by J. T. Edson
‘I considered that it might be a … um … distinct possibility,’ Mr. Reeder admitted, deciding against causing a further delay to his own investigations by mentioning that his guest could have been the proposed victim. ‘However, I may learn differently when I meet with those detestable fellows from Scotland Yard who are, doubtlessly with great … um … impatience, awaiting my arrival near “Bert the Jump-Up’s” residence.’
‘That’s not on my manor,’ Mudgkin grunted, standing up. ‘We’ll look for them down here, Sergeant.’
‘Exercise extreme care in the event that you come upon them, Inspector,’ Mr. Reeder stated, speaking more firmly than was usual. ‘They are armed and very dangerous. In fact, if I may make so … um … bold, I would advise you not to try and arrest them unless you have a superior number of well-armed men available.’
‘That’s a decision I’ll have to make for myself,’ Mudgkin answered stiffly. ‘My superiors have given definite instructions regarding issuing firearms since the Right Honorable Benner, M.P., put a question about it in the House of Parliament. Thank you for your time, Mr. Reeder. Come on, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Rudge replied and, as he started to follow the Inspector, looked over his shoulder. ‘I’ll let you know—if anything develops, Mr. Reeder.’
‘Pompous oaf!’ Besgrove-Woodstole snorted, when the sound of the officers’ footsteps died away. ‘I’d say his sergeant doesn’t think they’ll do any good.’
‘True, Colonel,’ Mr. Reeder said gently. ‘And, if I thought that there was the slightest possibility of him locating the Americans, I would have exercised my … um … official authority to insist he took the appropriate precautions. For his own … um … sake as much as that of his men. Steffens and his … um … associates aren’t like any criminals with whom the constables have come into contact.’
‘You’re right, by gad!’ Besgrove-Woodstole admitted, being aware of just how little acquaintance the average British police officer had in dealing with miscreants who would not hesitate to use firearms. ‘Shall we go and meet your colleagues from the Yard?’
‘I was on the point of … um … suggesting we did so, although it will mean a further delay to our lunch.’
‘I doubt if it’s the first time, or the last, that will happen to us.’
‘Undoubtedly. May I take the … um … liberty of offering you the loan of a weapon?’
‘That Socialist M.P. chap might not approve if he heard about it,’ Besgrove-Woodstole answered. ‘But I think I will, if you feel it’s necessary.’
‘At the risk of offending Mr. Benner’s susceptibilities, assuming he has any,’ Mr. Reeder said and, despite his mild—almost bantering—tone when referring to the prominent politician, his guest knew he was in deadly earnest. ‘I consider it to be a … um … mandatory precaution. In fact, if I thought we were going to find them, I would feel … um … constrained to brave the Right Hon. Mr. Benner’s disapproval and arm us with the sniper’s rifle and the trench gun.’
‘I’ll take a revolver in that case,’ Besgrove-Woodstole decided, impressed by his host’s attitude. ‘Never could get the hang of automatic pistols.’
‘While I don’t … um … subscribe to it, Colonel, that is a not uncommon prejudice,’ Mr. Reeder asserted and looked to where his housekeeper was entering the dining room. ‘Would you be good enough to allow the Colonel to … um … select and sign out a revolver and ammunition, please, Mrs. Grible?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the formidable looking lady replied. ‘I’ve called Mr. Golden and he says he hasn’t heard anything. Mr. Grant and Captain Gray are both away on holiday, so I didn’t bother them. I tried to get Parker, but there’s no reply.’
‘Very well,’ the detective answered, little about him showing how gravely he regarded the negative information. He looked at his guest and went on, ‘Possibly it was you they were after, Colonel. Would it be … um … impolitic for me to ask if your Department is involved in any affair of such magnitude that your … er … demise would affect the outcome?’
‘Not that I can think of,’ Besgrove-Woodstole stated, after a moment’s consideration. ‘The Russian Secret Police caught a man I’ve had investigating rumors that they’re sending money to British Trade Union agitators, but .they’d know killing me won’t halt the investigation. My second-in-command would take charge.’
‘That was what I … um … assumed,’ Mr. Reeder sighed. ‘If only we could lay hands on “Bert the Jump-Up”, we might learn something. But I… um … fear that it is not to be.’
‘But I thought you were going to his home to arrest him,’ Besgrove-Woodstole protested.
‘Not exactly, Colonel,’ Mr. Reeder corrected.
‘Do you think that they’ve already separated?’
‘That is most probable.’
‘Then he could be there,’ Besgrove-Woodstole insisted.
‘I have serious doubts as to the … um … likelihood of him being present,’ Mr. Reeder confessed in hushed tones. ‘My perverted sense of … um … reasoning suggests—and I fear it is all too often correct—that “Bert the Jump-Up” is already dead and has … um … arguably gone to Heaven.’
Chapter Six—There’s No Point In Us Both Staying
‘Good heavens above, man. Do you mean to tell me that there’s nowhere I can get a taxi, or hire a car even, to take me out to Little Venner?’
The words reached Beryl Snowhill’s ears as she was walking from the main entrance of Swindon’s Great Western Railway Station, after having arranged for the dispatch of the package, to collect her MG Super Sports two-seater tourer. Although there was a distinct note of asperity, which could be understandable under the circumstances, they were uttered with carefully modulated feminine tones suggesting the speaker was a person of breeding.
Turning her head, the girl had no difficulty in locating the source of the comment. Only two other people were in her immediate vicinity. Confronting a miserable looking old porter, who was setting down the four suitcases with which he was loaded, was a strikingly beautiful woman. About four inches taller than Beryl and in her late twenties, she exuded an aura of wealth. Her slender figure was clad in plain, but elegantly tailored and expensive traveling clothes of the latest mode. A pair of black gloves concealed her marital status. All in all, she seemed to be the kind of person who received invitations to visit at any of the large houses in or around Little Venner.
‘I dunno about that, mu’um,’ the porter answered, straightening up and refusing to meet the pallid-faced passenger’s cold gaze. ‘It’s Sunday “art-noon” and there bain’t many’s’d want to go right out there ’n’ back.’
‘Excuse me,’ Beryl said, walking over. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing. If you’re going to Little Venner and don’t mind riding in an open car. I’ll gladly take you.’
Two dark eyes, looking out of place in such a palely beautiful set of features, swung to study the girl. There was, Beryl decided, something hard and almost hostile in them. They failed to reflect the smile that came to the woman’s lips.
‘I do have to get there,’ the beauty conceded, waving a languid hand towards the luggage. ‘But I’ve all this and a … friend … with me.’
‘Well,’ said Beryl, wondering why there had been a slight pause and a faintly sneering timbre about the way the word “friend” had been uttered. With her attention drawn to them, she could see the suitcases were of two different kinds. ‘I could manage the luggage, but—’
‘It’s no use, Olga!’ announced a male voice, in a whining tone. The accent was similar to that of the young men Beryl had met who, although having received a good education, could not entirely throw off traces of their Cockney upbringing. ‘I can’t get through on the telephone.’
Glancing over her shoulder, Beryl felt puzzled. Tall, thin, in his mid-thirties, the approaching man’s face was sallow, hollow-cheeked, weak chinned, with deep set eyes and a thick lipped, sullen mouth. He wore a rumpled, but costly, brown suit and matching trilb
y hat, with a grubby white shirt decorated by a red tie, and his brown shoes were unpolished. Everything about him implied that his untidy appearance was voluntary rather than the result of a lengthy train journey.
Recognizing the man from photographs she had seen in newspapers, although his present attire was more expensive than that in which he always went among his constituents—where he invariably wore cheap garments and a flat cap to show that, in spite of his present position of superiority, he was still one of the ‘workers’ at heart—Beryl knew him to be the Right Hon. Horatio Benner, M.P. Remembering his frequently quoted views on the evils of wealth and social position, he was a Socialist of the most radical kind, she was surprised to find him in the company of such an obviously well-to-do and, apparently, upper class woman.
The girl also wondered which of the local families would be accepting the couple as house guests. Almost without exception, the families had military, or naval, backgrounds. They would be unlikely to have forgotten that, while their male members were fighting for King and Country in the Great War, Benner had been a conscientious objector. Or that he was now prominent among the Socialist faction in Parliament who were most vocal with objections against any expenditure to help maintain the Armed Forces in a strong enough position to defend Great Britain against foreign aggression.
‘This young lady has a car, Horatio,’ the woman replied. ‘She’s offered to help—’
‘Has she?’ Benner said, turning a gaze at the girl which gave her an uneasy feeling that his eyes were trying to strip her naked. ‘That’ll save us hanging about—’
‘It’s only a two-seater,’ the woman pointed out, frowning as she noticed the lascivious manner in which her escort was scrutinizing Beryl. ‘We can take the cases, but there won’t be any room for you.’
‘But—!’Benner began.
‘There’s no point in us both staying here!’ the woman interrupted, and her tone was much the same as when she had been addressing the porter. ‘If you haven’t got something by the time I arrive, I’ll make arrangements to have you fetched.’
‘Oh hell, Olga—!’ Benner protested, scowling furiously.
‘There’s no other way!’ the woman declared and her manner showed she considered the matter was closed. Returning her gaze to Beryl, she went on in a more pleasant manner. ‘I’m grateful to you, dear. Take the luggage to the young lady’s car, my man.’
‘Yes’m,’ answered the porter and he regathered the suitcases.
‘Your father—!’ Benner began, stalking at the woman’s side as she accompanied Beryl to the tourer.
‘Won’t mind when I tell him what’s happened,’ the beauty said, her voice growing harder. Listening, Beryl formed the impression that she was both amused and pleased by the M.P.’s discomfiture and not sorry to have an excuse to leave him behind. After the luggage had been loaded and she had climbed into the passenger’s seat, she looked at him. ‘Tip the porter for me, that’s a darling. I’ll see you when you get there.’
For a person who always professed a great sympathy for the sorry state of the working classes’ finances, Benner showed reluctance over carrying out the request. He had the kind of mentality common among his kind. While he wanted conditions improving, he objected to it being done at his personal expense.
‘Thankee kindly, sir,’ the porter grunted, eyeing the three penny piece which was handed to him. ‘That be most generous of you, I’m sure.’
‘I’m Beryl Snowhill,’ the girl introduced, as she drove the MG away from the station. ‘My uncle trains near Little Venner. Perhaps you could pop over and have tea with us if you’re staying for a few days in the vicinity.’
‘Perhaps,’ the woman answered noncommittally. Then, clearly as an afterthought, went on, Tm Olga Garvin.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Beryl responded automatically, but was just a trifle nettled by her passenger’s off-hand attitude. ‘Where can I drop you off?’
‘In Little Venner.’
‘Do you know the area?’
‘I’ve never been there before,’ Olga admitted and, although she did not say, ‘and wish I wasn’t going now’, the words were implied by her manner.
‘You may have trouble finding and reaching your friends unless they live in the village,’ Beryl warned, despite a growing irritation at the other’s behavior.
‘I suppose I will,’ Olga conceded and, clearly reaching what she regarded as an unpleasant but necessary decision, she continued, ‘Do you know Charles Wagon’s stables?’
‘Yes,’ Beryl replied, trying to avoid sounding as puzzled as she felt. If there was one place to which she would not have expected the elegant woman to be going, it was Wagon’s reputably bachelor establishment. TPs on the way to my uncle’s home. I can drop you off as I go by, if you like.’
‘I’d be obliged if you would,’ Olga stated, after she had once again paused as if considering whether to accept. ‘Look, dear, I had a very late night at the Embassy and a tedious journey. I’m sorry I’m not much of a conversationalist today, but … well, you know how it is.’
Beryl gave something between a nod and a shrug, but did not make a verbal reply. While young, she was neither naive nor inexperienced. So she had noticed how her passenger had spoken. Unless she was wrong, the final words had been intended to make her feel she was being treated as a woman of the world being addressed by another, although the speaker really considered she was anything but that.
Taking the hint, Beryl concentrated on driving as quickly as possible so as to be rid of her passenger in the shortest time. She did, however, occasionally study the other with the aid of the rear-view mirror. A shrewd judge of character, she felt there was something repellant about the woman. She could not decide exactly what it was, but did not care for it. Not, Beryl told herself, that it mattered. Nothing about Olga Garvin made her eager to make overtures of friendship and, considering the woman’s destination, they were unlikely to come into contact after they had parted. The General not only regarded Wagon as socially unacceptable, but also he never referred to the dishonest trainer in terms suitable for mixed company. So he was unlikely to extend an invitation to Wagon’s guest.
There was little conversation for the remainder of the journey. Olga sat with her head tilted back and eyes closed, giving the impression that she was sleeping. Nor did Beryl do anything to disturb the other’s pose. Instead, she found herself thinking about the young Yankee—no, Texan—with whom she had come into contact earlier. She wondered what he had been doing on Wagon’s property and if their paths would cross again.
Passing through Little Venner, Olga asked if it was always such a dead hole. She listened, with no great display of interest or enthusiasm, to Beryl’s description of the vicarage’s garden fete and fell silent again. Although of a friendly disposition and always willing to give anybody a helping hand, the girl felt considerable relief when, a few minutes later, she saw that they would soon be at her passenger’s destination and could part company.
Turning the MG through the open gates and along the driveway, the girl realized that she had never been near—nor was even conscious of having looked at—Wagon’s premises. Not that now, having the opportunity, there was much for her to see. Either by accident or deliberately, the sprawling and somewhat dilapidated old Georgian house in which the trainer lived hid most of the stables from the view of passers-by on the road. Going closer, Beryl saw a line of loose boxes. These were built of brick, with boarded and slated roofs. As their doors were closed, she could not tell if any of them were occupied. At the far end, facing the house across a large cobble-stoned yard, was a further building. From its appearance, she guessed that it held the feed barn, possibly the trainer’s office, certainly the tack and feed-storage rooms.
Before the tourer had reached the house, its front door opened and two men came out. Neither was Wagon and both were strangers to Beryl. Tall, well dressed in the style of the city rather than country-dwellers, there was a resemblance about their hard and
unsmiling faces that suggested they might be brothers.
‘Sorry we couldn’t get over to Swindon and meet you, Olga,’ said the older of the pair, striding forward as the girl brought the MG to a halt.
‘Didn’t you get Benner to come?’ the second man went on, advancing to open the vehicle’s passenger door.
‘How could I in this … car?’ the woman snapped, inserting the final word as a by-product. Climbing out, she waved her hand in a commanding gesture little different to that which she had employed with the porter. ‘Take my bags inside. He’s still at the railway station, unless he’s managed to hire something to come here in.’
Watching the men, Beryl felt that their hard faces were showing a hint of relief at hearing the Socialist M.P. was not too far away. She also felt puzzled by their acceptance of the woman’s high handed treatment. Neither looked the kind who would take such behavior from a member of the ‘weaker’ sex, yet they appeared to be letting her imperiousness pass.
‘Er—thank you for bringing me, dear,’ Olga said, looking down at the girl after her luggage had been unloaded.
‘The pleasure was all mine,’ Beryl answered, trying not to sound too sarcastic.
‘I’d ask you in, but—’ Olga went on, making a deprecatory gesture at the house.
‘That’s all right,’ the girl replied. ‘I have to be getting home. Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye,’ Olga responded and, as if making a halfhearted and belated attempt to make amends for her treatment. ‘Perhaps we can get together for a drink and a chat some evening?’
‘Perhaps, Beryl admitted, setting the MG into motion. Reversing, so as to return down the drive, the girl glanced sideways. Much to her amazement, looking across the stable yard and between the gap separating the loose boxes from the other building, she saw a familiar figure approaching from the trees of the Orchard Meadow. The glimpse she received was brief and she could hardly believe her eyes.
For a moment, Beryl was on the verge of stopping the car. Then she decided against it and made her way out of the gate. However, as she drove along the lane towards her home, she wondered if she really had seen the Texan whom she had met so dramatically earlier that afternoon.
