word schoolboy…fashion。
'Then there is a conspiracy afoot；' the other was desperately trying to force himself to believe some logical explanation。 Nevillon had been evil； had muned with the devil and eaten human flesh。 Yet dead； he was as other corpses； he could not be otherwise。 His magic had died with him。
'We shall have to inform the Surete and conduct an inquiry。' The governor walked quickly back towards the door。 He shivered； it was icy cold in here and the strip…lighting seemed to have dimmed。 Perhaps it was his imagination。 'Until then nobody must enter this chamber。' He locked the door behind them。
The inquiry into the disappearance of Louis Nevillon's corpse was conducted jointly by the prison authorities and the Surete。 Everybody was interrogated from the governor down to the most junior warder； but in the end no conclusion was reached…except by four men who kept their opinions to themselves。 Monsieur Gallon； the infamous French executioner； the padre； and the two warders who had been in attendance at Nevillon's death。 They remembered the murderer's final words as his head lay on the block。
'On the third day I shall rise again。 I shall live and you will fear my ingr
The body of the Beast of France had vanished into thin air； Louis Nevillon had spoken the truth。
He would live again。
CHAPTER TWO
SABAT'S BROW furrowed into a worried frown。 He shook his head slowly； stroked a finger down the long scar on his left cheek； a memento from his SAS days that still seemed to smart on odd occasions。 His dark eyes narrowed； his lips pressed into a thin bloodless line。 Tall yet muscular beneath his dark suit； he gave the impression of a coiled spring； latent power that was not to be trifled with。
He read through the short； almost insignificant； passage at the foot of an inside page of the Telegraph a second time。 EXECUTED MAN'S BODY DISAPPEARS
The corpse of Louis Nevillon； guillotined in Paris last week for mass murder； is reported to have disappeared from the execution chamber。 A Surete spokesman declined to ment on it。
Which meant that the French authorities were baffled； they rarely mented on failures。 The newspaper fell from Sabat's fingers and he stared vacantly out of the window； did not see the dense shrubberies which gave his WestHampstead house its seclusion； saw only in his mind a grey…haired man with aristocratic features； a hint of nobility that failed to hide the evil in those close…set eyes and narrow mouth。 Sabat recalled every detail； indelibly imprinted on his brain from the one occasion when he had met Nevillon。 Maybe the intervening years had changed the Frenchman physically； a few lines here and there； the grey slowly turning to white； but the man himself would not alter。 A Grand Master of the Left Hand Path。 The Beast of France。
Sabat sighed。 Such powerful evil could not be wiped out by the guillotine。 In the same way that bullets had been unable to destroy Sabat's own brother； Quentin； that day when Mark Sabat had attempted to blast him into oblivion during their final encounter down in that mountain grave。* The dead man's soul had found another body… his own！ And Sabat had harboured Quentin's evil ever since； struggled to overe it but it had only been subdued； his own strength and faith keeping it under control。 One momentary flash of weakness on his own part and it rose up again like a deadly snake； spread its poison through him； dominated his every thought and action。 Quentin still lived。 Even now； he could hear that nasal； mocking laughter in the recesses of his own brain； whispered taunting words： 'They didn't kill Louis Nevillon； He lives again'
He cleared his throat； tried to get rid of the rasping soreness that began in his tonsils and seemed to travel right down to his lungs。 He shivered； felt suddenly cold； his flesh goosepimpling。 Damn it； he'd got a chill。 Even the fittest of men； and Sabat had looked after his body since his ignominious discharge from the SAS； picked up the odd infection。 Maybe he would be better off in bed。 It was like giving in； surrendering。 Quentin's laughter again； sensing any weakness； mental or physical； a lurking inner deadly enemy。
Sabat's head was aching。 It had been feeling muzzy ever since he had got up and now his temples were throbbing as though an invisible goblin was pounding away at them with a tiny hammer。 His eyes smarted and there was a dry； sour taste in his mouth。 Bed wis definitely the best place。
It was an effort to climb the stairs； dragging himself up a step at a time； his sweaty hands slipping on the polished oak rail。 A