Cap Fog 4

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Is Stiwins’ Wharf still empty?’ Olga inquired, ignoring the question.

  ‘Yes,’ Asquith confirmed. ‘“Honest John” Staines tried to work the fiddle 62 with it on that chap Tibbetts who’s been making such a name in the City, but it didn’t come off.

  63 Since then, they’ve even got rid of the caretaker.’

  ‘Perfect!’ Olga ejaculated, turning over in her mind all she knew of Stiwins’ Wharf and its surroundings. ‘This is what we’ll do.’

  ‘It stands a good chance of working, Miss Flack,’ Asquith enthused, at the end of the explanation. ‘We won’t have any trouble making Slick do his part and Reeder’s never hesitated to act on his own. Even if he doesn’t, there’s no way lie can bring the police without us seeing them in time to get away. You couldn’t have picked a better place for us to get him.’

  ‘How about Clint?’ Gambel put in, glancing at the left wall of the room.

  ‘How about him?’ Olga countered.

  ‘We’re not taking him with us, are we?’ Gambel elaborated.

  ‘Certainly not.’ Olga declared firmly, sharing her companion’s disinclination to have the Texan accompany them in case her scheme should fail. She also wanted to see how he would react when he was informed that J. G. Reeder had been killed without his help, depriving him of the opportunity to earn his fee. ‘I’ll tell him that father has called to say you and I have to go out, but he must stay here in case there are any messages.’

  ‘He won’t argue if he thinks that’s what your father wants him to do,’ Gambel concluded. ‘Even if he gets suspicious later, he won’t know where we’ve gone and he doesn’t know London well enough to be able to find us.’

  ‘He may want to know how he can get in touch with us if he needs to,’ Olga warned and looked at Asquith. ‘We’ll give him the telephone number of your club and say they’ll know how to reach us. That ought to satisfy him.’

  ‘Who is this chap and why do you need to satisfy him?’ Asquith asked.

  ‘So you see, he’s not a man you can impose your will on,’ Olga finished, after delivering a brief and accurate description of the Texan’s ability in defending himself. ‘And we don’t want a disturbance here. We’ll do as I said and that way there won’t be any.’

  In spite of the woman’s and Gambel’s delight over their belief that at last they were going to get the better of Rapido Clint, he was not unaware of their intentions. The rooms of the Great Western Hotel at that period were not completely soundproof. While he was unable to make out the words, he had heard Olga and the two men talking next door. Drawing the correct conclusion as to why he had not been invited to join them, he had converted the tumbler from his washstand into a simple but effective listening device. With its bottom to his ear and the top pressed against the dividing wall, he was able to hear all that was said.

  There was a wry grin on the Texan’s face as he lowered the tumbler at the end of the conversation. He could think of no way in which he could dispute the alleged orders from Flack without admitting he had been eavesdropping. Such a confession might lead to the disturbance Olga was anxious to avoid and which would not serve his purpose either. Yet he had no desire to miss taking part in such a potentially interesting expedition. It was obvious that Olga and Gambel had no intention of allowing him to accompany them. Although he knew where their destination was to be, Gambel had been correct when stating that he was completely unfamiliar with the topography of London. He might be unable to locate Stiwins’ Wharf by his own endeavors, or could reach it too late to participate in the proposed trapping of J. G. Reeder.

  Chapter Twenty—Your Name is Alvin Dustine Fog

  ‘Do you want to know who’s trying to get you killed?’ asked a male voice, in a Liverpool accent, having contacted Mr. J. G. Reeder via his publicly listed telephone in the study of Daffodil House.

  In the course of his career, the gentle detective had received sufficient similar messages to be able to draw conclusions from the tone and responses of the person who was addressing him. More in hope than expectancy, he gave two presses on the bell button beside the telephone. It was a signal for his housekeeper to try to have the source of the call traced.

  ‘I … um … know who it is,’ Mr. Reeder replied and heard a faint sound like whispering in the background which suggested that there was more than one person listening to him. ‘It is, of course, that criminal lunatic, old Crazy John Flack, who, if there was any … um … justice, would have been hanged years ago.’

  ‘Do you know what he’s planning next for you?’ the speaker inquired.

  ‘I would prefer to know with whom I am in … um … conversation,’ Mr. Reeder countered, deciding that the ancient villain was not one of his audience. Flack would never have remained silent on hearing the way in which he had been mentioned. ‘Who is this, please?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ the caller protested.

  ‘Oh but it does,’ Mr. Reeder replied, wanting to maintain the conversation for as long as possible. ‘I am not in the habit of speaking with strang—’

  ‘Listen!’ hissed the speaker, having received sotto voce prompting from another of the listeners. Tm only going to say this once. If you want to know, come out to Stiwins’ Wharf—’

  ‘Would that be in the direction of … um … Henley?’

  ‘No. It’s in the opposite direction, off the main Woolwich Road. Come there by eleven tonight and I’ll tell you everything.’

  ‘Everything?’ Mr. Reeder repeated, still playing for time in which the call could be traced. ‘Good heavens. Not even the … um … Encyclopedia Britannica claims to do that. What a veritable cornucopia of inform—’

  ‘Come alone!’ the speaker almost shouted, once again receiving instructions from the background. ‘If you bring the police, or anybody else, it’s all off.’

  ‘How do I know this isn’t an … um … ill-conceived practical joke?’ Mr. Reeder demanded, although he thought no such thing. ‘After all, John … um … Flack is dead.’

  ‘You know better than that,’ the caller replied, in accordance with the orders he was being given. ‘And you’ll find out whether I’m joking or not if you don’t come.’

  ‘Wait a moment, please,’ the detective requested, putting a note of urgency into his voice which he hoped would produce compliance and keep the conversation going for at least a little while longer. Locating the source of the call was a lengthy process and he doubted whether it had been achieved yet. Remembering the theory he had formed with. regard to the problem presented to him by the “Miller”, he went on, ‘I will come only if you can supply information about the … um … horse racing coup which the venerable Mr. Flack is engineering.’

  ‘How the … did you know ab—?’ the man at the other end of the wires commenced in profanely startled tones, then he or one of the other listeners hung up his receiver with considerable violence.

  ‘So Mr. … um … Flack is involved,’ Mr. Reeder mused, as he replaced his instrument in a more gentle fashion. ‘I wonder where he might be?’

  ‘They didn’t have time to make the trace, sir,’ Mrs. Grible reported, entering the study soon afterwards. She looked at the Colt Government Model automatic pistol her employer was slipping into his trousers’ waist band holster. ‘Are you going out?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mr. Reeder admitted and gave a full account of the conversation.

  ‘It’s a trap!’ the housekeeper stated.

  ‘The … um … contingency has not escaped me,’ Mr. Reeder replied mildly. ‘Could you see if we have a map of the appropriate area, please?’

  Examining the large scale ordinance survey map produced by Mrs. Grible, the detective could see why Stiwins’ Wharf had been selected as the rendezvous. The area was devoted to industrial interests, with few people residing in it. Situated some distance from the main Woolwich road, the Wharf was hidden from view of that thoroughfare by two blocks of factory buildings which were unlikely to be occupied at night. Access to it was only possi
ble along a straight and narrow street, or from the river. To make matters worse, or better depending upon one’s point of view, the Thames flowed in a straight line at that point and it would be impossible for a boat of any kind to approach the waterfront unnoticed.

  ‘You’re still going, aren’t you, sir?’ the housekeeper said, more as a statement than a question, knowing that he could never resist a challenge.

  ‘I am,’ Mr. Reeder confirmed.

  ‘Then I wish that Mr. Grant and Captain Gray were back,’ Mrs. Grible declared.

  ‘Don’t you think I’m … um … old enough to go out alone at night?’ Mr. Reeder asked chidingly, but with a smile that robbed the words of any sting and made him seem far younger than he looked.

  ‘It’s not that, sir,’ Mrs. Grible protested. ‘They’d be able to help. You can’t have the police anywhere near enough for them to be able to reach you quickly when the trap’s sprung—’ She paused as an idea occurred to her, then continued, ‘Not unless you could have them put in an old barge, or something else that doesn’t look like a patrol boat.’

  ‘Regrettably, there isn’t sufficient time to make such elaborate preparations,’ Mr. Reeder pointed out. ‘That is why they stipulated I must arrive by eleven o’clock. However, I intend to take some … um … precautions.’

  Telling the housekeeper what he would require and what he wanted her to do, the detective went upstairs. In his bedroom, he changed into a dark blue shirt. Opening his chest of drawers, he removed a case containing a well-stocked theatrical make-up kit. Having selected a small round box, he put it in his jacket pocket and replaced the case.

  On returning to the ground floor, Mr. Reeder walked into the dining room. It was in darkness. Without switching on the light, he crossed to the bay window and made a careful examination of Brockley Road. He saw nothing to suggest that any of his enemies were lurking along that respectable thoroughfare. Nor was he expecting to be in any danger until after he had reached Stiwins’ Wharf. His well-founded reputation for springing traps of his own upon intended trappers would make people who had called him act with caution. Having taken the trouble to select an area which offered them excellent opportunities for detecting and avoiding any precautions he might implement, they would be content to let him arrive rather than try to attack him en route.

  Ending his scrutiny, Mr. Reeder went into the entrance hall. He collected his hat from the rack and accepted the umbrella Mrs. Grible had prepared for him. It looked much the same as the others in the stand and the only difference would not be noticeable in the darkness. Inserted under the furled canopy, its end and the ring of its friction primer 64 emerging, was a tubular magnesium flare. It was capable of producing an almost instantaneous brilliant glare which would not only illuminate his immediate vicinity, but be visible for a great distance in spite of the surrounding buildings. Probably the police officers, who the housekeeper was going to ensure were as close as possible, could not arrive quickly enough to bottle up every avenue of escape. Instead, he was hoping that the glow would frighten his assailants away and, even if he did not manage to have anybody captured, might allow him to identify them for arrest at a later date.

  For all the detective’s estimation of his enemies’ probable intentions, he was very alert as h§ drove the Frazer-Nash Fast Tourer with its top up—the windshield had been replaced during the morning—through the streets towards Woolwich Road. He was too appreciative of Flack’s intelligence to have overlooked the possibility that his own reasoning on the subject had been anticipated and measures taken to make the most of it. With time of the essence, however, he realized that he could not take as circuitous a route as he would have wished. In spite of that, the journey was uneventful.

  As usual, Mrs. Grible proved to have carried out her duties in a satisfactory manner. Mr. Reeder found the party of policemen he had instructed her to summon waiting on the side street which he had decided was sufficiently far from his destination to prevent his enemies learning of their presence. Leaving the Tourer in the officers’ care, he took out the round box from his make-up kit. Opening it, he covered his face with the black powder it contained. With that precaution taken, he resumed his journey on foot.

  The night was dark and there was no moon. Even on Woolwich Road, due to the stone throwing proclivities of the local urchins, the street lighting varied between fragmentary and non-existent. Unfortunately for Mr. Reeder, one of the surviving lamps illuminated the entrance but did not shine along the narrow access road. However, the fact that it was lined on both sides by the high perimeter walls—their tops encrusted with jagged chunks of broken glass to discourage intruders—of two factories was advantageous to him. While he could not enter the road unseen, by looking along each wall in turn, he was able to ascertain that nobody was lying in wait for him outside the wharf.

  Grasping the umbrella firmly in his left fist, Mr. Reeder unbuttoned his jacket. Wanting to be able to ignite the magnesium flare with the minimum of delay if it should be needed, a task which required both hands, he did not offer to draw the pistol. Scanning the terrain ahead constantly, making the most of his well-developed night vision, his ears sought to detect any warning sounds as he advanced warily along the potholed access road towards the dilapidated entrance gates. They were open and, exercising even greater care, he stepped through.

  Stopping just inside the bounds of Stiwins’ Wharf, the gentle detective gazed about him. Even without the disturbing belief that men were lurking somewhere on the premises with the intention of killing him, the scene struck him as being one of dreary desolation. It also offered too many places of concealment for his peace of mind.

  To Mr. Reeder’s right was what had once been a weighbridge and its office. As the latter’s door was closed and the windows boarded over, he doubted whether any of his enemies would be inside. In fact, he surmised that—realizing how the river offered them a safer avenue of escape than the road—they would be closer to the waterfront. Some distance away, across a yard liberally bespattered with litter of various kinds, was a vast and decaying structure that had been a combined warehouse and precious metals’ refinery. Beyond it, along the edge of the Thames, were a few battered derricks which must have seen better days and the remains of three smaller unidentifiable buildings.

  Everything was deathly still as Mr. Reeder began to advance in the direction of the warehouse. Even as his eyes were sweeping along its wall, searching for the various access points, he heard a clock in the distance chiming eleven. Drawing closer, he could make out some of the objects of his examination. Although the doors appeared to have survived the onslaught of time and the local population, many of the windows had been denuded of their panes and frames.

  Suddenly there was a brief suggestion of movement, which the detective sensed as much as saw or heard, behind the oblong outline of the glassless window he was approaching. Instantly, he froze in his tracks and his right forefinger sought for the primer ring of the magnesium flare.

  ‘It’s Corporal Hibbertson, Mr. Reeder,’ announced a voice, which for all its quiet pitch, the detective recognized was that of Colonel Besgrove-Woodstole’s batman. ‘Don’t shoot, or show a light, sir. They’re down behind the buildings by the river. Four of them are on the bank, with what look like shotguns. There’re another two on the motorboat they came across in.’

  ‘Thank you, corporal,’ Mr. Reeder replied in no louder tones. ‘Is the … um … Colonel with you?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Hibbertson answered. ‘There’s only me and his cousin from America. He’s down at the other end of the warehouse, keeping an eye on them.’

  ‘Take this magnesium flare and be ready to set it off, please,’ Mr. Reeder requested, realizing this was neither the time nor the place for him to satisfy his curiosity regarding the corporal’s presence or about Besgrove-Woodstole’s “cousin from America”. He extracted the tube from the umbrella and, handing it over, drew his Colt. ‘I’m going to spring the trap. Do you know exactly where the Colonel’s
… um … foreign relative is situated?’

  ‘He’s at the end window on the ground floor, sir,’ Hibbertson explained, the slight pause before the honorific indicating a professional soldier’s annoyance at a civilian thinking he might have omitted to obtain such basic but important information. ‘Shall I come with you?’

  ‘I think not,’ Mr. Reeder decided, amused by the other’s attitude, ‘one target is … um … sufficient, corporal.’

  ‘Whatever you say, sir,’ Hibbertson assented. ‘Good luck.’

  Comforted by the knowledge that he had assistance so readily available, although puzzled by how it came to be there, Mr. Reeder stepped forward. Remembering how some of the waiting men were armed, he was too wise to let himself become distracted by pondering on his good fortune or allow it to make him grow careless. Instead, he paid an even greater attention to his surroundings. Feeling ahead of him with each foot in turn, so it would locate and avoid anything which might otherwise have been kicked and make a noise, he watched for the first hint to betray his assailants exact positions. He was confident that they would have great difficulty in seeing him. Having moved at an angle to the entrance gates, he was no longer sky-lined against the illuminated entrance of the access road.

  Contriving to move in silence, the detective went nearer and nearer to the bank of the river. By the time he was level with the next to the last window of the warehouse, he was growing concerned. He knew that he was already in range of the shotguns and he still had not succeeded in pinpointing their users.

  Doing so was growing increasingly urgent!

  It was, in fact, literally a matter of life or death!

  ‘Is that you, Mr. Reeder?’

  The words originated from beyond the central of the three ruined buildings. In spite of the very frightened timbre the voice now held and the possibility of distortion caused by passing along the telephone wires, the detective could tell he was being addressed by the mail whose call had brought him to Stiwins’ Wharf. He also deduced that the man was not speaking voluntarily.