Cap Fog 4

by J. T. Edson

  Since they had parted on Sunday night, the girl had found her thoughts continually turning to her rescuer. In fact, hoping to see him, she had spent a considerable amount of Monday morning and afternoon riding near the boundary of General Snowhill’s and Wagon’s Properties. Failing to do so, she had visited Little Venner with no greater success during the evening and wondered if he had been dismissed by the trainer at the Right Hon. Horatio Benner’s instigation.

  Seeing the Daily Megaphone’s front page story at breakfast on Tuesday morning had caused Beryl to give the Texan further consideration. At first, she had read the story headed:

  J. G. REEDER MURDERED!

  Famous Detective Shot By American Gangster!

  – with no more than casual interest. Then she had come to a paragraph which captured her full and undivided attention.

  ‘The murderer, who is still at large, has been identified as James Bowie Rapido Clint. No photographs are available but he is described as being about five foot six in height, powerfully built, with black curly hair, tanned features and gray eyes, is aged twenty-five but looks younger, speaks with a pronounced Texas accent. When last seen, he was bareheaded, wearing a brown suit, white shirt and a plain dark tie. Although he has never been arrested, the United States of America’s Federal Bureau of Investigation report that he is a notorious professional killer. They warn that he is always armed and an expert with firearms, but is also skilled at unarmed combat. He is very dangerous and should be approached with caution.’

  Remembering how Benner had referred to her rescuer as a “dirty little hireling killer”, Beryl had also realized that—apart from the way in which James Bowie Rapido Clint was dressed—the description was identical with that of the young Texan.

  Such was the girl’s state of mental turmoil that she could not carry on reading. If she had, she would have learned the police had “good reason to believe” Clint had already left London and was thought to be in the North of England. Also how Mr. Reeder’s murder was causing considerable friction between Scotland Yard and the Public Prosecutor’s Office. The former were stating that they could not be held responsible. In spite of several previous attempts to kill him, the detective had refused—with his superior’s agreement and authority—to allow the police to take any precautions whatsoever for his protection.

  Much as Beryl had tried to tell herself that there was nothing more than a hideous coincidence involved, she could not shake off a sense of perturbation. Nor could she decide upon what action to take. In addition to being disinclined to make a fool of herself, she had doubted whether the local constable could deal with her Texan if he should be Clint. Not, she had repeatedly told herself, that the polite young man she had met could possibly be a dangerous professional killer, despite the way he had knocked Benner down. One thing of which she had been certain, a visit by the police—even if, as she felt confident would happen, it established his innocence—would make Wagon discharge him.

  The girl had still been undecided upon her line of action when she set out for Swindon, yet she had known that she could not relax until the matter was settled one way or the other.

  By the time Beryl had come into sight of Wagon’s establishment, she had made a plan. She would call at the house on the pretense of asking if Olga Garvin would like to accompany her to the cinema. Having done so, she could ask after the Texan’s welfare in a way which would avoid arousing suspicion. If there should be any, she could make it appear that the visit was to ensure he had not been victimized in any way for his treatment of the M.P.

  Forcing herself to ignore the nagging question of what she would do if her Texan and Clint should be the same person, the girl walked along the drive. She looked at the front of the house, but saw no sign of anybody having seen her. Hearing voices and activity behind the building, she acted on impulse. Instead of going to the door and knocking, she went around the end of the building. On reaching the stables’ yard, she found Olga, the Texan, Wagon and two small men watching another who was equally diminutive and having difficulty persuading a recalcitrant racehorse to enter a loose box. Much to her relief, although her common sense warned that it proved nothing, she noticed the Texan was dressed as he had been on their first meeting.

  Crossing the yard without attracting its occupants’ attention, Beryl identified the three small men. Her sense of puzzlement was increased rather than diminished by seeing them. ‘Hot’ trainers usually tried to attract the patronage of a few honest owners to lend an air of respectability to their stables and, in spite of a growing dislike, she had been charitable enough to consider Olga in that light. However, as each was known to be completely straight in his dealings, she would never have expected to find any—much less all—of those three particular jockeys at Wagon’s notoriously dishonest establishment.

  ‘Hey now, Ivan-boy,’ called one of the small onlookers as the horse backed away and, to the accompaniment of much profanity, dragged its handler after it. ‘Why don’t you-all leave that old cold-jawed hay-burner 72 out here and have Wagon build a stable ’round it?’

  Shock brought Beryl to a halt, but it did not stem from the kind of language being employed by the man holding the horse. During the years she had spent around stables, she had grown inured to the use of profanity under such trying conditions. What had provoked the reaction was a realization that there was something strange about the way the two men were speaking.

  Neither had an English accent!

  That was not surprising in the case of the one Beryl had taken to be Lem Dooby. However, instead of his usual Australian dialect, his words had sounded much the same as the Texan’s drawl. What was more, as an Englishman, Jim Gold’s voice should have announced his Yorkshire origin; but the speaker was cursing in a hard American twang.

  One thing became clear to the girl. She had been mistaken in her identification. Yet the resemblance was remarkable.

  Suddenly, Beryl began to appreciate the precarious nature of her situation and was alarmed by the conclusions she was drawing. While she was aware that “ringing the changes” with identical horses had been done on more than one occasion—in fact, Wagon was said to have practiced such a subterfuge—she had never heard of anybody attempting a similar trick with jockeys. There was, however, something she could be sure of. If such a thing was being contemplated, the perpetrators would not want witnesses. What was more, considering the expense involved in organizing such an endeavor and the sum of money which must be at stake, they were likely to take severe measures to deal with a person who saw the substitute riders.

  Even as Beryl was on the point of departing, hoping to do so without her presence being discovered, one of Wagon’s burly “stable hands” came from the tack room. Giving a bellow of surprise, he lumbered towards her. Spinning on her heel, as the other occupants turned in her direction, she fled across the yard along the route by which she had arrived. She heard Olga scream an order to catch her and the pounding of several pairs of feet, but did not try to look back.

  Dashing around the corner of the house, the girl found herself confronted by a bulky, hard faced man dressed like a farm laborer. He grabbed for her and, unable to halt or swerve aside, she felt his hands close upon her shoulders. It was fortunate for her that she came from a sturdy and self-reliant stock. Although frightened, she was not paralyzed by fear. Out lashed her right leg, the toe of her sensible walking shoe making contact with her captor’s shin. Giving vent to a savage imprecation, he thrust her away from him with such force that she staggered several feet and had no control over her movements. As she felt herself toppling backwards, two strong arms enfolded her from the rear. Rendered helpless to resist by the crushing pressure and lifted from the ground, she could not struggle. Face distorted with rage and drawing back his knotted fist, the man she had kicked began to advance.

  ‘Back off Kinch!’ roared the Texan’s voice.

  ‘Nobody kicks me,’ the man snarled, glaring at the small figure which lunged between him and his intended vic
tim. ‘I’m going to bust her up good!’

  ‘You’ll have to pass me first,’ Rapido Clint warned in his menacingly gentle fashion, adopting his posture of readiness.

  Looking over her rescuer’s shoulder, Beryl could see the change that came to her would-be assailant. Although he loomed above his challenger, he only took one more step forward. Coming to a halt, he kept his fist raised for several seconds and seemed to be trying to stare the other man down. Then his gaze dropped and the arm sank to his side. Muttering under his breath, he bent to rub his shin gingerly.

  ‘Put her down, hombre,’ the Texan ordered, glancing back.

  ‘Yus, Mr. Clint,’ rumbled the “stable hand’s” punch drunk tones in the girl’s ear as he complied. ‘Wot hewer you say.’

  All the slight relief Beryl had felt was wiped away by hearing the name the man holding her had spoken. Her rescuer, the small and insignificant young man she had helped in the belief that he was in danger from Wagon’s wrath, was, in reality, the professional killer who had murdered Mr. J. G. Reeder. Even though he had prevented the man from attacking her and told the “stable hand” to put her down, she doubted whether she could count upon his continued protection.

  ‘Thank you, young man,’ Beryl said, forcing herself to speak calmly under the scrutiny of the woman and men who surrounded her. ‘I realize I shouldn’t have come around to the yard without being invited, so I’ll be going—’

  ‘You don’t really think it’s going to be that easy,’ Olga purred. ‘Do you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Beryl countered, noticing that the man she had thought was Lem Dooby looked from her to Clint and back with a worried expression. ‘You can’t keep me here against my will.’

  ‘Why not?’ Olga challenged.

  ‘My people know I’ve come,’ Beryl bluffed desperately. ‘If I don’t go back soon, they’ll come to fetch me.’

  ‘How did she come here?’ Olga demanded.

  ‘In her jalopy,’ answered Kinch, to whom the question had been directed. ‘She left it on the road.’

  ‘Fetch it in and hide it in the garage,’ Olga commanded, studying the girl’s appearance with a mocking gaze. ‘If they come, they’ll be told that you’ve taken me to visit a cinema in Swindon.’ Her sneer increased as she saw the expression which came to the girl’s face and her eyes flickered to the Texan. ‘I seem to have struck a nerve, Mr. Clint.’

  ‘It looks that way,’ Clint admitted, also studying Beryl. ‘Could be that’s what she told her folks she was fixing to do.’

  ‘So they won’t be worried if you don’t arrive home in a little while,’ Olga went on, resuming her scrutiny of the girl. ‘If they call, or come, earlier, they won’t see you and that’s what they’ll be told. Or, later, we’ll insist you’ve left after bringing me back. When they come looking, they’ll find you—but you won’t be able to tell them what you’ve seen here. You’ll have been killed in a car crash.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four—You Are “Cap” Fog

  ‘My father wants to see you in the dining room, Mr. Clint,’ Olga Flack announced, as the Texan answered her knock. ‘He says you’re to bring the girl down with you.’

  Something in the woman’s voice and attitude disturbed Rapido Clint. An attribute which he had always found to be of the greatest use in his exacting line of work was that he was extremely sensitive to atmosphere. However, in this case, he could detect no cause for the uneasy sensation which was assailing him.

  Relations between Olga and Clint might have improved following his success at Richmond Terrace, but circumstances had prevented anything more intimate from developing. They had arrived at Charles Wagon’s training stables without incident and old Mad John Flack was thrown into transports of delight on being presented with Mr. J. G. Reeder’s umbrella as proof that his hated enemy was dead.

  The blow had fallen early in the evening while they were listening to a British Broadcasting Corporation’s news report. Not only was it announced that the identity of Mr. Reeder’s murderer was known, but Clint’s description had been given. Following his accusation of treachery directed at Maurice, there had been a heated altercation between the Texan and the Gambel brothers. It had required Flack’s intervention to prevent an eruption of violence. He had persuaded Clint that the brothers were not responsible, doing it in such a way as to leave them in no doubt as to his high regard for their accuser.

  If the Gambels’ sullen acquiescence was any guide to their emotions, they had not approved of their leader’s feelings towards the Texan. However, there had been some slight consolation for them. Out of consideration for the news they had heard, Flack had regretfully agreed with Clint’s statement that it would be unwise for him to stay in England. So the old man had promised to send him back to the United States as soon as a safe passage could be arranged. From that point, realizing he would be of no use to her, although still remaining friendly, Olga had lost her interest in Clint.

  With the matter of the Texan’s future settled, the party had turned their attention to business. Agreeing to the urgency of gathering the leaders of the bank hold up teams for consultation, Flack had pointed out that the police’s attempts to capture Mr. Reeder’s killer would place restrictions on their freedom to make the journey from London. It had been Clint who suggested the difficulties might not be of lengthy duration. He had said that there was frequently rivalry between the various law enforcement agencies in the United States and where two branches were involved, neither would be willing to accept the blame if something went wrong with an operation. From what Olga had told him on the train, a similar situation existed where Scotland Yard and the Public Prosecutor’s Office were concerned. The news broadcast had mentioned how the police were complaining about Mr. Reeder’s officially sanctioned refusal to co-operate by accepting their protection.

  In Clint’s opinion, if the police could be persuaded that he had already escaped from London, they would be unlikely to continue the time and man-power consuming task of maintaining road blocks around the city. Agreeing that this was possible, Flack had sent for the radio operator whose apparatus kept him in contact with Toby Asquith and had given the necessary instructions. From the reports received on Tuesday afternoon, the story of Clint’s departure had been accepted and he was correct in his assumption. The police were no longer checking on traffic leaving the city. So the old man had arranged for the subordinate gang leaders to join him that night.

  ‘You-all heard the lady, ma’am,’ the Texan drawled, looking at the girl who had been in his custody since her capture. ‘Let’s go down and see what’s doing.’

  It said much for Beryl Snowhill’s courage that she retained an appearance of composure as she preceded Clint from the room. There was a certain stiffness about her and her face had lost much of its color, but she was holding her deep inner anxieties firmly in check.

  Neither Beryl, Olga nor Clint spoke as they went downstairs. A glance at her wristwatch told the girl the time was half past ten. As yet, nobody would be worried by her absence. Nor, as she had forced herself to admit during her hours of captivity, were her family likely to be able to do anything on her behalf when they realized she was missing.

  ‘Have those fellers from London arrived yet?’ Clint inquired, as they reached the entrance hall.

  ‘No,’ Olga answered shortly.

  Even as the woman spoke, the beam of a vehicle’s headlights showed through the hall’s windows as it turned into the drive. From the sound of its engine and heavy crunching of its wheels on the gravel, it was much larger than a car.

  ‘This’s it now, I reckon,’ Clint drawled, still puzzled by the way Olga was behaving.

  Without deigning to reply, the woman led the way to the dining room’s main entrance. Once there, she allowed Clint and Beryl to go in front of her. Following, she slipped her right hand inside the front of her blouse. Entering with his left hand on the girl’s arm, Clint stiffened slightly at the sight which met his eyes. Wagon was leaving by
one of the room’s other doors, presumably to greet the new arrivals in the stable yard, but the Texan paid no attention to him. Something of even greater importance and sinister portent held his interest.

  Flack was sitting at the far side of the table, with his hands out of sight on his lap. Standing on either side of the old man, each with his jacket unbuttoned and a firearm prominent in his waist band, the Gambel brothers exuded malicious satisfaction. Face pale and haggard, the Right Hon. Horatio Benner crouched rather than sat on an armchair by the room’s curtain-covered French windows. In front of the door opposite to the one .through which the trainer was departing, Kinch lounged alongside what to Clint was the most significant sight of all.

  Gagged tightly, Bucky Borofin was bound to the chair against which Kinch was leaning.

  ‘You wanted me for something, sir?’ the Texan asked, face expressionless and voice devoid of all emotion.

  ‘I do, Mr. Clint. Indeed I do,’ Flack replied, displaying just as little sign of what he might be feeling or thinking. He indicated a sheet of paper that lay before him with a wave of his right hand, then pointed at the captive. ‘It seems we have a traitor in our midst. According to my informants in the United States, this is Special Agent Buckingham of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.’

  ‘That takes some believing, sir,’ Clint objected, releasing the girl and stepping forward. Before she could follow him, Olga had grasped her arm and restrained her. ‘I’ve heard tell of him for a fair spell and he’s always been a crooked jockey.’

  ‘My sources are always accurate, Mr. Clint,’ Flack declared, gesturing with his exposed right hand. ‘You will kill him for me.’

  ‘Why sure,’ the Texan agreed, without hesitation. ‘I’ll take him along with me when I go to fix the girl’s accident and leave him where he won’t be found.’