by J. T. Edson
One could categorize Mr. Smith, bank manager, Mr. Brown, senior clerk for a long established stock broker, or Mr. Jones, owner of a chemist’s shop in a suitable district: but where did one place a detective, particularly when his exact standing in that field had never been established. Over a great number of years, Mr. Reeder had been described in newspapers—even the exalted variety to which the neighborhood subscribed and which was considered infallible on most issues—variously as a private detective, a consultant for the Bank of England, a member of Scotland Yard and an official in the service of the Director Of Public Prosecutions; but which of these occupations was the real one had never been definitely established. Not only had Mr. Reeder himself proved unapproachable for supplying the requisite information, but his domestic employees—generally a source for the satisfying of curiosity—were equally uncommunicative. His housekeeper was not the kind to exchange confidences, even with those in a similar position to her own. Nor, as they did not live on the premises and disclaimed all knowledge of his affairs, were his maid and gardener any more helpful when questioned.
Mr. Reeder offended local susceptibilities in another way. Everybody else in the neighborhood followed long established conventions regarding their attire, especially those who—as he did—had employment which took them into what was generally referred to as ‘the City’ and meant that area of London wherein its main business and financial interests were based.
Even when inclement weather caused Mr. Reeder to add either a mackintosh or an overcoat—each equally old fashioned and the latter embellished by a long woolen scarf which was regarded with even greater revulsion—his clothing was invariably as archaic as his physical appearance. Almost six foot in height, with a lean frame, his sandy side-whiskers, rather outstanding ears, mournful cast of features and fairly prominent nose—upon which, secured to the lapel of his jacket by a silk cord, steel rimmed pince-nez spectacles perched so far down it was impossible for him to see through them without adjustment—combined to imply he was no longer in the first flush of youth. His attire was of a style which had been practically de rigueur for the bailiff of a County Court, or a coroner’s officer, in an earlier decade. He sported the kind of high and flat crowned black bowler hat which had ceased to be fashionable several years ago. Nor was his black frock coat, buttoned tightly about him as if to deliberately emphasize his slender frame, any more up-to-date in its cut. Furthermore, a ready-made black silk cravat of the broad ‘chest protector’ pattern, buckled under a white ‘Gladstonian’ shirt collar, narrow legged trousers and black, square-toed boots added to the general impression of advanced middle age. His sole concession to modern trends was a tightly rolled umbrella which he always clutched in his right hand when he was to be seen beyond the boundaries of his property.
There was still another factor about Mr. Reeder which aroused resentment. It went beyond his unconventional appearance, or whether a detective—no matter what his exact status might be—could be considered an acceptable member of their community. Some claimed his presence in the area would act as a deterrent to thieves and other undesirable elements. A second school of thought were of the belief that his being there tended to lower the tone of the neighborhood.
No matter which point of view was held, all were in agreement on one subject!
A noisy neighbor of the normal kind could be the subject of complaint!
However, how did one deal with a person who—while never rowdy himself—had had a man shot to death on his doorstep, 39 or was himself subjected to an assassination bid by gun fire from a passing car? 40
On the subject being raised by a deputation of residents in the street, not even Mr. Green—in his capacity as senior clerk to a noted barrister—could supply an answer. Lacking any legal precedent for objections and, perhaps, unwilling to risk arousing the animosity of one who might be able to instigate reprisals of an unpleasant nature, they had elected to take the easy way out and leave their perhaps undesirable, albeit apparently illustrious in some circles, fellow resident to his own devices.
Despite the decision, or rather because of it, the neighbors took an overt interest in the doings of Mr. Reeder. They avidly devoured every reference to him in the newspapers and on the radio, pretending to enjoy his successes and reveling in reports of his occasional failures. Furthermore, every visitor he received was subjected to a surreptitious scrutiny.
Therefore, that evening, more than one set of curtains had been parted a trifle so that the person behind them could satisfy his or her curiosity when two cars had drawn up in front of Daffodil House. Not that any of them could identify the callers, even though all had been visitors on more than one occasion in the past. Two, looking to be respectively in their late-forties and mid-thirties, bore a physical resemblance to Mr. Reeder and were commonly believed to be his sons. If this was the case, neither had inherited his sartorial tastes. Like the third man—who was shorter, somewhat older, with a distinctly military bearing similar to that of the younger—they wore excellently cut semi-formal evening wear of the latest style.
While Mr. Reeder and his guests had been aware of the furtive scrutiny to which they were subjected, none of them cared greatly about it.
Having eaten an excellent dinner, the party were discussing the events of the day. After their host had told of his activities, Colonel Brian Besgrove-Woodstole, D.S.O., M.C. and Bar, had described a demonstration of a proposed addition to the equipment of the Royal Air Force which he and Major John Gray had witnessed that afternoon. Based upon a development of American aircraft designer, John M. Larsen, it was a two-seater aeroplane carrying no less than twenty-eight Thompson submachine guns with one hundred round drums mounted—twelve pointed slightly forward, six directly downwards and ten inclined slightly to the rear—in its belly and intended as a ground attack weapon.
The comments from Jason Grant and Mr. Reeder had changed the direction of the conversation!
‘They never did find that blasted encyclopedia of his, if it ever existed, did they?’ Colonel Besgrove-Woodstole inquired.
‘It … um … existed all right,’ Mr. Reeder replied. ‘In fact, he let the Governor see one of the … um … sixty-three—I believe it was—volumes he had written by hand.’
‘Then why didn’t the Governor confiscate them?’ the Colonel demanded.
‘He tried,’ the elderly looking detective answered. ‘Unfortunately, by the time he had read the first and realized the … um …potential of them, they had all been spirited away and have never been seen since.’
‘They weren’t anywhere to be found around Charles Wagon’s place when we finally finished him off,’ Major John Gray supplemented, the dinner party being to celebrate his recent promotion to that rank. ‘And his daughter claimed he’d had them destroyed when we questioned her.’
‘Do you believe her?’ Besgrove-Woodstole wanted to know.
‘Far be it for me to doubt the word of a … um … lady, though that is hardly how I would describe Miss Olga Flack,’ Mr. Reeder said, the question having been directed to him. ‘But if she should tell me that Monday is the day before … um …Tuesday, I would immediately check upon the calendar to verify it.’
‘Nobody in the underworld believes they were,’ Jason Grant declared. ‘In fact, from all I’ve heard, it’s the ambition of every criminal to lay his hands on the—!’
‘Excuse me, Mr. Reeder,’ said the large and grim looking woman whose knock and entrance had caused the interruption. ‘But there’s a telephone call from a girl. She won’t give her name, but I think it’s one you should take.’
‘Very well, Mrs. Grible,’ the detective responded, showing no hesitation before accepting the summation given by his housekeeper. Shoving back his chair and rising, he continued, ‘Excuse me please, gentlemen. I shouldn’t think this will … um … take long.’
Chapter Eight – You’re Just What She Wants
‘Mr. Reeder?’ Molly Nickerson said, when a masculine voice replaced that of the gravel ton
ed woman who had answered the telephone call she was making.
‘It is,’ replied the man at the other end of the line. ‘May I … um … enquire to whom—?’
‘No, you can’t!’ the girl interrupted. ‘But I’ve got something to say you’ll want to hear.’
‘Carry on, my dear,’ Mr. J.G. Reeder authorized, knowing the procedure required by such a call and refraining from pressing the matter of identity.
‘Not on the blower,’ Molly refused, darting a worried glance at the door of the office. While she had heard nothing to disturb her, she was disinclined to spend any longer in conversation with the detective than was absolutely necessary. ‘I’ll tell it to you opposite the Essex Head on Essex Street. Do you know where it is?’ 41
‘I do,’ Mr. Reeder confirmed, his speech quicker than usual as past experience led him to conclude—correctly—that the caller had a sound reason for not wanting to make an extended use of the telephone.
‘Can you be there by half past twelve?’
‘Yes. But how will I know you?’
‘I’ll know you!’
‘Is there any danger for you?’ Mr. Reeder asked, knowing Mrs. Grible would have followed their established procedure by trying to have the source of the call traced and seeking to gain time for this to be done.
‘Only if I get caught on the blower,’ Molly assessed. ‘Will you come?’
‘I will,’ the detective promised. ‘But it might be safer for you if you tell me from whence you are speaking.’
‘I’ll tell you that when I see you,’ the girl countered and hung up the receiver with shaking fingers.
It was not until Molly had removed her hand that the enormity of what she had so impulsively done struck home. She had been born and raised of a law abiding family, with no criminal connections, in the respectable London district of Hanwell. However, since her disinclination for honest toil had led her into prostitution—in addition to having sought to remove all traces of her inborn accent from her voice—she had come to know much about the unwritten code of the underworld. Therefore, she was aware one rule more than any other was considered inviolate—even if frequently broken—by habitual criminals. It was that nobody informed upon any other person. Having seen what happened to a ‘nose’ who was caught out in his transgression, she had no desire to fall victim to such a fate.
Wondering if the revenge she sought to attain against Lady Mary Herban and William Maxwell ‘Billy’ Churgwin was worth the risks involved, the girl hurried to the door. Opening it and peering out with what she believed was sensible caution, yet which would have aroused suspicions if she had been seen, she satisfied herself it was safe for her to leave. A glance at her wristwatch informed her that she could reach the rendezvous which she had suggested to Mr. Reeder easily in the time she had allowed. However, she was disinclined to remain in the Pinhole Club. Hurrying to the dressing room, she collected her evening cloak and handbag. Donning the former, she was grateful for it having a hood which would not only hide the damage inflicted by the upper class woman in their fight, but could also be drawn forward far enough to conceal her features as she waited for the detective near the Essex Head public house.
Without realizing it, being unacquainted with most aspects of the way in which the Pinhole Club was run, Molly had made a terrible mistake when using the telephone in the office of the manager!
If the girl had confided in Mr. Reeder with regards to the location from which she was making the call, even though it would have been too late to prevent her committing the error, he could have warned her of the danger she had created for herself!
Nevertheless, as it was, Molly did not remain oblivious to her peril for long!
Hurrying downstairs, the girl suddenly found herself confronted by three formally dressed men forming an arrowhead formation which prevented her passing between them!
Although the lighting was far from brilliant, Molly recognized the foremost of the trio as the male victim of her intended betrayal!
Big and burly, dressed in immaculate ‘white tie and tails’, ‘Billy’ Churgwin had black hair plastered flat with bay rum and parted down the center. His face was tanned, his nose suggested he had on at least one occasion participated in fistic activities. While his expression could soften and become subservient when consorting with the very wealthy customers of the Club, it was showing no such emotion at that moment. Rather he was looking as menacing as he always did when something had occurred to arouse his ire.
Deducing from past experience that her employer was angry, Molly was made even more uneasy at the sight of the two massive men who were following him. While they sported dinner jackets and black bow ties, by no stretch of the imagination would anybody have taken them for customers unless being of a most unworldly nature. Molly was certainly not unworldly and she knew they were two of Churgwin’s ‘minders’. She concluded that somebody was in trouble.
With a sense of chilling shock, the girl realized the person they were after was herself!
‘Going somewhere, Molly?’ Churgwin inquired, sounding almost mild.
‘Home, Billy,’ the girl replied, trying without too much success to prevent her consternation from showing. ‘I don’t feel up to going on my pitch after what that posh bird from Up West did to me.’
‘So you’re going home, huh?’ queried the owner of the Club, who was also the controller of most of the criminal activities in the ‘West End’ and surrounding districts of London.
‘Yes.’
'Straight home?’
‘Y … Yes.’
‘Not by way of the Essex Head then?’
‘H … How did you k … know? Molly gasped, her face going white except for the badly discolored area around the closed eye.
‘I do know and that’s enough for you,’ Churgwin snarled, without disclosing that he had a man permanently monitoring and recording all worthwhile calls passing in and out of the premises. ‘So you’re going to nose on me to that old bastard Reeder, are you?’
‘N … Nose? the girl croaked, attempting to give the impression that she had no idea what the term implied.
‘Nose,’ the gang leader repeated, then gestured with his right hand. ‘Let’s go back upstairs, shall we?’
‘Go ba—!’ Molly commenced, then opened her mouth to scream.
Before any such sound could leave the girl, showing the skill he had acquired as a boxer even though it had failed to prevent his nose being broken, Churgwin drove forward his left fist in a close to classic punch. Giving vent to a strangled squawk instead of the shriek she had intended as the knuckles sank into her midriff, Molly folded at the waist. Catching her by the shoulders, he twisted and slammed her head first against the wall. Supporting her as she was rendered unconscious for the second time that night, he scooped her into his arms. Then, glancing behind to make sure they were not being observed, he carried her towards the floor from which she had descended. Taking her into the office of the manager, he tossed her to the floor with no more care than if he had been handling a sack of rubbish.
‘What’re you going to do with her, boss?’ the taller of the minders inquired, his badly slurred voice suggesting he too had spent time in a boxing ring although not as successfully as his employer.
‘This’s’d be a good chance to get old Reeder,’ the second estimated, speaking in a similar fashion to his companion. ‘He’ll come to Essex Street like she told him, then we can duff him up good ’n’ proper.’
‘You don’t reckon he’ll go there alone, do you?’ Churgwin challenged. ‘No, we’ll leave him to the bloke I’ve got coming from America. He should be arriving any day now and I’ve heard he’s the best there is in Yankee land’
‘Polly Agathy’s downstairs with a “can” she’s going to con, boss. Why not send her to tell him the tale?’ the first minder remarked, his manner helpful. ‘You could lumber Lou Birkstone for one of his “naughties” by having her reckoning that’s what she’d asked him to come and hear.’
&
nbsp; ‘We’re not dealing with some thick flatfoot on the beat, nor even a busy out of “the Yard”,’ Churgwin pointed out derisively, making it clear that his disinclination to accept these suggestions was not because the female confidence trickster in the dining room was already working on an intended victim. He had considered and discarded, on the grounds he had just stated, a similar idea for using Pauline ‘Polly’ Agathy—the carrying out of whose activities in the West End was to a great extent dependent upon his good offices—to supply information which could bring about the arrest and removal of a rival gang leader. ‘Polly might have conned that “can” Educated Evans out of his winnings, 42 but Reeder’d go through her like a dose of salts if she tried to tell the tale to him.’
‘Then what’re you going to do about him, boss?’ the second burly man wanted to know.
‘Nothing,’ Churgwin replied, his manner brooking no argument on the subject. ‘Let the old bastard go to Essex Street. He won’t find her there and he’ll even be too late to get a drink at the Essex Head. Maybe if he hangs about long enough waiting for her to show up, he’ll catch his death of cold and snuff it.’
‘That’d be handy,’ rumbled the taller minder, then jerked a thumb towards the motionless girl on the floor. ‘What’s going to happen to her, boss?’
‘Don’t you worry about that!’ the gang leader commanded. Then, bending down to pat Molly on her bruised cheek, he went on enigmatically, ‘You’re just what she wants, my girl!’
‘Was it a wild goose chase, Jimmy?’ asked Jason Grant, as he sat over coffee with Mr. J.G. Reeder and Major John Gray after, as was always the custom in such cases, they had finished their breakfast without making any mention of the events of the previous night.
‘I’d be inclined to … um … say not.’ the elderly looking detective assessed, then looked at the fourth occupant of the room. ‘What do you think, Mrs. Grible?
