by Jack Higgins
"A book called Great Crimes of the Century. Came out last year. There was a whole chapter devoted to the Peterfield Airport job. Written by a man called Tillotson."
"That clown," Youngblood said contemptuously. "He didn't get the half of it. Came to see me by special permission of the Home Office. I gave him all the griff--no reason not to now--but did he get it right? Gave all the credit for the planning to Ben Hoffa and he couldn't tell his arse from his elbow."
"It was your idea then?"
"That's it." Youngblood shrugged. "I needed Ben, I'm not denying that. He could fly a Dakota-- that was his main function."
"What about Saxon?"
"A good lad when he had someone to tell him what to do."
"Any idea where they are now?"
"Somewhere in the sun spending all that lovely lolly if they've any sense."
"You never know your luck," Chavasse said. "They might be making arrangements for you to join them right now."
Youngblood stared across at him blankly. "Get me out you mean? Out of Fridaythorpe?" He exploded into laughter. "Have you got a lot to learn. No one gets out of here, didn't they tell you that? They've got television cameras and electronic gates--they've even constructed special walls of reinforced concrete with foundations twenty feet deep. That's just in case anyone ever thought of tunnelling." He shook his head. "This is it--the big cage--there is no way out."
"There's always a way," Chavasse said.
"What have we got here then? A brain?"
"Big enough."
"It didn't do you much good on that Lonsdale Metals caper. You're here, aren't you?"
"So are you."
"Only because of Ben Hoffa and that bloody bird of his." For a moment Youngblood was genuinely angry. "He tried to drop her and she shopped him. That was the end for all of us."
"But they didn't get the money."
"That's it, boy." Youngblood grinned. "More than you can say."
"I know," Chavasse said feelingly. "I had the same trouble as Hoffa."
He sat there on the edge of the bed staring down at the floor as if momentarily depressed and Youngblood produced a twenty packet of cigarettes and offered him one. "Don't let it get you down. Between you and me that was quite something you pulled off. A pity you still had your amateur status. A bit more know-how and you might have got away with it."
"You seem to be doing all right for yourself," Chavasse said, holding up the cigarette.
Youngblood grinned and lolled back against the pillow. "I'm not complaining. I get as many of those things as I want and don't ask me how. When the blokes in here want snout they come to me and no one else. You fell on your feet when old man Carter decided to put you in here."
"He told me you'd been ill. How bad is it?"
"I had a slight stroke a month or two back. Nothing much." Youngblood shrugged. "Just one of those things."
"I got the impression he was afraid you might peg out on him one of these nights. If he's as worried as that why doesn't he have you trans-ferreed to the Scrubs?"
Youngblood chuckled harshly. "The Home Office would never wear that. They'd be frightened to death one of the London mobs might have a go at breaking me out in the hopes of getting their hot little hands on the lolly." He shook his head. "No, here I am and here I stay."
"For another fifteen years?"
Youngblood turned his head and smiled softly. "That remains to be seen, doesn't it?" He tossed the cigarettes across. "Have another."
He quite obviously wanted to talk and Chavasse lay there smoking and let him. He covered just about everything that had ever happened to him, starting with his years in a Camberwell orphanage and dwelling particularly on his time in the Navy. He wasn't married and apparently had only one living relative--a sister.
"You've got to look out for yourself, boy," he told Chavasse. "I learned that early. There's always some bastard waiting to take away what you've got. When I was a P.O. in MTBs I had a skipper called Johnson--young sub-lieutenant. Bloody useless. I carried him--carried him. We took part in the St. Laurent commando raid; he got hit early on. He just sat there helpless in the skipper's chair on the bridge bleeding to death. There was nothing we could do for him. I took over, pressed home the attack and put two torpedoes into an enemy destroyer. And what happened when we got back? Johnson got a posthumous Victoria Cross--I got a bloody mention in dispatches."
Funny how a story changed according to one's point of view. Chavasse stared up at the ceiling remembering the official report of the action in the file on Youngblood which had been compiled by S2 at the Bureau. The plain unvarnished truth was that Johnson had signed his own death warrant by staying in command on the bridge and undoubtedly aggravating his already serious injuries. Youngblood had done well--and behaved steadily under fire--there was no question about his personal courage, but at all times he had acted under Johnson's direct orders.
He wondered now if Youngblood really believed his own account of the action, but then he had probably told it to others and himself so many times over the years that what might have been had become reality. Somehow in the fantasy version there was even an implication that the V.C. had gone to the wrong person although he himself would probably have indignantly denied the fact.
"According to Tillotson you were hit for smuggling first."
"That's right," Youngblood grinned. "Worked in the Channel run in a converted MTB for a couple of years following the war."
"What were you running--brandy?"
"Anything that would sell and almost anything would in those days. Booze, fags, nylons, watches."
"What about dope? I hear there's a lot of money in it."
"What in the hell do you think I am?" Youngblood demanded. "I wouldn't dirty my hands on that sort of rubbish."
It seemed a perfectly genuine reaction and was completely in character with the facts of his file. Harry Youngblood would never touch drugs or prostitution, two of the biggest money-spinners there were--a nice moral touch that. The newspapers had made a lot out of it at the time of his trial and the public had responded well, forgetting about the pilot of the Dakota hijacked at Peterfield who, in attempting to put up a fight, had been beaten so savagely by Youngblood that his eyesight was permanently affected.
And there were others. Over the years the police had pulled in Harry Youngblood again and again in connection with indictable offenses, mainly robbery which had too often included use of violence. At no time had they been able to make a charge stick and on one occasion, the night watchman of a fur warehouse, clubbed into insensibility, had afterwards died.
Chavasse surfaced and realised that Youngblood was still talking. "Those were the days, boy. We really gave the coppers a thing or two to think about. I had the beast team in the Smoke. One job after another and every one planned so well that the busies could never put a finger on us."
"That must have taken some doing."
"Oh, they pulled me in--every time there was a big tickle they tried to pin it on me. I spent half my time on the steps at West End Central being photographed. I was never out of the bloody papers."
"Until now."
Youngblood grinned. "You wait, boy--just wait. I'll be smiling right off the front page again at the bastards one of these days and there won't be a thing they can do about it."
Chavasse lay there on the bed thinking about the whole business. What was it Tillotson had said about Youngblood in his book? That he had a craving for notoriety that almost amounted to a death wish. Excitement and danger were meat and drink to him. He had enjoyed playing the gangster, being pulled in by the police time-after-time for questioning, having his picture in the papers.
One thing was certain. Here was no Robin Hood. This was a brutal and resourceful criminal whose easy smile concealed an iron will and a determination to have what he wanted whatever the cost.
Chavasse started to unlace his boots. "Think I'll turn in. It's been a long day."
Youngblood glanced over the top of the maga
zine. "You do that, boy." He grinned. "And don't let the bastards grind you down."
Chavasse hitched the blanket over his shoulder and closed his eyes. He wondered what it was going to be like in the machine shop. Car number plates Atkinson had said. Well, that was a damned sight better than sewing mail bags for a living. If only the screws were decent, life might be quite reasonable.
He frowned suddenly. So now he was even thinking like a con? A fine touch of irony there. Mallory would like that. Chavasse turned his face to the wall and slept.
4
Rough Justice
"Rehabilitation!" Youngblood shouted above the roar of the machine shop. "Marvellous, isn't it? Just think of all those clever bastards sitting in their private suites at the Home Office persuading themselves that just because they've given you the opportunity of learning a trade, you'll go out into the world a better and wiser man and lead a life of honest toil making car number plates for ten quid a week."
Chavasse positioned the plate he was holding carefully in the die stamping machine and pulled the lever. There was a slight hiss from the hydraulic press and he raised it to examine the number now etched firmly in pressed steel. He picked up a file and started to clean the rough edges of metal, thinking about what Youngblood had just said.
He was right, that was the damnable thing. After four weeks in the machine shop Chavasse had learned that lesson at least. He glanced across at Charlie Harker, a one-time chartered accountant doing seven years for embezzlement, and his machine partner, Rodgers, the mild-mannered little schoolmaster who was doing life for murdering his wife after finding her in bed with another man. How on earth did you rehabilitate such men by teaching them one of the lowest paid forms of semiskilled work in industry?
Such thoughts were dangerous, but difficult to avoid. He had, after all, become one of these men--was in fact treated with some deference in a society where the scale of one's crime determined position in the social structure. As Paul Drummond serving six years for armed robbery and the theft of forty-five thousand pounds, Chavasse could easily have found himself on the top rung of the ladder had that not already been occupied by Harry Youngblood.
Rodgers came across and put another batch of blank plates on the bench. "All yours, Drum," he said and moved away.
He looked tired and there was sweat on his face so that his spectacles kept slipping down his nose and Chavasse was aware of a sudden sympathy. The man wasn't fit for this kind of work--why on earth couldn't the screws see that? But there was no time to consider individual needs here--life was cyclical, revolving around a time-table that must be observed at all costs.
But to hell with that. He wasn't here to do a survey for the Society for Prison Reform. He was here to watch Harry Youngblood--to worm his way into the man's confidence and to find out as much about him and his future plans as possible.
Strangely enough they had become good friends. Youngblood, like most great criminals, was a highly complex individual, flawed clean down the middle like a bell that looked fine until you tried to ring it.
Even his fellow prisoners had difficulty in understanding him. He had an ability to adapt to the company in which he found himself that was uncanny and the death wish was present in everything he did, the reckless reaching out to crash head on with danger which had probably contributed to his downfall more than any other single reason.
There was a story told of him that on one occasion when casing a Mayfair mansion prior to a robbery, he had attended a soiree there uninvited, charming everyone in sight and leaving with the purse from his hostess's handbag. Stopped by a down-and-out with a hard luck story on the pavement outside, Youngblood had presented him with the twenty-five pounds the purse had contained and had gone on his way cheerfully.
Kind and considerate, he could be generous to a fault as Chavasse had already discovered, especially when there was no danger of any personal inconvenience. He could also be hard, brutal and utterly ruthless when crossed and in the final analysis, was only interested in his own well being.
He grinned across at Chavasse. "Cheer up, Drum. It may never happen."
Chavasse smiled back, avoiding a frown by only a fraction of a second. Youngblood was normally good-humoured, but for the past two days he had positively overflowed which must indicate something.
His train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of a convict called Brady pushing a trolley loaded with finished plates.
"Anything for me?" he demanded.
Chavasse nodded brusquely at the pile on the end of the bench. He didn't care for Brady who was serving ten years for housebreaking which had also involved the rape of a woman of sixty-five. He had the sort of face that went with the average citizen's conception of a thieves' kitchen and his voice was roughened by years of disease and liquor.
"How about some snout, Harry?" he asked Youngblood as he started to load the trolley.
"You owe me for three weeks already," Youngblood said. "No more till you've paid something on account."
"Have a heart, Harry?" Brady grabbed his arm. "I haven't had a fag for two days. I'm going crazy."
"Don't kid yourself," Youngblood said coldy. "You're already there; they should have had you in for treatment years ago. Now clear off. You're bothering me."
With a man like Brady it didn't take much. Chavasse had moved to the end of the bench to get some rivets and as he turned, caught sight of Brady's face contorted with uncontrollable rage. He snatched up a rat's tail file, the end pointed, sharp as any stiletto and swung it above his head, ready to plunge it down into Youngblood's unprotected back.
There was no time for any warning and Chavasse snatched up a hammer and threw it with all his force. It caught Brady in the chest and he cried out in pain and dropped the file as he staggered back.
Youngblood swung around, taking in the file and the hammer, the expression on Brady's face and when he turned and glanced at Chavasse his eyes were like pieces of black stone.
He picked up the file and held it out. "This yours, Jack?"
Brady stood there staring at him, sweat on his face. Quite suddenly he grabbed the trolley and pushed it away hurriedly.
Work had not flagged, the noise had remained at the same level and yet there wasn't a man at that end of the room who had failed to note the incident and Chavasse was aware of two things. Youngblood's slight nod to Nevinson, a tall heavily built Scot on the other side of the room, and the approach of Meadows, one of the screws.
"What's going on here?" he demanded.
"Not a thing, Mr. Meadows, sir," Youngblood said. "We're all working like the clappers."
Meadows was young and not long out of the army, the dark smudge of moustache on his upper lip an indication of his desperate attempt to always appear older than he was. He turned to Chavasse who stood at the end of the bench, hands at his sides. Meadows had never risen above the rank of lance corporal and ex-captains fallen on hard times were meat and drink to him.
"And what the devil do you think you're supposed to be doing, Drummond?" he demanded. "I know the idea of soiling those lily-white hands of yours doesn't appeal, but work is the object of the exercise."
Youngblood moved in very close and said softly, "He is working, Mr. Meadows, sir. He's working very hard. Now why don't you go back to the other end of the room like a good little boy."
And Meadows took it, that was the important thing. His hesitation was only momentary, his face quite white and he was afraid, which was all that mattered.
From the other end of the room there came a sudden cry of agony. Meadows turned, glad of the excuse and hurried away. Everyone stopped working, all noise dying as the machines were switched off one-by-one. Nevinson appeared, walking close to the wall, wiping his hands on an oily rag.
"What happened, Jock?" Youngblood called.
"Jack Brady's just had a nasty accident," Nevinson said calmly. "Spilt a bucket of boiling water over his legs in the blacksmith's shop."
Youngblood shook his head as he glan
ced at Chavasse. "Now that was careless of him, wasn't it?"
Chavasse said nothing and moved forward with the others. Brady was groaning in agony and kept it up till the first aid men arrived and one of them gave him an injection. He lay there writhing, his great, ugly face soaked in sweat as they got him on to a stretcher. He moaned again and lost consciousness as they lifted him up, but it was difficult to feel any sort of compassion for him. He had broken the code of the society in which he lived and had received in return justice of a sort.
More screws had arrived, Atkinson among them and he rapped his staff on a bench. "Get back to work, all of you." He turned to Meadows. "I'll want a report on my desk in an hour, Mr. Meadows. I'll send someone to relieve you." He walked to the door and paused. "You can bring Drummond with you when you come--his sister's here to see him."
The last Thursday in every month was a general visiting day and when the Duty Officer took Chavasse into the main hall, it was already pretty full. A row of cubicles stretched from one wall to the other, and in each one prisoner and visitor faced each other through a sheet of armoured glass and spoke through microphones.
They sat Chavasse in a cubicle and he waited impatiently, the voices on either side a meaningless blur and then the door opposite opened and Jean Frazer came in. She was wearing a white nylon blouse and a neat two piece suit in Donegal tweed with a pleated skirt. Strange, but he had never realised before just how attractive she really was.
Her ready smile faded as she sank down into the chair opposite. "Paul, what have they done to you?
Her voice sounded slightly distorted over the amplifier and he smiled. "Do I look that bad?"
"I wouldn't have believed it possible."
He cracked suddenly, a savage, cutting edge to his voice. "For God's sake, Jean, what do you think it's like in here? I'm not Paul Chavasse playing a part and going home nights. I'm Paul Drummond doing six years for armed robbery. I've been inside four months now. I think like a con, I act like one. Most important of all, I'm treated like one--tell Graham Mallory to stuff that in his blasted pipe."
