by J. T. Edson
‘The big augur,’ the Texan explained, not much more succinctly, then translated, ‘The top boss of the whole outfit.’
‘I am as far as you’re concerned,’ Gambel stated stiffly.
‘That far’s not near enough by a good country mile,’ Clint declared. ‘I don’t talk to no straw boss. Either I get to see the hombre who gives you orders, or I just plain get.’
‘And what if I say you can’t do either?’ Gambel challenged, having his position of authority to consider and conscious that several of his subordinates were listening.
‘I’d say those yahoos are a right smart answer to fool notions like that,’ Clint answered, indicating his victims with a gesture from the big Colt Model 1917 revolver. ‘Which same, I didn’t have this old hog-leg when I handed them their needings.’
‘Very well,’ Gambel said quietly, staring at the revolver which had halted its movements to point with disconcerting steadiness at his stomach and remembering the orders he had been given. ‘I’ll take you to Him, but not with that gun in your hand.’
‘Shucks, I don’t conclude I’ll need it no more,’ the Texan drawled, operating the stud on the right side of the frame with his thumb and swinging out the cylinder. Having shaken the cartridges from the chamber, he tossed the unloaded weapon on to the body of its barely conscious owner. ‘Let’s go.’
‘You’d better get on your feet and to the house, Wagon!’ Gambel snarled. ‘But I should keep out of His way for a while. He’s not going to be pleased when He hears what’s happened.’
With that, His second-in-command turned and Clint accompanied him from the tack-room. Such was Gambel’s eagerness to carry out His instructions that he failed to notice the Texan was allowing him to take the lead and was, in fact, positioned so as to be able to step behind him if the need should arise. On reaching the house, Gambel entered first. Still drawing no conclusions from the way Clint was lagging, he led the way towards the open door of a room to the left side of the entrance hall.
‘In there!’ Gambel ordered, without looking back.
‘Why sure,’ Clint drawled and acted with the kind of speed that had helped him to cope with his larger assailants in the tack-room.
Giving Gambel not the slightest prior indication of his intentions, the Texan stepped closer. The criminal’s first intimation that something was wrong came when he felt his right wrist seized and twisted behind his back. An instant later, a hand grasped the scruff of his neck with savage power. Before he could think of offering resistance, or yelling a warning, he found himself being propelled with considerable vigor through the door. Released, he staggered across the room and sprawled in front of the table at the center. As he landed, the Luger automatic pistol slipped from his waistband and clattered to the floor.
‘Looks like I’ve done you-all a mistrust, hombre,’ Clint drawled, walking with a cat-like stealth across the threshold of what was usually Wagon’s study in which such important personages as owners could be entertained. ‘Only I’ve heard tell of how sometimes folk lie in wait behind doors. So I concluded I’d rather it was you-all’n not me’s got whomped on the head should it be going to happen.’
Although Clint was addressing the man he had shoved, his gaze passed around the other occupants of the room. To the right of the table, Gambel’s brother, Maurice, had let out a startled exclamation and was staring downwards. Such was his surprise at the unexpected turn of events, that the heavy caliber Webley revolver in his right hand was dangling with its muzzle pointing at the floor.
With a mocking smile playing on her pallidly beautiful face, Olga Garvin was also standing and studying Cyril Gambel. Raising her eyes, she subjected Clint to a brief but calculating scrutiny before turning to look at the man who was sitting by her side.
The latter was the main source of the Texan’s attention. Clad in a multi-hued dressing gown with wider than usual sleeves, there was still a suggestion of what had been a magnificent physique about the man despite his shoulders being rounded and bent. He was undoubtedly very old. Lined and wrinkled like the texture of ancient parchment, his face had little expression except for his eyes. Deep set, they were light blue and had such a piercing, unwinking stare that they might have been devoid of lids. His mane of hair, neatly trimmed moustache and beard were pure white. Sitting erect in the high back carving chair, only his bony hands—moving as restlessly as two disturbed spiders—gave evidence that he was still alive.
‘Well, you brought him to us all right, Cyril,’ the woman commented, directing another mocking glance to where—muttering obscenities—the organization’s second-in-command was picking up the Luger and starting to rise. ‘Wouldn’t you say so, Father?’
‘He’s here, I’ll grant,’ the old man conceded, speaking with a strangely thin and tense voice that had an anything but merry-sounding chuckle in it and which grew more strident as he continued, ‘His hands are empty, but is he armed?’
‘I haven’t searched him,’ Cyril admitted sullenly, looking across the table at the old man.
‘Then I would strongly advise that you do it,’ was the high pitched response to the confession. ‘And immediately!’
‘All right, you!’ Cyril snarled at the Texan, after glancing at his brother. ‘Hold out your arms. I’m going to search you!’
‘Like hell you are,’ Clint contradicted, his left hand rising to grasp the lapel and draw open the jacket while the right pointed across his chest. Once again, such was the strength of his personality, he produced the impression that he had grown larger and it gave the same aura of menace to his posture. ‘Nobody puts their hands through Rapido Clint!’
‘We’ll soon see about that!’ Cyril spat out, taking a step forward and starting to raise the automatic pistol.
‘The only way you can do it is after I’m dead, hombre,’ Clint warned, showing neither alarm, nor concern even, over the sight of the brothers pointing their respective weapons in his direction.
Something in his attitude brought Cyril to a halt. ‘You’ve got to take the safety off on that Luger and, what I’ve seen of them, the Webley’s mighty heavy on the trigger unless the hammer’s back, which it isn’t. You might get me, but I’ll take at least one of you with me. Only I don’t reckon’s how your boss there behind the table’d want me killing.’
‘And why wouldn’t I?’ demanded the old man, cocking his head on one side in a gesture as ludicrous as a vulture trying to ape the mannerisms of a perky house sparrow.
‘Because you’re real curious about me, sir,’ Clint explained, adopting a more respectful attitude than he had shown to Gambel. ‘And, like you-all know, but those two butt-dragging yahoos haven’t figured, once I’m dead, you’ll never get to know where I learned how to find you.’
‘What do you have to say to that, Cyril?’ Olga asked, derisively.
‘Don’t you-all go riding him so he does something loco, which means stupid, ma’am,’ Clint advised, his voice losing the respect and hardening. ‘Like I said, your daddy doesn’t want any of us dead.’
‘And what if I don’t care?’ the old man inquired.
‘Say the word, sir, happen I’m wrong,’ Clint suggested, the respect returning to his quiet drawl. ‘Only it’d be a mortal shame for you-all to lose two good men.’
A flush of annoyance, caused by the way the Texan had addressed her, had come to Olga’s cheeks. For all that, she could not resist a glance at the Gambel brothers. Much to her surprise, knowing their capabilities and considering that they held weapons while the young newcomer was still empty handed, she found they were displaying what she felt sure was perturbation.
Nor was the woman wrong regarding the two men’s emotions.
Over the years, the Gambel brothers had met Parisian apache, Sicilian members of the Mafia, cold blooded German and Polish assassins and Russian anarchists who delighted in taking human life. Yet none of them had created such a state of chilling apprehension as the big Texan. Rapido Clint was something beyond either brother’s compreh
ension. Every instinct they possessed warned that he was not bluffing and could do as he claimed.
‘Good men are hard to come by,’ the old man conceded, duplicating his daughter’s summation and swinging his gaze to the brothers. ‘I would advise you to put those guns away, gentlemen.’
‘What about him?’ Cyril demanded, glaring at the Texan.
‘As far as I know, he isn’t armed,’ the old man replied. ‘At least, I can’t see him holding a weapon.’
Exchanging sulky glances, the brothers returned their weapons to their waist bands. After they had done so, Clint allowed his hands to fall to his sides.
‘And now, my young friend,’ the old man almost purred, his right fist disappearing into the left sleeve of his dressing gown. ‘Tell me about yourself.’
‘Like I said, sir,’ the Texan obliged, ‘they call me Rapido Clint—’
‘And what kind of crimes do you commit, Mr. Rapido Clint?’ Olga put in, still smarting from her rebuff at the Texan’s hands.
‘Only one kind, ma’am,’ Clint replied, showing no emotion over the question. ‘I kill people—for money.’
‘I hope that you’re better at it than some of your other countrymen!’ Olga barked.
‘You kill people for money, do you?’ the old man put in, before the Texan could answer.
‘Yes, sir,’ Clint confirmed in matter-of-fact tones.
‘Including your employers?’ the old man challenged.
‘I gunned down Mick O’Brien because he sent some of his pistoleros to pay me off in lead instead of gold or paper money,’ the Texan explained, still without emotion. ‘And I’ve never heard tell of John Flack turning against any man he hired and who treated him square.’
‘So you know me!’ the old man ejaculated. ‘But you can’t! Poor old Mad John Flack is dead! That swine Reeder killed him!’
‘Don’t worry, Father,’ Olga said soothingly, laying a hand on the old man’s shoulder as his voice grew shriller. ‘We’ll take our revenge.’
‘When?’ John Flack screeched, the right hand emerging to join the left in banging on the table. ‘Those three fools failed in Brockley Road and that useless idiot did no better at Leicester Square.’
‘Toomis is ready for him if he visits Birkstone, so is Gaston,’ Olga pointed out, while the Gambel brothers showed a growing alarm. ‘And you’ve had arrangements made at Gray’s flat if he goes there. One of them is sure to get him.’
‘Just as that damned “Actor” and his men, or Dumbrowski and his booby trap were sure to get him!’ Flack snarled, then he made a visible effort and regained control of his emotions. His face became impassive and his voice, when he addressed the Texan, was as near normal as it ever sounded. ‘Well, Mr. Rapido Clint, you who kill men for money. What do you think of Mr. J. G. Reeder?’
‘I’ve heard tell about him, sir,’ the Texan replied. ‘And, sounds like what I heard could’ve been right. He must be slicker’n a well-greased weasel happen he’s stopped you-all having him gunned down.’
‘But you could get him?’ Olga suggested.
‘I don’t claim that, ma’am, seeing’s how your daddy hasn’t been able to get it done,’ Clint replied, with the same sardonic air that Beryl Snowhill had found so aggravating and, if 0lga’s expression was any criterion, she too disliked it intensely. ‘But, happen the price’s right, I’d sure’s sin’s for sale in Cow-Town 45 give it a try.’
‘You will, will you?’ Flack cackled, not displeased by the capable young Texan’s apparent respect and admiration for him. ‘Very well, Mr. Rapido Clint, who kills men for money. If the need should arise, I’ll pay you a thousand pounds, or its equivalent in U.S. dollars, to kill J. G. Reeder.’
‘Any time you’re ready, sir,’ drawled the young man, exuding calm confidence. ‘Just say the word, put up the money, and J. G. Reeder’s dead.’
At that moment, a medium sized man carrying a sheet of paper came into the room. Although his attire was that of a farm laborer, his pallid, studious face and soft white hands were not in accord with the suggestion of bucolic employment.
‘Bad luck, Mr. Clint!’ Olga hissed, stalking towards the newcomer. ‘This should tell us that he’s already dead.’
Chapter Eleven—You Don’t Look So Tough
Cruising along Wardour Street from Oxford Street, Mr. J. G. Reeder passed several good parking places. Shortly before he reached the intersection of Old Compton Street, he seemed satisfied. He brought the Frazer-Nash Fast Tourer to a halt in front of a large dark green Albion two- ton van—its curved side windows a hangover from the horse-drawn van’s era—owned, if the name painted boldly on its sides was any guide, by Sugden’s Bakeries, Ltd., of Stepney. It appeared to have been left unattended by its driver. Taking his umbrella as he left the car, he waited for Colonel Brian Besgrove-Woodstole to join him. Strolling by the commercial vehicle without a second glance, the detective did not seem to be paying any great attention to his surroundings as he led the way to “Luigi’s”, a small Italian restaurant at the other side of the street.
After having made sure that there were no further booby traps in the Tourer, Mr. Reeder had taken his guest to the Strand Palace Hotel. In addition to having a meal in the dining room, he had spent several minutes on the telephone. However, on his return, he had appeared to have no other interest in the world except poultry. Almost an hour had passed before they returned to the vehicle, which had been left under the watchful eye of the hotel’s commissionaire. Setting off, they had not traversed any great distance before reaching what was apparently their destination.
Much to the Colonel’s surprise, Mr. Reeder made no attempt to unbutton his jacket. So he followed the detective into Luigi’s, but took the precaution they had both exercised at the Pinhole Club by making sure he had easy access to the big Webley revolver tucked into his waistband.
As at their previous point of investigation, there were a number of customers in the restaurant’s dining room. However, none of them were prominent members of Society. Most of the men wore the kind of loud clothing generally associated with bookmakers in the lower price range and certain other followers of the Sport of Kings. The women had on copies of the latest fashions popular among film stars, displaying ostentatious amounts of jewelry and either smoking cigarettes in long holders or chewing gum.
Gazing around, Besgrove-Woodstole found they were getting a reaction similar to that with which the members of Churgwin’s gang had greeted their entrance at the Pinhole Club. Coldly hostile scowls, uneasy glances at their leader, but nothing that remotely suggested any of them were aware of the attempt to murder the gentle detective. The Colonel decided that he too could have left his jacket buttoned, but did not intend to remedy the omission until he was certain.
Apparently oblivious of the hostility being directed his way, Mr. Reeder made what seemed to be a hesitant passage across the room. However, Besgrove-Woodstole saw that not even the largest and most brutal-looking of the occupants made any attempt to impede him, nor did they appear to want to meet his mild-appearing scrutiny.
Only two of the men openly displayed interest in Mr. Reeder’s progress. Seated opposite each other at what was obviously the place of honor against the wall facing the front door, they were considerably better—if no quieter—dressed than the rest. Before Mr. Reeder had taken two steps forward, there had been a brief interplay between them.
Giving what had clearly been an order, the shorter and older of the men had caused the pair of beautiful young women sharing the table to rise hurriedly and walk away. Then he had made a sotto voce comment, obviously, identifying the detective. The taller man’s head had snapped around. His broken nosed and thick-eared face was that of a boxer, but showed an intelligence which implied he was mentally superior to the average pug. He had stared for a moment, then whipped his gaze back to his table-mate and asked, no more loudly, what Besgrove-Woodstole had guessed to be, ‘That’s Reeder?’
On receiving a nod of confirmation, he had grinned. Hook
ing his thumbs into the armholes of a waistcoat capable of making anyone with delicate sartorial taste reach for a pair of dark glasses, he tilted his chair on its back legs. Then, having thrown a grin to the three burly men at the nearest table, he returned his scrutiny to the approaching detective.
If Mr. Reeder was aware of the attention being directed at him, he gave not the slightest indication of it. He might have been strolling through a gathering of his staunchest admirers rather than among some of the roughest and most savage racecourse thugs in England. As he walked, the umbrella slipped through his hand until he once again held it near the ferrule.
‘Good afternoon, Mr. … um … Birkstone,’ the detective greeted, coming to a halt close to the younger man’s side of the table but addressing the elder of the two. T trust you and your … um … family are enjoying the best of … er … health?’
‘So you’re the great J. G. Reeder, are you?’ the younger man put in speaking with a Nottingham accent, before his companion could reply. He still sat with his chair inclined to the rear. ‘You don’t look so tough to m—!’
The speech ended abruptly!
Even as Lou Birkstone was about to snarl a warning at his guest, whose name—believe it or not—was Robin Hood, 46 Mr. Reeder hooked the handle around the spacer rods of the chair’s legs and heaved with such power that he plucked it from beneath its occupant. Letting out a startled howl, the Nottingham man collapsed with a bone-jarring thud to sit with his back against the wall.
Having no illusions regarding the danger, Besgrove-Woodstole sent his right hand to the butt of the Webley. However, he doubted whether he could free it from the grip of his waistband quickly enough to be of use.
Chairs scraped back as, with startled and profane comments, the other occupants of the room began to rise. Hands went into pockets, with fingers slipping through the holes of brass knuckledusters, or grasping the cut-throat razors and coshes with which they maintained their leader’s domination of race courses throughout Southern England.
