The Dark Side of the Street. Jack Higgins

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.’

      Chavasse grinned impudently. ‘See you in court, inspector.’

      He was still laughing as they took him downstairs.

      3

      Maximum Security

      The governor of Fridaythorpe Gaol put down his pen and switched on the desk lamp. It was just after eight with darkness drawing in fast and he went to the window and watched the last light of day touch the rim of the hills across the valley with fire before night fell.

      There was a firm knock on the door and as he turned, Atkinson, the Principal Officer, entered, a large buff envelope in one hand.

      ‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but the new man is here – Drummond. You said you wanted to see him personally.’

      The governor nodded and moved back to his desk. ‘So I did. Is he outside?’

      Atkinson nodded. ‘That’s right, sir.’

      ‘What’s he like?’

      Atkinson shrugged. ‘A gentleman gone nasty if you follow me.’ He opened the envelope and placed the documents it contained in front of the governor. ‘You’ll remember the case, sir. It was in all the papers at the time. Forty-five thousand and he almost got away with it.’

      ‘Didn’t someone inform on him?’

      ‘That’s right, sir – an anonymous tip to the Yard, but he was going to seed long before that. He was a Captain in the Royal Engineers – cashiered for embezzlement seven or eight years ago. Since then he’s been knocking around South America getting up to God knows what.’

      The Governor nodded. ‘Not a very pretty picture! Still – a man of some intelligence. I’m thinking of putting him in with Youngblood.’

      Atkinson was unable to conceal his surprise. ‘Might I ask why, sir?’

      The governor leaned back in his chair. ‘Frankly, I’m worried about Youngblood – have been ever since he had that stroke. Sooner or later he’ll have another – they always do – and he’ll need specialised medical treatment very, very quickly. Can you imagine what would happen if he had such an attack in the middle of the night and died on us!’

      ‘That’s hardly likely, sir. He’s checked every hour.’

      ‘A lot could happen in an hour. On the other hand, if someone was there all the time.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m certain a cell mate is the best answer from our point of view and this chap Drummond should do very nicely. Let’s have a look at him.’

      The Principal Officer opened the door and stood to one side. ‘All right, lad,’ he barked. ‘Look lively now. Stand on the mat and give your name and number.’

      The prisoner moved into the room quickly and stood on the rubber mat that was positioned exactly three feet away from the governor’s desk.

      ‘83278 Drummond, sir,’ Paul Chavasse said and waited at attention.

      The light from the desk threw his face into relief. It had fined down in the past three months and the hair, close-cropped to the skull, gave him a strangely medieval appearance. He looked a thoroughly dangerous man and the governor frowned down at his records in some perplexity. This was not what he had expected – not at all what he had expected.

      But then, the governor’s paradox was that he knew nothing of prison life at all – what he saw each day was only the surface of a pond which Chavasse, in three short months, had plumbed to its depths in undergoing what was known in the legal profession as the due process of the law.