innocent. Chavasse took a deep breath. So-the stage was set? He wondered what the next act would be and still wondering, drifted into sleep.
When he next awakened it was night and the ward was a place of shadows, rain drumming against the windows. One of the prison officers slept soundly on an unoccupied bed, the other read a magazine at the table.
He glanced across as Chavasse stirred. 'Are you all right?'
Chavasse nodded. 'I think I'll take a walk.'
He swung his legs to the floor, sat there for a moment and then got to his feet and walked to the washroom at the other end of the ward. It could have been worse-much worse and on the way back he felt even better.
When he sat down again on the edge of his bed he realised, with something of a shock, that Youngblood's eyes were wide open. He stared at Chavasse strangely, a slight frown on his face and Chavasse pulled a chair forward and sat down beside him.
'How are you feeling, Harry?'
'What is this?' Youngblood said. 'What's going on?'
'You're in the closed ward at Manningham General. You had another stroke.'
'What are you doing here?'
'When you blew your top at Fridaythorpe you almost went headfirst into the machinery. I caught you just in time. Opened up my arm on the grinding wheel in the process.'
'Is it bad?'
'Thirteen stitches-could be worse. They're keeping me here for a couple of days.'
The prison officer at the table make a quick phone call and then came over. 'I've sent for the doctor. How do you feel?'
'Hungry as hell,' Youngblood said. 'Any chance of a meal?'
'We'll see what he says.'
A moment later there was a knock at the door and he opened it to admit the Nigerian. He crossed to Youngblood's bed, sat down and made a quick examination. 'Good-very good. You feel better for your sleep.'
'What he really needs is something to eat,' Chavasse said. 'And so do I. We're both starving.'
The Nigerian smiled. 'I'll see what I can do, but you must get back into bed.' He turned to the prison officer. 'I'll tell the kitchen to send something up.' Mr. Carter. I'm going off duty now, but my colleague, Dr. Mackenzie, will be taking over. If you need anything, ring through to night sister, but in any case, he'll be looking in later on.'
Carter locked the door behind him and returned to the bed. He was a middle-aged, rather kindly man who was thought by most of his colleagues to be too soft.
'Anything I can do for you?'
'I could manage a visit to the washroom,' Youngblood said. 'I never could stand these damned bedpans. Maybe you and Drummond could give me a hand.'
They took him between them, Chavasse on the left so that he could use his good arm. He walked very slowly like an old man and they had to support almost his whole weight. Chavasse was sure he was bluffing, yet on the way back there was sweat on his forehead and when they got him on to the bed again, he seemed exhausted. On the other hand, that might be the after-effects of the drug …?
There was a knock on the door and when Carter opened it, a male nurse came in pushing a trolley. He served them with scrambled eggs, toast and tea, and went out again.
Chavasse took his time over the meal, watching Youngblood intently. He showed little desire for conversation and ate slowly, apparently still weak and yet there was a slight air of tension about him and he kept glancing at the electric clock on the wall.
When they had both finished, Carter took the trays and put them back on the trolley which the nurse had left by the door.
'What about a smoke, Mr. Carter?' Youngblood said.
Carter looked dubious. 'I'm not sure that's such a good idea.'
'Just one-that's hardly likely to kill us.'
'I suppose not.'
He gave them a cigarette each and a light and went back to his magazine. It was just five minutes to nine and to Chavasse the atmosphere seemed to crackle with electricity. Youngblood lay back against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling, the cigarette held loosely between the fingers of his left hand-a hand that shook slightly each time he raised it to his mouth, betraying his inner tension.
As the second hand swept round towards nine he crushed his cigarette into the ashtray on the bedside locker and looked across at Chavasse.
'I'd like to say thanks while I still have the chance for what you did up there in the machine shop. First Brady and then the other thing.'
'That's okay.'
'I wish there was something I could do for you-I don't like being in debt to anyone-but there isn't. Whatever happens, I want you to get that straight.'
'What in the hell are you talking about?'
Before Youngblood could reply, there was a knock on the door. Carter opened it on the chain and Chavasse heard a pleasant cultured voice, 'Dr. Mackenzie-just making my rounds.'
The man who stepped into the room wore the conventional white coat of the staff doctor and a stethoscope dangled from one pocket like a badge of office. He had a pale, aristocratic face and a fixed smile.
To the average person he might have seemed a slightly effeminate rather upper-class young man, but not to Chavasse who knew a real pro when he saw one.
'How are things then?' he said pleasantly and as Carter turned to lock the door, took a.38 automatic from one pocket and delivered a stunning blow to the base of the prison officer's skull.
Carter groaned and fell heavily to the floor. There was a cry of anger and the second prison officer, who had been sleeping on one of the spare beds, flung himself forward and landed squarely on Mackenzie's back before he could turn. He lurched into the wall, the gun flying from his hand to skid across the polished floor.
They went down together, Mackenzie underneath and then Youngblood arrived on the run. He grabbed the prison officer by the collar and pulled him off with a tremendous heave, swinging the man round, driving his clenched fist into his stomach. The prison officer doubled over and Youngblood's knee lifted him back against the wall. He slid to the ground and Mackenzie moved in fast and kicked him expertly in the side of the head.
'Almost fouled things up for us didn't he, old man?' he said to Youngblood as they stood over the two prison officers breathing heavily.
'A remarkable recovery, Harry,' Chavasse said. 'I must say you put in quite a performance back there in the machine shop.'
He was standing three or four yards away, one hand behind his back as Youngblood turned to face him. 'That was genuine enough, thanks to a drug called Mabofine. All the symptoms, but none of the after-effects.'
'It must have taken quite some planning.'
'A fascinating exchange,' Mackenzie interrupted, 'but I'm sure you won't mind if we postpone it and get to hell out of here.'
'That suits me just fine,' Chavasse said.
Mackenzie smiled patiently. 'I'm afraid you'll have to sit this one out, old man. We've only catered for one.'
'That's right, Drum,' Youngblood said. 'Fare paying passengers only this trip.'
Chavasse took his hand from behind his back and held up Mackenzie's automatic. 'This tells a different tale. It says we all go or nobody does.'
Mackenzie's habitual slight smile disappeared and he slid one foot forward tentatively. 'I wouldn't,' Youngblood said heavily. 'He means it.'
Mackenzie shrugged. 'The Baron isn't going to like this.'
'To hell with the Baron. He can put it on the bill, can't he? Now how do we get out of here?'
'Suit yourself.' Mackenzie opened the door and pulled in a wheelchair which had been standing outside. 'A nice authentic touch just in case we meet anyone. We take the service elevator at the end of the corridor to the basement and go out through the staff entrance. There's no one about at this time of night. I've got transport
