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The Dark Side of the Street
Jack Higgins


For Harry Youngblood, escaping from prison is going to be easy.But escaping his past could cost him his life…Twenty years inside for one third of a million pounds: that was the price Harry Youngblood was paying.Drummond is Youngblood’s cellmate. He is also intelligence agent Paul Chavasse, working undercover. And when Youngblood is broken out, Chavasse tags along for the ride.His objective is to break the crime ring headed by the Baron, to whom Youngblood is indebted. But Chavasse will have to get past a psychopathic henchman named Vaughan if he is to succeed…


















Table of Contents

Title Page (#u9968f3b7-78f5-5dbe-8f1f-2922cbf210f1)

Publisher’s Note (#ue178c575-564f-5e6c-9849-93c12d9329dc)

1. War Game (#uac0e02e8-509e-59c6-a68b-4d6304685361)

2. Cops and Robbers (#ud92d3496-178a-56a0-b44e-43a0930c961b)

3. Maximum Security (#u9c18fc4a-03a0-516b-9499-f22c4d5e6fff)

4. Rough Justice (#litres_trial_promo)

5. Nightwatch (#litres_trial_promo)

6. In a Lonely Place (#litres_trial_promo)

7. Something Nasty in the Woodshed (#litres_trial_promo)

8. Distant Thunder (#litres_trial_promo)

9. Ashes to Ashes (#litres_trial_promo)

10. Three to Four – Rain Squalls (#litres_trial_promo)

11. Fog in the Morning (#litres_trial_promo)

12. Alas Babylon (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Jack Higgins (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




PUBLISHER’S NOTE


DARK SIDE OF THE STREET was first published by John Long Ltd in 1967 under the name of Martin Fallon. The author was in fact Jack Higgins, Martin Fallon being one of the pseudonyms he used during his early writing days.

We are delighted to be re-publishing DARK SIDE OF THE STREET in 2013 to a brand new audience of thriller fans.




1

War Game


Somewhere across the moor gunfire rumbled menacingly, strangely subdued in the heat of the afternoon, and below in the quarry where the prisoners laboured stripped to the waist there was a sudden stir of interest.

Ben Hoffa worked in the shadow of the north face amongst a jumble of great blocks of slate and he paused as he swung the ten pound hammer above his head and lowered it slowly to look up towards the distant hills, a hand shading his eyes from the sun.

He was a small man in his late thirties, muscular and wiry with good shoulders, his hair prematurely grey, the eyes as cold and hard as the blocks of slate around him. His partner, O’Brien, a tall, stolid Irishman, loosened the crowbar he was holding with easy strength and straightened, a frown on his face.

‘And what in the hell would that be?’

‘Field Artillery,’ Hoffa told him.

O’Brien stared at him blankly. ‘You must be joking.’

‘Summer manœuvres – the Army hold them every year around this time.’

In the distance, three transport planes moved over the horizon and as they watched, a line of silken canopies fluttered open as men stepped into space to float down like thistledown blown on a summer breeze. The sensation of space and complete freedom was so acute that O’Brien was conscious of a sudden aching emptiness in his stomach. His hands gripped the crowbar convulsively and Hoffa shook his head.

‘Not a chance, Paddy, you wouldn’t get five miles.’

O’Brien dropped the crowbar to the ground and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of a hand. ‘It makes you think, though.’

‘The first five years are the worst,’ Hoffa said, his face expressionless.

There was the crunch of a boot on loose stones behind them. O’Brien glanced over his shoulder and reached for the crowbar. ‘Parker,’ he said simply.

Hoffa showed no particular interest and continued to watch the paratroopers drift down behind the breast of the moor three or four miles away as the young prison officer approached. In spite of the heat, there was a touch of guardsman-like elegance about the neatly starched open-neck shirt with its military-style epaulettes and the tilt of the uniform cap over the eyes.

He paused a yard or two away, the staff in his right hand moving menacingly. ‘And what in the hell do you think you’re on, Hoffa?’ he demanded harshly. ‘A Sunday School outing?’

Hoffa turned, glanced at him casually and without speaking, spat on his palms, swung the hammer high and brought it down squarely on the head of the crowbar, splitting the block of slate in two with an insolent grace.

‘All right, Paddy,’ he said to the Irishman, ‘let’s have another.’

For all the notice he had taken of him, Parker might not have existed. For a moment, the prison officer stood there, his face white and then he turned suddenly and walked away.

‘You want to watch it, Ben,’ O’Brien said. ‘He’ll have you, that one. If it takes all year, he’ll have you.’

‘That’s what I’m counting on,’ Hoffa said and ignoring the expression of shocked amazement that appeared on the Irishman’s face, he swung the hammer high above his head and brought it down again with unerring aim.

Hagen, the Principal Officer, stood by one of the Land Rovers at the top of the dirt road that led into the quarry and smoked a cigarette, a black and tan Alsatian crouched at his feet. He was a tall heavily built man nearing retirement and a thirty year sentence spent at various of Her Majesty’s Prisons had failed to erase an expression of natural kindliness from the pleasant bronzed face.

He watched Parker approach, aware from the set of the man’s shoulders that something was wrong and sighed heavily. Amazing how difficult some people made it for themselves.

‘What’s wrong now?’ he said as Parker joined him.

‘Hoffa!’ Parker slapped his staff hard against the palm of his left hand. ‘He really needles me, that one.’

‘What did he do?’

‘Dumb insolence we’d have called it in the Guards.’

‘That’s an Army charge – it won’t wash here,’ Hagen pointed out.

‘I know that only too damned well.’ Parker leaned against the bonnet of the Land Rover, a muscle twitching in his right cheek. ‘It doesn’t help matters when every con in the place treats him like Lord God Almighty.’

‘He’s a big man in their book.’

‘Not in mine, he isn’t. Just another cheap crook.’

‘Hardly that.’ Hagen laughed gently. ‘Nine hundred thousand quid is quite a bundle by anyone’s standards and not a sou of it recovered – remember that.’

‘And what did it buy him?’ Parker demanded. ‘Five years behind bars and another fifteen to go. That really must have taken genius.’

‘Poor old Ben.’ Hagen grinned. ‘He put too much trust in a woman. A lot of good men have made that mistake before him.’

Parker exploded angrily. ‘Now you’re sticking up for him for God’s sake.’

The smile was wiped from Hagen’s face as if by an invisible hand and when he replied, there was steel in his voice. ‘Not exactly, but I do try to understand him which is a major part of my job. Yours too, though that fact seems to have escaped your notice so far.’ Before the younger man could reply he glanced at his watch and added, ‘Three o’clock. We’ll have them in for tea if you please, Mr Parker.’

He turned and walked a few paces away, the Alsatian at his heels and Parker stood there glaring after him. After a moment or two, he seemed to gain some sort of control, took his whistle from his pocket and blew a shrill blast.

Below in the quarry Hoffa dropped his hammer and O’Brien straightened. ‘Not before time,’ he said and picked up his shirt.

From all parts of the quarry prisoners converged on the track and climbed towards the Land Rovers where Parker was waiting to dispense tea from an urn which stood in the back of one of the vehicles. Each man picked up a mug from a pile at one side and moved past him and Hagen and half a dozen other officers stood in a group lighting cigarettes

Hoffa took his tea, ignoring Parker completely, gazing towards the horizon where a couple of helicopters had swung into view. He moved to join O’Brien who was watching them intently.

‘Now wouldn’t it be the grand thing if they’d drop in kind of unexpected like and whisk us away,’ the Irishman observed.

Hoffa watched the helicopters drift across the distant hills and shook his head. ‘Not a chance, Paddy. They’re Army Air Corps. Augusta-Bell scout ’copters. They only take the pilot and one passenger. You’d need something a little more substantial.’

O’Brien swallowed some of his tea and made a wry face. ‘I wonder what they make it with – turpentine?’

Hoffa didn’t reply. He watched the helicopters disappear over the horizon and turned to Hagen who stood a couple of yards away talking to another officer.

‘Could I have the time, Mr Hagen?’

‘Thinking of going somewhere, Ben?’ Hagen demanded good-humouredly and there was general laughter.

‘You never know.’

Hagen glanced at his watch. ‘Three-fifteen.’

Hoffa nodded his thanks, gazed down at the contents of the enamel mug in his right hand for a moment and then walked towards the Land Rover where Parker still stood beside the tea urn.

He frowned warily as Hoffa approached and held out the mug. ‘Would you mind telling me what this is supposed to be, Mr Parker, sir?’ he said mildly.

Behind him, the voices died away and Hagen called sharply, ‘What’s all this then, Hoffa?’

Hoffa replied without turning round, ‘A simple enough question, Mr Hagen.’ He held the mug out towards Parker. ‘Have you tasted it, Mr Parker?’

‘Have I hell,’ Parker said and the knuckles of his right hand showed white as he tightened his grip on his staff.

‘Then I really think you should,’ Hoffa said gently and tossed the contents of the mug into Parker’s face.

There was a moment of stunned silence and then everything seemed to happen at once. Parker moved in with a cry of rage, his staff flailing down and Hoffa ducked under it, doubled him over with a fist to the stomach and raised a knee into the decending face.

Behind him there was a roar of excitement from the other prisoners and a moment later, he was on the ground, borne down by a rush of officers. There was a brief struggle and he was jerked to his feet, wrists handcuffed in front of him.

The Alsatian snarled on the end of its steel chain, driving the excited prisoners back, Hagen shouting for order. He got it in the end, turned and came toward Hoffa, a slight, puzzled frown on his face, all the instinct, all the experience of thirty hard years telling him that there was something wrong here.

‘You bloody fool,’ he said softly. ‘Six months’ remission gone and for what?’

Hoffa gazed past him stolidly, face impassive, and Hagen shrugged and turned to Parker who leaned against the Land Rover, blood on his face. ‘Are you all right?’

‘My nose is broken.’

‘Think you could drive?’

Parker nodded, a handkerchief to his face. ‘I don’t see why not.’

Hagen turned to one of the other officers. ‘I’m leaving you in charge, Mr Smith. Get them working and no nonsense. I expect to see some sweat when I get back.’

The prisoners were marched away and Hagen slipped the Alsatian’s lead. The dog moved across to Hoffa, sniffing at his boots, and Hagen said, ‘Let’s have you then. Into the back of the green Land Rover. Any funny stuff and I’ll put the dog on you – that’s a promise.’

Hoffa moved across the Land Rover without a word, the Alsatian at his heels. He climbed inside, sat on one of the benches and waited. A moment later Hagen joined him, closing and locking the rear door.

A small glass window gave a view of the interior of the cab. Parker’s face appeared momentarily, the brief glance he gave Hoffa full of venom. He nodded to Hagen and a moment later, the engine roared into life and they drove away.

As the Land Rover turned on to the dirt road that led across the moor, Hagen leaned across, a frown on his face. ‘All right, Ben, what’s it all about?’

But Hoffa ignored him, gazing past his shoulder through the side window across the moors, his face calm and impassive. In some strange way it was as if he was waiting for something.

Somewhere to the east of them gunfire rumbled again and the brief ominous chatter of a machine gun was answered by sporadic shooting. Hagen glanced out of the side window and saw the red berets of the paratrooopers moving across a hillside two or three miles away. Another scout helicopter drifted across the horizon and the Alsatian growled uneasily. He ran a hand along its broad flank and patted it gently.

‘Only a game, boy, only a game.’

As the dog subsided, there was a sudden roar of an engine in the west and another helicopter lifted over the hillside and swept in towards the road. For a moment it kept pace with them, so close that he could read the code name painted on its side in white letters. The hatch was open and a soldier crouched there looking out, his green beret a splash of vivid colour.

‘Look like commandos,’ Hagen said.

To his surprise, Hoffa answered him. ‘Sibe-Martin troop carrier. They can manage a dozen men and equipment. They’ve been using them in Borneo lately.’

The commando waved and the helicopter swung ahead of them, lifted over a rise and disappeared.

Hagen turned to face Hoffa. ‘You seem to know your stuff.’

‘There was an article in Globe magazine last month,’ Hoffa said. ‘It’s in the library.’

Hagen shook his head and sighed. ‘You’re a funny bloke, Ben. I never could figure you out and that’s a fact.’

Unexpectedly Hoffa smiled, immediately looking about ten years younger. ‘That’s what my old man used to say. Too late now though. Too late for all of us.’

‘I suppose you’re right.’

Hagen reached for his cigarettes and as he got them out, the Land Rover went over the rise and started down a heavily wooded valley. He gave a sudden exclamation and leaned forward. The helicopter had landed in a clearing at the edge of the trees and half a dozen commandos were strung out across the road.

The cab window was pushed back and Parker called, ‘What in the hell’s all this then?’

‘God knows,’ Hagen said. ‘Maybe they think we’re on the other side.’

Parker started to slow as a young officer walked forward, waving him down. Like his men, he wore a combat jacket and his face was darkened with camouflage cream. As the Land Rover rolled to a halt, the rest of the party moved in on the run, tough, determined looking men, each carrying a machine pistol.

Parker opened the door of the cab and leaned out. ‘Look, what is this?’

Hagen couldn’t see what happened, but Parker cried out in alarm, there was the sound of a scuffle, a blow and then silence.

Boots crunched the dirt surface of the road as someone walked round the side of the vehicle. A moment later, the glass window at the top of the rear door was shattered and the young officer peered inside.

‘All out,’ he said pleasantly. ‘This is the end of the line.’

Hagen glanced across at Hoffa, taking in the smile on his face, realising that the whole affair had been rigged from the start and the Alsatian leapt for the broken window, a growl rising in its throat. For a moment it stayed there, rearing up on its hind legs trying to force its way through, and then the top of its skull disintegrated in a spray of blood and bone as someone shot it through the head.

The dog flopped back on the floor and the young officer smiled through the window at them, gently tapping his right cheek with the barrel of a .38 automatic.

‘Now don’t let’s have any more fuss, old man,’ he said to Hagen pleasantly. ‘We’re pushed for time as it is.’

Hagen looked across at Hoffa, despair on his face. ‘You’ll never get away with this, Ben. All you’ll collect is another ten years.’

‘I wouldn’t count on that,’ Hoffa said. ‘Now make it easy on yourself, Jack. These blokes mean business.’

Hagen hesitated for only a moment longer and then he sighed. ‘All right – it’s your funeral.’

He took the keys from his pocket, moved to the door and unlocked it. He was immediately pulled outside and Hoffa followed him. Parker was lying on his face unconscious, wrists handcuffed behind his back.

From then on the whole affair rushed to its climax with the same military precision that had been a characteristic of the entire operation. Someone unlocked Hoffa’s handcuffs and transferred them to Hagen while someone else gagged him with a strip of surgical tape. Parker’s unconscious body had already been lifted into the rear of the Land Rover and Hagen was pushed in after him. The door closed, the key turned in the lock with a grim finality.

There was blood on his face from the dead Alsatian and as he rolled away from it in disgust, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat, the Land Rover started to move, lurching over the rough ground away from the road. Through the side window above his head he was aware of the trees as they moved into the wood, crashing through heavy undergrowth and then the vehicle braked suddenly so that he was thrown forward, striking his head against the wall.

He lay there fighting the darkness that threatened to drown him, a strange roaring in his ears. It was a minute or so before he realised it was the helicopter taking off again and by the time he had managed to scramble to his knees and slump down on to the bench, the sound was already fading into the distance.

It was fifteen minutes later and thirty miles on the side of the moor, when the helicopter put down briefly in a clearing in a heavily wooded valley. Hoffa and the young officer jumped to the ground and the helicopter lifted into the sky again and flew away to the west.

Hoffa was dressed as a hiker in denim pants and green quilted anorak, a rucksack slung over one shoulder and the young officer wore an expensive grey flannel suit. Minus the camouflage cream, his face was pale and rather aristocratic and he had about him the air of a man who has long since decided that life is obviously a rather bad joke and not to be taken seriously.

‘How long have we got?’ Hoffa demanded.

His companion shrugged. ‘An hour – two if we’re lucky. It depends how soon the party at the quarry notice how long it’s taking the Principal Officer to return.’

‘Is an hour long enough?’

‘Certainly, but it won’t be if we hang around here much longer.’

‘All right,’ Hoffa said. ‘Just one more thing – what do I call you?’

‘Anything you like, old man.’ He grinned amiably. ‘What about Smith? Yes, I think I’d like that. I’ve always wondered what it must be like to be called Smith.’

‘And where in the hell did the Baron pick you up?’ Hoffa asked.

Smith smiled again. ‘You’d be surprised, old man. You really would.’

He led the way across the clearing into the wood, following a narrow path through the trees which later joined a broad dirt track. A few yards further on they came to a derelict water mill beside a stream and in a courtyard at the rear behind a broken wall, a black Zodiac was parked. A moment later they were driving away, bumping over the rutted track, finally energing into a narrow country road.

‘Let’s get one thing clear,’ Smith said as he changed into top gear and drove rapidly away. ‘We’ll be together in this car for approximately forty minutes. If anything goes wrong, you’re a hitch-hiker and I’ve never seen you before in my life.’

‘All right,’ Hoffa said. ‘Where do we go from here?’

‘All in good time. We’ve some business to settle first.’

‘I was wondering when you’d get round to it.’

‘Hardly likely to forget a thing like that. Your share of the Peterfield Airport Robbery was exactly £320,000. Where is it?’

‘How do I know I’m going to get a fair shake?’ Hoffa demanded.

‘Now don’t start that sort of nonsense, old man. The Baron can’t stand welshers. We’ve kept our part of the bargain – we’ve got you out. You tell us where the cash is and that completes what we call Phase One of the operation. Once we’ve got our hands on the money, we can start Phase Two.’

‘Which includes getting me out of the country?’

‘With a new identity nicely documented, plus half the money. I’d say that was a fair exchange for twenty years on the Moor.’

‘How can I be sure?’

‘You’d better be, old man. You aren’t going to get very far on your own.’

‘You’ve got a point there. Okay – the money’s in a steamer trunk at Prices’ Furniture Repository, Pimlico, in the name of Henry Walker.’

Smith gave him a look of blank amazement. ‘You must be joking.’

‘Why should I? They specialise in clients who are going overseas for a lengthy period. I paid five years in advance. Even if it isn’t collected on time it’s safe enough. They’ve got to hang on to it for ten years before they can do anything – that’s the law.’

‘Is there a receipt?’

‘You won’t get it without one.’

‘Who has it?’

‘Nobody – it’s at my mother’s place in Kentish Town. You’ll find an old Salvation Army Bible amongst my gear. The receipt’s hidden in the spine. Fair enough?’

‘It should be. I’ll pass the information along.’

‘And what happens to me?’

‘You’ll be taken care of. If everything goes according to plan they’ll start Phase Two, but not before the Baron has seen the colour of your money.’

‘Who is the Baron anyway? Anyone I know?’

‘That sort of question just isn’t healthy, old man.’ Smith shrugged and for the first time, the slight, characteristic smile was not in evidence. ‘You may meet him eventually – you may not. I honestly wouldn’t know.’

The rest of the journey was passed in silence until twenty minutes later when they arrived at a crossroads and he slowed to a halt. ‘This is where we part company.’

On either hand the main road was visible for a good quarter of a mile, a narrow ribbon of asphalt falling across wild and rugged uplands. It was completely deserted and Hoffa frowned.

‘What happens now?’

‘Stand at the edge of the road like any normal hitch-hiker and you’ll be picked up in approximately ten minutes if our man’s on time.’

‘What’s he driving?’

‘I haven’t the slightest idea. His opening words will be: “Is there anywhere in particular you’d like me to take you?” You must answer: Babylon.’

‘For God’s sake, what is all this?’ Hoffa demanded angrily. ‘Some sort of game?’

‘Depends how you look at it, doesn’t it, old man? He’ll tell you Babylon’s too far for him, but he can take you part of the way.’

‘Then what happens?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’ He leaned across the opened the door. ‘On your way, there’s a good chap and the best of British luck to you.’

A moment later Hoffa found himself standing at the side of the road, a bewildered frown on his face, the Zodiac a fast-dwindling noise in the distance.

It was quiet after a while, the only sound the wind whispering through the long grass and a cloud passed across the face of the sun so that suddenly it was cold and he shivered. There was a desperate air of unreality to everything and the events of the afternoon seemed to form part of some privileged nightmare.

He checked the watch Smith had given him on the helicopter. An hour and ten minutes since the ambush of the Land Rover. From now on anything might happen. There was sweat on his forehead in spite of the cool breeze and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. What if some well-meaning farmer drove by and decided to offer him a lift? What was he going to say?

Somewhere in the distance, an engine sounded faintly and when he turned to look, a vehicle came over the crest of the hill. As it approached he saw that it was a tanker, a great six-wheeler, its body painted a brilliant red and it rolled to a halt beside him.

The driver leaned out of the cab and looked down, a craggy-faced man of sixty or so in an old flying jacket and tweed cap, a grey stubble covering his chin. For a long moment there was silence and then he said with a pronounced Scottish accent, ‘Is there anywhere in particular you’d like me to take you?’

‘Babylon,’ Hoffa told him and the breath went out of him in a long sigh of relief.

‘Well, now, that’s a step too far for me, but I can take you part of the way.’

He opened the door and stepped on to a ladder that gave access to the filling point on top of the tanker. To one side was a steel plate about two feet square painted black which carried the legend: Danger – Handle with care – Hydrochloric Acid. He felt for a hidden catch at the base of the plate and it swung open.

Hoffa climbed up and peered inside. The compartment was about eight feet by three with a mattress as its base and he nodded briefly. ‘How long?’

‘Six hours,’ the driver said. ‘No light, I’m afraid, and you can’t smoke, but there’s coffee in the thermos and some sandwiches in a biscuit tin. Best I can do.’

‘Can I ask you where we’re going?’

The driver shook his head, face impassive. ‘Not in the contract, that one.’

‘All right,’ Hoffa said. ‘Let’s get rolling.’

He went through the hatch head-first and as he turned to face the light, the cover clanged into place, plunging him into darkness. Panic moved inside him and his throat went dry and then the tanker started to roll forward and the mood passed. He lay back on the mattress, head pillowed on his hands and after a while his eyes closed and he slept.

At that precise moment some ten miles away, the man who had called himself Smith braked to a halt in the High Street of the first village he came to, went into a public telephone box and dialled a London number.

A woman answered him, her voice cool and impersonal. ‘Worldwide Exports Ltd.’

‘Simon Vaughan speaking from the West Country.’

The voice didn’t change. ‘Nice to hear from you. How are things down there?’

‘Couldn’t be better. Our client’s on his way. Anything on the news yet?’

‘Not a murmur.’

‘The lull before the storm. You’ll find the goods in a steamer trunk at Price’s Furniture Repository, Pimlico, in the name of Henry Walker. The receipt’s in the spine of an old Salvation Army Bible amongst his gear at his mother’s place in Kentish Town. I shouldn’t think a nice young lady welfare officer would have too much trouble in getting that out of her.’

‘I’ll handle it myself.’

‘I wouldn’t waste too much time. It’s almost five o’clock. The furniture repository probably closes at six. Might be an idea to give them a ring, just to make sure they’ll stay open for you.’

‘Leave it to me. You’ve done well. He’ll be pleased.’

‘Anything to oblige, old girl, that’s me.’

Vaughan replaced the receiver and lit a cigarette, a slight far-away look in his eyes. ‘Oh, what I’d like to do to you, sweetie,’ he murmured softly and as he returned to the car, there was a smile on his face.

Hoffa came awake slowly and lay staring through the heavy darkness, trying to work out where he was and then he remembered and pushed himself up on one elbow. According to the luminous dial on his watch it was a quarter past ten which meant they had been on the go for a little over five hours. Not much longer to wait and he lay back again, head pillowed on his hands, thinking of many things, but in particular of how he was going to start to live again – really live, in some place of warmth and light where the sun always shone and every woman was beautiful.

He was jerked out of his reverie as the tanker braked and started to slow. It rolled to a halt, but the engine wasn’t turned off. The hatch opened and the driver’s face appeared, a pale mask against the night sky.

‘Out you get!’

It was a fine night with stars strung away to the horizon, but there was no moon. Hoffa stood at the side of the road stretching to ease his cramped limbs as the driver dropped the hatch back into place.

‘What now?’

‘You’ll find a track leading up the mountain on the other side of the road. Wait there. Someone will pick you up.’

He was inside the cab before Hoffa could reply, there was a hiss of air as he released the brake and the tanker rolled away into the night. Hoffa watched the red tail lights fade into darkness, then picked up his rucksack and moved across the road.

He found the track without any difficulty and stood there peering into the darkness, wondering what to do next. The voice, when it came, made him start in alarm because of its very unexpectedness.

‘Is there anywhere in particular you’d like me to take you?’

It was a woman who had spoken – a woman with a pronounced Yorkshire accent and he peered forward trying to see her as he replied, ‘Babylon.’

‘Too far for me, but I can take you part of the way.’

She moved close, her face a pale blur in the darkness, then turned without another word and walked away. Hoffa followed her, the loose stones of the track rattling under his feet. In spite of his long sleep, he was tired. It had, after all, been quite a day and somewhere up ahead there had to be food and a bed.

They walked for perhaps half a mile, climbing all the time and he was aware of hills on either side of them and the cold chill in the wind and then the track turned a shoulder and below in a hollow beside a stream was a farmhouse, a light in the downstairs window.

A dog barked hollowly as she pushed open a five-barred gate and led the way across the cobbled yard. As they approached the front door, it opened suddenly and a man stood there framed against the light, a shotgun in his hands.

‘You found him then, Molly?’

For the first time Hoffa had a clear view of the girl and realised with a sense of surprise, that she couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty years of age with haunted eyes and a look that said she hadn’t smiled in a long time.

‘Will you want me for anything more tonight?’ she said in a strange dead voice.

‘Nay, lass, off you go to bed and look in on your mother. She’s been asking for you.’

The girl slipped past him and he leaned a shotgun against the wall and came forward, hand outstretched. ‘A real pleasure, Mr Hoffa. I’m Sam Crowther.’

‘So you know who I am?’ Hoffa said.

‘They’ve been talking about nowt else on the radio all night.’

‘Any chance of finding out where I am?’

Crowther chuckled. ‘Three hundred and fifty miles from where you started off. They won’t be looking for you round here, you may be certain of that.’

‘Which is something, I supppose,’ Hoffa said. ‘What happens now? Do we move into Phase Two yet?’

‘I had a telephone call from London no more than an hour ago. Everything went as smooth as silk. You’ll have no worries from now on, Mr Hoffa.’ He turned and called over his shoulder, ‘Billy – where are you, Billy? Let’s be having you.’

The man who appeared in the doorway was a giant. At least six feet four in height, he had the shoulders and arms of an ape and a great lantern jaw. He grinned foolishly, a dribble of saliva oozing from the corner of his mouth as he shambled into the yard and Crowther clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Good lad, Billy, let’s get moving. There’s work to be done.’ He turned and smiled. ‘This way, Mr Hoffa.’

He led the way across the yard, Hoffa at his heels, Billy bringing up the rear and opened a gate leading into a small courtyard. The only thing it seemed to contain was an old well surrounded by a circular brick wall about three feet high.

Hoffa took a step forward. ‘Now what?’

His reply was a single stunning blow from the rear delivered with such enormous power that his spine snapped like a rotten stick.

He lay there writhing on the ground and Crowther stirred him with the toe of his boot. ‘In he goes, Billy.’

Hoffa was still alive as he went headfirst into the well. His body bounced from the brickwork twice on the way down, but he could feel no pain. Strangely enough, his last conscious thought was that Hagen had been right. It had been his funeral after all and then the cold waters closed over him and he plunged into darkness.




2

Cops and Robbers


When the noon whistle blew a steady stream of workers began to emerge from Lonsdale Metals. In the café opposite the main gates Paul Chavasse got to his feet, folded his newspaper and went outside. It was precisely this busy period that he had been waiting for and he crossed the road quickly.

The main entrance itself was blocked by a swing bar which was not raised until any outgoing vehicle had been checked by the uniformed guard, but the workers used a side gate and crowded through it slowly to a chorus of ribald comments and good humoured laughter.

Undistinguishable from the rest of them in brown overalls and tweed cap, Chavasse plunged into the crowd, working against the stream. He met with some good natured abuse as he forced his way through, but a moment later he was inside the gate. He moved through the crowd, glancing quickly through the window of the gatehouse on his left, noting the three uniformed security guards at the table, coffee and sandwiches spread before them, an Alsatian squatting in the corner.

The workers were still moving towards the gate in a steady stream and Chavasse passed through them quickly, crossed the yard to the main block and entered the basement garage. He had spent the previous night poring over the plans S2 had provided until the layout of the building was so impressed on his mind that he was able to move with perfect confidence.

There were still one or two mechanics about, but he ignored them, mounted the ramp, walked behind the line of waiting vehicles parked in the loading bay and pressed the button for the service lift. A moment later he was on his way to the third floor.

It was strangely quiet when he stepped out and he paused, listening, before moving along the corridor. The door to the wages office was on the third from the end and marked Private. He glanced at it briefly in passing, turned the corner and opened a door which carried the sign Fire Exit. Concrete stairs dropped into a dark well beneath him and on the wall to his left he found what he was looking for – a battery of fuse boxes.

Each box was numbered neatly in white paint. He pushed the handle on number ten into the off position and returned to the corridor.

He knocked on the door of the wages office and waited. This was the crucial moment. According to his information, the staff went to lunch between noon and one o’clock leaving only the chief cashier on duty, but nothing was certain in this life – he had learned that if nothing else in seven years of working for the Bureau and there were bound to be days when someone or other decided to have sandwiches instead of going out. Two he could handle – any more than that and he was in trouble. Not that it mattered – it all came down to the same thing in the end and he smiled wryly. On the other hand it might be amusing to see just how far he could go.

A spyhole flicked open in front of him and he caught the glint of an eye.

‘Mr Crabtree?’ Chavasse said. ‘I’m from Maintenance. There’s been a partial power failure on this floor and I’m checking each office to find the cause. Is everything all right here, sir?’

‘Just a moment.’ The cover of the spyhole dropped into place. A moment later there was the rattle of a chain, the door opened and a small white haired man peered out. ‘The lights don’t seem to be working at all. You’d better come in.’

Chavasse stepped inside, noting in that first quick moment that they were alone and Crabtree busied himself in locking and chaining the door again. He was perhaps sixty and wore neat gold-rimmed spectacles. When he turned and found the muzzle of a .38 automatic staring him in the face, his eyes widened in horror, his shoulders sagging so that he seemed to shrink and become visibly smaller.

Chavasse stifled a pang of remorse and tapped him gently on the cheek with the barrel of the automatic. ‘Do as you’re told and you’ll come out of this in one piece – understand?’ Crabtree nodded dumbly and Chavasse produced a pair of handcuffs from a pocket in his overalls and gestured to a chair. ‘Sit down and put your hands behind you.’

He handcuffed Crabtree quickly, secured his ankles with a length of cord and squatted in front of him. ‘Comfortable?’

The cashier seemed to have made a remarkable recovery and smiled thinly. ‘Relatively.’

Chavasse warmed to him. ‘Your wage bill here runs you between forty and fifty thousand pounds depending on the amount of overtime worked. What’s the figure this week?’

‘Forty-five thousand,’ Crabtree replied without the slightest hesitation. ‘Or to put it another way, just over half a ton dead weight. Somehow I don’t think you’re going to get very far.’

Chavasse grinned. ‘We’ll see, shall we?’

There was money everywhere, some of it stacked in neat bundles as it had come from the bank, a large amount already made up into wage packets in wooden trays. The strongroom door stood open and inside he found a trolley with canvas sides containing several large money bags which, from their weight, held silver and copper. He removed the bags quickly, wheeled the trolley into the office and pushed it along the line of desks, sweeping in bundles of banknotes and wage packets together. Crabtree was right – it added up to quite a load yet it took him no more than three minutes to clear the lot.

He pushed the trolley to the door and Crabtree said, ‘I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but we do a great deal of work for the RAF here so our security system’s rather special.’

‘I got in, didn’t I?’

‘But not while you were pushing half a ton of banknotes in front of you and it’s impossible for any vehicle to get through that gate until it’s been thoroughly checked. Something of a problem, I should have thought.’

‘Sorry I haven’t time to discuss it now,’ Chavasse said. ‘But don’t fail to buy an evening paper. They’ve promised to print the solution for me.’

He produced a large piece of sticking plaster and pasted it over the cashier’s mouth before he could reply. ‘Can you breathe all right?’ Crabtree nodded, something strangely like regret in his eyes, and Chavasse grinned. ‘It’s been fun. Somehow I don’t think you’ll be on your own for long.’

The door closed behind him with a click and Crabtree sat there in the silence, waiting, feeling more alone than at any other time in his life. It seemed an age before he heard heavy feet pounding along the corridor and the anxious knocking started on the door.

The previous Wednesday when it all started, was a morning of bright sunshine and Chavasse had chosen to walk through the park on his way to Bureau headquarters. Life, for an intelligence agent, is a strange and rather haphazard existence compounded of short, often violent, periods of service in the field followed by months of comparative inactivity, often spent in routine anti-espionage investigations or administration.

For almost half a year Chavasse had clocked in each morning as ordered, to sit behind a desk in a converted attic in the old house in St John’s Wood to spend the day sifting through reports from field sections in all parts of the globe – demanding, highly important work that had to be done thoroughly or not at all – and so damned boring.

But the sun was out, the sky was blue, the dresses were shorter than he’d ever known them, so that for once he took his time and strolled across the grass between the trees smoking a cigarette, discovering and not for the first time in his life, that after all, a man didn’t need a great deal to be utterly and completely happy – for the moment, at any rate. Somewhere a clock struck eleven. He glanced at his watch, swore softly and hurried towards the main road.

It was almost half past the hour when he went up the steps of the house in St John’s Wood and pressed the bell beside the brass plate that carried the legend Brown & Co – Importers and Exporters.

After a few moments, the door was opened by a tall greying man in a blue serge uniform and Chavasse hurried past him. ‘I’m late this morning, George.’

George looked worried. ‘Mr Mallory was asking for you. Miss Frazer’s been phoning down every five minutes for the past hour.’

Chavasse was already half-way up the curving Regency staircase, a slight flicker of excitement moving inside him. If Mallory wanted him urgently, then it had to be for something important. With any kind of luck at all the pile of reports that overflowed from his in-tray were going to have to be passed on to someone else. He moved along the landing quickly and opened the white-painted door at the far end.

Jean Frazer turned from a filing cabinet, a small, attractive woman of thirty who wore a red woollen dress of deceptively simple cut that made the best of her rather full figure. She removed her heavy library spectacles and shook her head.

‘You would, wouldn’t you?’

Chavasse grinned. ‘I went for a walk in the park. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and I seemed to see unattached young females everywhere.’

‘You must be getting old,’ she said and picked up the telephone.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Skirts are shorter than ever. I was often reminded of you.’

A dry, remote voice cut in on them. ‘What is it?’

‘Mr Chavasse is here, Mr Mallory.’

‘Send him in. No calls for the next hour.’

She replaced the receiver and turned, a slight mocking smile on her mouth. ‘Mr Mallory will see you now, sir.’

‘I love you too,’ Chavasse said and he crossed to the green baize door, opened it and went in.

‘Prison escapes have always been a problem,’ Black said. ‘They never average less than two hundred and fifty a year.’

‘I must say that seems rather a lot.’ Mallory helped himself to a Turkish cigarette from the box on his desk.

Although by nature a kindly man, as a Detective Chief Superintendent with the special Branch at New Scotland Yard, Charlie Black was accustomed to his inferiors running to heed his slightest command. Indeed, there was a certain pleasure to be derived from the sudden nervousness noted in even the most innocent of individuals when they discovered who and what he was. But we are all creatures of our environment, moulded by everything and anything that has happened to us since the day we were born and Black, branded by the years spent below stairs in the mansion in Belgrave Square where his mother, widowed by the first world war, had been cook, stirred uneasily in his chair for he was in the presence of what she, God rest her soul, would have termed his betters.

It was all there – the grey flannel suit, the Old Etonian Tie, the indefinable aura of authority. Ridiculous, but for the briefest of moments, he might have been a small boy again returning the old Lord’s dog after a walk in the park and receiving a pat on the head and sixpence.

He pulled himself together quickly. ‘It’s not quite as bad as it looks. About a hundred and fifty men each year simply walk out of open prisons – nothing to stop them. I suppose you could argue that the selection procedure has been faulty in the first place. Another fifty are probably men released on parole for funerals and weddings and so on, who simply take off instead of coming back.’

‘Which leaves you with a hard core of about fifty genuine escapes a year.’

‘That’s it – or was. During the past couple of years there’s been an increase in the really spectacular sort of escape. I suppose it all started with Wilson the train robber’s famous break from Birmingham. The first time a gang had actually broken into a prison to get someone out.’

‘Real commando stuff.’

‘And brilliantly executed.’

‘Which is where this character the Baron comes in?’

Black nodded. ‘To our certain knowledge he’s been responsible for at least half a dozen big breaks during the past year or so. Added to that he runs an underground pipeline by which criminals in danger of arrest can flee the country. On two occasions we’ve managed to arrest minor members of his organisation – people who’ve passed on men we’ve been chasing to someone else.’

‘Have you managed to squeeze anything out of them?’

‘Not a thing – mainly because they honestly hadn’t anything to say. The pipeline seems to be organised on the Communist cell system, the one the Resistance used in France during the war. Each member is concerned only with his own particular task. He may know the next step along the route, but no more than that. It means that if one individual is caught, the organisation as a whole is still safe.’

‘And doesn’t anyone know who the Baron is?’

‘The Ghost Squad have been trying to find out for more than a year now. They’ve got nowhere. One thing’s certain – he isn’t just another crook – he’s something special. May even be a Continental.’

Mallory had a file open on the desk in front of him. He examined it in silence for a moment and shook his head. ‘It looks to me as if your only hope of finding out anything about him at all would be to get a line on one of his future clients which in theory should be impossible. There must be something like sixty thousand men in gaol right now – how do you find out which one it is?’

‘A simple process of elimination really. If there’s a pattern to his activities it’s to be found in his choice of clientele. They’ve all been long term prisoners and have had considerable financial resources.’ Black opened a buff folder, took out a typed sheet of foolscap and a photo and passed them across. ‘Have a look at the last one.’

Mallory examined it for a moment and nodded. ‘Ben Hoffa – I remember this one. The affair on Dartmoor last month. A gang disguised as Royal Marine Commandos ambushed a prison vehicle during a military exercise and spirited him away. Any news of him since?’

‘Not a word. Hoffa and two confederates, George Saxton and Harry Youngblood were serving sentences of twenty years apiece for the Peterfield Airport robbery. Do you remember it?’

‘I can’t say I do.’

‘It was five years ago now. They hi-jacked a Northern Airways Dakota which was carrying just under a million pounds in old notes, a special consignment from the Central Scottish Bank to the Bank of England in London. A beautiful job. I have to admit that. Only the three of them involved and they got clean away.’

‘What went wrong?’

‘Hoffa had the wrong kind of girl friend. She decided she’d rather have the £10,000 reward the Central Banks were offering than Ben and his share of the loot plus an uncertain future.’

‘And the money was never recovered?’

‘Not one farthing.’ Black handed across another photo. ‘That’s George Saxton. He escaped from Grange End last year. It was a carbon copy of the Wilson affair. Half a dozen men broke in under cover of darkness and actually brought him out. Not a word of him since then. As far as we’re concerned he might as well have ceased to exist.’

‘Which leaves Youngblood presumably?’

‘Only just or I miss my guess,’ Black said grimly and pushed another file across.

The face that stared up from the photo was full of intelligence and a restless animal vitality, one corner of the mouth lifted in a slight mocking smile. Mallory was immediately interested and quickly read through the details on the attached sheet.

Harry Youngblood was forty-two years of age and had joined the Navy in 1941 at the age of seventeen, finishing the war as a petty officer in motor torpedo boats. After the war he had continued in the same line of work, but on more unorthodox lines and in 1949 was sentenced to eighteen months imprisonment for smuggling. A charge of conspiracy to rob the mails had been dropped for lack of evidence in 1952. Between then and his final conviction in May 1961 he had served no further terms of imprisonment, but had been questioned by the police on no fewer than thirty-one occasions in connection with indictable offences.

‘Quite a character,’ Mallory said. ‘He seems to have tried his hand at just about everything in the book.’

‘To be honest with you, I always had a sneaking regard for him myself and I don’t usually have much time for sentimentality where villains are concerned. If he’d taken another turning after the war instead of that smuggling caper, things might have been very different.’

‘And now he’s doing twenty years?’

‘That’s the theory. We’re not too happy about what might happen considering the way his two confederates have gone. He’s at Fridaythorpe now under maximum security, but there’s a limit to how harshly he can be treated anyway. He had a slight stroke about three months ago.’

Mallory glanced at the photo again. ‘I must say he looks healthy enough to me. Are you sure it was genuine?’

‘An electroencephalograph can’t lie,’ Black said. ‘And it definitely indicated severe disturbance to wave patterns in the brain. Another thing – you can apparently simulate a heart attack by using drugs, but not a stroke. He was very thoroughly checked. They had him in Manningham General Infirmary for three days.’

‘Wasn’t that dangerous? I should have thought it a perfect situation for someone to break him out.’

Black shook his head. ‘He was unconscious most of the time. They had him in the enclosed ward with two prison officers at his side night and day.’

‘Couldn’t he be treated at the prison?’

‘They haven’t the facilities. Like most gaols, Fridaythorpe has a sick bay and a visiting doctor. Anything serious is treated in the enclosed ward of the local hospital. If a prisoner is likely to be ill for an extended period he’s transferred to the prison hospital at Wormwood Scrubs. That doesn’t apply to Youngblood with a complaint like his. In any case the Home Office would never sanction his transfer. The very fact that it’s a hospital means that it can’t possibly offer maximum security. They’d be frightened to death that one of the London gangs might seize their opportunity to try to break him out.’

Mallory lit another cigarette, got to his feet and walked to the window. ‘All very interesting. Of course the Commissioner sent me a very full report, but I must say your personal account has clarified one or two things.’ He turned, frowning reflectively. ‘As I see it, it all boils down to one thing. You want us to supply you with an operative. Someone who could be introduced into prison in the normal way and who, at least in theory, might be able to win Youngblood’s confidence. Why can’t you use one of your own men?’

‘Most crooks can spot a copper a mile away – just one of those things and it works both ways, of course. That’s why the Commissioner thought of your organisation, sir. You see the man we need for this job wouldn’t last five minutes if there was even a hint that he wasn’t a crook himself so his personal attitude and temperament would be of primary importance.’

‘What you’re really saying is that my operatives have what might be termed the criminal mind, Superintendent?’ Black looked slightly put out and Mallory shook his head. ‘You’re quite right. They wouldn’t last long in the field if they hadn’t.’

‘You think you could find us someone?’

Mallory nodded, sat down at his desk and looked at the file again. ‘Oh yes, I think we can manage that. As it happens I have someone available who should be more than suitable.’ He flicked the switch on the intercom and said sharply, ‘Any sign of Chavasse yet?’

‘I’m afraid not, Mr Mallory,’ Jean Frazer said.

‘Chavasse?’ Black said. ‘Sounds foreign.’

‘His father was a French officer killed during the last war. His mother is English. She raised the boy over here. You might say he’s traveled extensively since.’

Black hesitated and said carefully, ‘He’ll need all his wits about him for this one, Mr Mallory.’

‘As it happens, he has a Ph.D. in Modern Languages, Superintendent,’ Mallory answered a trifle frostily, ‘and he was once a lecturer at one of our older universities. Is that good enough for you?’

Black’s jaw went slack. ‘Then how in the hell did he get into this game?’

‘An old story. The important thing is why does he stay?’ Mallory shrugged. ‘I suppose you could say he has a flair for our sort of work and, when called upon, he doesn’t hesitate to squeeze the trigger. Most human beings do, you know.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Come to think of it, I don’t think you would approve of him at all.’

Black looked rather stunned. ‘To be perfectly frank, sir, he sounds as if he should be behind bars to me.’

‘Rather an apt comment under the circumstances.’

A moment later the intercom buzzed and Jean Frazer announced Chavasse.

He paused just inside the door. ‘Sorry I’m late, sir,’ he said to Mallory.

‘Never mind that now. I’d like you to meet Detective Chief Superintendent Black of the Special Branch. He’d like you to go to prison for a few months.’

‘Now that sounds interesting,’ Chavasse said and he moved forward to shake hands.

He was a shade under six feet with good shoulders and moved with the grace of the natural athlete, but it was the face which was the most interesting feature. It was handsome, even aristocratic – the kind that could have belonged equally to the professional soldier or scholar and the heritage of his Breton father was plain to see in the high cheek-bones. As he shook hands, his face was illuminated by a smile of great natural charm, but thirty years of police work had taught Charlie Black the importance of eyes. These were dark and strangely remote and remembering what Mallory had said, he shivered slightly, suddenly feeling completely out of his depth. Straightforward police work was one thing, but this …

He heard Mallory’s next words with an almost audible sigh of relief. ‘I think we can manage from here on in, Superintendent. Many thanks for coming. As I said before, you’ve clarified several things for me. You can tell the Commissioner I’ll be in touch later in the day. Miss Frazer will see you out.’

He put on his glasses and started to examine the file in front of him again. Black got to his feet awkwardly, started to put out his hand and thought better of it. He nodded to Chavasse and went out rather quickly.

Chavasse chuckled. ‘God bless the British bobby.’

Mallory glanced up at him. ‘Who – Black? Oh, he’s all right digging in his own patch.’

‘He was like some wretched schoolboy leaving the headmaster’s study – couldn’t get out fast enough.’

‘Nonsense.’ Mallory tossed a file across to him. ‘I’ll talk to you when you’ve read that.’

He occupied himself with some other papers while Chavasse worked his way through the typed sheets and the documents from Criminal Records Office at the Yard.

After a while Mallory sat back. ‘Well, what do you think?’

‘Could be interesting, but since when have you been so keen to help the police?’

‘There are one or two things about this affair that the Yard don’t know.’

‘Such as?’

‘Remember what a stink there was last year when Henry Galbraith, the nuclear physicist who was serving fifteen years for passing information to the Chinese, escaped from Felversham Gaol?’

Chavasse nodded. ‘I must admit I was surprised at the time. Galbraith was hardly my idea of a man of action.’

‘He’s turned up in Peking.’

‘You mean the Baron was behind that?’ Mallory nodded and Chavasse whistled softly. ‘They must have paid plenty.’

‘On top of that on at least three occasions this year just when we’ve been about to close in on someone important who’s been working for the other side, they’ve been spirited away. A Foreign Office type disappeared last month and turned up in Warsaw and I can tell you now, he knew too damned much. The Prime Minister was hopping mad about that one – he had to go to Washington the same week.’

‘Which all tells us something interesting about the Baron,’ Chavasse observed. ‘Whatever else he is, he’s no patriot – just a hard-headed businessman.’

He looked down at the file again and Mallory said, ‘What do you think?’

‘About the general idea,’ Chavasse shrugged. ‘I am not too sure. I’m to go to gaol and share a cell with Harry Youngblood, that’s about the size of it. Are you sure it can be arranged?’

Mallory nodded. ‘The Home Office could handle that part of it direct with the prison governor. He might not like it, but he’d have to do as he was told. He’d be the only one who would know. We’ll fix you up with a new identity. Something nice and interesting. Ex-officer cashiered for embezzlement – recently deported from Brazil as an undesirable and so forth.’

‘It might be just a colossal waste of time, have you considered that?’ Chavasse said. ‘It may seem logical that Harry Youngblood should be next for shaving, but it’s far from certain.’

Mallory shook his head. ‘I think it is. Take this slight stroke he’s had – that’s as fishy as hell. No previous history and he’s always enjoyed perfect health.’

‘According to the report it was a genuine attack.’

‘I know and Black pointed out that a stroke can’t be induced artifically by use of a drug.’

‘Is he wrong?’

‘Let’s say misinformed – officially there is no such drug, but they have been experimenting with one in Holland for a year now. A thing called Mabofine. It disturbs the wave patterns in the brain in the same way as insulin or shock treatment. They hope to use it with mental patients.’

‘What you’re really saying is that you suspect that some sort of plot is already in operation to get him out. What am I supposed to do? Find out what I can and stop him or try to go along for the ride?’

‘It could be an interesting trip. It might lead us straight to the man we’re looking for.’

‘Another thing – it might be a year or more before they move.’

‘And you don’t fancy spending that long as a guest of Her Majesty?’

Chavasse tossed Youngblood’s record card across the desk. ‘It’s more than that. Look at that face – notice the eyes. To hell with those jolly newspaper stories about Harry Youngblood, the smuggler with the good war record – the modern Robin Hood with a heart of corn for a tale of woe. In my book he’s a man with a mind like a cut-throat razor who’d sell his grandmother for cigarette money in the right situation. He’d smell me out as a phoney for sure. I wouldn’t last a week and prisons can be dangerous places or hadn’t you heard?’

‘But what if he had to accept you? What if he didn’t have any choice in the matter?’

Chavasse frowned. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘All you have to do is pull the right job and get yourself five years. A reasonably spectacular hold-up for preference. Something that will spread your face all over the front page for a day or two.’

‘You’re not asking much, are you?’

‘Actually, I’ve already got something lined up,’ Mallory continued calmly. ‘I got it from one of our contacts at the Yard. Whenever they find a firm that isn’t taking adequate security precautions, they step in and offer some sound advice. In this case it might have more effect coming from you. You’ll have to let them catch you of course.’

‘Nice of you to put it that way. What if I show them a clean pair of heels?’

‘An anonymous phone call to the Yard telling them where you are should do the trick.’ He smiled. ‘I’m sure Jean Frazer would enjoy handling that bit.’

Chavasse sighed. ‘Well, I did say I wanted a little more action. What’s the firm?’

Mallory opened another file and pushed it across. ‘Lonsdale Metals,’ he said.

The guard on the gate stretched and took a couple of paces towards the gatehouse, easing his cramped muscles. A long morning, but only ten minutes to go. He turned and a red works van shot out of the garage and roared across the yard, gears racing.

As he jumped forward in alarm, it skidded to a halt, the bonnet no more than a yard away from the swing bar that blocked the entrance. The young man who scrambled out of the cab looked considerably shocked and there was blood on his face. He lost his balance, falling to one knee and as the guard helped him to his feet he was joined by his three companions.

The driver seemed to have difficulty in speaking. He swallowed then flung out an arm dramatically in the general direction of the main block. ‘Wages office!’ he managed to gasp.

He started to sag to the ground and the gate guard caught him quickly. ‘Better get up there fast,’ he said to the other three. ‘I’ll get this lad inside and phone for the police.’

They went across the yard on the run, the Alsatian at their heels and the gate guard tightened his grip around the van driver’s shoulders. ‘You don’t look too good. Come in and sit down.’

The driver nodded, wiping blood from his face with the back of a hand and together, they moved into the gatehouse. The guard could never afterwards be quite sure about what happened next. He eased the driver into a chair and moved towards the desk. He was aware of no sound, but as he reached for the telephone was struck a stunning blow at the base of the skull that sent him crashing to the floor.

He lay there for a few moments, senses reeling, aware of the clang of the swing bar outside as it was raised, of the sudden roar of an engine as the van was driven rapidly away and then darkness flooded over him.

When Chavasse went up the stairs of the dingy house in Poplar and opened the door at the end of the landing, Jean Frazer was lying on the bed reading a magazine.

She swung her legs to the floor, a slight frown on her face. ‘Is that blood on your cheek?’

Chavasse wiped it away casually. ‘Something else entirely, I assure you.’

‘Did you get in?’

‘And out again.’

Her eyes widened. ‘With the money?’

He nodded. ‘It’s downstairs in the yard in an old Ford van I bought this morning.’

‘Presumably the law isn’t far behind?’

Chavasse moved to the window wiping his face with a towel and peered into the street. ‘I shouldn’t think so. I switched vehicles miles away on the other side of the Thames. In fact if I hadn’t shown my face around as much as I did, I’ve a shrewd suspicion I could have got away with this.’

‘Dangerous talk.’ She pulled on her shoes. ‘Seriously, Paul, how on earth did you manage it?’

‘You know what the newsboys say? Read all about it. I wouldn’t want to spoil your fun.’

She sighed. ‘Ah, well, I suppose I’d better go and put in that call to Scotland Yard.’

As she moved round the bed he pulled her into his arms. ‘I could be away for a hell of a long time, Jean,’ he said mockingly. ‘I don’t suppose you’d care to give me something to remember you by.’

She pulled down his head, kissed him once and disengaged herself. ‘The best I can do at the moment. I’ve got my Delilah bit to take care of. If Mallory lets me, I’ll come and see you on visiting days.’

The door closed behind her and Chavasse locked it. Nothing to do now except wait for them to come for him. He placed the automatic to hand on the locker by the window, lit a cigarette and lay down on the bed.

It was not more than twenty minutes later that he heard sounds of faint movement on the landing outside. There was a timid knock on the door and Mrs Clegg, the landlady, called, ‘Are you in, Mr Drummond?’

‘What do you want?’ he said.

‘There’s a letter for you. Came while you were out.’

‘Just a minute.’

He took a deep breath and unlocked the door. It smashed into him instantly and he was carried back across the bed which collapsed under the combined weight of four very large policemen.

He put up a semblance of a struggle, but a moment later handcuffs were snapped around his wrists and he was hauled to his feet. A large amiable looking man in a fawn gaberdine raincoat and battered Homburg paused in the doorway to light a cigarette, then moved in.

‘All right, son, where’s the loot?’

‘Why don’t you take a running jump?’ Chavasse told him.

‘Careful – you’ll be making sounds like a man next.’

There was a pounding on the stairs and a young constable entered the run. ‘We found it, inspector,’ he said, struggling for breath. ‘Back of an old Ford van in the yard.’

The inspector turned to Chavasse and sighed. ‘Forty-five thousand quid and what bloody good has it done you?’

‘I’ll let you know,’ Chavasse said. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’

‘You’ll have plenty of time for that – about seven years or I miss my guess.’ He nodded to the constables. ‘Go on, get him out of here.’

Chavasse grinned impudently. ‘See you in court, inspector.’

He was still laughing as they took him downstairs.




3

Maximum Security


The governor of Fridaythorpe Gaol put down his pen and switched on the desk lamp. It was just after eight with darkness drawing in fast and he went to the window and watched the last light of day touch the rim of the hills across the valley with fire before night fell.

There was a firm knock on the door and as he turned, Atkinson, the Principal Officer, entered, a large buff envelope in one hand.

‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but the new man is here – Drummond. You said you wanted to see him personally.’

The governor nodded and moved back to his desk. ‘So I did. Is he outside?’

Atkinson nodded. ‘That’s right, sir.’

‘What’s he like?’

Atkinson shrugged. ‘A gentleman gone nasty if you follow me.’ He opened the envelope and placed the documents it contained in front of the governor. ‘You’ll remember the case, sir. It was in all the papers at the time. Forty-five thousand and he almost got away with it.’

‘Didn’t someone inform on him?’

‘That’s right, sir – an anonymous tip to the Yard, but he was going to seed long before that. He was a Captain in the Royal Engineers – cashiered for embezzlement seven or eight years ago. Since then he’s been knocking around South America getting up to God knows what.’

The Governor nodded. ‘Not a very pretty picture! Still – a man of some intelligence. I’m thinking of putting him in with Youngblood.’

Atkinson was unable to conceal his surprise. ‘Might I ask why, sir?’

The governor leaned back in his chair. ‘Frankly, I’m worried about Youngblood – have been ever since he had that stroke. Sooner or later he’ll have another – they always do – and he’ll need specialised medical treatment very, very quickly. Can you imagine what would happen if he had such an attack in the middle of the night and died on us!’

‘That’s hardly likely, sir. He’s checked every hour.’

‘A lot could happen in an hour. On the other hand, if someone was there all the time.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m certain a cell mate is the best answer from our point of view and this chap Drummond should do very nicely. Let’s have a look at him.’

The Principal Officer opened the door and stood to one side. ‘All right, lad,’ he barked. ‘Look lively now. Stand on the mat and give your name and number.’

The prisoner moved into the room quickly and stood on the rubber mat that was positioned exactly three feet away from the governor’s desk.

‘83278 Drummond, sir,’ Paul Chavasse said and waited at attention.

The light from the desk threw his face into relief. It had fined down in the past three months and the hair, close-cropped to the skull, gave him a strangely medieval appearance. He looked a thoroughly dangerous man and the governor frowned down at his records in some perplexity. This was not what he had expected – not at all what he had expected.

But then, the governor’s paradox was that he knew nothing of prison life at all – what he saw each day was only the surface of a pond which Chavasse, in three short months, had plumbed to its depths in undergoing what was known in the legal profession as the due process of the law.




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