The Dark Side of the Street

‘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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