by J. T. Edson
Not one of the men completed the withdrawal of a weapon.
Reversing his umbrella with the deft skill of a drum major twirling a baton, Mr. Reeder grasped the handle and his right arm extended with considerable rapidity.
‘Sit down, gentlemen, please,’ the detective requested politely and almost humbly. ‘I don’t think that Mr. … um … Hood would wish you to help him to … er … rise.’
Seeing what was being done and listening to the comment, the Colonel decided that he was hearing another example of Mr. Reeder’s masterly understatement.
Winded and in some pain from his unexpected precipitation to the floor, Hood still had sufficient control of his wits to be able to think. Which was fortunate for him. The steel ferrule of the umbrella had halted almost touching his right eyeball. It could not match the point of a needle, but—as it had not been blunted by being brought into contact with the ground as an aid to walking—was nevertheless extremely sharp. He observed that it had not stopped so fortuitously because that was as far as Mr. Reeder could reach. The detective’s right elbow was still flexed and, if straightened, would make the deadly spike advance to a dangerous degree. Nor, with his head pressed against the wall, could Hood attempt to draw clear of it.
Having come to London to discuss a merger of interests with Birkstone, the Nottingham criminal had not previously seen the great Mr. J. G. Reeder. Knowing the awe with which the Londoners regarded the detective, he had been amazed to find it was given to such an ancient and puny looking specimen of manhood. So, as he had believed his host’s stories of Mr. Reeder’s malignancy were greatly exaggerated, he had decided to exhibit his superiority. Now Hood was rapidly revising his opinion. What was more, for all the apologetic timbre of his assailant’s voice, he had an unpleasant feeling that he would lose his right eye if anybody tried to render him assistance.
‘There’s something else for you to consider, Mr. … um … Birkstone,’ Mr. Reeder went on, still in the same tones, keeping the umbrella rock steady. ‘Outside, concealed in the … um … motor vehicle purporting to belong to Sugden’s Bakeries of Stepney, are several large and powerful members of the … er … Flying Squad. At the first hint of any … um … altercation, they will come in and I’m afraid that Mr. … um … Luigi’s premises may suffer more damage than the breakage of Mr. … um … Hood’s chair.’
‘Sit down, all of yer!’ Birkstone snarled, his voice harsh and Cockney. Most of the men obeyed instantly, but he had to turn and glare at the trio standing by the nearest table. ‘That goes for you Nottingham blokes, too.’
‘That’s … um … better,’ Mr. Reeder sighed, after the three men had complied, lowering the umbrella and peering almost benevolently at the man its point had been menacing. ‘Have you a car, Mr. … um … Hood?’
‘Yes,’ the Nottingham gang leader admitted, with none of his earlier truculence.
‘Then I would suggest that you and your … um … Merry Men climb into it and return to the—er—Greenwood, I believe it is called,’ the detective said. ‘Nottingham is a very pleasant … um … city and will doubtless be improved by your early return.’
‘I’m here for—!’ Hood began.
‘I know what you are … um … here for,’ Mr. Reeder interrupted, seeming repentant for such a breach of good manners. ‘And, if you are still here by … um … six o’clock this evening, it will be my unpleasant duty to inform the authorities in … um … Birmingham—’
‘How the he—!’ Hood yelped and Birkstone showed a similar perturbation.
‘Shush!’ Mr. Reeder gasped, looking shocked. ‘Language, please, there are ladies present. When did you say you are … um … leaving?’
‘Before six,’ Birkstone answered, with such definite authority that Hood stared at him for a moment, then gave a surly nod and started to rise.
‘A most … um … judicious decision,’ Mr. Reeder praised.
‘Only how you’ve got the right to—!’ Birkstone began.
‘If you have a … um … complaint as to my behavior,’ Mr. Reeder put in mildly, Tm sure your good friend, Mr. … um … Benner would be only too pleased to take it up.’
‘Here now!’ Birkstone snarled. ‘All them tales about me and my boys helping get him into Parliament were lies!’
‘The most vile … um … calumnies, I’m sure,’ Mr. Reeder stated, with such an aura of acceptance that he might have believed he was speaking the truth. ‘I have no … um … desire to criticize anybody’s political beliefs. Nor would I wish to do so. However, I do feel that Mr. Benner is … um … injudicious in his views on some matters.’
‘Like making life easier in the nicks?’ Birkstone suggested.
‘While gentlemen of your … um … persuasion might welcome such … er … reforms, there are others—such as your … um … victims who would not agree,’ Mr. Reeder pointed out mildly, knowing that only a clear conscience with regard to the shooting would have provoked the response. ‘My main … um … objection to Mr. Benner is how he and his contemporaries would have us spend nothing on maintaining the strength of the nation’s … um … Armed Forces. I consider this is a most … um … ill-advised economy and hope we don’t have cause to regret it in the near future.’
A few years later, learning how his only son had been killed while serving with the ill-equipped British Expeditionary Force in France as it was driven back by the superior might of a nation which had not committed the folly of restricting its military strength, Birkstone was to remember the words and curse the day that his gang had helped exert pressure, causing the Right Hon. Horatio Benner to be returned as Member of Parliament for his Constituency.
‘What do you want here, anyway?’ Birkstone challenged, tiring of the subject. ‘I don’t care what pack of lies your “noses” have told you, Robin’s only down here for a visit—’
‘A brief visit,’ Mr. Reeder elaborated. ‘And as to my … um … “noses”—which I believe to be the derogatory name for an informer—’
‘All right!’ Birkstone snapped. ‘What can we do for you?’
‘Nothing more than offer to pay poor Mr. … um … Luigi for the damaged chair,’ Mr. Reeder answered, knowing that the restaurant was owned by the gang leader and Luigi was a mythical personage. ‘Are you to be reached in … um … London for the next few days, or are you too going on a … um … cruise?’
‘A cruise!’ Birkstone yelped. ‘Did that something or oth—?’
‘Language!’ Mr. Reeder cautioned mildly. ‘You are doing Mr. Churgwin an … um … injustice. Like yourself, whatever his other … um … faults, he has never been a … um … “nose” I believe is the term.’
‘I’m going up to Birmingham for a few days,’ Birkstone stated, grudgingly conceding that the detective had spoken the truth regarding his hated rival.
‘Not for the purpose which brought Mr. Hood and his … um … Merry Men to see you?’ Mr. Reeder inquired. ‘As Chief Inspector Billers of the … um … Birmingham Constabulary said when I was speaking with him on the telephonic apparatus last … um … Tuesday—’
‘Tuesday?’ Birkstone croaked, for it had only been on Monday that he had contacted Hood to confirm his willingness to form a confederation and take over control of criminal activities in the neighborhood of Birmingham.
‘He said, rather forcibly and with the use of what I regard as being most undesirable … um … profanity, that he would not permit any extended … um … residence on either of your parts in his manor,’ Mr. Reeder continued, ignoring the interruption. ‘I merely mention this to save you the … um … expense of going. Having done so, I’ll bid you all good afternoon.’
Nodding his head and beaming about benevolently, although nobody returned his salutation, the detective turned. With Besgrove-Woodstole at his side, he walked over to the door. There was a silence that could almost be felt as they reached it. On leaving, Mr. Reeder asked his companion to remain in the doorway until called.
Crossing to the Tourer, the detectiv
e opened the door and slipped behind the steering wheel. Wondering why he had been left, the Colonel saw his host suddenly drop to the empty passenger seat. An instant later, a hole appeared in the wind-shield and starred the glass. There was the distant crack of a rifle from the direction of Shaftesbury Avenue. Instantly, the rear doors of the ‘Bakeries’ van were thrown open and plainclothes men of the Flying Squad, led by Chief Inspector Gaylor, leapt out.
‘Down there!’ Besgrove-Woodstole bellowed, pointing to where the shot had been fired and hurrying to the car. Although he felt sure that his companion had taken the evasive action in time, it was still a relief to see the other sitting up unharmed. ‘How did you know?’
‘It was a result of my perverted … um … reasoning,’ Mr. Reeder replied, climbing from the car and watching the detectives running along the street. ‘As there had not been a further … um … attempt to tamper with the vehicle, I envisaged an assault from a longer distance. Regrettably, I appear to have … um … under-estimated how far. 47 The officers I caused to be positioned around what I incorrectly considered would be the chosen premises in Old Compton Street have waited in … um … vain. I also fear that Mr. Gaylor and his—associates will find the bird has … um … flown when they reach the spot from which the shot was fired.’
‘It is you they’re after,’ Besgrove-Woodstole declared with firm finality.
‘If I had believed … um … otherwise, Colonel,’ Mr. Reeder replied. ‘I would have asked you to remain in the restaurant, instead of merely out of the line of fire.’
‘How did you know the sniper would wait until you got into the car?’
‘Again, Colonel, suffering as I do from this … um … perverted sense of reasoning, I deduced that the assailant would wish to make sure of me. He would not, unless forced, shoot at a moving … um … target; which a gentleman of your military experience is doubtless aware is always more difficult to hit than one which is stationary. So I … um … concluded the attempt would be made once I was seated in the vehicle, but before I set it into motion, rather than while I was … um … walking towards it.’
‘You were right, too,’ Besgrove-Woodstole praised. ‘Who’s after you, Mr. Reeder?’
‘That, unfortunately, I am unable to … um … decide,’ Mr. Reeder confessed. ‘As I said before, only one person springs to mind as intelligent enough—’
‘Old Mad John Flack is dead,’ Besgrove-Woodstole pointed out.
‘All the … um … evidence leads one to that conclusion,’ Mr. Reeder agreed. ‘But I can only repeat what I said earlier. I hope the reports of his … um … demise were, in fact, correct. If not, I fear my … um … troubles are far from over.’
At that moment, in a telephone box on Shaftesbury Avenue, a respectably attired gentleman was making a telephone call which the detective would have found most interesting.
‘Toomis missed, but I think he’s got clear. Reeder’s still outside Luigi’s. Tell Gaston to get ready, let’s see what he can do.’
Chapter Twelve—Adieu Mon Cher Olga
‘Parker!’ Mr. J. G. Reeder called, bringing the Frazer- Nash Fast Tourer to a stop and looking across the street at No. 104, Grosvenor Square.
As the gentle detective had anticipated, although a spent cartridge case had been found, Chief Inspector Gaylor’s men had failed to catch the sniper. While awaiting their report, Mr. Reeder and Colonel Brian Besgrove-Woodstole had removed the car’s ruined windshield. Then he, his guest and Gaylor had returned to Luigi’s. It was deserted of all but the staff and Lou Birkstone. Greeting them with an impassioned denial of responsibility for the shooting, the gang leader had been relieved when Mr. Reeder had stated a belief in his innocence, and had then requested the loan of a telephone. While this was being granted, Birkstone had insisted that he could not even hazard a guess as to who was behind the various attempts to kill the detective. Knowing that he would learn nothing and being in possession of one piece of information from Mrs. Grible, Mr. Reeder had told Gaylor that he was not anticipating any further trouble and they had gone their separate ways.
Going from Ward our Street to Piccadilly Circus by way of Shaftesbury Avenue, Mr. Reeder turned the Tourer along Regent Street. With the windshield removed, he and his companion had not troubled to replace the top and the vehicle was open. In spite of the detective’s comment to Gaylor, Besgrove-Woodstole kept a careful watch through the rear view mirror. A Daimler had been behind them and he studied its occupants, but had seen nothing suspicious. Following the Daimler was one of the large red vans which the Post Office employed for carrying bulk collections of mail bags rather than making local parcel deliveries. The Colonel had regarded it with disfavor as it had effectively concealed whatever kind of traffic was behind it.
Although the Daimler had continued along Regent Street, the mail van had turned to follow the Frazer-Nash down Conduit Street on to New Bond Street. It was still about seventy-five yards behind as they used Brook Street as a means of reaching Grosvenor Square. All the time, Besgrove-Woodstole had been muttering his annoyance. He had tried to will the big vehicle to go some other way as it could offer excellent cover for any evilly disposed person who might be on their track. Just as he was on the point of commenting to his companion on the possibility of the van being used for such a purpose, Mr. Reeder applied the brakes and stopped the car.
Neatly dressed in a black bowler and jacket, with well creased pinstriped trousers, the fact that the man addressed by Mr. Reeder had come from up the area steps, and not from the front door of the house, suggested that he was not a guest of the owners. Turning his head on hearing his name called, he walked across the street. Of medium height, slender, he had the calmly deferential—yet far from servile—air of a top quality gentleman’s personal gentleman such as was frequently employed in the area.
‘Good afternoon, Mr. Reeder, sir,’ the man exclaimed, starting to raise his hat. Its movement halted and, for a moment, his air of imperturbability faded as he noticed the absence of the windshield. ‘If I may—?’
‘Get on!’ Mr. Reeder snapped, and there was no trace of the usual hesitancy in his voice, rather the words burst from him like the cracking of a bull whip.
Without waiting to question the order, or to have it enlarged upon, Parker sprang on to the Tourer’s running board. Pausing only for long enough to ensure that his impromptu passenger was holding on tightly, the detective released the clutch and jabbed down the accelerator.
Having watched Parker’s approach to the exclusion of everything else, the Colonel was puzzled by his host’s behavior. Feeling the Frazer-Nash lunging forward, he glanced into the rear view mirror and decided that he had been correct in harboring suspicions about the post office van; but its purpose was far more sinister than he had envisaged. It was now rushing forward and building up considerable speed. More important, it showed no sign of turning aside to go around them.
Glancing behind him, Parker also took in the sight. Then he was compelled to devote all his attention and energies to clinging on and retaining his position.
Nearer came the large red van, an onrushing juggernaut capable of smashing into the back of the car with a force which would seriously injure, even if it failed to kill, the three occupants. What was more, there was evidence that the driver intended to cause a collision. The fact that the front bumper was strengthened by a welded steel bar gave confirmation to the supposition.
Spluttering furious curses, Besgrove-Woodstole tried to claw free the Webley revolver. Already the van was so close that, looking back, he could see the man behind the steering wheel clearly. Although the garments were such as might be worn by an authorized driver, the swarthy face was Gallic in its lines and set with savage determination. If further proof of his intent was needed, the stout webbing cross-straps attached to the seat and encircling his chest were definitely not standard Post Office equipment on its vehicles. They would, however, allow him to crash into the Tourer without too great a danger to himself.
All that the Colonel saw—and more!
In spite of the quick get-away, the car’s rear end was only scant inches from the reinforced steel bumper of the van!
The contact between them was not made!
No other vehicle available in England could touch the Frazer-Nash Fast Tourer for its powers of acceleration. Which was very fortunate for Mr. Reeder and his two passengers. Under the impulsion of the well-tuned, supercharged engine—which was even more puissant than the power unit usually installed—the car began to draw away. Once that happened, the distance between it and its pursuer rapidly widened.
Seeing that his purpose had failed, the driver swung his van with the intention of fleeing along Upper Grosvenor Street. However, he was traveling too fast for such a hurried change of direction. Even so, his skill at handling a heavy vehicle might have brought him through if the right front tire had not burst. Feeling the van begin to skid, he did all he could to reduce speed and control the sideward drift. He was only partly successful. While he was going more slowly, he could not halt before the vehicle struck a lamp-post. The impact slammed him forward, but the cross-straps restrained his impetus. Jerked back against the hard seat, he was momentarily stunned.
Keeping the van under observation, which he had been doing ever since he had noticed the reinforced bumper as it followed them along Regent Street—Mr. Reeder saw it was starting to turn away. Instantly, but remembering to warn Parker, he applied himself to stopping the swiftly traveling Tourer. With the valet clinging to the frame of the windshield in an anything but secure manner, he could not make an emergency halt. Instead, he had to reduce speed considerably before bringing a cessation to the vehicle’s motion.
Showing the same surprising grasp of the situation that he had displayed since the beginning, considering the nature of his employment, Parker leapt from the running board almost before it was safe for him to do so. Alighting safely, he swung around to stare at the now halted van.
