The Dark Side of the Street

‘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.’