by J. T. Edson
‘As you wish, boy,’ Marks assented, employing the usual form of address for his clients.
‘Boy?’ the American repeated, his tone menacing and indicating he was not enamored of the designation.
‘As you wish, sir,’ the solicitor amended, surprised by the obvious resentment for a term which had been accepted without objections by such prominent luminaries of the London underworld as Billy Churgwin and Louis Arnold ‘Lou’ Birkstone. ‘And may I ask why you asked to meet with me in such a fashion instead of coming to my chamb—?’
‘Is somebody trying to pull a double-cross on me?’ the Chopper interrupted, his manner indicating more than mere indignation.
‘A double-cross?’ Marks repeated, in a genuinely puzzled manner.
‘That’s what I said!’ the American confirmed coldly. ‘Goddamn it, the first thing I see when I hit this city of yours is somebody trying to gun down the feller I’ve been brought over to take out.’
‘You were at Waterloo this afternoon?’
‘If that’s the name of the railroad depot I got down at.’
‘I thought that might be what you wanted to see me about,’ Marks admitted, having heard about and conducted an investigation into the attempted murder and its aftermath of Mr. J.G. Reeder.
‘Then you knew it was going to happen?’ the Chopper challenged grimly.
‘Certainly not!’ the solicitor denied hurriedly, for once, with complete justification for his aura of innocence. ‘But, with what’s at stake, it doesn’t surprise me that somebody else wants to have Reeder killed.’
‘And just what is at stake?’ the American asked.
‘There’s what you’d call a bounty been put on his head,’ Marks explained evasively. ‘And, with so many wanting him dead anyway, it’s an added inducement for them to try to get him killed. I can assure you that Mr. Churg—your client—wasn’t responsible. He’s willing to leave it entirely up to you.’
‘That’s real smart of him,’ the Chopper claimed dryly. ‘Because I wouldn’t be any too pleased if I found I’d been brought all this way and some smart-assed Limey son-of-a-bitch figured on cutting me out now I’m here.’
‘I assure you that isn’t the case,’ the solicitor declared. ‘In fact, when I mentioned I was meeting with you—but not where or when—he told me to ask if there was anything, money, female company, whatever you wanted and, to make sure you got it.’
‘Have you found those two fellers I asked you to fix down for me?’ the American inquired.
‘Yes,’ Marks confirmed and reached into the right side pocket of his ulster to extract an envelope. ‘They’re in here with your advance payment. It’s half in sterling and half in dollars, as you requested.’
‘Thanks,’ the shadowy figure said, but remained where he was, compelling the solicitor to move forward so that the offering could be accepted.
‘And perhaps there’s something more you’d like me to arrange for you?’ Marks hinted, stepping back and wishing he was able to see anything that supplied a clue as to the identity of the hired killer. He was not averse to turning informer if the profits were sufficiently attractive.
‘No, there’s nothing else I need,’ the American stated. ‘Tell whoever’s given me the contract that I’ll get word when I’m ready to make my hit, so’s he can get himself a real good alibi.’
‘I will,’ Marks promised, realizing with a sensation of annoyance that the other man obviously considered their conversation was at an end and was dismissing him. Being used to receiving more deference from even prominent members of the British underworld, he found the attitude annoying. Therefore, wanting to avoid the impression that he was willing to accept such cavalier treatment, he went on, ‘I heard that a Texas Ranger has arrived looking for you?’
‘He could be,’ the Chopper admitted in a disinterested fashion. ‘It’s been done before and I’m still around. Anyways, there’s nothing more to say now so we might as well both be on our way.’
‘Don’t you ever worry when you meet somebody like this that they might have an electric torch in their pocket and shine it to see your face?’ Marks inquired, still wanting to leave with the impression that the conclusion of the meeting was his decision.
‘Not so’s you’d notice it,’ the American answered dryly, guessing that something of the kind had occurred to the solicitor. ‘Because, if you had and did, I’d kill you where you stand.’
‘You certainly introduced yourself to the British public in fine style, Ranse,’ Rita Yarborough praised, waving a hand towards a pile of newspapers which she and the other occupants of the dining room at Daffodil House had read before hearing a first hand description of the events at Waterloo Station. ‘I can’t think of anything you missed doing, apart from maybe spinning that big “six shooter” of yours around a few times on your trigger finger before you leathered it.’
‘Shucks, that’s what comes of being brainy as well as all beautiful and shapely,’ Sergeant Ranse Smith replied, adopting a spurious air of becoming modesty. ‘Which I’m all of them, ’though I must ’fess up that I didn’t think of doing that'
‘Bit I liked best, amigo,’ drawled Sergeant Mark ‘Comanche Blood’ Scrapton, lounging at ease on a comfortable armchair and conveying much the same impression of latent deadly menace exuded by a mountain lion draped over a branch while resting, ‘was that lil ole “sob sister” in the Daily Express saying you was “handsome, virile and redolent of the wide open spaces from which you came”.’ 50
‘Well I am, aren’t I?’ the blond giant enquired.
‘That’s what Ranse likes about him, Mr. Reeder,’ Sergeant Alvin Dustine “Rapido Clint” Fog drawled. ‘He’s so modest.’
‘I had noticed that most desirable … um … trait,’ the elderly looking detective admitted, apparently in as sober a fashion as the comment had been put. ‘It does him … um … credit.’
‘Not everybody else does, though,’ the girl claimed, losing all trace of levity from her voice. Picking up a newspaper with the tips of her right thumb and forefinger, as if it was something unclean, she went on, ‘If you’d got a dog, Mr. Reeder, I could tell you a real good use for a tabloid like this.’.
‘I have heard one can … um … teach one’s dog to pay attention to one’s commands by tapping its nose gently with a … um … rolled up newspaper,’ the detective answered, in his most mild—therefore very sardonic—tone. ‘I presume that is what you have in … um … mind, young lady?’
‘Well no, not exactly,’ Rita corrected, tossing what she clearly considered to be a most undesirable object into the wastepaper basket. ‘What I had “in … um … mind” was to spread it on the floor so the dog could shi… be house-trained on it.’ While Mr. J.G. Reeder had known the arrival of a Texas Ranger would attract attention, especially in view of his own involvement, the response had been far greater than he anticipated due to the thwarted assassination.
In addition to the formalities required by the incident, the detective and the blond—currently ‘black’ haired—giant had given interviews to the assembled reporters. Although a statement about the shooting had been taken from Mr. Reeder, the reporters and photographers had given far more attention to Ranse. They had asked him to repeat the drawing of his ‘six shooter’, as they insisted upon calling his Webley-Fosbery Automatic Revolver. Receiving a nod of authorization from his companion, he had put aside his reluctance and obliged. While he did not consider himself particularly fast by the standards which still prevailed in Texas, acknowledging willingly—if not openly at that moment—that Alvin Fog for one was much more proficient in such matters, the onlookers had been very impressed by what they considered to be the exceptional speed with which he produced the big weapon from its place of concealment.
With the demonstration completed and the revolver returned to its holster, the blond giant had replied, when questioned, that he was a ‘tolerable good’ shot; which was true enough. He had been amused by some of the other questions put to him. Ad
mitting that he had indeed ridden horses since he was large enough to sit a saddle, he had gone on to point out that most of his duties which involved travelling were performed in a car or on a motor cycle, and that he was also a qualified pilot. One unexpected result of the latter disclosure was an invitation from 28 Squadron of the Royal Air Force’s Fighter Command for him to be a guest at their Station near Brockley, Kent, and give an opinion of their latest aircraft. Being interested in all aspects of aviation, he had stated his intention of accepting if the situation permitted.
However, despite having had similar experiences in Texas with members of what a later generation would refer to as the ‘media’, Ranse was grateful when Mr. Reeder announced they must take their departure as there were reports needing to be made at Scotland Yard and he was sure his visitor felt in need of resting after having completed such a long journey.
Regardless of what the detective had told the newspapermen, he had not taken Ranse to Scotland Yard or even his own office. Instead, making sure they were not followed, they had gone directly to Brockley Road. Waiting until after night had fallen and coming by the rear way of reaching Daffodil House, as a precaution against being seen should the building be under observation, Major John Gray had delivered the rest of the contingent from Company ‘Z’. After the necessary introductions had been performed, as had happened on the night of the abortive visit to Essex Street, it had been decided to leave all discussion of the day’s events until the following morning. Nor, despite certain reports having arrived during the evening, had the decision been rescinded.
On assembling in the dining room for breakfast, a study of the morning’s newspapers had satisfied the party that there could now be few people throughout the British Isles who did not know ‘Sergeant Alvin Dustine Fog’—related to one of the country’s oldest noble families as a result of his paternal grandfather having married into it—had come from America to help the famous detective hunt down a notorious professional killer.
Every newspaper and the British Broadcasting Corporation had given their version of the incident. The latter had requested an interview with the blond giant later that day and it had been confirmed he would oblige.
With one exception, the reports in the newspapers were favorable to the young Texan!
Impelled by the envy filled paranoiac hatred their kind were already developing towards the United States, the ‘liberal’ management of the Daily Working Man in spite of the fact that none of their representatives were present at the shooting and every other reporter having stated that ‘Sergeant Fog’ had only drawn his gun—with lightning speed was the most used description—and not used it, demanded in an editorial why an American ‘gunman’ was permitted to open fire upon a fleeing British citizen without being detained by the authorities, prior to being deported, for having committed such a heinous act. There was no mention of the fact that the victim was a notorious criminal whose specialty was killing for hire who had already attempted to ply his trade. They deplored the police—inevitably described as ‘repressive implements of the privileged monied classes’—being allowed to carry firearms to ‘the detriment of the public’. Nor did they mention that, when shot, the criminal had already turned upon his pursuers and was ready to open fire at them regardless of there being a large number of innocent people in the vicinity who might have been struck down by any of his bullets which missed their intended targets.
‘Those crummy liber-radical soft shells all sound alike, no matter what country they hail from,’ Comanche commented, for once speaking like the college graduate he was rather than the less well educated cowhand he generally pretended to be. ‘Way they flap their lips, reckon there weren’t any peace officers at all in that Russia they’re all so fond of putting up as the most beautiful place in the whole world to live in.’
‘What I can’t understand,’ Ranse declared, aware that his companions shared his annoyance over the comments in the ‘liberal’ newspaper. ‘Is why, seeing as they’re so all fired dissatisfied with living in their own country and being so shouting out aloud fond of it, they don’t haul their butts to take up a home in Russia.’
‘Quite,’ Mr. Reeder said, agreeing with the points of view expressed by the girl and the two Texans. ‘However, despite the … um … adverse comments in that most inestimable newspaper, I feel we have gone a long way towards achieving our primary purpose.’
‘Then it’s up to us next,’ Rapido declared, looking pointedly from Rita to Comanche. Then, swinging his gaze to their host, he went on in a voice charged with seriousness, ‘But from now until we get the Chopper, you go real careful, Mr. Reeder. There’s only one thing we know for sure about him and that is he’s damned good at his game.’
‘I’ll never let it out of my … um … thoughts,’ the detective promised. ‘What do we know about his … um … modus operandi, I believe is the foreign expression I am seeking?’
‘Not a whole heap, and far from as much’s we’d like to,’ the smallest of the sergeants admitted, being acknowledged by the others as the spokesman for their party. ‘Major Tragg’s sent you a list of all his known killings, but just about all we’ve come up with from our studying of it is he mostly works in some kind of disguise and almost always makes his hit after sundown.’
‘And he has never made a … um … “hit” anywhere other than in a large city,’ Mr. Reeder remarked rather than questioned.
‘Not so far as we know,’ Rapido answered, suspecting—correctly he discovered later—that the Englishman had already made a thorough study of all the available information about the Chopper. ‘At least, if he has, he’s never spread the word to the big shot owlhoots thereabouts before, or told the local newspapers it was him who’d done the killing when he’d made the hit, like he does everywhere else we know he’s been.’
‘Could be he stays away from smaller towns because he knows a stranger’d be conspicuous in them and more likely to attract attention than in a big city,’ Ranse offered.
‘I must admit that is a … um … possibility,’ Mr. Reeder conceded, almost pensively. ‘However, let us hope he proves less … um … successful over here than he has in your country.’
‘How about that yahoo who tried to make wolf bait of you at the railroad depot?’ Comanche inquired, having reverted to the way of speaking he mostly employed when working undercover. ‘Have you—all read his brand yet?’
‘If you mean, do we … um … know him,’ the detective replied, peering benignly at the maker of the enquiry over what his guests realized was a totally unnecessary pince-nez. ‘The answer is in the … um … affirmative. Those detestable chaps from Scotland Yard informed me that he is … um … Herbert McPriest, a most unsavory … um … personage from the North of England.’
‘And you didn’t recognize him straight away?’ Rita challenged.
‘Regrettably, my dear young … um … lady,’ Mr. Reeder replied, his manner redolent of apology for having to make such a confession. ‘I am far from being as … um … omniscient as people give me credit for. While I suspected his identity, but nothing more, I preferred to await verification from Chief Inspector Gaylor before making any … um … pronouncement.’
‘Do you know who he was working for?’ Rapido inquired, as amused as were his companions by the seemingly apologetic and close to dithering attitude of their host.
‘Regrettably, I am again at the … um … mercy of my completely invalid reputation for … um … omniscience,’ the detective confessed. ‘However, I would be willing to ascertain, doubtlessly in … um … error, that it was either Mr. Louis Birkstone or Mr. William Maxwell Churgwin. Whichever of them in … um … fact, who has not hired the Chopper for what my … um … criminal mind leads me to assume, mayhap with undue lack of … um … modesty, is to bring about my … um … untimely demise.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Mrs. Jane Amelia Grible said, coming into the dining room before any more could be said. ‘Mr. Golden is on the telephone for you.’
�
��Thank you,’ Mr. Reeder replied and, muttering an apology, he crossed to pick up the receiver of the extension on the small table by the door.
‘It wasn’t bad news, I hope,’ Rita said, having seen how the detective had stiffened whilst listening to the person making the call.
‘Hardly,’ Mr. Reeder replied and, for once, he looked very much younger and virile than was the impression he generally conveyed. It was obvious he was not only delighted, but impressed by whatever he had just heard. ‘His Majesty has graciously requested that he and the rest of the Royal Family pay a visit to our head—chicken farm in Brockley.’
‘Do you know something,’ the girl inquired, a twinkle in her eyes belying the sober way in which she spoke. ‘You said a whole sentence without going “… um … ” even once!’
‘Goodness … um … gracious, did I?’ the detective asked and there was no doubt about the merriment behind his seemingly pained expression. ‘I really must … um … watch out. Why I might forget to carry my … um … umbrella next!’
That there was to be a visit by the Royal Family to the property owned by Mr. J.G. Reeder was known to more than just the people most concerned!
News of the event had reached the last person whom the detective would have wished to become privy to it!
Less than four hours after Mr. Reeder was informed of the honor to be paid to his organization, this person contacted Billy Churgwin by telephone at the Pinhole Club, where he was making arrangements for another ‘Cat Fight Night’ that weekend. In spite of the mechanical distortion caused by the difficulties in which the conversation was taking place, Churgwin could tell the caller was finding the news to be of as great an interest as it was to himself; albeit for a vastly different reason.
