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  That there should be an attempt to kill him did not surprise Mr. J. G. Reeder. In the course of his career, the mild and gentle detective had incurred the enmity of many dangerous and desperate criminals, and one of who might be seeking revenge. What puzzled Mr. Reeder was the identity of the man behind the attempt.

  There was only one man capable of inspiring such fear among the British underworld that it caused the blanket of silence facing Mr. Reeder. But old Mad John Flack was dead! Or was he?

  Before Mr Reeder could solve the mystery, he was grateful for the support of Alvin Fog, grandson of the legendary Rio Hondo gun wizard, Dusty Fog. The youngest man ever to attain the rank of captain in the Texas Rangers, said to be the most deadly combat pistol shot of his generation, Alvin Fog needed all his skill to survive when he and Mr. Reeder stumbled on the solution!

  CAP FOG 4: CAP FOG AND J. G. REEDER

  By J. T. Edson

  First Published by Transworld Publishers in 1977

  Copyright © 1977, 2018 by J. T. Edson

  First Digital Edition: July 2019

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Cover image © 2018 by Tony Masero

  Check out Tony’s work here

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  This book is dedicated to the memory of a truly great writer whose stories have provided me with many hours of most enjoyable and entertaining reading – Edgar Wallace.

  The author further wishes to thank Penelope Wallace for allowing him to present further details regarding the career of her father’s famous detective, Mr. J. G. Reeder.

  In Explanation

  While attending the 21st Annual Convention of Western Writers of America at Fort Worth, Texas, in 1974, I was fortunate enough to meet several members of the Hardin, Fog and Blaze clan with whom I had previously only been in written contact. At that time, I was chiefly engaged in learning the facts pertaining to the early career of General Jackson Baines ‘Ole Devil’ Hardin, C.S.A., 1 about how Marvin Eldridge ‘Doc’ Leroy finally qualified as a doctor 2 and why Belle, ‘the Rebel Spy’ Boyd 3 required the assistance of Martha ‘Calamity Jane’ Canary 4 on one of her assignments for the United States’ Secret Service. 5

  When the first of the General’s series of biographies appeared in print, several members of the J. T. EDSON APPRECIATION SOCIETY wrote asking why a fully trained Japanese samurai 6 like Tommy Okasi—this, incidentally was not his real name, but an Americanized corruption of the one he had given when rescued from a derelict vessel in the China Sea by a ship under the command of the General’s father had to leave his home land and could not return. So, following the 22nd Convention, held in Carson City, Nevada, I returned to Forth Worth in search of the information. Unfortunately, I have never learned to drive, 7 so I am indebted to my good friends Ellen and Chuck Kurtzman of that city. They not only put me up and put up with my horrible “Swiss” jokes, but also supplied me with the “wheels” which are so vitally necessary when one wishes to travel around in Texas.

  My quest for information on the subject of Tommy Okasi came to nothing. I was told that, because of the circumstances and the high social standing of the various families involved—all of whom have descendants holding positions of influence and importance in Japan at the time of writing—it was inadvisable even at this late date to make the facts of his departure public.

  However, in the course of a conversation with Alvin Dustine “Cap” Fog—formerly captain commanding Company ‘C’ of the Texas Rangers 8—about his grandfather, Captain Dustine Edward Marsden ‘Dusty’ Fog, C.S.A., the legendary Rio Hondo gun wizard, for whom I have the honor to be biographer’, he mentioned that, early in his career, he had been to England and was involved in a case with the celebrated British detective, Mr. J. G. Reeder. 9

  Instantly, my disappointment over the failure of my mission with respect to Tommy Okasi was forgotten. I had, of course, read all the volumes of biography which dealt with the known career of Mr. J. G. Reeder; 10 but I could not recollect seeing any mention of his association with “Cap” Fog. Reading “Cap”s’ official report and his other records removed all doubts. Regrettably, while thorough in their coverage of his part in the affair, they left a number of unanswered points where Mr. Reeder’s participation was concerned.

  On my return to England, I contacted Penelope Wallace, daughter of Mr. Reeder’s biographer and organizer of THE EDGAR WALLACE SOCIETY, requesting corroboration of my information. Ms. Wallace kindly placed at my disposal all of her father’s notes and the relevant case-book he had received from Mr. Reeder, but had not worked upon. Not only did these allow me to fill in the gaps of “Cap”s’ story, but they cleared up several hitherto puzzling aspects relating to Mr. Reeder. The latter, in fact, proved to be as intriguing and interesting as the story itself. They enlarged upon the suggestions put forth by John A. Hogan, A.M.I.M.I.—arguably the world’s foremost serious student and researcher of Edgar Wallace—in his excellent article AUREUS HARUNDUM. 11

  Finally, Ms. Wallace had kindly allowed me to set down the facts and here they are:

  J. T. Edson

  Chapter One—I Never Expected to Meet a Yankee

  In consideration of subsequent events, although some of the participants who were to become involved might have disagreed with such a viewpoint, quite a number of people—not excluding the young lady in question—had good cause to be grateful that Beryl Snowhill was a very competent driver and that her silver-gray 1925 MG Super Sports two-seater tourer was equipped with well-maintained vacuum servo-operated brakes.

  All in all, Beryl presented an attractive picture as she sat in the swiftly moving vehicle and guided it with deft assurance around a fairly sharp and blind curve. Not quite five feet four inches in height, she would be twenty on her next birthday. Her boyishly short and shingled platinum blonde hair framed a radiantly beautiful face which showed strength of will and intelligence in its lines. Even being clad in a thick white woolen roll-neck pullover and jodhpurs could not entirely conceal the contours of a body fast ripening into womanhood. In fact, although until recently she had been regarded as something of a tomboy, several eligible young bachelors had begun to grow increasingly aware of the change. They—and their mothers, as she was well connected and wealthy in her own right—began to consider her in a more intimate light than that of a companion who could ride, shoot, fish, play golf and drive a sports car with the best of them. However, as yet none of the potential suitors had found favor in her eyes.

  Having been asked rather belatedly to take a package into Swindon so that it could be dispatched to London on the one forty-five train, Beryl was driving somewhat faster than was advisable when traversing the narrow and winding country lane which joined the main road at Little Venner. In exculpation, as she was neither reckless nor irresponsible by nature, she was confident that she would have the lane to herself. The second Sunday in May was traditionally celebrated by a free lunch and garden fete at the village’s vicarage. The remarkably pleasant weather could be counted upon to ensure a large attendance of visitors, all of whom—as the vicar frowned on late-comers—would already be there. Nor was she given the slightest indication or warning of the highly dramatic situation
in which she was to become involved on emerging from the curve.

  The field that the girl was passing belonged to Charles Wagon, one of her uncle’s neighbors. Having previously been concealed by its high and thick hedge, a man came into her range of vision without her receiving any previous notice of his presence in the vicinity. Erupted into her view would have been a much more apt description of his appearance. Impelled by some motive which was not apparent to her, he vaulted over a five-barred gate with such vigor that the momentum prevented him from coming to an immediate halt on landing. Instead, he advanced from the right side into the middle of the lane about thirty yards ahead of the MG.

  As she frequently took part in various sporting activities, some of which were not considered suitable for a well-bred young lady, Beryl’s natural aptitude for rapid thought and action was greatly improved. She had dire need for quick responses at that moment. A glance at the speedometer warned her that she was traveling at just over forty miles per hour. Experience with the little tourer had taught her that, at such a speed, she could not stop in less than ninety feet.

  The man who had confronted her so unexpectedly was much closer than that!

  Even as Beryl was drawing her conclusions, almost without the need for conscious thought her driver’s reflexes assumed control and started to cope with the emergency. Before she had completed the depression of the foot brake and clutch, she realized that they were unlikely to prove sufficient for her needs. So she applied the hand brake as an additional aid in the hope of halting before she reached the man. Flying back to the steering wheels her right hand sought to attempt to swing the tourer away from him.

  It was to no avail!

  In spite of all Beryl’s efforts, as if being drawn towards its victim by a magnet, the vehicle continued to slide onwards to the accompaniment of a screeching protest from its tires and the stench of burning rubber.

  Much to the girl’s horror, although there was a noticeable deceleration, she could do nothing further to prevent the MG from converging with the man.

  Under less trying circumstances, Beryl would have found the man to be of considerable interest. Not, however, because he was of an imposing and impressive appearance. Rather the opposite, in fact. At most, although sturdily built and—as had been proven by the way he had bounded over the high gate—remarkably agile, he was only two inches taller than herself. Bare headed, with an unusual broad brimmed, low crowned white hat dangling by a fancy leather chinstrap on to his wide shoulders, he had curly black hair and a tanned, fairly handsome, but not eye-catching young face. Like his hat, the rest of his garments were not of a kind one would have expected to see being worn in Wiltshire during 1928. He had on a waist long brown leather jacket and an open necked gray worsted shirt with an attached collar. Held up by a wide brown leather belt with a floral pattern carved into it, his peculiar trousers had faded to a very light shade of blue. Their narrow legs were turned up at the bottoms to form cuffs almost three inches deep and were hanging outside sharp-toed, somewhat high heeled, riding boots of foreign origin.

  Unimpressive and, apart from his attire, unnoticeable as the young man might seem, he showed himself to be capable of thinking and acting with great rapidity. At the last moment, when it seemed to the distraught girl that a collision was imminent and inescapable, he averted it. Swinging to face the tourer, instead of trying to throw himself either forward or to the rear—neither of which would have saved him at such a close proximity—he launched himself into the air and spread his legs wide apart. Bringing down his hands on either side of the radiator cap’s rearing horse mascot, he thrust with them as if playing leapfrog and landed astride the rounded, Morris-style “bullnose” bonnet.

  Even as the young man was rising into the air, the tourer was being brought to a stop. For all that, his evasive actions had been necessary and he would have been run down if he had not taken them. What was more, despite—or because of—the alacrity with which he had moved, if Beryl had been dilatory in her response and the car’s brakes less effective, he would still have been in danger. The vehicle’s momentum would not have been sufficiently reduced to prevent a disaster. As it was, instead of being thrown against, or even through, the windshield, he came to rest without having reached it.

  Some thirty seconds went by in silence. It was disturbed only by the purring of the tourer’s engine, which had not stalled in spite of the stresses imposed by the emergency halt. Beryl was sitting as if turned to stone. All the color was drained from her face and she clutched at the steering wheel so hard that her knuckles had turned white.

  Considering that he had had such a narrow escape, the young man was showing neither distress nor alarm. Instead, after throwing a quick glance in the direction from which he had come, he thrust back his left leg and quit his perch on the car’s bonnet as if he was dismounting from a horse.

  ‘I’m right sorry to have come out on you-all that way, ma’am,’ the young man said, in an almost casually conversational tone, stepping to the passenger’s door. ‘And I surely hope I didn’t spook you too much.’

  ‘Spook—!’ the girl yelped, jolted out of her state of shock by the quiet words and, despite her nerves being in a jangled condition, realizing what the final sentence must mean. Relaxing her grasp on the steering wheel and sinking from the braced position she had assumed, but keeping the foot brake and clutch held down, she glared at the speaker for a moment before bursting out angrily, ‘Do you know that I might have killed you, running in front of me the way you did?’

  ‘Might say’s how I’d got right good cause for doing it, ma’am, even though I didn’t aim to,’ the young man answered and Beryl suddenly became aware that his drawling accent was not English. Looking past her, he went on in the same matter-of-fact manner, ‘And, happen you’d oblige, ma’am, I’d take it right neighborly to get a ride the he— right away from here.’

  Much to her surprise, as the tension caused by the narrowly averted accident began to ebb away, the girl identified the young man’s accent. It was that of a person who had his origins somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon line 12 in the United States of America.

  The drumming of hooves came to the girl’s ears before she could comment upon her discovery. Turning her head, she saw three horsemen galloping across the field from which the stranger had emerged so precipitously. The rider in the lead was the owner of the property and she could think of a very excellent reason for the young man having made such a hasty departure.

  Close to six foot tall and broad in proportion, attired in the kind of clothing a well-to-do country gentleman might wear if he was not too selective in his choice of a tailor, Charles Cuthbert Horace Wagon had a surly face even his mother might have been excused for disliking.

  Although they shared a mutual interest in horse racing—he owned a small training stable adjacent to General Snow- hill’s larger establishment—Beryl had never met Wagon socially. She had heard that he was a bad tempered bully, heartily disliked by most people with whom he came into contact and not noted for scrupulous—or even partial—honesty. In fact, her uncle and others in a position to know claimed that he was, using the parlance of the Sport of Kings, “hot” and more than once had been on the verge of being “warned off” by the Stewards of the Jockey Club for suspected malpractices.

  Being the kind of person he was, Wagon had an understandable—if not commendable—antipathy towards anybody showing an uninvited interest in his activities and took grave exception to trespassers upon his property. From the stories that the girl had heard, he did not restrict himself to merely invoking the due processes of the law when dealing with interlopers. Instead, he was said to inflict corporal punishment of some severity upon them.

  Almost matching the trainer in size, not so elegantly—or flashily, depending upon one’s tastes in sartorial matters—dressed, but with—if possible—even more unprepossessing features, the other two riders were his employees. While they were listed upon the returns he reluctantly rendered to the I
nland Revenue authorities as “stable hands”, it was rumored in Little Venner’s two public houses that their duties were less concerned with such basic tasks as mucking out stalls and filling hay-nets than in ensuring that his desire for privacy was respected.

  Although Beryl had grown up around racing stables and derived a good proportion of her income from the breeding and training of thoroughbred horses, she considered that there were distinct limits to how far the discouragement of touts should be taken. As Wagon was alleged to far exceed these bounds and nothing of the little she had seen of him caused her to believe otherwise, she reached a decision. In her opinion, such a diminutive intruder as the escaping stranger would have no chance of defending himself against a man of the trainer’s size, much less with the two bulky “stable hands” present.

  ‘Get in!’ the girl snapped.

  ‘Gracias, ma’am,’ answered the stranger, obeying with alacrity. Then, realizing that his rescuer probably did not speak Spanish, he repeated his expression of gratitude in his own brand of English. ‘Why thank you ‘most to death, ma’am. I surely appreciate it.’

  Even as her unexpected passenger was speaking, ignoring the trainer’s bellow of furious protest, Beryl released the hand brake. The riders were almost at the gate, but she knew there would be ample time for her to take the young man to safety. Changing into first gear, she let out the clutch and, removing the pressure she had been exerting on the foot brake, set the little tourer into motion. Once the vehicle was moving and picking up speed, the girl found herself consumed by curiosity. What had brought the young American to England?

  And why had he found himself engaged in the precarious, hardly lucrative, occupation of racehorse tout?

  A sense of compassion, and a distaste for the kind of bullying which could bring training into disrepute, would have made Beryl save anybody, particularly such a small and harmless looking a person, from Wagon’s wrath. However, after covering about half a mile in silence and knowing they were safe from pursuit, she could not restrain her curiosity any longer.