Cap Fog 4

by J. T. Edson

  ‘And you could have been hurt,’ Olga interrupted, still seeking for a way to provoke her passenger.

  ‘I could have,’ Clint admitted calmly.

  ‘’Cepting that it didn’t come off that ways when we got ‘round to locking horns. And, happen I had been, it’s likely your daddy’d be dead now. Gambel couldn’t’ve taken out “Joe the Actor’s” two pistoleros before they made wolf bait of him and your daddy both. Then, what I’ve heard tell about the way those Italian jaspers treated women-folk, you’d likely’ve got ’round to wishing they’d killed you straight off too.’

  ‘I’m not exactly fragile,’ Olga gritted, once again faced with the unpalatable knowledge that she was hearing the truth.

  ‘Lady, I’ve never, not even for one itty-bitty minute, thought you were,’ Clint answered and, as the woman moved restlessly on the seat in her annoyance, gave an inclination of his head in Benner’s direction. ‘Is he important to whatever deal your daddy’s got in mind, ma’am?’

  ‘Very!’ Olga said shortly, but with great emphasis, her manner implying that any further discussion of the subject was prohibited.

  ‘Then I’d say he’s luckier than he deserves to be,’ the Texan declared. ‘’Cause, lady, your daddy’s a man to stand aside from when he’s riled.’

  Olga did not reply, but there was a calculating glint in her eyes as she darted a glance at Clint and increased the Daimler’s speed. However, during the return journey, her gaze repeatedly flickered to the small figure by her side. She hoped that he would attempt to continue the questioning and present her with another opportunity of snubbing him. Instead, he lounged back on the seat and whistled—although she did not identify it—the old cowhand tune The Streets of Laredo. Unused to such cavalier treatment on the part of her father’s employees, she was in a far from amiable mood as she turned the vehicle along the drive leading to the house.

  ‘Hombre,’ Clint remarked, twisting around so that he could look at and address the M.P., as the vehicle was stopping in front of the building. ‘Mr. Flack’s not going to take kind to what I caught you trying to pull at the hotel. I’m not fixing to tell him. You can do what you want, mind. But, was I you-all, I’d head straight to my room, say nothing and hope the lady here does the same.’

  Although Benner did not answer, the speed with which he quit the vehicle as soon as it stopped implied he was going to take the Texan’s advice. He had disappeared into the house and was scuttling towards the stairs before either of his traveling companions had stepped from the car.

  Throwing a cold glare at Clint as he went around and opened the Daimler’s boot, Olga stalked after the M.P. without speaking. Unloading the suitcase which held his belongings the Texan strolled leisurely and quietly towards the open front door. As he drew near, he heard Maurice Gambel’s voice and slowed down.

  ‘You’ve got to speak to your father, Olga. We should be bringing the men down here and making sure they know what will be wanted from them. But he insists he won’t let them leave London until Reeder’s dead.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ the woman promised, but she did not sound hopeful. ‘You know what he’s like where Reeder is concerned.’

  ‘I do!’ Gambel spat out, holding his voice down in a way that showed he did not want his words to carry too far. He went on angrily, but in no louder tones, ‘Damn it all! There’s close to five hundred thousand pounds at stake, not counting what we’ll make on this betting coup. And he’s putting it all in jeopardy just to satisfy a grudge.’

  ‘I said I’d do what I can!’ Olga snapped and, throwing a glance pregnant with meaning towards the door, raised her voice. ‘Do you need any help with your luggage, Mr. Clint?’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ the Texan replied, realizing that the question was intended to warn Gambel of his presence and to prevent him from hearing what was being said. He strolled into the house carrying the large suitcase with no sign of effort, continuing, ‘I reckon I’ll go straight up to my room unless your daddy wants me for anything.’

  ‘He’s already gone to bed,’ Gambel announced, scowling at the Texan. ‘And he left word that he isn’t to be disturbed.’

  ‘Then I reckon a man can’t do better than follow his lead,’ Clint drawled, having surmised that the other man would not have been speaking as he had if old Mad John Flack was in the study. ‘Good night, you-all.’

  As the Texan went up the stairs, he heard Olga following him. However, without needing to look back, his ears informed him that Gambel was not accompanying her. The sound of the front door being closed and locked suggested why this was.

  On entering the small back bedroom which had been assigned to him, Clint glanced around. It was furnished with a single bed, a small dressing table, a washstand and one chair. There was nothing to suggest that anybody had been in while he was absent. Nor, despite there being no way he could have fastened the door from the outside, had he expected otherwise.

  Closing and putting the catch on the door, Clint crossed to place his suitcase on the bed. Peeling off his leather jacket, he hung it over the back of the chair. Passing behind his waist belt, a strap on the back of the shoulder holster held it firmly in position. He opened the press-stud, drew the strap free and took off the rig. Liberating the Colt Government Model automatic pistol, he laid the holster on the seat of the chair. After he had unloaded the weapon, he opened his suitcase. Feeling among the clothing it held, he produced a box of .45 caliber cartridges, an empty magazine and a small bundle containing the means to clean the pistol.

  Working with deft speed, Clint stripped, cleaned and reassembled the Colt. Emptying the bullets from the magazine he had removed, he filled the spare and inserted it into the pistol’s butt. Not until he had drawn back the cocking slide and recharged the chamber did he show any signs of relaxing.

  A second delving into the suitcase brought into view a metal bootjack in the shape of a cricket. 58 Placing this on the floor, he inserted the back of his right boot into the U- shaped prongs of its head. With his other foot on the cricket’s body, he applied leverage to remove the tightly fitting footwear and reversed the process. He did not remove any more of his clothing. Instead, he crossed the room and turned off the light. Returning, he lay on the bed and tucked the Colt under the pillow. With that precaution taken, he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

  Although the knock on Clint’s door was not loud, it proved sufficient to achieve its purpose. Swinging his legs from the bed, he rose with the Colt in his hand and was as alert as if he had been fully awake instead of fast asleep an instant before. Crossing the room without making a sound, he halted against the wall at the right side of the door.

  ‘Who-all’s there?’ Clint inquired quietly, his right thumb resting on the Colt’s manual safety catch.

  ‘It’s me, Mr. Clint,’ Olga’s voice replied, speaking no louder. ‘Open the door, please. I want to speak with you.’

  Noticing the way in which his visitor was addressing him, the Texan was puzzled. It was as if she did not wish to disturb the occupants of the other rooms. Yet nothing he had seen of her caused him to believe that she would show such consideration under ordinary circumstances.

  Switching on the light, Clint waited for a few seconds until his eyes had adjusted themselves to the increased illumination. Then, still standing against the wall, he reached down to draw back the catch and open the door. Looking around warily, he satisfied himself that his visitor was alone. However, the fact that she wore a silk negligee and carried a bottle of brandy did nothing to explain her presence.

  ‘May I come in?’ Olga inquired, smiling seductively.

  ‘Does your daddy want me for something, ma’am?’ Clint asked, although he felt certain that the answer would not be in the affirmative. He moved to block the doorway and tucked the Colt into his waist band.

  ‘Of course not,’ Olga replied, struggling to retain her friendly expression. ‘I feel I’ve been treating you rather badly, particularly as you did save our lives this evening
. So I thought we might drink to a more … favorable … association in the future.’

  ‘I’d surely admire to, ma’am,’ Clint drawled, without offering to step aside. ‘Only this’s neither the time, nor the place.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Olga asked, her face and voice losing every suggestion of seductive promise.

  Your daddy wouldn’t take kind to it,’ Clint explained in his unemotional drawl. ‘And any man who comes close to you-all without his “go to it” is going to get chomped, whomped and stomped so fast and hard he’ll think the hogs’ve jumped him. Which I’m not figuring to let that happen to me.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were afraid of anybody!’ Olga spat out.

  ‘Happen a man’s fast with a gun as I am, ma’am, he’s not got a whole heap of need to be,’ Clint replied, still as calmly as if discussing the weather or some other commonplace matter. ‘But there’s a mighty big difference ‘tween not being scared and acting loco to try and prove it. I’m not scared of a diamondback rattler, nor even an old Texas flat-head grizzly, 59 but I wouldn’t go patting neither the one of them barehanded to show I’m not. Which being the way the trail’s headed, I’ll say thank you ‘most to death for your kind offer. But it’ll have to wait until after I’ve heard your daddy say it’s all right before I’ll take you up on it.’

  ‘Do you know what you are?’ Olga hissed, her face ugly with disappointment.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Clint assured her, his tone sardonic. ‘I’m just a half-smart lil ole Texas boy who hasn’t been around much. But I’ve got just enough savvy not to get suckered into something that’d put me in real bad with the feller’s hands out the money comes pay day. So I’ll be saying good night again.’

  With that, the Texan closed the door and secured it with its catch.

  Realizing that her motives had been understood by her intended victim, Olga stood for a moment in the semi-darkness. Then, with a hiss that sounded almost bestial in its fury, she swung on her heel. As she did, she discovered that her failure to entrap Clint had not gone unobserved. A door further along the passage was open and a figure stood in it.

  Filled with anxiety over how Flack might regard his behavior at the hotel, Benner had been unable to sleep. However, smoking a couple of marihuana cigarettes had improved his spirits. He had been on the point of going to bed when, hearing voices outside his room, he had decided to eavesdrop.

  ‘Hard luck, Olga,’ the M.P. jeered, as the woman stalked towards him. ‘You did—’

  The rest of Benner’s comment went unsaid. Spitting out an obscenity, Olga hurled the bottle of brandy at him. Although it missed, it struck the wail and burst close enough to spray him with fragments of glass and liquor. Giving a startled yelp, he retreated hurriedly and slammed the door.

  Having noticed Benner spying on them; Clint had not returned to his bed after bringing the conversation to its abrupt termination. Instead, giving the woman time to turn away, he clicked off the light and opened his door a few inches. He hoped he might learn something, but was also ready to protect Olga if the M.P. had been smoking marihuana and had regained the kind of spurious courage which caused him to molest the girl in Little Venner. From what the Texan saw, backed by his summation of Olga’s true nature, he decided no rescue would be required. So, still smiling sardonically, he closed and fastened the door. Strolling to the bed, he lay down and was soon once more sleeping peacefully.

  There was nothing gentle or furtive about the next knocking to disturb Clint’s slumbers. Sitting up, with the Colt in his right hand, he found that it was daylight. Going across the room, he unfastened and opened the door.

  ‘Come downstairs straight away,’ ordered Cyril Gambel.

  ‘You asking, or telling me?’ Clint challenged, moving until the other man could see the pistol he was holding.

  ‘Mr. Flack wants to see you,’ Gambel elaborated, scowling.

  ‘Why’n’t you say so straight off?’ Clint asked. ‘All right. I’ll come down just as soon’s I’ve pulled my boots on.’

  In spite of his promise, the Texan delayed for long enough to don the shoulder holster as well as his footwear. Having affixed the securing strap and slipped the Colt into the arms of the retention spring, he went to the ground floor. Guided by voices, he entered the study. Flack was seated at the table and attired as on the previous day. Olga, Gambel, Wagon and Kinch were present. While the woman and her father’s second-in-command were still clad in their night-wear and showed signs of having recently been called from their respective beds, the other two men, whose faces expressed considerable alarm, were dressed.

  ‘Good morning, Mr. Clint,’ Flack greeted, in a completely neutral tone. ‘I trust you slept well?’

  ‘Well enough, sir,’ the Texan replied, wondering if there was a hidden meaning to the old man’s words. ‘Only I don’t reckon you’ve sent for me just to ask that?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Flack conceded. ‘While you were in Little Venner last night, did you by any chance see one of our men?’

  ‘Why sure,’ Clint drawled, showing none of the tension he could feel rising. ‘I met Slick Markey down to the saloon I’d taken a room at.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you say something about it when you got back?’ Gambel demanded.

  ‘I’m pretty smart, hombre, but I haven’t gotten around to reading minds yet,’ the Texan answered. ‘Nobody’s gotten around to telling me what kind of deal’s going down hereabouts yet. I conclude it’s something to do with rigging a horse race and can figure’s how you’d not want the American hard-boots to be seen out and about, them being look-alikes for some English jock’s and all. But there wasn’t any call that I could see for Markey having to stay out of sight. Has he run out on you, sir?’

  ‘Did you think he was going to?’ Gambel barked.

  ‘Did you?’ Flack repeated, when Clint made no response to his second-in-command.

  ‘If I had, sir, I’d’ve fetched him back,’ the Texan stated. ‘We got to talking about shooting craps. Seems like he’d been a heavy loser and was asking about ways he could get cheated. So I told him a few—’

  ‘Huh!’ Gambel snorted, while Kinch looked even more worried and uneasy. ‘That wasn’t a very clever thing to—’

  ‘Hombre? Clint interrupted coldly and firmly. ‘Way I see it, a man who doesn’t have enough savvy to unfasten his coat and leave his gun clear before he brings in “Joe the Actor’s” bunch hasn’t any call to go judging how smart other folks might be.’ His gaze returned to the old man and he went on in a respectfully polite manner, ‘I’d say that Markey didn’t come back last night, sir.’

  ‘He didn’t,’ Flack admitted, after flickering a glance filled with suspicious calculation at his second-in-command. ‘He wasn’t in his room this morning and his bed hasn’t been slept in.’

  ‘Is his gear still there?’ Clint inquired.

  ‘Yes,’ Flack replied.

  ‘Then he could’ve got so drunk after I left him that he wasn’t able to make it back here,’ the Texan suggested.

  ‘We had thought of that,’ Olga put in.

  ‘Only he wasn’t hitting the Taos Lightning bad enough for it to seem likely when I pulled out,’ Clint continued, as if the woman had not spoken. ‘If he had been, I’d’ve stayed around and made sure he didn’t talk out of turn.’

  At that moment, showing signs of having dressed quickly, Maurice Gambel strode in and said, ‘Come on, Wagon. We’ll go and look for him.’

  ‘Do you reckon he’s gotten riled over the money he’s lost and pulled up stakes, sir?’ Clint asked, as the two men were leaving.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Flack answered and stared for a moment at the now visibly frightened Kinch. Then he swung his coldly reptilian eyes back to the Texan. ‘Have you any more suitable, or less unusual, clothing than you are wearing?’

  ‘Got me some city-bought duds in my grip, sir,’ Clint replied. ‘I didn’t pick them up over here, but they’re not too different from what I’ve seen being worn.’r />
  ‘Then I’d advise you to change into them,’ Flack stated. ‘You are going to London with my daughter as soon as we find out what has happened to Markey.’

  ‘Bueno!’ the Texan enthused. ‘Once I get there, I’ll be able to have a crack at earning my pay by killing J. G. Reeder.’

  Chapter Eighteen—Haven’t You Heard About It?

  ‘We’ve been keeping “Bert the Jump-Up’s” home under observation as you asked, sir,’ Detective Sergeant Challoner reported by telephone from Camden Town, shortly before five o’clock on Monday afternoon. ‘His widow hasn’t come back from his mother’s and nobody else has been near.’

  ‘I feared that might be the … um … case,’ Mr. J. G. Reeder admitted. ‘You may as well bring the surveillance to an end, sergeant. Thank you for your co-operation.’

  Never had the gentle detective spent such a worrying and unproductive period as he had gone through since the first attempt to kill him the previous afternoon.

  Investigating the incident at Captain Gray’s flat, Mr. Reeder had speculated upon what had happened but was unable to locate any evidence to confirm his suppositions. He felt sure that two men were involved. One had opened the door, allowing the other to enter. Then, while the booby trap was being set, he had gained access to the unoccupied apartment upstairs and lowered a rope ladder up which his accomplice had climbed at the completion of the work. However, in spite of extensive inquiries by the police, nobody could be found who had seen the intruders.

  Usually, Mr. Reeder would only have needed to ask questions in the right places to be told who was responsible. The underworld was a hotbed of gossip and secrets could rarely be kept. On this occasion, no information had been forthcoming. In fact, he had found there was a marked reluctance to communicate in any way with him. Men who had good cause to be grateful to him and had shown their gratitude by ‘nosing’ had been unavailable when he tried to get in touch with them. Some, alerted by the mysterious yet highly efficient means with which news passes between criminals, had gone so far as to leave London rather than be placed, in the invidious position of having to refuse a person to whom they were in debt.