Cap Fog 5 Page 10

  To anybody unacquainted with the true situation, the consultation with the woman hovering in the background who had produced the excellent breakfast might have seemed surprising!

  Almost six foot tall and weighing in the region of two hundred pounds, none of which was flabby fat, Mrs. Jane Amelia Grible was hardly likely to arouse the speculations of even the most suspicious minded or fault seeking neighbor in regards to her exact relationship with her employer. Framed by dark brown hair invariably seen in a tight and unflattering bun, her face surmounted three chins. She had a somewhat masculine nose between a tight mouth that was never brightened by even the slightest touch of lipstick, and her chilling blue eyes made her far from beautiful by any standards. Her attire was always of a somber black, with little adornment and nothing even remotely approaching frivolous. Her clothes were tailored in a style calculated to avoid creating even the slightest suggestion that she was trying to arouse the instincts of any man sexually. Therefore, despite her having been Mr. Reeder’s housekeeper for a number of years, nobody even for a moment considered there might be some closer relationship involved. 43

  ‘She sounded right to me, sir,’ the housekeeper stated, her voice deep and gravelly, but giving not the slightest suggestion as to which part of England she came from.

  Aware of the inherent danger in responding to a request which had come from the anonymous female caller, Mr. Reeder was far too experienced to take it at face value. Donning simple disguises, with the aid of old clothes from the extensive wardrobe maintained at Daffodil House for such occasions, his three guests had armed themselves with handguns out of the armory concealed in the sturdy wooden plinth supporting a particularly revolting bust of Napoleon which stood to the right of the front door. 44 Having made these preparations, they had taken their cars and preceded him to Essex Street. By the time he arrived, they were positioned so they could cover and support him should the need arise. However, although they had waited for over two hours, the woman responsible for their presence had not put in an appearance. Nor had anything else happened to enliven, or otherwise break the monotony of their vigil. Colonel Besgrove-Woodstole had said he would go directly to his own home when they decided there was no point in waiting any longer, but the other two had returned with their host to Daffodil House. On their arrival, by common consent, they had elected to withhold any discussion of the matter until after breakfast that morning.

  ‘They didn’t manage to trace the call?’ Jason Grant suggested rather than asked, knowing it was standard procedure to attempt to do so whenever people contacted the detective in such a fashion.

  ‘I’m afraid … um … not,’ Mr. Reeder admitted, his tone seeming to imply he was remiss in some way for the failure and was apologetic over what he must next confess. ‘Nor, regrettably, was there any sound in the … um … background, I believe is the appropriate theatrical term, to help hazard a … um … guess as to her location while speaking with me.’

  ‘What did you make of her voice, Jimmy?’ John Gray inquired, aware the detective had an exceptionally good ear for such matters.

  ‘She was a Londoner, although not born within the … um … traditionally accepted sound of Bow bells. Hanwell, rather than Hoxton, I would estimate,’ Mr. Reeder replied and received a nod of support from Mrs. Grible. ‘From working … um … class origins, with a family income and background approaching middle class. She had contrived to … um … eradicate all trace of her original accent, but it showed in the stress of the moment as she was speaking. And, at the risk of being … um … uncharitable, I would hazard a guess that she was a “lady of the … um … evening” —I believe is the term—if not actually a more actively participating criminal.’

  ‘That’s likely,’ Jason Grant supported. ‘Even if an ordinary shop assistant, or office worker wanted to tell you something, she’d hardly be likely to feel it necessary to arrange a meeting that way.’

  ‘The thing is,’ John Gray remarked. ‘Did she really have something to tell you, Jimmy, or was it just a trick to try to lead you into an ambush?’

  ‘I would be inclined to suppose she was … um … genuine,’ Mr. Reeder assessed. ‘Do you concur, Mrs. Grible?’

  ‘I do, sir,’ the housekeeper declared, without hesitation and exuding conviction.

  ‘And, as she failed to put in the promised … um … appearance,’ the detective continued, noticing without surprise that his guests showed a similar willingness to accept as worthwhile the support he had received from Mrs. Grible. ‘I assume she changed her … um … mind, which I have been informed is the prerogative of a lady—!’

  ‘Or?’ John Gray inquired, despite being able to guess the alternative.

  ‘Or she was prevented from coming,’ Mr. Reeder obliged and there was an underlying timbre of grimness to his apparently mild voice. ‘And I’m … um … afraid we all know what that means.’

  ‘She’s not been admitted to any hospital, sir,’ Mrs. Grible claimed, proving she for one was aware of the ramifications if the woman had been detected in the act of making the telephone call and had set into motion the means to try and discover if this was the case. ‘And so far no Division’s reported to the Yard that what could be her body has been found.’

  ‘Then let’s hope neither happens,’ Jason Grant said and everybody else present nodded in agreement.

  ‘Assuming she is a “lady of the evening”,’ Mr. Reeder remarked, turning his gaze to the big woman. ‘Would you be so good as to institute your specialized … um … enquiries as to whether any of them have gone inexplicably … um … missing, please, Mrs. Grible?’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ the housekeeper promised and, although neither of the guests found the suggestion in any way out of the ordinary, the other residents in the vicinity of Daffodil House would have been amazed—and probably horrified—if they had been aware of how much knowledge and sources of information she had with regards to prostitutes and other female denizens of the underworld.

  ‘And that, I’m … um … afraid, is all we can do about our mysterious caller for the time being,’ the detective claimed in tones of somber finality. ‘That and await … um … developments.’

  ‘Is there anything interesting in the newspaper, Jason?’ John Gray asked, accepting without question the decision of his host that the matter under discussion was closed for the time being and indicating the unopened copy of the Megaphone lying near the other guest.

  ‘Nothing of importance in the headlines, anyway,’ Jason Grant declared, having picked up and opened the newspaper. Then his attention was caught by the picture of a man wearing a straw boater and with a blackened face standing waving from the gangway leading off a docked liner. ‘Hum, I see that entertainer chap who calls himself “Haysoff Spades” is coming to appear at the Palladium, then go on a tour of the other major music halls. Do you know him, Johnny?’

  ‘No,’ the Major denied. ‘He’d been transferred to American Military Intelligence before I was seconded from the Rifle Brigade, but he was certainly quite a chap from all I heard.’

  ‘He’s an excellent entertainer, too, by all accounts,’ Jason Grant commented. ‘We’ll have to take the girls to see him on opening night if we can get tickets, Johnny.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ John Gray assented, then looked at their host. ‘Will you join the party, Jimmy?’

  ‘I’ll … um … decline, with apologies to your good lady wives, of course,’ the detective said. ‘Like Margaret and Jason, my taste for … um … entertainment is more on the lines of a Drury Lane … um … melodrama.’ 45

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr. Gaylor,’ Mr. J.G. Reeder greeted, answering the gentle buzz from the telephone on the desk in his sanctum at the office of the Director Of Public Prosecutions. ‘I hope you haven’t called to say you have … um … found the unfortunate young woman who called me last night?’

  Although there had been no trouble on the way to, from, or at the appointed rendezvous the previous night, the elderly looking detective
had been alert for the possibility of a delayed attempt to capitalize upon it. Therefore, he had taken the precaution of travelling from Brockley Road to Number One, Richmond Terrace and reaching his office in a way which would prevent any intended assailant from intercepting him. Knowing he would be informed if his mysterious caller should be discovered in either of the conditions envisaged by Mrs. Grible, or if anything further should develop, he had given his full attention to the matter with which he had already been dealing. Lunch had come and gone, without any messages from his housekeeper or elsewhere until that moment.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ replied the voice of Chief Inspector Frank Gaylor of Scotland Yard and a good friend. ‘But I thought you’d be interested to hear about what’s happened to Olga Flack.’

  ‘I’m always interested in any and every … um … thing that happens to that particular young lady,’ the detective admitted, with good cause.

  Daughter of the deranged master criminal ‘Mad’ John Flack, the woman in question had inherited much of his intelligence and malevolent nature. Arrested for her involvement in the scheme which had resulted in her father’s death, 46 she was serving a fifteen year sentence at Holloway prison. Although she had never given the slightest indication of it verbally, Mr. Reeder had sensed during the trial—and on the two occasions he had seen her since her incarceration—that she possessed a hatred for him equal to, perhaps even exceeding, that of her insane father. However, while he and Mrs. Grible—whose contacts with the female side of the underworld were even more extensive—had arranged for a watch to be kept upon her, she had shown no sign of being other than a model prisoner with no desire for revenge upon the cause of her misfortunes.

  ‘You’ve lost an interest in that case,’ Gaylor stated. ‘She collapsed in Holloway this morning, showing all the symptoms of acute appendicitis. As they haven’t any way of handling an operation of that kind in the nick, she was sent out to hospital. On the way, the ambulance crashed and caught fire. Nobody got out of it.’

  ‘Nobody?’ Mr. Reeder repeated. ‘I trust you will forgive me for … um … asking, but I have this terrible perversion—!’

  ‘Your “criminal mind”,’ the man at Scotland Yard supplied, as the detective paused.

  ‘As you … um … say, my criminal mind,’ Mr. Reeder confirmed. ‘A most regrettable … um … affliction which I hope you will—!’

  ‘There were a driver and a male attendant in front and a wardress in the back with her,’ Gaylor interrupted. ‘Four bodies were found in the wreckage and, although they’re all charred beyond any hope of recognition, the pathologist says one of them is the right age, build and sex for her.’

  ‘That sounds sufficiently … um … conclusive to presuppose we have finally seen the last of her,’ the detective admitted. ‘And, regrettably as it might strike some people, I find myself unable to feel the slightest sorrow over the … um … possibility.’

  ‘Or me,’ Gaylor agreed, with more feeling even though he had suffered less at the hands of the Flack family. ‘And we should have heard the last of Crazy John’s Encyclopedia of Crime now she’s gone.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Mr. Reeder replied. ‘But it is my opinion, sharing the criminal mind, that there will always be those who harbor illusions and fairy tales and will therefore continue to hope to find that veritable cornucopia of illegality.’ 47

  Chapter Nine – He’s Only the … um … Home-Grown Variety

  ‘Good afternoon, Sergeant Fog,’ Mr. J.G. Reeder greeted, with such warmth and apparent sincerity he might really have believed this to be the name of the man—ostensibly having just arrived on the boat train from Southampton in Hampshire—he had come to meet at the Southern Railway’s passenger station at Waterloo. Shaking hands, he continued, ‘Welcome to our … um … country and London.’

  ‘Why thank you ’most to death, sir,’ Sergeant Ranse Smith declared, also looking towards the press photographers who were lining cameras. Despite it being the first time he had visited the British Isles, he went on, ‘And I’m rightly honored to be back again.’

  The meeting in so exposed and public a place, attended by reporters brought there by what a later generation would term a ‘leak’ deliberately passed to their respective newspapers, was a continuation of the attempt to bring the Chopper to justice!

  Having been accepted for the task of removing the problems caused by their ‘fellow hired killer’, Sergeants Alvin Dustine ‘Rapido Clint’ Fog and Mark ‘Comanche Blood’ Scrapton had sought to gain the confidence of Hogan Turtle by explaining how ‘Comanche Blood’ had been able to produce the Webley-Fosbery Automatic revolver in the Turtleback Cottage night club. Far from being annoyed over the deception played so capably by Rita Yarborough, the gang leader had praised her for the competence of her performance and stated that he considered her treatment of Beauregard Wiggins completely justified. Nevertheless, Rapido had decided it would not be politic to say he had struck the second blow—as a result of which the senior bodyguard was still hospitalized—harder than was absolutely necessary as a result of having heard of the attempted molestation upon a person for whom he had a mutually shared fondness and affection.

  Such had been the amiability displayed by Turtle that, aware of how he and his contemporaries were eager to bring their very serious difficulties with the law enforcement agencies to a lower level if not a complete end, the young ‘undercover’ peace officers had become convinced that he was satisfied with the story he was told about the Texas Ranger supposedly having visited England posing as Alvin’s alter ego, Rapido Clint. Certainly he had not shown the slightest hesitation before supplying them with all the information he had acquired and which might be of assistance to them in their assignment on behalf of himself and the other gang leaders.

  While young, the two peace officers were too experienced at undercover work to ask many questions. In spite of that, Turtle had proved forthcoming in his desire to help them locate the man he wanted killing. Saying that the ‘word’ had reached him from an undisclosed source in New York, he had claimed that the Chopper had early anticipated the full extent of the animosity caused in law enforcement circles by the murder of Sergeants Jubal Branch and Hans Soehnen. Therefore, it seemed that he had considered a complete change of scenery was called for until things quietened down. Although he had never before left the United States, as far as it was known, he had accepted a contract for a killing which was passed to him via the leading crooked lawyer in London, England.

  Unfortunately, the gang leader had been unable to learn the names of either the go-between for whoever was hiring the Chopper, or the intended victim. Nevertheless, Turtle had been positive the information was correct. Seeking additional verification, he had sent a message through the channels which could normally reach the killer. It had offered what he claimed was a lucrative contract, which he considered it advisable to have handled without involving any of his own ‘enforcers’. Although no reason was given, the reply asserted that the Chopper would not be available for some time to come and would enquire at an unspecified future date whether the contract still needed to be fulfilled.

  Contacting and discussing the matter with Major Benson Tragg, Rapido and Comanche had found he was in agreement with their supposition that Chopper had indeed accepted the offer from London. There was no way of guessing from which port in the United States he would sail. Nor was Turtle able to supply the information, which had been requested by the two ‘hired killers’ on the grounds that it would help them to carry out their task more quickly if they could catch their victim before he was able to leave the country. However, in spite of notifying the appropriate authorities in every major shipping city along the Eastern seaboard of the suspected departure, the commanding officer of Company ‘Z’ had decided not to wait until the results of all departing vessels being searched—whatever these might be—were reported.

  Major Tragg had realized it was imperative for his men to travel to England at least as swiftly as the Chopper. Despite it ha
ving been decided that Rita should be included in the party, making the fullest use of his influential connections in ‘high’ places, he had arranged for them to be taken from Brownsville by the United States’ Navy. While a destroyer would have been swifter, such vessels lacked the necessary fuel capacity to cross the Atlantic Ocean at full speed, so they were transported aboard the latest cruiser. Having the requisite range, this was at least as fast as any passenger ship and had the added advantage of offering accommodation for the girl which would not have been so readily available in a destroyer.

  In addition to notifying Scotland Yard that the professional killer might be coming from the United States, the Major had informed Mr. J.G. Reeder even more thoroughly. It was the elderly looking detective, possessing equally influential contacts in just as high places, who arranged for the party from Company ‘Z’ to be landed in the Royal Navy’s dockyard at Gosport—not far from Southampton—instead of needing to come through a civilian port. They therefore avoided the usual formalities of passport examination and inspection by His Britannic Majesty’s Customs and Excise officials. They had even been granted permission from a more powerful authority to bring their personal weapons with them.

  For his part, the gentle seeming detective had had other things to occupy the attention of himself and his organization over the past few days besides making the arrangements for the arrival of the contingent from Company ‘Z’, Texas Rangers.

  One matter had been trying to discover the identity of the anonymous female whose telephone call had taken Mr. Reeder on the abortive trip to Essex Street. From her sources, Mrs. Jane Amelia Grible had learned that a prostitute, Molly Nickerson, had not been seen since the most recent ‘Cat Fight Night’ at the Pinhole Club. While the housekeeper was not acquainted with her personally, finding out where she had been born and raised—added to the discovery that she had had a reason to feel animosity towards William Churgwin, as a result of what he had allowed to happen to her—had suggested she might be the caller. While she had no previous record of having been an informer, ‘ladies of the evening’ like herself frequently learned of illegal acts. Feeling she had been treated badly, she might have decided to report some such discovery she had made about one or more of her employer’s ‘naughties’ as a means of taking revenge.