by Jack Higgins
He pushed the trolley to the door and Crabtree said, "I don't know if you're aware of it, but we do a great deal of work for the RAF here so our security system's rather special."
"I got in, didn't I?"
"But not while you were pushing half a ton of banknotes in front of you and it's impossible for any vehicle to get through that gate until it's been thoroughly checked. Something of a problem, I should have thought."
"Sorry I haven't time to discuss it now," Chavasse said. "But don't fail to buy an evening paper. They've promised to print the solution for me."
He produced a large piece of sticking plaster and pasted it over the cashier's mouth before he could reply. "Can you breathe all right?" Crabtree nodded, something strangely like regret in his eyes, and Chavasse grinned. "It's been fun. Somehow I don't think you'll be on your own for long."
The door closed behind him with a click and Crabtree sat there in the silence, waiting, feeling more alone than at any other time in his life. It seemed an age before he heard heavy feet pounding along the corridor and the anxious knocking started on the door.
The previous Wednesday when it all started, was a morning of bright sunshine and Chavasse had chosen to walk through the park on his way to Bureau headquarters. Life, for an intelligence agent, is a strange and rather haphazard existence compounded of short, often violent, periods of service in the field followed by months of comparative inactivity, often spent in routine antiespionage investigations or administration.
For almost half a year Chavasse had clocked in each morning as ordered, to sit behind a desk in a converted attic in the old house in St. John's Wood to spend the day sifting through reports from field sections in all parts of the globe--demanding, highly important work that had to be done thoroughly or not at all--and so damned boring.
But the sun was out, the sky was blue, the dresses were shorter than he'd ever known them, so that for once he took his time and strolled across the grass between the trees smoking a cigarette, discovering and not for the first time in his life, that after all, a man didn't need a great deal to be utterly and completely happy--for the moment, at any rate. Somewhere a clock struck eleven. He glanced at his watch, swore softly and hurried towards the main road.
It was almost half past the hour when he went up the steps of the house in St. John's Wood and pressed the bell beside the brass plate that carried the legend Brown & Co--Importers and Exporters.
After a few moments, the door was opened by a tall greying man in a blue serge uniform and Chavasse hurried past him. "I'm late this morning, George."
George looked worried. "Mr. Mallory was asking for you. Miss Frazer's been phoning down every five minutes for the past hour."
Chavasse was already half-way up the curving Regency staircase, a slight flicker of excitement moving inside him. If Mallory wanted him urgently, then it had to be for something important. With any kind of luck at all the pile of reports that overflowed from his in-tray were going to have to be passed on to someone else. He moved along the landing quickly and opened the white-painted door at the far end.
Jean Frazer turned from a filing cabinet, a small, attractive woman of thirty who wore a red woollen dress of deceptively simple cut that made the best of her rather full figure. She removed her heavy library spectacles and shook her head.
"You would, wouldn't you?"
Chavasse grinned. "I went for a walk in the park. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and I seemed to see unattached young females everywhere."
"You must be getting old," she said and picked up the telephone.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Skirts are shorter than ever. I was often reminded of you."
A dry, remote voice cut in on them. "What is it?"
"Mr. Chavasse is here, Mr. Mallory."
"Send him in. No calls for the next hour."
She replaced the receiver and turned, a slight mocking smile on her mouth. "Mr. Mallory will see you now, sir."
"I love you too," Chavasse said and he crossed to the green baize door, opened it and went in.
"Prison escapes have always been a problem," Black said. "They never average less than two hundred and fifty a year."
"I must say that seems rather a lot." Mallory helped himself to a Turkish cigarette from the box on his desk.
Although by nature a kindly man, as a Detective Chief Superintendent with the special Branch at New Scotland Yard, Charlie Black was accustomed to his inferiors running to heed his slightest command. Indeed, there was a certain pleasure to be derived from the sudden nervousness noted in even the most innocent of individuals when they discovered who and what he was. But we are all creatures of our environment, moulded by everything and anything that has happened to us since the day we were born and Black, branded by the years spent below stairs in the mansion in Belgrave Square where his mother, widowed by the first world war, had been cook, stirred uneasily in his chair for he was in the presence of what she, God rest her soul, would have termed his betters.
It was all there--the grey flannel suit, the Old Etonian Tie, the indefinable aura of authority. Ridiculous, but for the briefest of moments, he might have been a small boy again returning the old Lord's dog after a walk in the park and receiving a pat on the head and sixpence.
He pulled himself together quickly. "It's not quite as bad as it looks. About a hundred and fifty men each year simply walk out of open prisons--nothing to stop them. I suppose you could argue that the selection procedure has been faulty in the first place. Another fifty are probably men released on parole for funerals and weddings and so on, who simply take off instead of coming back."
"Which leaves you with a hard core of about fifty genuine escapes a year."
"That's it--or was. During the past couple of years there's been an increase in the really spectacular sort of escape. I suppose it all started with Wilson the train robber's famous break from Birmingham. The first time a gang had actually broken into a prison to get someone out."
"Real commando stuff."
"And brilliantly executed."
"Which is where this character the Baron comes in?"
Black nodded. "To our certain knowledge he's been responsible for at least half a dozen big breaks during the past year or so. Added to that he runs an underground pipeline by which criminals in danger of arrest can flee the country. On two occasions we've managed to arrest minor members of his organisation--people who've passed on men we've been chasing to someone else."
"Have you managed to squeeze anything out of them?"
"Not a thing--mainly because they honestly hadn't anything to say. The pipeline seems to be organised on the Communist cell system, the one Resistance used in France during the war. Each member is concerned only with his own particular task. He may know the next step along the route, but no more than that. It means that if one individual is caught, the organisation as a whole is still safe."
"And doesn't anyone know who the Baron is?"
"The Ghost Squad have been trying to find out for more than a year now. They've got nowhere. One thing's certain--he isn't just another crook--he's something special. May even be a Continental."
Mallory had a file open on the desk in front of him. He examined it in silence for a moment and shook his head. "It looks to me as if your only hope of finding out anything about him at all would be to get a line on one of his future clients which in theory should be impossible. There must be something like sixty thousand men in gaol right now--how do you find out which one it is?"
"A simple process of elimination really. If there's a pattern to his activities it's to be found in his choice of clientele. They've all been long term prisoners and have had considerable financial resources." Black opened a buff folder, took out a typed sheet of foolscap and a photo and passed them across. "Have a look at the last one."
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 awkwar
dly, 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?"