by J. T. Edson
‘Not a single, solitary thing in the … um … world,’ the detective agreed, his manner very gentle, therefore—as his little captive was all too aware—full of promised malevolence. ‘In fact, you are so … um … virtuous that you would have no objections if your good … um … lady wife learned where you have been spending your evenings recently.’
The effect of the words was both obvious and surprising to Besgrove-Woodstole. All of the little man’s aura of self-righteous truculence evaporated and he crouched back as if he had been struck.
‘’Ere now, Mr. Reeder—!’ Tupper croaked.
‘Who—or should it be “whom”?—is in the Pinhole Club?’ the detective inquired. ‘Would Mr. … um … Churgwin, for example, be amongst those present, I wonder?’
‘Y-Yes,’ Tupper confirmed and a sense of grievance, caused by his having been refused admission despite claiming membership, made him continue, ‘And he’s got a lot of real toffs up there. So if you’re thinking of pulling a raid—’
‘Perish the thought,’ Mr. Reeder said reassuringly and held out his left hand palm upwards. ‘This is purely a social visit. May I ask you for the … um … loan of your key?’
‘My key?’ Tupper yelped.
‘As, and I confess this with … um … shame, neither the Colonel nor I are members, we can hardly gain admittance without it,’ Mr. Reeder explained. ‘Of course, if questioned, I will be … um …discreet as to how I obtained the means of ingress. On the other hand, I am an inveterate gossip and, should I not get in, I may find myself in the Elephant And Castle district later—’
‘’Ere!’ Tupper gasped, taking out and handing over the key. ‘Give me time to scarper and, don’t forget, I ain’t seen you.’
‘Trust me,’ Mr. Reeder called at the man’s rapidly departing back.
‘What was all that about?’ Besgrove-Woodstole asked, as his companion made no attempt to use the key.
‘Tupper is married to a very large and … um … aggressive lady who would take the most violent exception if she discovered how he had been spending his leisure hours,’ the detective replied and almost whispered in shocked tones. ‘He is … um … unfaithful.’
Allowing a good three minutes to go by, Mr. Reeder inserted the key and opened the unmarked door from which Tupper had emerged. Frowning in puzzlement, the Colonel followed his host along a passage and up a flight of none too clean stairs. Much to Mr. Reeder’s relief, the small booth at the top was unoccupied. Usually a man would have been in attendance. His absence simplified matters in the detective’s opinion, as it allowed them to reach their destination unannounced. Opening his jacket, an action duplicated by his companion, Mr. Reeder led the way to a set of double doors beyond the booth. One side yielded when he turned the handle. Going through on his host’s heels, Besgrove-Woodstole found that they had entered the main room of a luxuriously appointed night club which was offering its patrons an unusual form of entertainment.
Clad in the latest and most daring style of bathing suits, but which had been torn to the point of immodesty, two very disheveled, clearly exhausted, but otherwise attractive and shapely young women were rolling over and over fighting with each other in the center of what would normally have been the dance floor. Although their hands were covered in thin black leather gloves to prevent scratching, each bore marks gained in what must have been a lengthy struggle. They were being encouraged in their flagging efforts by some fifty or so spectators of both sexes. At least a dozen were people who Besgrove-Woodstole recognized as wealthy members of Society, although they belonged to a class with which he was disinclined to mingle.
From all appearances, Mr. Reeder and the Colonel had arrived at a critical moment. One of the contestants was straddling the other’s supine body and, digging both hands into her hair, was banging her head on the padded mat which covered the floor. The other occupants of the room, even the man who should have been on duty in the booth, were so absorbed that none of them noticed the new arrivals. However, as the woman on the bottom went limp, a big, burly man wearing an immaculately tailored Saville Row suit happened to glance in their direction. Instantly, he came to his feet. Snapping an order which caused two of the women seated at his table to rise and pull the victress from her flaccid victim, he strode forward with a proprietorial air.
‘Hello, Mr. Reeder,’ the man greeted, waving a hand towards the dance floor. ‘Just a little sporting contest and no real harm done. The girls had a bit of a disagreement and asked if they could settle it—’
‘So it would … um … appear,’ the detective answered, sweeping the room with his gaze and noticing that its occupants were considerably disconcerted at the sight of him. A fattish, porcine-featured young man sharing a table with a beautiful and expensively raimented lady started to rise hurriedly. ‘Please don’t let me drive you away, Mr. … um … Frithington-Evans, isn’t it? Like yourself and … um … Lady Herban, the Colonel and I are here merely as … er … guests. This isn’t a—raid, I believe is the … um … term.’
Looking as if he wished the floor would open up and swallow him, the man—a very rich racehorse owner of questionable morals 44—sank back on to his chair. Although his companion was a married woman whose husband was out of the country, but would be unlikely to approve of her escort or her attendance at such an erotic form of entertainment, she seemed much less abashed by the presence of the famous detective.
While making his comment, Mr. Reeder had little interest in either Lady Mary Herban or Frithington-Evans. He had noticed in his examination of the room that, mingling with the members of Society who were present, and almost as well dressed, were the sub-leaders of every section from Churgwin’s organization. Without exception, they were sitting in somewhat constrained attitudes and attracted the majority of the detective’s attention. There was something about them suggesting that—although worried by his arrival—none had guilty knowledge of the attack upon him and his companion.
Subjecting the occupants to a similar scrutiny, Besgrove-Woodstole duplicated his host’s summations. Then, turning his gaze to Churgwin, the Colonel found something familiar in the gang leader’s bearing. A moment’s thought supplied the answer. A skilled hunter of big game, Churgwin’s posture reminded him of a dangerous animal such as the Cape buffalo, Syncerus Caffer Caffer. Having become aware of a potentially threatening enemy nearby, such a beast was wary yet knew it was so well protected that it had little to fear. If Churgwin had ordered the abortive assassination, he was such an accomplished actor that he was concealing any sign of perturbation over discovering it had failed.
‘How did you get in, Mr. Reeder?’ Churgwin demanded, throwing a look which boded little good for the discomfitured man who should have been in the booth preventing unauthorized entry.
‘I have been in possession of a … um … membership key for some time,’ the detective replied, with such disarming innocent frankness he might have been telling the truth. ‘Collecting such things is a harmless … um … hobby of mine. This is the first time Colonel Besgrove-Woodstole and—But how … um … remiss of me. Do you know the … um … Colonel?’
‘We haven’t met,’ Churgwin replied and there was nothing about his tone or expression, even to Mr. Reeder’s exceptionally capable gaze, to imply the officers name held any special meaning for him. ‘But—!’
‘Perhaps we are delaying the next … um … bout?’ the detective interrupted apologetically, knowing that the spectacle they had witnessed was a frequent feature of the Pinhole Club’s entertainment. ‘I must confess I’m not an … um … aficionado, if that is the appropriate foreign expression. Not that I would protest anybody else’s right to participate or … um … spectate. But if we could have the privacy of your—’ He held up his umbrella filled left hand in a gesture of gentle prohibition before the gang leader could speak. ‘I am, of course, in … um … error. Like the Colonel and myself, you are but a member. But perhaps—?’
‘Come with me,’ Churgwin said, accepting tha
t there would be no point in continuing his pretense that he was not the owner.
‘Would you care to have Mr. … um … Gulliver accompany you?’ Mr. Reeder inquired, nodding to where the gang leader’s solicitor was sitting and watching them.
‘Do I need him?’
‘That is merely a matter for your … um … conscience. Not that, I hasten to assure you, I … um … know of anything which might be troubling it.’
‘Then we’ll leave him where he is,’ Churgwin decided. ‘If you’ll come with me—?’
‘The … um … pleasure is all mine,’ Mr. Reeder answered and swung his gaze around the room once more. Raising his left hand in salutation, he gave vent to his most extreme form of frivolity. ‘Toodle-oo!’
‘All right, Mr. Reeder,’ Churgwin said, after he had escorted his unwelcome visitors into the Club’s office. ‘What’s the game? Why’ve you come here?’
‘Merely to settle my … um … insatiable curiosity,’ the detective replied. ‘Have you seen Bert the … um … Jump-Up recently?’
‘Not in months,’ Churgwin declared. ‘After he turned down the—’
‘Brighton job?’ Mr. Reeder suggested. ‘No … um … matter. May I have the use of the telephonic apparatus, please?’
‘Of course,’ Churgwin assented. ‘Shall I wait outside?’
‘It’s of no … um … importance, everything will be on … er … record,’ Mr. Reeder replied and the gang leader looked startled by the oblique reference to a piece of unauthorized equipment attached to the telephone, but which he had assumed to be a secret. Taking the earphone from the mouthpiece’s pole-like stand, the detective dialed the number at his home which could be found in the appropriate London directory. By doing so, he knew his housekeeper would be very circumspect with anything of importance she might have to impart. ‘Mrs. Grible? Is there … um … anything to report?’
‘Nothing, sir,’ the housekeeper replied. ‘I called the Press Club and had a word with Mr. W. He said he’d see if any of the crime reporters had heard anything.’
Experience had taught Mr. Reeder’s organization that newspaper reporters who specialized in criminal activities occasionally obtained information which would not have been given to the authorities. Sometimes the chairman of the Press Club (the gentleman to whom Mrs. Grible had spoken) would exert influence to produce information that otherwise might have been regarded as confidential
‘Most … um … satisfactory,’ Mr. Reeder praised. ‘We will be continuing our investigations. I’m sorry about missing your … um … excellent lunch.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the housekeeper answered. ‘Be careful, sir.’
‘Rest assured that I have every … um … intention of doing so,’ Mr. Reeder promised and hung up. Beaming benevolently at the gang leader, he went on, ‘Thank you, Mr. … um … Churgwin. I don’t think I need trouble you any … um … further. Where can I get in touch with you in the unlikely … um … event that I should wish to do so during the next few days?’
‘On Lord Berringham’s yacht,’ Churgwin replied just a shade too quickly in Besgrove-Woodstole’s opinion. ‘He’s asked me and some of my bo… our friends to go on a cruise in the Mediterranean. We’ll be leaving early tomorrow morning.’
‘Which of your … um … associates are included in the party?’ the detective demanded and the words were a demand in spite of the mild way they had been uttered.
‘Sid Hall, Chubby Vickery, Lumpy Tooth,’ Churgwin obliged and continued until he had named each of his subordinate leaders.
‘A … um … notable selection,’ Mr. Reeder said, almost pensively. ‘And you will be away how … um … long?’
‘A fortnight, at least,’ Churgwin answered.
‘Enjoy yourselves,’ Mr. Reeder enjoined, rising. ‘Well, we must be on our … um … way. Good day to you, Mr. … um … Churgwin.’
‘Good afternoon,’ the gang leader replied, looking at the top of his desk. ‘Be very careful, Mr. Reeder.’
‘I always am,’ the detective declared and, much to his guest’s surprise, turned to leave without questioning what had clearly been a warning. As he and the Colonel were going down the stairs, he remarked, ‘Whatever his multifarious illegal activities might be, Mr. … um … Churgwin was not responsible for the attempt. But, although I might be doing him an … um … injustice, I suspect that he is aware that measures are being contemplated for my … um … removal.’
‘You’re satisfied now that it is you they’re after?’
‘At the risk of appearing … um … immodest, Colonel, and with due respect to your position of importance, I … um … am.’
‘But you don’t think Churgwin’s involved?’
‘Not in my opinion, for what little that is … um … worth,’ Mr. Reeder stated, with feeble certainty.
‘Yet he knew it was going to happen,’ Besgrove-Woodstole pointed out.
‘No, Colonel,’ the detective corrected. ‘He knows something is … um … contemplated, but not that it has already taken place. If he had been aware of that, the cruise upon which he and his … um … confederates are to embark, in the interests of creating what I believe is termed an … um … alibi, would have already commenced.’
‘If he knows it’s being planned, he might know who’s behind it.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Then why not go back and ask him?’
‘Because, if I did, he would … um … lie,’ Mr. Reeder answered in hushed tones as if ashamed to be levelling such a dire accusation. ‘And I have no wish to be responsible for him having such a thing on his … um … conscience.’
Knowing his companion very well, Besgrove-Woodstole did not press the matter. He was confident that Mr. Reeder would have asked the requisite questions if there had been any chance of obtaining the answer.
On returning to the Frazer-Nash, the Colonel noticed that the detective was looking at its bonnet. Thinking nothing of it, he reached for the handle of the passenger’s door.
‘Wait!’ Mr. Reeder hissed urgently. ‘Stand back, Colonel!’
Frowning, Besgrove-Woodstole obeyed. He watched as, acting with great care, his companion unfastened and raised the hood. Glancing inside, the detective stiffened slightly.
‘Just as I … um … suspected when I saw the cotton I had tied around the clips of the bonnet was broken,’ Mr. Reeder remarked. ‘Most … um … enterprising on somebody’s part.’
Stepping around the end of the car as gently as if treading on eggshells, the Colonel let out a low whistle. Whoever had opened the bonnet had done much more than merely break the strands of cotton. A bundle of six sticks of dynamite rested on the engine. Running from the detonator implanted in them, a piece of electric cable was attached to the vehicle’s ignition wires.
‘Good God!’ Besgrove-Woodstole gasped, realizing what the sight implied. ‘That was close!’
‘Most … um … disconcerting,’ Mr. Reeder admitted, with masterly, if gentle, understatement. Leaning forward, he peered at the device for some seconds before starting to render it harmless. ‘I don’t … um … think there would be time for anything more elaborate, Colonel,’ he said at the completion of the task, lifting out the bundle and holding it in his companion’s direction. ‘But I feel it would be … um … advisable to make sure.’
‘Do you think this was Churgwin’s work?’ Besgrove-Woodstole inquired, taking the dynamite and watching the detective carrying out a very thorough examination of the tourer.
‘I … um … doubt it,’ Mr. Reeder replied, bending to peer underneath the chassis. ‘The Pinhole Club is a most … um … lucrative establishment. He is too intelligent to—what, in my opinion is vulgarly referred to as—urinate on his own … um … doorstep in such a fashion.’
‘Then somebody must have followed us here!’ Besgrove-Woodstole barked.
‘We weren’t … um … followed, Colonel,’ Mr. Reeder contradicted apologetically. ‘In the … um … prevailing conditions, I felt it incumbent upon me
to watch out for such an … um … eventuality.’
‘Then if we weren’t followed—?’
‘Our arrival was … um … anticipated.’
‘You mean that somebody guessed we’d come here?’
‘That is my … um … belief,’ Mr. Reeder stated.
‘But who—?’ Besgrove-Woodstole began.
‘That, Colonel, is what I wish I … um … knew,’ Mr. Reeder replied, in a tone which sent a shiver through the normally steel-nerved officer. ‘The only person I can envisage as being possessed of such … um … brilliant planning ability is … er … dead.’ He paused for a moment, looking at the bundle of dynamite in Besgrove-Woodstole’s hand and then continued in an even more frightening manner. ‘At least, I … um … sincerely hope he is.’
Chapter Ten—I’m Going to Search You
Cyril Gambel, the elder of the two men who had met Beryl Snowhill’s passenger on her arrival at Charles Wagon’s house, had committed most of the major crimes in his life and considered himself to be very tough. For all that, he received a shock which brought him to a halt as he entered the tack-room. On fetching him, Bucky Borofin had mentioned there had been trouble; but had not gone into details of its full magnitude.
All of the other jockeys were gathered around the table, but the craps game was postponed. To one side of them, Kinch was groaning his way back to consciousness. Still looking dazed and breathing hard, the trainer was sitting on the floor against the wall. The “stable hand”, Mush, stood near his employer, but Ollie had not recovered from the effects of the kick and crouched in a huddled heap on the floor.
‘You can put down that revolver,’ Gambel told the author of these various misfortunes who was seated on the edge of the table, idly shaking the dice in his left hand.
‘Are you the head he-hooper?’ asked Rapido Clint, without offering to comply.
‘Am I the what?” Gambel snapped, in his well-bred English accent.
