Cap Fog 5

by J. T. Edson

  Questioned about her absence, the gang leader had claimed she was sent abroad to take a holiday which was paid for by the woman at whose hands she had suffered an unexpected and severe beating in a bout on ‘Cat Fight Night’. Lady Mary Herban when asked for verification, had asserted she was motivated by a desire to avoid unfavorable publicity, rather than generosity, as her victim had threatened to give the story of the fight to the newspapers. Further inquiries had established that a woman with the appropriate passport and answering to Molly’s description had crossed the Channel by the New Haven-Dieppe ferry boat and given her intended destination as Paris. However, on checking at the instigation of Mr. Reeder, detectives from the Sûreté had announced that she had left the hotel at which she had taken a room without supplying any forwarding address and she had not been reported as seen since.

  As far as Mr. Reeder was concerned, there had been an unexpected outcome from the report of Olga Flack’s death having appeared in the newspapers. Although there had been no reference to it before from any source, he was notified by three usually reliable ‘noses’ that—shortly after having been incarcerated at Holloway Prison For Women—she had offered to present the ‘Encyclopedia of Crime’ written by her father to whoever killed the man she held most responsible for his demise.

  That there should have previously been such reticence with regards to a matter of such importance to him came as no surprise to the gentle detective. Professional informers who would normally be willing to report the activities of even major criminals had always been afraid to do so where members of the Flack family were concerned. Its mentally deranged head had had a well-deserved reputation for being able to inflict a most painfully lingering death upon anybody who aroused his ire and this mantle of menace had descended upon his daughter. However, now convinced there was no longer anything to fear with the last of the evil brood being dead, tongues were ready to wag. Although no names or other confirmatory evidence had been supplied by the informers, Mr. Reeder suspected three recent abortive attempts to kill him were carried out with the intention of earning possession of the collection of books.

  Putting to use the faculties of what he frequently referred to as his ‘criminal mind’, which meant no more than he had a facility for following the frequently devious thought processes of those who broke the law, Mr. Reeder had formed a theory with regards to the disappearance of Molly Nickerson. However, before he was able to put it to the test, he had become distracted by the news of the offer made by Olga Flack. This in turn had been supplanted by the even more pressing information that the Chopper was coming to England with the intention of carrying on his murderous trade.

  Considering the latest development to be of such importance it must take precedence over the other two, Mr. Reeder had sought to discover who had hired the American professional killer or—failing this—the identity of the intended victim. However, despite suspecting he could name the dishonest lawyer, he had felt sure there was nothing to be learned in that direction.

  Wallace Oswald ‘Wally’ Marks, Solicitor and Commissioner of Oaths to give him his formal title—also known as a ‘Getter-Out-Of-Trouble’ and ‘Putter-Up-Of-Jobs’ to a large portion of what the popular press referred to as the ‘London underworld’—was too well versed in all aspects of the British legal system to be tricked, persuaded, or otherwise induced to divulge the required information. 48 Nevertheless, while calling to see him had been no more than a formality, the gentle detective had come away even more convinced in the validity of the news received from the commanding officer of Company ‘Z’, Texas Rangers.

  Once again, the ‘criminal mind’ of Mr. J.G. Reeder had produced a theory upon which he was willing to act!

  Suspecting he might be the proposed victim who the Chopper was coming to kill, regardless of there being numerous others with an equal desire to be avenged upon him, the gentle detective further surmised the possible motive. Nor did he believe the death of Olga Flack would prevent an attempt being made to earn the ‘Encyclopedia’. She did not have the books with her in Holloway, so they were sure to be in safe keeping and, unless he was mistaken with regards to her warped mentality, arrangements would have been made to ensure her wishes would be carried out even if she should die before her purpose was attained. Despite knowing how little loyalty existed between members of the criminal fraternity as a general rule, especially in the event of the demise of one party, he was disinclined to rely upon the custodian deciding to make a healthy profit by disposing of the ‘Encyclopedia’ for monetary gain rather than as payment for vengeance extracted on behalf of a now dead woman.

  Instead, Mr. Reeder had elected to try to lure a would be killer into making an attempt upon his life!

  The coming of the Texas Rangers had offered what he considered could prove to be an ideal opportunity!

  Communicating his wishes by radio to Major Tragg, the detective had secured co-operation for his scheme and his suggestions were passed to the young peace officers aboard the rapidly approaching cruiser!

  On coming ashore at Gosport, in accordance with the arrangements made by their commanding officer and Mr. Reeder, Ranse Smith had parted company from Rita, Rapido and Comanche. While they were to make their way to London in transport provided by the detective, with Major John Gray acting as chauffeur, guide and mentor, the blond giant—his hair dyed black—had travelled on the boat train from Southampton as if his arrival had been in the conventional fashion, to be met at Waterloo Station by Mr. Reeder and in the presence of several newspaper reporters and photographers.

  The pair made quite a contrast standing side by side!

  The detective was clad in his usual fashion, the tightly furled umbrella dangling by its crooked handle from his bent left arm, but his appearance was nowhere so much of an attraction for the newspapermen compared with the attire of his much younger companion.

  Topped by a white Stetson with a leather band carrying silver conchas around its crown, Ranse had on an excellently tailored brown lightweight two piece suit of the latest Western style. His large bolo necktie was made from Navajo silver and turquoise in the shape of his home State and his white shirt was silk. On the wide and floral patterned brown belt around his waist was a gold plated buckle inscribed with the initials, ‘A.D.F.’ and his cowhand boots were fancily stitched. He had his badge of office suspended from the left breast pocket in plain view, placed there at the request of the photographers. However, so proficiently had the jacket been cut that—even when fastened, which it was not at that moment—it gave little indication of there being a Webley-Fosbery Automatic revolver in an open fronted, spring retention shoulder holster against his left ribs. 49

  Posing for the photographers, Ranse was impressed by the evidence of his host’s obvious potential as a means of supplying ‘copy’ for newspapers. Even though the well-known American entertainer, James ‘Haysoff Spades’ Ogilby, was also on the boat train—having arrived more prosaically and conventionally by the latest passenger liner to reach Southampton—he and Mr. Reeder were receiving considerable attention.

  In spite of his thoughts, knowing why he and his companion had met in such a fashion, the blond giant was far from oblivious of his surroundings. Without needing conscious guidance, he was instinctively running his gaze over the men standing in front of them.

  Since becoming a member of Company ‘Z’, Ranse’s activities had caused him to face a similar situation involving members of the press on more than one occasion. However, even though two of these had occurred since the commencement of the scheme to gain information about the Chopper, he had never grown accustomed to looking dispassionately into the impersonal glass lenses of cameras in the hands of press photographers. In fact, he invariably felt uneasy when doing so.

  Thoughts of his dislike were driven from the blond giant’s head by another of vastly greater importance!

  One of the cameras was not showing the molded convex glass of a lens where it should be!

  Instead, there was on
ly a black hole with what appeared to be a hollow tube inside the vacancy!

  Nor did Ranse need to wonder about the meaning of what he was seeing!

  ‘Look out!’ the blond giant ejaculated and his right hand went swiftly towards the left side of his open jacket.

  At the same moment, Mr. Reeder demonstrated he was equally alert to the danger and just as perceptive!

  What happened next was further proof of the prescience shown by the gentle detective!

  Concluding the bait he was offering might be taken and an attempt made upon his life, Mr. Reeder had implemented preparations to cope with it. One of these, knowing there might be shooting, had been to try to avoid endangering the lives of innocent bystanders. Before allowing himself and the big young Texan to be photographed by the assembled cameramen, as he had concluded this might be the moment selected for the assassination bid, he had made sure they were standing not too far in front of a trolley piled high with wooden boxes. In that way, he was satisfied there could not be anybody immediately behind them whose life might be placed in jeopardy should the eventuality he envisaged occur.

  The precaution was fully justified!

  Even as the blond giant spoke and Mr. Reeder sprang aside, moving with a rapidity surprising for one of his less than youthful appearance, there was a crash and flame erupted briefly from where the lens should have been on the camera which was held by a tall man in the center of the photographers. The bullet expelled from the concealed heavy caliber revolver missed its intended mark, but only by a very slender margin. In fact, it struck and knocked the umbrella from the still bent left arm of the detective as he was moving away from his companion.

  Seeing he had failed to make the hit he hoped for, the bogus photographer bounded backwards. Turning and starting to run, he flung the body of the camera from the Smith & Wesson Model of 1917 revolver—chambered for the British Service .455 Eley cartridge—which he had hidden inside it.

  Twisting the Webley-Fosbery out of the retention springs of the shoulder holster, Ranse brought it from beneath his jacket with what appeared to the amazed onlookers to be close to blinding speed. However, as he was doing so, he discovered there was a very great and disturbing difference between the men in front of him and the kind of people to whom he was accustomed. Finding themselves in a similar situation, having a long history of gun fighting to guide their response, any crowd in Texas would have immediately and hurriedly taken the precaution of putting themselves out of the line of fire.

  Lacking the requisite knowledge, the reporters and photographers let out yells of consternation, but refrained from performing such a basically self-preservative course of action!

  ‘Goddamn it all to hell!’ the blond giant growled bitterly, as he saw the would be killer escaping through the intervening reporters and photographers who were preventing him from taking effective measures to halt the flight.

  Letting out the profanity, Ranse set off in pursuit. He was followed by Mr. Reeder, who had drawn a Colt Government Model of 1911 automatic pistol from the holster tucked into the. waistband of his old fashioned trousers, and was still moving in a remarkably sprightly fashion. As the crowd saw the massive figure of the blond giant approaching so precipitately, the far from small revolver seeming almost tiny in his big right hand, they began to clear hurriedly from his path. Two of them, fortunately reporters and not photographers, moved a trifle too slowly and were flung aside as he burst between them with no more apparent impediment than if they were infants rather than grown men.

  Swiftly as the Texan and the detective had acted, by the time they emerged into the open, the matter of the escaping would be assassin was taken from their hands in no uncertain fashion!

  Mr. Reeder had taken the precaution of having Jason Grant, Major John Gray and several detectives from Scotland Yard under the command of Chief Inspector Frank Gaylor, all suitably disguised to avoid attracting attention, and armed, mingling amongst the crowd at the station. However, although they were aware that the attempted killing had taken place, they too were restricted in their course of action by the people milling about them. Therefore, running with the revolver still in his hand, the would be killer was able to make his way unopposed through the main entrance. On doing so, he presented the foremost of his pursuers with an unrestricted view of him.

  ‘Halt or I fire!’ Major John Grant commanded at the top of his voice, skidding to a stop on spread apart legs and raising both hands to shoulder level and at arms’ length he pointed his Webley “Pistol No. 1, Mark VI”, a six shot revolver in spite of its name.

  Although the man heard the order and made a turning halt, it was clearly not with the intention of surrendering. Instead, he began to raise his weapon into alignment. Conscious of the number of innocent people to his rear, the Major responded immediately. Sighting swiftly and with all his considerable skill, having drawn back the hammer to assist his aim, he fired in a way which he hoped would serve his purpose of protecting the public while also bringing about the capture of the intended killer. Such was his ability that, perhaps aided by a modicum of luck, the .455 caliber bullet he discharged struck the point at which it was aimed.

  A shriek of pain burst from the man as the sizeable chunk of flying lead cut through his right leg. Throwing aside his weapon unfired, he spun around and started to go down. Before he landed on the ground, the drawn curtains of a black Daimler sedan towards which he had been running were eased apart slightly more than the small gap already in them. Emerging without there being any sign of the person holding it, a small automatic pistol spat four times. Each bullet tore into the torso of the already stricken man, but fortunately lacked the power to pass straight through. With the cocking slide operating to eject the fourth spent cartridge case, the pistol was withdrawn and the vehicle—which had obviously been waiting with its engine idling—was set into motion. It sped away from the station at a rapidly increasing speed and two police cars, awaiting such an event, failed to prevent it from gaining The Cut. It quickly made for Blackfriars Road with them in hot pursuit.

  ‘This’s the British model,’ Ranse assessed, after he and the other peace officers had collected around the sprawled out body, gathering up and examining the discarded Smith & Wesson revolver. Tapping the words, ‘.455 Eley’ inscribed on the barrel, which told him all he wanted to know, he went on, ‘So, unless he’s picked one up since he got here, I’d say this isn’t the Chopper.’

  ‘I’m inclined to … um … agree,’ Mr. Reeder seconded, studying the face as his intended killer’s already lifeless' body was turned over by a detective. ‘In fact, while I’m afraid I can’t recall him to my … um … recollection, I should imagine he’s only one of the … um … home grown variety.’

  ‘Which means,’ Jason Grant remarked pensively. ‘Either somebody couldn’t be bothered waiting for the Chopper to arrive, or there are more than one of them after Mad John’s “Encyclopedia”.’

  ‘I fear it may prove to be the latter … um … alternative,’ Mr. Reeder claimed with a sigh, and shook his head apparently in pained resignation. ‘That is one of the penalties of being so … um … popular.’

  Chapter Ten – I’d Kill You Where You Stand

  ‘Mr. Marks?’ queried the vaguely defined figure standing in the shadow of a shop doorway on a poorly illuminated section of Argyll Street between the Palladium Theatre and Oxford Circus.

  ‘It is,’ admitted the solicitor, glancing around to make sure there was nobody else in the immediate vicinity. The two ‘minders’ loaned to him by William Maxwell ‘Billy’ Churgwin, although close enough to reach him quickly should there be any need, were obeying his orders to keep out of sight. Having satisfied himself on both counts, he continued in his professionally unctuous manner, ‘And may I ask who you are?’

  ‘They call me “the Chopper”,’ the indistinct shape introduced, in a masculine American voice of a kind which a later generation would define as ‘Mid-Atlantic’ and which supplied no clue as to his regional origins.
‘That’s all you need to know.’

  Despite having an extensive and very profitable association with most of London’s major criminals, Wallace Oswald ‘Wally’ Marks felt as if an icy cold hand was running over him as he heard the name. It was the first time he had been brought into contact with a professional killer even close to the caliber of this man. He had followed instructions given to him over the telephone and had come to meet the killer shortly before midnight. Under different conditions, he would not have thought of obeying such a summons. However, the highly positioned gang leader in New York who had put him into contact with the Chopper had warned him that any conversation he might have with the professional killer would be in strict and anonymous secrecy. He had also been warned that he would be most ill advised to refuse to pander to the whims of the ‘hired gun’ and, when he considered the nature and reputation of the man he was addressing, he had decided to obey the instruction about the rendezvous.

  While holding a position in the legal profession almost identical to that of Counselor Reece Mervyn in Texas, the dishonest solicitor was nowhere nearly so impressive a figure. Prematurely grey, with a sallow and pouchy cast of features even his mother might have been forgiven for not loving, he was tall although his rounded shoulders tended to make him appear smaller. He had a broad brimmed black slouch hat drawn forward over his face. The long black ulster he wore concealed an expensive dark purple three piece suit which, as was invariably the case with his everyday attire, was liberally smothered by cigarette ash. When he spoke, his breath gave off the sickly aroma of the cheapest Empire port—of the kind derisively known as ‘jungle juice’—which he drank in copious quantities without it in any way impairing his faculties. In one respect, the Chopper might have considered it fortunate that they were not in his office. He always offered every client a glass of his favorite tipple and was reported to dislike being refused.