Cap Fog 4

by J. T. Edson

  Receiving his instructions as they set off, Asquith transported the couple from Praed Street, Paddington, towards Whitehall. As the Texan had laid great emphasis upon the importance of arriving no later than ten minutes to nine, he kept a careful check on the time and displayed a superb driving skill which would have made him the envy of many a professional musher. 69 In fact, if he had felt so inclined, he would have been just as competent as “Bert the Jump-Up” to handle the Clyno Royal sedan during the first abortive attempt to kill Mr. Reeder. Turning the vehicle on to Richmond Terrace, he halted outside Number One. This was the building which housed the Public Prosecutor’s Office.

  During the journey, Olga had wiped off every trace of her faultless make-up and replaced it with a much less skillfully applied and matching selection from her handbag. Then she had donned a pair of most unbecoming horn-rimmed spectacles and a rather shapeless hat which obscured all her hair. Slumping down on the seat in an anything but elegant posture, she effected such a change that she aroused Clint’s unspoken admiration. Gone was her air of beauty and sophistication. She seemed to have become a plain, dowdy woman. As in Asquith’s case, unless one knew her well and was allowed to look closely, she would go unrecognized.

  ‘Whooee!’ Clint ejaculated, gazing along Richmond Terrace in the direction of the Victoria Embankment. ‘Was I part Comanch’, I’d swear old Kah-Dih 70 was looking right favorable on us. Here he comes now.’

  Staring over Asquith’s shoulder, Olga failed to locate anything that could have accounted for the Texan’s comment. There were several pedestrians approaching, but none of them was even remotely like the man for whom they had come looking.

  ‘I don’t see him!’ the woman ejaculated.

  ‘Yes you do, ma’am,’ the Texan contradicted, opening the taxi’s door. ‘And so did Asquith’s hombres. Only they’re like you-all. They wasn’t counting on him being all sneaking and showing up in disguise.’

  With that, the Texan unfastened his jacket and stepped from the vehicle. Once on the pavement, without closing the door, he turned as if to address the driver. There was nothing in his attitude to suggest that he had any other purpose in mind.

  Exercising all her strength of will, Olga forced herself to retain the unflattering posture as she repeated her scrutiny of the people who were coming towards them. One of the closest was a tall, heavy-set, ancient and venerable man in the garb of a Roman Catholic priest. A round topped black hat was perched somewhat precariously on a veritable mane of white hair. Whiskers and bushy eyebrows almost obscured his features as he peered about him in what seemed to be a short-sighted fashion. Despite the day being pleasantly warm, he wore a crumpled old black cloak-coat from beneath which showed trousers badly in need of pressing. In his left hand, he grasped a new and tightly furled umbrella.

  An umbrella!

  The one thing which Mr. J. G. Reeder was almost never without!

  What was more, the very newness of the umbrella gave a clue. Not only was such a neat item out of keeping with the rest of the ‘priest’s’ rather slovenly attire, the detective had had an umbrella damaged beyond repair during the ambush at Stiwins’ Wharf.

  Even as the implications were starting to strike Olga, Clint straightened. In a deceptively casual seeming manner, he swung towards the ‘priest’.

  Halting in the same crouching stance he had adopted when dealing with the Italian gangsters on Sunday night, Clint began the smoothly flowing and lightning fast motions by which he could draw the Colt Government Model automatic pistol from its shoulder holster and fire in less than a second.

  From the way in which the ‘priest’ responded, he knew what the sight portended. Halting, he started to throw the umbrella at the Texan with an under-arm swing that was vastly different from the bumbling way in which he had been moving up to that moment. However, such was the deadly speed employed by Clint that his pistol had come out and roared just after the umbrella left its owner’s grasp. Twice more, in rapid succession, the big automatic vomited forth a bullet. Olga saw puffs of what appeared to be dust fly in a small triangle from the left breast of the cloak coat as the missiles struck home.

  Reeling backwards, the stricken man’s hands rose spasmodically. While the left clasped over the point of impact, the right went on to clutch at his beard. His hat and “hair” slipped from his head. An instant later, as he was falling, an involuntary gesture tore away his face’s adornment to reveal the agony distorted features and sandy side whiskers of J. G. Reeder.

  Chapter Twenty-Two—That’s What Your Daddy Wanted

  Leaving the jacket’s lapel, as Mr. J. G. Reeder was crashing supine to the pavement, Rapido Clint’s left hand stabbed out to catch the umbrella which was flying in his direction. At the same time, his right arm swung until the Colt Government Model automatic pistol was lined at Asquith. Shock and alarm came to the man’s face. He wondered if the Texan had somehow learned of certain proposals which had been made to him. Even if he had contemplated treachery, finding himself staring into the muzzle of that deadly weapon would have caused him to discard the notion.

  Having taken what he regarded as a sound precaution against being deserted, or worse, Clint did not waste a second. Still clutching the umbrella and his automatic, he flung himself through the open door of the taxi.

  ‘You did it!’ Olga enthused, as Asquith set the vehicle into motion, so beside herself with delight over the successful outcome that she beamed at the Texan.

  ‘That’s what your daddy wanted, ma’am,’ Clint reminded her, laying his weapon on the seat between them so that he could close the door of the rapidly accelerating taxi.

  So swiftly had the whole incident taken place that, building up its speed, the vehicle was departing along Richmond Terrace before any of the pedestrians could fully comprehend what had happened. It had turned left on the Victoria Embankment by the time the constable who was on duty outside Number Ten, Downing Street, attracted by the screams and shouts which rang out—he had thought that the shots were merely the result of a vehicle backfiring—dashed across Whitehall blowing on his whistle.

  Displaying the same deft ability and knowledge of London’s geography he had used while bringing his passengers from the Great Western Hotel, Asquith drove swiftly until making a left turn on to Northumberland Avenue. Going right at the Embankment brought them to Charing Cross. Reducing the pace as they entered Villiers Street, he joined the flow of traffic in the vicinity of the railway station. From there, in the company of numerous similar looking vehicles, he continued the journey at a pace which was unlikely to attract attention.

  ‘Looks like I done you-all an injust’ back there, amigo,’ Clint remarked in a friendly tone, opening the taxi’s communication panel as soon as the reduction in speed made conversation with its driver feasible. ‘Only I’ve known it happen that a pistolero got left behind, accidentally on purpose, after he’d done his work.’

  ‘There was a suggestion that I should,’ Asquith admitted, glancing over his shoulder. ‘I’m pleased I didn’t consider it.’

  ‘I didn’t suggest it!’ Olga Flack declared hastily, as the Texan looked at her.

  ‘Never reckoned you did, ma’am,’ Clint said soothingly and returned the pistol to his shoulder holster. Then he held out the umbrella, continuing, ‘Here. I reckon your daddy’d admire to have this.’

  Accepting the trophy, Olga gazed at it. There was a silver plate set in the handle and she read its inscription:

  Presented to J.G. Reeder by his colleagues at the Public Prosecutor’s Office as a tribute to the part he played in disposing of Mad John Flack.

  ‘He will!’ the woman confirmed vehemently. ‘Thank you very much, Mr. Clint.’

  ‘Back home to Texas they say you keep calling somebody “mister” you don’t like them too well,’ Clint drawled.

  ‘We’re a little more formal in England,’ Olga answered with a smile, opening her handbag. ‘I’d better make myself look more presentable before we get to the station.’


  ‘Well,’ Clint said, when the application of the make-up was complete. ‘Now old Reeder’s dead, you’re daddy’ll likely be willing to get those fellers together to make ready for whatever he’s got in mind.’

  ‘So you did hear Cyril Gambel on Sunday night,’ Olga commented, but with none of the asperity that would have been evident before the successful conclusion of the Texan’s assignment.

  ‘Why sure,’ Clint confessed, with a grin which made him appear very young and friendly. ‘I guess I’m just a lil old sneaky at heart and he’s got him a carrying voice even when he’s trying to talk quiet.’

  ‘The gentleman’s right, Miss Flack,’ Asquith put in, having been listening. ‘I can gather them together and have them down to Little Venner just after dark tonight.’

  ‘It’s maybe none of my never-mind, but I’d leave it until at least tomorrow was I you-all,’ Clint drawled. ‘With somebody’s important’s Reeder being gunned down, the John Laws’ll be jumping around like bullfrogs on a red hot stove- top. They’re going to be watching every which way of leaving town real careful; checking who-all’s on the trains and in cars and such. They’ll not let that old horse-box of yours—’

  ‘You know about that?’ Olga interrupted.

  ‘Guessed,’ Clint corrected. ‘Not that that needed much doing. Even after dark, maybe because it was after seeing what kind of a longhorn Wagon is, nobody’s going to think much about seeing a horse box arrive at his place. Only the police on the road blocks aren’t about to let it pass without wanting to look inside. That happens, them being such nosey cusses and all, they’re going to start wanting to know how come some real big owlhoots are riding in it instead of horses.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Olga conceded without hesitation. Not only had the Texan been correct in deducing how the various visitors were transported secretly to Charles Wagon’s training stable, but he was just as right with his other summations. ‘Tell them to stand by, Mr. Asquith. I’ll make sure that father calls for them to come tomorrow.’

  ‘I’d be obliged if you would, Miss Flack,’ Asquith stated. ‘We’re all getting concerned by the waiting. Time’s getting short and you don’t lay on twelve bank hold ups simultaneously without plenty of preparation, particularly with so many different cities involved.’

  ‘Whee-dogie!’ Clint ejaculated. ‘So that’s what your daddy’s big deal is!’

  ‘That’s what it is,’ Olga agreed, closing the glass panel between them and Asquith.

  ‘Your daddy’s even slicker than I figured,’ the Texan praised and, unknowingly duplicating the theory which Mr. Reeder had formed regarding the matter, continued, ‘Taking all those banks’s going to make what he gets for switching Bucky Borofin and the other hard-boots with the English jock’s they feature look like chicken feed.’

  ‘Arranging the coup amused father, but this is only a start,’ Olga replied, accepting that after Clint’s success there was no way she could prevent Flack from taking him into their organization. She also decided that, as he would be joining, he had qualities which could make him a useful ally if she could win him over. With the jealousies and ambitions of the other members posing a constant threat, she might have need of his services. ‘Now Reeder’s dead, there’s nothing and nobody who can stop us building a criminal empire such as the world has never seen.’

  ‘You and your daddy’re the ones who can do it, Miss Flack,’ the Texan declared and, in addition to dropping the patronizing “ma’am” or “lady” he had previously employed, there was a more respectful timbre to his tones. ‘But it’ll call for help that you can’t get from us owlhoots.’

  ‘Such as?’ Olga challenged, noticing the change of attitude and pleased by it.

  ‘Folks like shyster lawyers, judges who’ll take orders on how to handle trials, or politicians to raise fuss and vote how you want, but who pass as honest God-fearing citizens,’ Clint elaborated. ‘Take that Benner hombre. What I’ve heard, your daddy helped get him elected to Parliament; but he didn’t strike me as a jasper who’d stay loyal or trustworthy. So I reckon you’ve got him down at Little Venner to make him an accessory before, during and after those bank stick- ups. That way, he’ll be in so deep he can’t back out.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ Olga confirmed, deciding that the Texan’s shrewd assessment was further evidence of his intelligence and discernment. Combined with his deadly proficiency as a fighting man, provided she was able to keep him under control, it would make him a valuable weapon m her hands. ‘He’s an unpleasant, stupid, money-and power- hungry coward. So we need a really strong hold over him. And, as you said, once he’s implicated and compromised, we’ll have it.’

  ‘Will that Markey hombre being killed do anything to spoil the horse racing deal your daddy’s set up?’ Clint asked.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Olga replied. ‘As his death wasn’t mentioned in the papers this morning, it’s possible that his body hasn’t been found. 71 If it has, there’s nothing to connect him with Wagon, or us, and he’d already served his purpose by teaching the American jockeys the things they need to know about British racing.’

  ‘That’s right fortunate,’ Clint drawled. ‘I’d hate to think of your daddy’s deal being spoiled by something’s should never have happened.’

  Although the comment might have caused a rift in the improved relationship between Olga and the Texan, it was prevented from happening by their realization that the vehicle was approaching Paddington Station. As it drew to a halt on the arriving taxis’ rank, looking through the window, they found that Maurice Gambel was hovering in the background displaying a worried expression. The route selected by Asquith had been deliberately less than direct and the hands of the station’s clock pointed to ten, so there was some cause for his concern. Relief flickered briefly on his face as he recognized Asquith, but faded when Clint emerged. Gambel threw an interrogative scowl at the taxi’s driver, who met it with cool indifference.

  ‘You-all got us the seats, hombre?’ the Texan demanded over his shoulder as, deftly blocking off the advancing man, he helped Olga to alight.

  ‘Yes,’ Gambel answered sullenly, then his gaze went to the umbrella in the woman’s hand. ‘Is that—?’

  ‘It is,’ Olga confirmed, holding the umbrella out. ‘Take it, you’re more suitably dressed than either of us to be carrying it.’

  ‘A porter’s taken our luggage to the compartment I’ve reserved,’ Gambel said, obeying and drawing the correct conclusion from the way the woman was looking around.

  ‘I just knew he was good for something,’ Clint announced, oozing insolence. He took Olga’s arm in the proprietary manner which might be expected of the man who had earned her father’s approbation by killing J. G. Reeder. Then he made a gesture of annoyance and released her. ‘Damned if I haven’t forgotten to pay off this here good driver.’

  Turning, the Texan took some money from his trousers’ pocket and handed it to Asquith. Accepting his payment the “musher” threw a grin and a wink at his “passenger”. Repeating the gestures, Clint took a handkerchief from his pocket. Shaking it a couple of times to open it out, he blew his nose and replaced it. Resuming his grip on Olga’s arm, he gave a jerk of his head which was clearly a command rather than a request for Gambel to accompany them and led her towards the platform area. Scowling furiously, Gambel glanced at Asquith. Receiving no sympathy from that source, he stalked angrily after the couple.

  Not until the trio were walking beside the train was Gambel allowed to take the lead and then it was only so he could guide them to their compartment Once this had been indicated, Clint pushed by him. Entering the reserved first class compartment, the Texan placed Olga in the rearwards facing window seat and sat beside her. Scowling, but making no comment, Gambel set himself down facing them.

  Nothing was said by any of the three during the few minutes before the train was set into motion. However, when it started and was passing beyond the end of the platform, Clint glanced to make sure nobody was going by
in the corridor. Satisfied that they were unobserved, he came to his feet. Sensing danger from the cold glint in the Texan’s eyes, Gambel also began to rise. As he was doing so, a set of hard knuckles lashed across his face in a powerful back hand blow and knocked him down again.

  ‘That’s for trying to have me left behind, or killed, back there after I’d made wolf bait out of Reeder,’ Clint drawled, his soft voice chilling and his body exuding a sense of savage readiness. ‘The last hombre who tried to double-cross me lived just long enough to figure how a thing like that might rile me. Only thing stopping me showing you-all is Miss Flack’s daddy could need you.’

  At about the same time that the Texan was delivering the warning, a medium sized slender man in the uniform of a railway porter entered a public telephone box and dialed a number. Standing with other similar officials at the arriving taxis’ rank, he had not been a very diligent employee of the Great Western Railway as he had never offered to take any of the incoming passengers’ luggage.

  ‘It won’t be today, sir,’ the man said, when the connection was made, and his accent was more cultured than that .of the average railway porter.

  Chapter Twenty-Three—You’ll Have to Pass Me First

  Beryl Snowhill was a young lady with an inquiring mind. When puzzled by, or interested in, something, she could never resist attempting to satisfy her curiosity. Finding herself both interested in and puzzled by the young Texan who had come into her life so dramatically upon two occasions, she had decided to put her mind at ease about him. So, although she had left her uncle’s home with the intention of attending a cinema show in Swindon, she stopped her MG Super Sports Tourer outside the main entrance to Charles Wagon’s training stables.