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  Nobody noticed the little Texan till the trouble began ...

  It was a typical country-house party, though perhaps a touch more decorous than most—perhaps even a tiny bit dull. Then suddenly all hell broke loose. The host was found murdered and the house was bristling with hard men whose methods of extracting information were anything but polite.

  But nobody bothered about Rapido. And Rapido kept pretty much to himself. In fact the slow-moving, slow-talking Texan seemed remarkably ill-named. That is until danger threatened, and the quiet man, transformed into a deadly fighting machine, treated the English to a showdown worthy of Gunfight at the OK Corral.

  CAP FOG 6: RAPIDO CLINT STRIKES BACK

  By J. T. Edson

  First Published by Transworld Publishers in 1990

  Copyright © 1990, 2018 by J. T. Edson

  First Kindle Edition: January 2020

  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 © 2019 by Tony Masero

  Check out Tony’s work here

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  For Allan Barber, Les Marsh and Derek Woods of Humbersome Heights Golf Club, Leicester, who only put up with my lousy jokes and worse play so they can be assured of one member in our regular four-ball they all know they can beat.

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Prologue – The Chance of A—Um—Lifetime

  One – Rapido

  Two – David Versus Goliath

  Three – He’s Nobody In Particular

  Four – Do You Shoot?

  Five – I’d Hate For My Life To Hang On The Difference

  Six – I Am Your Host, Sir Granville Delamont

  Seven – A Simple Little Game

  Eight – I’ve Already Signed The Death Certificate

  Nine – There’s Something Very Wrong

  Ten – Make Sure You Get Away!

  Eleven – Nobody Is Going To Leave!

  Twelve – This Isn’t The Wild West

  Thirteen – They Call Me ‘Rapido Clint’

  Fourteen – Shoot To Kill

  Fifteen – There’s A Feller With A Rifle Out Here

  Sixteen – Shoot Him, He’s Not One Of Us

  Seventeen – Go Arson Around With Matches

  Eighteen – You Made The Mistake

  Nineteen – It Isn’t Over Yet

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  When supplying us with the information from which we produce our books, one of the strictest rules imposed upon us by the present day members of what we call the ‘Hardin, Fog and Blaze’ clan and the ‘Counter’ family is that we never under any circumstances disclose their true identities, nor their present locations. Therefore, we are instructed to always employ sufficient inconsistencies to ensure neither can happen.

  We would like to point out that the names of people who appear in this volume are those supplied to us by our informants in Texas and any resemblance with those of other persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  We realize that, in our present ‘permissive’ society, we could use the actual profanities employed by various people in the narrative. However, we do not concede a spurious desire to create ‘realism’ is any excuse to do so.

  Lastly as we refuse to pander to the current ‘trendy’ usage of the metric system, except when referring to the caliber of certain firearms traditionally measured in millimeters—i.e. Walther P-38, 9mm—we will continue to employ miles, yards, feet, inches, stones, pounds and ounces, when quoting distances or weights.

  J.T. EDSON

  Prologue – The Chance of A—Um—Lifetime

  ‘This is a fine state of affairs, I must say, Randy,’ commented Sir Howard Houghton-Rand, K.C.M.G., [1] as he walked into a skimpily furnished room at a small and seedy looking night club in Soho on the last Wednesday in June. He spoke in jovial and somewhat fruity tones which went well with his appearance. In his middle fifties, tall, thickset, grey-haired, with rugged and florid features, he contrived, despite holding the post of Home Secretary in the Cabinet, to give the impression of being no more than an amiable, none-too-bright, albeit prosperous farmer. Although addressing his companion, his gaze was directed at the man who had risen to greet them as they came in. ‘I can imagine the headlines and stories in the Opposition newspapers if the police should decide to raid this place while we are here.’

  ‘So can I, Farmer,’ admitted Sir Randolph Brandon, K.C., [2] in the dry voice he found an asset to his duties as Director of Public Prosecutions. Matching the Home Secretary in height and age, he was lean and might have sat as model for a painting of a member of some exceptionally severe religious order which opposed all forms of amusement and had renounced the ‘pleasures of the flesh’. He had absorbed this persona so thoroughly that he made his excellently cut dinner suit, clearly the product of the best tailor’s establishment in Savile Row, look even more somber and drab than the attire of a not too successful provincial undertaker. ‘They would have a field day.’

  ‘Have no fear, Sir Howard, there is no—um—danger of such an eventuality,’ declared the third occupant of the room, whose acquaintance with the other two clearly did not extend to being on such close terms as to permit the employment of nicknames. What was more, despite the reassurance, his tone sounded hesitant and apologetic rather than certain in timbre. ‘In fact, despite it’s—um—name, there is no more respectable establishment in the whole of Soho than the—um—Les Plaisirs des Paree.’

  ‘Les Plaisirs des Paree, huh,’ Houghton-Rand grunted, glancing around the less than elegant room and thinking of the dingy stairs he had ascended to reach it. He made the comment to help him recover from the surprise caused by discovering who he had obviously been brought to meet. ‘This place doesn’t remind me of any of the pleasures of Paris I remember from my misspent youth.’

  ‘Or me,’ Brandon seconded, in a way which implied he too had sampled a number of the ‘pleasures’ offered by the French capital city at some time in the past and retained fonder recollections of them than might be expected from one of his apparently dour mien.

  ‘There you gentlemen have the—um—advantage over me,’ sighed the man who had obviously been awaiting the arrival of the illustrious pair. He spoke with the air of one saddened by his misfortune in the matter. ‘Regrettably, having failed to—um—misspend my youth, if that is the correct term, I am not familiar with the—um—pleasures of that—or any other—um—city.’

  Despite the light nature of the conversation, which in some way the apparently doleful comment of the last speaker had not made more serious, the Home Secretary continued to look at him in a speculative fashion. Like his companion, Houghton-Rand felt sure the man on the other side of the table had had more to do with the ‘pleasures’ offered by Paris and numerous other cities in Europe and throughout the United Kingdom than either of them. However, he was equally aware that the acquaintance had been in the line of duty and not while searching for hedonistic satisfaction.

  Regardless of the conclusions drawn by the Home Secretary, the speaker, in addition to apparently being of a l
ower social status, showed none of the sartorial elegance of the men he was addressing. On the other hand, everything about him might have been intended to compliment perfectly his mode of speech.

  Almost six feet in height, the man had a slender and seemingly fragile build which made Brandon look robust by comparison. He had sandy side-whiskers, rather outstanding ears, a mournful cast of features and a fairly prominent nose upon which, secured to his lapel by a silk cord, steel rimmed pince-nez perched so far down he must have found it very difficult to see through them. Nor did his garments—being of a style that was practically de rigueur for the bailiff of a County Court, or a Coroner’s Officer, in an earlier decade—do anything to correct an impression of advanced middle age. [3] High and flat-crowned, the black hat—which lay alongside a neatly furled black umbrella in front of him on the table—had ceased to be fashionable several years ago. Nothing about him suggested why he should be meeting two such important personages. Yet it was obvious they regarded him as being something akin to a social equal.

  Appearances notwithstanding, Houghton-Rand was aware that the archaic looking man was probably far better known to the general public than either himself or Brandon. Even before having been appointed Chief Investigative Officer for the Director of Public Prosecutions, Mr. J.G. Reeder’s picture had frequently appeared in newspapers which recorded his successful participation in solving a crime.

  ‘Well, Mr. Reeder,’ Houghton-Rand said, after the three men had seated themselves at the table and his demeanor indicated he was ready to get down to the business of the evening. ‘Why have you had me brought here?’

  ‘The suggestion for the—um—meeting was Sir Randolph’s, sir,’ the elderly looking detective asserted, his demeanor seeming to imply he wished his subordinate status to the Director of Public Prosecutions to be established and whatever credit for the responsibility of the meeting should be placed where it belonged. ‘Although I must confess that I selected the—um—rendezvous, to employ what is, I believe, a French—um—expression. I trust your journey here was pleasant and not too—um—uncomfortable?’

  ‘I’ve had less puzzling rides,’ Houghton-Rand claimed dryly. ‘Usually when I’ve travelled by taxi, the driver took the shortest route to the destination instead of—!’

  ‘Were we followed, Mr. Reeder?’ Brandon interrupted.

  ‘Followed?’ Houghton-Rand ejaculated in a brisker fashion than his usual mode of speech. ‘Why should we be, followed?’

  ‘It was a—um—contingency I envisaged, Sir Howard,’ Mr. J.G. Reeder answered, making the words sound more like a shocking confession than a claim. ‘You may not know it, but I am afflicted by a most distressing quirk of—um—nature—’

  ‘Your famous “criminal mind”,’ the Home Secretary suggested with a smile.

  ‘My “criminal mind”, as you so succinctly—um – put it,’ agreed the elderly looking detective, sounding almost sorrowful. ‘Causing me to see evil in the most innocent things and reach unpleasant—um—conclusions as it does, it is a most—um—unfortunate malady and, I am afraid, it led me to consider you might be followed by—um—persons who would be most interested to discover where you were going and with whom you were to meet; also, if possible, to ascertain the reason for the—um—journey.’

  ‘Hum!’ Houghton-Rand said pensively, glancing at Sir Randolph Brandon and his own features assumed their most bovinely blank expression. ‘I wondered why the taxi driver took such a roundabout route to get here. I couldn’t believe he would have been doing it to push up the fare, not with us as his passengers.’

  ‘Parker had his—um—instructions,’ Mr. Reeder claimed when his superior did not answer. ‘And, I feel sure, he carried them out in a most—um—satisfactory fashion.’

  Some of the things which had puzzled the Home Secretary since leaving his home were now becoming clear. Having been friends with Brandon since childhood, and being in close contact because of their official positions, he had seen nothing unusual in receiving an invitation to spend an evening with him. His surprise on being picked up in a taxi, especially one which looked so dingy and unkempt, had been explained as resulting from the Director’s wife having taken their Rolls Royce and no other transport being available. However, he had been puzzled by the rapid pace at which the seemingly decrepit vehicle travelled through the streets while taking a very roundabout route to reach the night club in one of the less salubrious parts of Soho. Now he realized that equipping the taxi with an exceptionally powerful engine served a useful purpose. When being employed upon clandestine assignments, there would be times when a turn of speed far beyond normal was required.

  Despite having cleared up part of his puzzlement, Houghton-Rand considered there were other matters of even greater importance demanding his attention!

  ‘Then he was one of your men?’ the Home Secretary asked, although the words were more of a statement than a question. ‘But why should anybody want to follow us?’

  ‘To find out where you are going and, if—um—possible, why,’ Mr. Reeder replied. ‘There are those to whom this could be a matter of the greatest—um—importance.’

  ‘Who, damn it?’ Houghton-Rand demanded.

  ‘You have heard of the—um—International Attainers?’ the detective inquired, Brandon having sat back in a manner which indicated the proceedings would now be left in his hands.

  ‘International Attainers?’ the Home Secretary queried, but his tone did not show complete puzzlement.

  ‘Each country where they are known, although “known” is hardly correct in its general—um—sense, has its own name for them,’ Mr. Reeder replied. ‘I won’t attempt to give the foreign—um—designations. However, amongst members of what is popularly called the um—underworld in this country, they are spoken of as the “Big ‘N’s”.’

  ‘I have heard of them,’ Houghton-Rand admitted. ‘But, to be frank, I never really believed that they exist.’

  ‘I know the idea of an organization of that nature is more suited to the pages of a sensational novel,’ Mr. Reeder conceded. Then he went on with what, for him, was an unusually assured tone. ‘But there is nothing more—um—certain than that they do exist and have for a number of—um—years.’

  ‘Tell me all you know about them,’ Houghton-Rand requested.

  Losing all the hesitancy which had characterized his speech until then, the detective explained how the International Attainers came into being some time during the first decade of the 20th Century. They were a group of men from several countries, every one a millionaire many times over, who dabbled in collecting objet d’art of various kinds. Each was sufficiently wealthy to obtain anything attainable for a high enough price, but this was not enough for them. They began to desire the unattainable and, being the kind of men they were, had set about achieving this.

  As far as was known, the first subject of the Attainers’ illicit operations was a Van Dyck painting held in trust by the reigning family of the Netherlands on behalf of the Dutch people. It was believed to have been destroyed in a fire while being taken to be cleaned. However, although no definite proof was forthcoming, Mr. Reeder had been informed that a substitute was burned and the real painting was in the hands of one of the Attainers. On Houghton-Rand remarking that the man would never dare let anybody else see it, the detective replied that none of them intended to put the items they obtained on public display. Instead, each was kept in a secret hiding place and, while allowing his associates to see it, the ownership of the piece was all that counted with every one of them.

  Having vast resources at their command, the Attainers were able to have the actual acquisition of each piece carried out by the criminal, or group of criminals, they considered best qualified for the task. When necessary, they would arrange for a perfect duplication to be produced and substituted for the desired object. However, to prevent the chance of blackmail by their employees, they had built up a secret organization with many of the attributes of an ordinary business. Each level of
it knew only their immediate superior in the stratum above. Everything was arranged so that even the best and most astute criminal met only the person who hired him and never came into contact with what might be termed the ‘Board of Directors’.

  From the beginning, the Attainers had done everything they could to ensure the loyalty of those they employed. The criminals were rewarded more substantially than they might hope to be by their own efforts. What is more, should any of them be caught, the finest legal defense available was provided and, in the event of being imprisoned, the man, or men, would be reimbursed for all the time of incarceration and all dependents were generously cared for.

  As an added precaution, the Attainers had established in no uncertain fashion just how serious the consequences of betraying their trust would be. About a year after they commenced operations, a cat-burglar was hired to steal a painting which did not require substitution. However, considering it would be marketable through his own sources, he had fled with it instead of handing it over. Some six months later, a number of other criminals who had ‘worked’ for the Attainers were gathered at a lonely property somewhere in France. The absconding cat-burglar was brought into their presence and the story of his perfidy and capture in another country when he tried to dispose of the painting was told. Then, after his wife and two children had been shot in front of him, he was skinned alive by a couple of Orientals specially imported for that purpose.

  When Houghton-Rand had claimed the story sounded like something out of a blood-and-thunder novel of the most lurid kind, Mr. Reeder had confessed there was no proof that it had happened. On the other hand, it was known that the cat-burglar and his family disappeared without a trace about the time the event was alleged to have taken place. What was more, many members of the underworld were convinced the retribution had occurred. One criminal, who had reason for feeling gratitude to the detective and who had supplied information on numerous occasions, had used it as an excuse for declining to make any statement regarding the activities of the Attainers.