LITMIR.BIZ

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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 £10,000 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,

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