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 magazine. '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
'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
