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
