Dark Side of the Street - Jack Higgins [19]
"According to Tillotson you were hit for smuggling first."
"That's right," Youngblood grinned. "Worked in the Channel run in a converted MTB for a couple of years following the war."
"What were you running--brandy?"
"Anything that would sell and almost anything would in those days. Booze, fags, nylons, watches."
"What about dope? I hear there's a lot of money in it."
"What in the hell do you think I am?" Youngblood demanded. "I wouldn't dirty my hands on that sort of rubbish."
It seemed a perfectly genuine reaction and was completely in character with the facts of his file. Harry Youngblood would never touch drugs or prostitution, two of the biggest money-spinners there were--a nice moral touch that. The newspapers had made a lot out of it at the time of his trial and the public had responded well, forgetting about the pilot of the Dakota hijacked at Peterfield who, in attempting to put up a fight, had been beaten so savagely by Youngblood that his eyesight was permanently affected.
And there were others. Over the years the police had pulled in Harry Youngblood again and again in connection with indictable offenses, mainly robbery which had too often included use of violence. At no time had they been able to make a charge stick and on one occasion, the night watchman of a fur warehouse, clubbed into insensibility, had afterwards died.
Chavasse surfaced and realised that Youngblood was still talking. "Those were the days, boy. We really gave the coppers a thing or two to think about. I had the beast team in the Smoke. One job after another and every one planned so well that the busies could never put a finger on us."
"That must have taken some doing."
"Oh, they pulled me in--every time there was a big tickle they tried to pin it on me. I spent half my time on the steps at West End Central being photographed. I was never out of the bloody papers."
"Until now."
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
Rough Justice
"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