Cap Fog 4

by J. T. Edson

  Coming to a halt at the first word, Mr. Reeder realized that his assailants were trying to locate him. So he glanced around quickly. By sheer bad fortune, the nearest window was one of those which had retained its fittings. He doubted whether he would be able to open it quietly enough to avoid detection. Nor was he greatly enamored with the idea of plunging through the glass, particularly as he could not see what lay behind it. The nearest available shelter, the composition of which he was unable to ascertain, was a barely adequate mound of rubbish some feet to his left.

  ‘It is,’ the detective called back, having decided upon his strategy.

  Even as Mr. Reeder spoke, the beam of a powerful electric torch stabbed with disconcerting—but, fortunately, not complete—accuracy through the darkness.

  Having anticipated such an eventuality, although the light was being directed nearer to him than was desirable, Mr. Reeder was ready to counter it. As the beam moved towards him, his left, thumb pressed the catch on the handle of his umbrella. Released from restraint, having been designed to act in such a manner, the canopy sprang open. Throwing it forward so it was illuminated, he propelled himself to the left with all the speed he could muster.

  Three thunderous bellows told of gunpowder being detonated and the triple red glows of the muzzle-blasts erupted from between the buildings.

  Spotlighted by the torch, the barrels having followed its questing beam, the umbrella was flung backwards as the shotguns’ charges tore into it. However, its owner had passed beyond the spread of the buckshot balls. Landing on the ground, he continued to roll until he was flattened behind the mound. Just as he was disappearing, the light picked him up again and he discovered that his chosen shelter was far less substantial than he had imagined. In his considered opinion, it would not even offer him protection from the flying lead if his assailants stayed where they were. If they advanced, his position would become untenable.

  ‘You’ve missed the old—!’ a furious voice bellowed from the shore, as Mr. Reeder was reaching his unpalatable conclusions. ‘Aaagh!’

  The words were terminated in a startled and pain-filled yelp as a heavy caliber handgun crashed from the last window of the warehouse. Either having been thrown or more probably knocked from the speaker’s grasp, the torch was extinguished as it struck the ground and the scene was once more consumed by-the darkness.

  ‘He’s got mates there!’ yelled a second voice. ‘Scarper!’

  Realizing that a very rapid departure was called for, one of the men in the boat started its powerful engine and his companions on the bank turned to join him. Hearing and counting them jumping aboard, Mr. Reeder came to his feet and, when he was sure that none of them had stayed behind, walked forward. Before he reached the ruined buildings, the vessel was set into motion and went in a curve towards the other side of the river. As it departed, conscious that his rescuer had not offered to come and join him, he heard the man who had called earlier start shouting in alarm, but could not make out what was being said.

  A shotgun thundered!

  It was not aimed at the gentle detective!

  The shouting ended in a scream and there was the splash of something fairly large falling into the water from the boat.

  ‘Shall I set off the flare, Mr. Reeder?’ Hibbertson called, taking the precaution of asking before doing something which might endanger the gentle detective.

  ‘I’d sooner he didn’t, happen that’s all right with you-all,’ called the man whose timely intervention had extracted Mr. Reeder from an exceptionally precarious situation. His accent was that of a well-educated Southron 65 and the tones were pitched so they would not carry far. Furthermore, despite the request, he did not offer to leave the blackness of the building. ‘They’re going like a bat out of the hot place and likely won’t chance doing anything, but I’d sooner they didn’t see lil ole me.’

  ‘Very well,’ the gentle detective assented, deducing that his rescuer was concerned with something more than merely avoiding being revealed as a target for the fleeing criminals’ weapons. ‘Thank you, corporal, but don’t … um … ignite it.’

  ‘Bueno, gracias,’ the Southron drawled, but remained where he was. ‘You’re likely wondering who the Sam Hill I am?’

  ‘On the … um … contrary,’ Mr. Reeder replied, applying the manual safety catch and returning his pistol to its holster. ‘Your name is Alvin Dustine Fog. It is said that, in addition to being the most competent … um … gun fighter of your generation, you are the youngest man ever to attain the rank of captain in the Texas Rangers and, because of this, you have acquired the sobriquet … um … “Cap”.’

  ‘I’d tell a man you know all about me,’ the still concealed Southron chuckled.

  ‘Not … um … all,’ the detective corrected apologetically. ‘I did not know you were in this country. Nor, I imagine, did Colonel Besgrove-Woodstole. Or he might have offered to … um … “trade”, I believe is the term you American gentlemen employ, the information for something I know and in which he is very interested.’

  ‘Whee-doggie!’ “Cap” Fog ejaculated, leaning against the window’s ledge and studying Mr. Reeder, who had walked over while speaking, with interest. ‘Is whatever old Mad John Flack’s setting up likely to get the Colonel and his boys from British Military Intelligence on their trail?’

  ‘Nothing so … um … dramatic, as far as I’m aware,’ Mr. Reeder said mildly. ‘He would have made the exchange to obtain the names of the … um … chickens we are entering for the National Poultry Show.’

  ‘It looks like those jaspers will make it across before your police boats arrive,’ the Southron remarked, leaning forward and looking to where, their crews having heard the shooting, a launch organized by Mrs. Grible was rushing from each direction. ‘Have you-all anybody waiting over there to nail them?’

  ‘Not sufficient to block every avenue of … um … escape,’ Mr. Reeder admitted regretfully. ‘It is probable that they will evade … um … apprehension.’

  ‘I don’t reckon they’ll be fixing to have another stab at you-all tonight, anyways,’ “Cap” Fog guessed. ‘But you’re not out of the tall, dark and piney woods yet. There’s somebody been set on your trail who’s a whole heap meaner than any of those yahoos who’ve tried to make wolf bait 66 of you so far.’

  ‘Who might … um … that be, pray?’ Mr. Reeder inquired, displaying what might have been mistaken as alarm by anybody who did not know him, or who was a less shrewd judge of character than the shadowy figure in the warehouse.

  ‘Just about the most deadly and dangerous pistolero valiente 67 ever to come out of Texas, same as his grandpappy afore him,. “Cap” Fog answered soberly. ‘Fact being, I’ve heard tell he might be even better than me and I’m reckoned to be a regular snake at getting a hog-leg out and smoking. His name’s Rapido Clint 68 and, happen he comes gunning for you-all, you’re likely to wind up dead.’

  Chapter Twenty-One—Caught ’Tween a Rock and a Hard Place

  ‘So that sneaky old J. G. Reeder done licked you-all again, huh?’ Rapido Clint greeted, before Olga Flack could speak, as he and Maurice Gambel entered her room at a quarter past seven on Tuesday morning.

  The woman was so taken aback by the implication she read in the Texan’s words that she refrained from launching her intended demand to be told why he had caused her to be woken up at such an ungodly hour. Almost the only consolation she had been able to draw from the previous night’s events was that she had believed he was not aware they had taken place. Now it appeared she had not even that slight solace. What was more, she knew that she could no longer refuse to make use of his services. In spite of realizing that her father would not give his attention to their major project—the horse race coup was merely a moderately profitable intellectual exercise as far as he was concerned—as long as his hated enemy was alive, part of her still hoped that Clint would be as unsuccessful as all the other would-be assassins.

  On reporting to Olga the previous night, Toby Asquith h
ad assured her that he and his men had escaped from the abortive ambush at Stiwins’ Wharf without being seen, or leaving anything which might identify them. Although Slick Markey had become panic stricken and was shot by one of Asquith’s subordinates when he tried to leap from the motorboat, he had had nothing on his person that could lead the police to her. So she had considered that it was safe for her to remain in London.

  It had been very late when Olga had returned to the Great Western Hotel with Gambel and she was in anything but an amiable mood. Nor was her temper improved when, just after seven o’clock, a maid had arrived saying that the “American gentleman” next door had left instructions for their party to be called at that time. Before she could vent her pent up rage on the hotel’s employee, she had been informed that Clint was already awake and wished to see her on a matter of the greatest urgency. Wondering if her father had been in touch with him during her absence, she had told the maid to let the Texan and Gambel know she would be available in a quarter of an hour. That had not given her time to dress, so she was clad in her dressing gown when they arrived.

  ‘How did you know?’ Gambel began angrily, asking the question which was uppermost in Olga’s mind.

  ‘Well now,’ Clint drawled. ‘I figured it was that way from how Miss Flack banged the door and took to stomping around in here—’

  ‘I meant how did you know we’d gone after Reeder?’ Gambel corrected.

  ‘Got all sneaky and listened through the wall with a glass,’ the Texan explained cheerfully, unabashed at his admission of eavesdropping. ‘Happen you know the trick?’

  ‘I know it!’ Gambel admitted. ‘But you never said anything—’

  ‘Wasn’t no call for me to,’ Clint answered, calmly crossing the room to sit with his left rump on the corner of the chest of drawers. ‘I reckoned he’d be too slick for you-all. So I didn’t bother calling you down when you sort of stretched the truth by saying’s how your daddy’d passed the word for you to go out.’ His gaze had swung to the woman as he was speaking. ‘Now maybe you’ll let me take the cards and deal the hand.’

  ‘Do you think you can do any better than us?’ Olga was unable to prevent herself from demanding.

  ‘Lady,’ Clint replied drily. ‘I for certain sure couldn’t do any worse?’

  ‘Why you—!’ Gambel spat out, clenching his fists and taking a step forward.

  ‘All right, hombre!’ Clint drawled and, although his left hand rose to draw open the side of his jacket while the right pointed towards it, he remained seated. ‘Happen you reckon I can’t take Reeder, or you comes to that, come ahead and try to prove it. Only it’s going to be settled now. Put up, or set back and let me talk to the boss lady. Name which it’s to be.’

  ‘Very well, Mr. Clint,’ Olga gritted, when Gambel—having stopped at the Texan’s first word—showed no sign of taking up the challenge. ‘We’ll let you kill J. G. Reeder.’

  ‘Something just told me you-all might. First off, though I want you—’

  ‘So you need our help?’

  ‘Why sure, ma’am. Like this hombre told it last night, I’m off my home range and don’t know sic ‘em about the trails in this neck of the woods. So I need somebody on hand’s does. Trouble being, I don’t reckon you Limeys could get me what would be the most use.’

  ‘And what might that be?’ Olga inquired, being determined to supply every possible assistance so that the Texan could have no excuse if he was unable to carry out his promise.

  ‘A good driver—’ Clint commenced.

  ‘That’s easy enough to arrange!’ Olga interrupted.

  ‘Likely ma’am. Only, was this the good old U.S. of A., the folks’s I’d be working for could likely fix me up with a hack and its driver.’

  ‘A “hack”?’

  ‘What you’d call a taxi cab over here,’ Clint elaborated, his whole attitude implying that he felt lie was requesting the unobtainable.

  ‘We can get them for you,’ Olga promised, knowing that Asquith had access to such a vehicle and, in fact, frequently acted as its driver.

  ‘And I want to know what time those jaspers who were watching Reeder first saw him in his office,’ Clint went on.

  ‘Why?’ Olga wanted to know, growing interested in spite of herself.

  ‘Because that’s where I’m fixing to take him,’ Clint replied. ‘Outside, on the street, as he’s going in.’

  ‘Huh!’ Gambel snorted. ‘Asquith’s men were watching all day and they never saw him arrive, or leave.’

  ‘Lordy Lord! I swan if I hadn’t clear forgotten that?’ Clint ejaculated, directing a derisive glance at the other man and slapping his forehead in mock exasperation. He guessed from the glare Olga had thrown at Gambel, hoping he had overlooked the point, she would rather it was not called to his attention. ‘Thing being, they didn’t see him come or go. But they for sure saw him more than once while he was in there.’

  ‘Several times,’ Olga admitted. ‘He kept peeping out of the window—’

  ‘And making sure he’d be seen, so’s folks’d know he was there.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘How long will it take for you to raise this jasper with the hack, ma’am?’ Clint asked. ‘Because time’s one thing we don’t have a whole heap to spare.’

  ‘Go and call Asquith, Maurice,’ Olga ordered, impressed in spite of herself. ‘When will you need it, Mr. Clint?’

  ‘It’ll have to be here soon enough to get me to Reeder’s office just afore nine, I’d reckon,’ the Texan replied. ‘But I’d admire to hear what you think on that.’

  ‘Can you explain, please?’ Olga said and it was a request rather than her usual demand.

  ‘I mind what your daddy said at dinner on Sunday,’ Clint obliged, realizing he was being offered an olive branch.

  ‘’Bout how he’d got the Indian sign on every owlhoot and stool pigeon in this neck of the woods so bad that none of them would dare talk to Reeder.’

  ‘He has, too,’ Olga stated, recollecting how her father had made such a boast as a means of impressing the Texan.

  ‘Well, ma’am. There’s been so many tries and misses at getting Reeder that that there sign could start wearing off. Way it looks to me, your daddy and Reeder both are caught ‘tween a rock and a hard place. Your daddy’s got to nail Reeder’s hide to the wall and pronto, or folks’ll get to thinking his war medicine’s gone bad.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Trouble being for Reeder, he can’t just sit back somewheres safe and wait it out,’ Clint continued. ‘He’s built up a powerful reputation as one hombre who can’t be scared. So he’s got to go on the same way’s he always has. That’s why he let himself be seen once he’d made it to his office, knowing there was no way he could be reached in it. He figures that, when word gets out, folks’ll conclude he’s smarter than your daddy and isn’t spooked one lil bit. And we both know he’s right.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Olga conceded.

  ‘Way your daddy told it,’ Clint went on. ‘’Cepting when he’s hide-bound on some chore that keeps him away, he reaches his office just afore nine o’clock.’

  ‘He’s very regular in his habits,’ Olga admitted. ‘Father says he does it as a challenge to anybody who might want to try and kill him. Whitehall wouldn’t be the easiest place to get at him.’

  ‘That’s what he’s counting on,’ Clint declared. ‘Only, today I’m fixing to call his bluff.’

  ‘How?’ Gambel asked, showing considerable interest.

  ‘By going over there and killing him,’ Clint answered and his manner showed that he considered no further explanation was necessary, nor would any be given. ‘While you’re calling this Asquith jasper, tell him to keep all his watchers away today.’

  ‘Why?’ Olga inquired.

  ‘Because we’re up against one hell—if you’ll excuse the word, ma’am—of a smart hombre,’ Clint explained. ‘I’ll bet that, even if he didn’t see them yesterday, he’ll have figured out where t
hey was hid and I’ll have them staked out. Taking him’s not going to be easy and I want all the edge I can get. When he hears they’re not there, he’ll conclude it’s ’cause they’re starting to reckon he’s too smart for your daddy and he won’t be so alert as if he’s on the look-out for them.’

  ‘Do it, Maurice,’ Olga commanded. ‘There is one thing, though, Mr. Clint. I’m willing to let you handle the affair as you wish, but I want to go with you.’

  ‘Does Reeder know you?’ Clint asked, showing no surprise at the request.

  ‘Rather well,’ Olga admitted with a frosty smile. ‘But I can arrange it so he won’t recognize me.’

  ‘Happen you can do that, ma’am,’ Clint drawled, ‘I’d admire to have you along. And you’d best get us seats on the ten o’clock train to Swindon, hombre. We’ll be back with you before it pulls out.’

  ‘Pick me one with my back to the engine, Maurice,’ Olga said, putting her seal of approval on the matter.

  ‘What if something goes wrong?’ Gambel grumbled.

  ‘That’s a chance I’m willing to take,’ Olga answered, standing up. ‘Now, as Mr. Clint pointed out, we don’t have too much time to make all the arrangements. You both go and do whatever you have to. I’ll be packed and you’ll see to getting all the luggage on the train, Maurice.’

  Watching the men leave, the woman unfastened the sash of her dressing gown. She was impressed by Clint’s shrewd assessment of the situation and his preparations, such as learning when there would be a train suitable for their departure. However, she wished that she could have learned why he was so confident. If she knew that, she might still be able to arrange for J. G. Reeder’s death without allowing him to carry it out.

  Having packed her suitcases, with the exception of the items she retained in her somewhat large and bulky handbag, Olga dressed. She joined the men in the dining room and they had just finished eating breakfast when a porter came to announce that their taxi had arrived. Dressed in old clothes and a flat cap, with a realistic looking false walrus moustache to aid the disguise, Asquith was behind the wheel. His appearance was so close to that of the genuine driver only a close examination could have detected the deception.