Dark Side of the Street - Simon Vaughn 01 (v5) (4 page)

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 PS10,000 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 cheekbones. 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."