by J. T. Edson
‘It gives me the chance of ruining them for all time,’ the all too familiar feminine voice asserted to the gang leader.
‘That’s all very well,’ Churgwin replied, wondering why his caller invariably referred to Mr. J.G. Reeder in the plural. ‘But what about that Yankee bloke I’ve brought over here to get rid of the old bastard?’
‘Let him do what he came for, if he can.’ the speaker authorized, albeit in a manner clearly indicating she had grave doubts over the abilities of the hired killer. ‘But, whether he does or not, I intend to go ahead with what I have in mind for Mr. Jeremiah Golden Reeder and all his family. It will pay them back for what they did to my dear departed father.’
Chapter Eleven – I Abhor the Desecrations of … um … Graves
‘Mr. Marks will see you now,’ announced the smaller of the two female occupants in the shabby waiting room, its grubby wallpaper hardly enhanced by a garnishing of dusty framed caricatures depicting judges and counsel of bygone days. Her demeanor was that of one who considered herself to be conveying a favor by even addressing the visitors, and her middle class accent was redolent of thinly concealed disdain as she went towards the door from which she had just emerged, speaking over her shoulder, ‘Walk this way.’
‘I don’t know how it is over here, amigo,’ Sergeant Ranse Smith commented sotto voce to Mr. J.G. Reeder, studying the sensual undulations of the woman’s rear view. In order to continue the masquerade of being Sergeant Alvin Dustine Fog, he was dressed in much the same fashion as he had been at Waterloo Station the previous afternoon. ‘But we’d get arrested for sure in Texas if we even tried to walk that way.’ Having a natural appreciation of the opposite sex, the blond giant concluded he could not remember ever having seen two such vastly contrasting women in one place as those who had greeted—with all too obvious suspicion and little discernible courtesy—the elderly looking detective and himself on their arrival at the ‘chambers’ of Wallace Oswald ‘Wally’ Marks, Solicitor and Commissioner of Oaths.
The office was situated in a less than salubrious area where the City area of London joined the East End and, having once visited the scrumptiously luxurious offices of Counselor Reece Mervyn in Austin, the premises came as quite a surprise to the Texan. Reached by climbing two flights of filthy stairs covered with threadbare linoleum, they gave not the slightest indication—apart, perhaps, from the appearance of one of the women in the waiting room—that their occupant was a highly successful, albeit completely unscrupulous, member of the Bar who made far more money from his clients than was earned by his honest and law abiding contemporaries.
Petite, attractive, with platinum blonde hair cut in a frizzy pile, the shorter woman was expensively bejeweled and dressed in the height of latest fashion. Her attire showed off her curvaceously trim figure very well, although feminine opinion—perhaps inspired by jealousy—might have considered her rather older than was regarded as ‘proper’ to be garbed in such a revealing fashion. Seen at close quarters, it was obvious the color of her curly locks was retained by judicious use of peroxide and make-up could not entirely hide the slight coarsening time had given to her skin.
Unless possessing tastes of an unconventional nature, there was nothing about the other woman to attract male attention. In fact, Ranse concluded she was just about the most homely and formidably masculine female he had ever come across. She was close to matching him in height and, being built on very massive lines, conceivably weighed as much if not more. Her face, far from improved by a fuzz of almost mustache-like proportions on her top lip, was rugged to the point of appearing repellent. Nor did the heavy tweed coat and skirt, a man’s white shirt with a stiff collar and tie and thick woolen stockings ending in blunt toed, flat heeled brown shoes do anything except emphasize the shapeless bulk of her figure.
Hiding his amusement over the comment made by his companion, Mr. Reeder followed the solicitor’s senior private and confidential secretary across the waiting room. Arriving at the door she had thrown open, still displaying indications of her distaste for finding it necessary to perform such a task, he ignored the pointed glance she directed at the hat and umbrella he was clutching in his hands as if afraid they might by snatched from him. Retaining his hold on them, he went past her with Ranse following on his heels.
‘Thank you, Miss … um … Cornelius,’ the detective remarked in passing, ‘What a splendid place you work in. I’m sure you must be the … um … envy of all your friends.’
Having the door slammed behind them, without comment and receiving only a glare redolent of dislike close to loathing, Mr. Reeder and Ranse found themselves in the presence of the man they had come to see!
Sitting resplendent in a cigarette ash covered dark green suit, in a saddle-back chair which was losing its stuffing, the solicitor was behind a massive desk of the kind which the blond giant had once heard described as, ‘You’d have to be very poor, or very rich, to own it’. Obviously an antique, apparently it had never received the slightest care or attention to maintain its original condition. It was piled high with papers, files, a telephone, an open cigarette box, an ashtray so filled to overflowing with stubs it—like his deeply nicotine stained right first and second fingers—implied he was a chain smoker, and a partially depleted mate to the empty Empire port bottles seemingly tossed willy-nilly about the floor.
‘Good afternoon, Mr. Reeder,’ Marks greeted sourly, putting down the glass filled with port which he had been sipping when his visitors were admitted by Miss Sylvia Cornelius. ‘I can’t give you long—’
‘Long enough one … um … hopes for us to conclude the business which brings us here,’ the detective stated rather than suggested.
‘Then I hope that won’t take too long,’ the solicitor declared and waved a grimy white hand! ‘You’d better have a seat.’
‘Thank you,’ Mr. Reeder assented, dusting the chair he selected with deliberately offensive vigor before sitting on it.
‘Drink?’ Marks grunted, watching the blond giant occupy an equally musty looking ancient chair without the embellishment he knew had been carried out by his other unwelcome visitor to annoy him.
‘Thank you, no,’ the detective refused, aware that to do so rated as an insult where the solicitor was concerned.
‘And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’ Marks growled, pushing aside his glass with a gesture redolent of unspoken animosity.
Studying the less than prepossessing features of the crooked solicitor, Ranse concluded he was very wary in the presence of a foe for whom he had considerable mistrust and no liking. The assumption verified the less than flattering comments made by the detective on the journey from the Director of Public Prosecutions’ offices. Certainly there was no suggestion of friendly relations based on mutual respect for a worthy opponent in their association. On the other hand, the blond giant considered the reaction on the part of one so well versed in all aspects of evading the meshes of the British legal system was a tribute to the capability of the man he was accompanying.
‘I have come to see you in your capacity as legal … urm … counsel for Miss Olga Flack,’ Mr. Reeder explained.
‘As the lady is now deceased,’ Marks pointed out. ‘I can hardly be her legal counsel anymore.’
‘Of course … um … not,’ the detective conceded, seemingly distressed by the error he had committed. ‘However, I am under the impression, doubtless … um … erroneous, that you are the executor of her … um … estate, I believe is the accepted legal Uniterm.’
‘It is and I am!’ the solicitor confirmed definitely and, watching him carefully, the big Texan saw he was becoming even more noticeably alert and warily hostile. ‘So what do you want to know?’
‘Are you absolutely certain she is now … um … definitely deceased,’ Mr. Reeder inquired with apparent mildness, but his air of seeming to be deeply distressed over having to raise such a point failed to impress or deceive either of his small audience.
‘How do you mean?’
Marks asked, reaching for and fingering absently at the almost empty glass of port. ‘The coroner’s jury found she was burned to death when the ambulance she was in crashed and caught fire.’
‘They pronounced that the … um … bodies of two women inside the ambulance were burned to … um … death when it caught fire,’ the detective corrected, if so strong a word could be applied to his apparently apologetic demeanor. ‘Which, in my humble … um … layman’s opinion, is an entirely different … um … proposition.’
‘Are you saying it wasn’t Olg—Miss Flack—in the ambulance?’ Marks challenged, knowing the older of his visitors was never more dangerous than when seeming most hesitant and ill at ease. ‘Damn it all, I saw her body before it was buried!’
‘I too was allowed to view the … um … remains,’ Mr. Reeder reminded. ‘But, although I too had had the dubious … um … honor of her acquaintance, all I saw was a body burned so … um … badly that identification was, at best, a matter of … um … conjecture.’
‘So?’
‘So I am afflicted, as you may well have … um … heard, with a criminal mind. This peculiar perversion, with which your good … um … self is probably not endowed, leads me to speculate upon the possibility of there having been a … um … deception perpetrated?
‘Deception?’ Marks queried, staring at the elderly looking detective in a way which reminded Ranse of a rabbit confronted by a poisonous snake. ‘In what way?’
‘This is purely … um … speculation at the moment, I trust you will bear in … um … mind,’ Mr. Reeder explained, his manner seeming to plead for forgiveness and understanding. ‘However, it has come to my … um … attention that a “lady of the evening”, Molly Nickerson to wit, went absent from her “pitch”—if that is the appropriate … um … terminology—?’
‘That’s what they call it,’ the solicitor supplied, before he could stop himself, as the other paused and gave the impression of seeking such confirmation.
‘Thank you,’ the detective intoned, seeming genuinely grateful for the assistance. ‘As I was … um … saying, this “lady of the evening” disappeared from her pitch the night before Miss Flack met with, if the facts are taken at their … um … face value, what proved to be a fatal accident.’
‘So?’ Marks was unable to prevent himself asking.
‘So Miss Nickerson, who … um … incidentally was the same age, height and … um … build as your client—,’ Mr. Reeder obliged, pausing and raising an apologetically prohibitive hand as he saw a comment was coming from the solicitor. ‘Your … um … presumably deceased client—was alleged to have been sent upon a well-earned holiday to … um … Paris. However, by a remarkable stroke of good … um … fortune, Inspector Dreyfus of the Sûreté was able to obtain a picture taken by the … um … photographer hired by the hotel in which the woman purporting to be Miss Nickerson stayed overnight. And I have acquired … um … witnesses who claim it was … um … not Miss Nickerson.’
‘Come on now,’ Marks said, trying to sound derisive and unconcerned, but not quite succeeding. ‘You know what tarts are like, Mr. Reeder. They’ll always tell you what they think you want to know.’
‘Not … um … always,’ the detective corrected. ‘Furthermore, the makers of the … um … identification were not “ladies of the evening.” They were Miss Nickerson’s eminently respectable parents, assorted law abiding neighbors and the local … um … vicar. All were most definite in their … um … assertions that the woman in the picture was not her.’
‘What’s that got to do with Miss Flack?’ the solicitor demanded, after having topped up the glass with port from the bottle and emptied the contents down his throat in a single gulp.
‘Miss Nickerson had her appendix removed when she was a … um … baby,’ Mr. Reeder answered, his manner seemingly eager to please by doing so.
‘And?’ Marks prompted, although he was all too aware of what was portended by the medical information.
‘Much as I deplore the desecration of … um … graves,’ the detective went on. ‘In view of my … um … suppositions, I am going to apply for an order of … um … exhumation and, if the body should prove to be lacking its appendix, I fear this will raise grave … um … doubts as to whom it really is.’ Thrusting back his chair and setting his hat at something close to a jaunty angle on his head, as the blond giant also rose, he went on, ‘Well, Sergeant Fog—whom I was sufficiently remiss to have forgotten to … um … introduce—and I have taken up enough of your valuable time. I thought that, as Miss … um … Flack’s legal counsel—or executor, as the case may be—you should be informed of my … um … intentions and, having done so, we will be on our way.’
Giving the solicitor no opportunity to speak, Mr. Reeder walked with Ranse from his office.
‘I think you should take your employer another … um … bottle of port, Miss Cornelius,’ the detective suggested, as he and his companion were crossing the waiting—room, looking to where the women were seated together at one of the desks. ‘Toodle-loo!’
Although the blond giant did not know it, the last word uttered before leaving the ‘chambers’ was Mr. Reeder’s supreme piece of flippancy!
Snatching from the open box the cigarette he had been craving all through the increasingly disturbing interview, Marks lit it with a hand which shook unsteadily. He was vigorously puffing at it when the blonde came in. Giving a snarling demand to be left alone, he dismissed her without offering to satisfy her curiosity. Granted the privacy he required, he took out and mopped his face with a large red silk handkerchief. Waiting until his composure was somewhat restored, he picked up the receiver of the telephone and dialed a number. On being answered, he reported what had taken place between himself and his far from welcome visitors.
‘That could be what he wants to happen,’ the solicitor warned, on being informed of the measures it was intended to implement as a means of circumventing the examination of the body before it could be reclaimed by legal exhumation. ‘If so, it’ll be a trap.’
‘If it is,’ replied the well-educated feminine voice at the other end of the line. ‘It’s going to be sprung on him!’
‘That was as fine a piece of “tailing” as I’ve ever seen,’ Ranse Smith praised, as he and Mr. Reeder climbed from the small and ordinary looking Austin car—its engine having been replaced by one of far greater power—on Woolwich Road. ‘They didn’t have any notion that we were after them.’
‘One does one’s … um … best,’ the detective replied, not displeased by the well-deserved praise. ‘And it wasn’t too … um …difficult once I deduced from the direction our friends were taking that this was where they were in all … um … probability heading.’
Having done all they could to create the situation they wanted, and hoping that Wally Marks would play his part in their plans, Mr. Reeder and Ranse had returned to Daffodil House. The other members of the contingent from Company ‘Z’ had already left, escorted by Jason Grant in the guise of a successful jewel thief, one he often adopted when wishing to circulate secretly and freely amongst members of the underworld, to put in an appearance around various night clubs that evening.
Knowing they would be spending their time in less salubrious circumstances and conditions, the blond giant and the detective had made their own preparations for the activities they anticipated. Although Mr. Reeder had arranged for support to be made available from Scotland Yard if it should be needed, he and the blond giant had gone alone to carry out the first part of their assignment. However, they had taken precautions against the eventualities envisaged by the detective. Both wore dark shirts and somber attire. Not only had the Texan exchanged his Stetson for a black one with no decorative band, which might perhaps catch and glint in a chance light, but he was also wearing a fringed buckskin jacket which was more loosely fitting than his usual coats. As a further aid to avoid being seen in the darkness, each had blackened his face with burnt cork.
Taking the Austin, as bein
g much less conspicuous and likely to attract attention than his Frazer Nash Fast Tourer, the detective had driven his companion to the cemetery in which the body claimed to be that of Olga Flack had been buried. Leaving the vehicle where it would pass unnoticed, but was readily available if needed, they had gone on foot to take up a position of concealment from which they could keep a watch on the grave. Both were experienced in that most onerous of law enforcement duties, maintaining a ‘stakeout’, and had passed the time exchanging sotto voce reminiscences of their respective activities.
Nothing had happened until just after half past three in the morning!
Coming in silence across the cemetery, four men carrying shovels had opened up the grave under observation. Removing the body from the coffin and wrapping it in a sheet of tarpaulin, after filling in the excavation and doing what they could to remove traces of their unofficial exhumation, they had carried it to a small delivery van. With that done, still unaware that they had been seen, they had boarded the vehicle and taken their departure.
In what the blond giant willingly conceded was a masterly feat of ‘tailing’ under the prevailing conditions, the streets being almost devoid of other traffic, the grave robbers had been followed by their still unsuspected watchers. The detective had soon announced he believed they were making for a destination by the River Thames with which he was acquainted and, stopping at a police telephone box, he had put a call through to Scotland Yard before resuming the pursuit. Despite the Texan’s misgivings over the delay, they had soon come into renewed view of the van. Shortly after, it had turned from Woolwich Road.
