Cap Fog 4 Read online

  Fit and active as Besgrove-Woodstole was, he could not keep pace with his host in quitting the vehicle. Moving with a rapidity that would have done credit to a much younger man, the detective had already opened the door, swung from his place and, drawing the Colt Government automatic, had started to sprint in the direction of Upper Grosvenor Street with Parker hot on his heels before the Colonel had even reached the pavement.

  Obscenities in French bubbled from the driver of the Post Office van as he recovered his wits. Flying down, his hands tried to operate the quick-release mechanism of the cross straps. Hitherto faultless, it did not work. Hearing the patter of rapidly approaching feet and seeing people emerging from the surrounding buildings, he became aware that the door at his side was blocked by the lamp-post. A glance in the left side, rear view mirror warned him that two men were running up and were already very close.

  Like most European criminals who operated in England, Gaston Porthos was all too aware of Mr. Reeder’s reputation. Nor had the detective’s escape from what was usually a successful method of assassination made him believe that the reputation was other than well-deserved. Although the second man did not appear to be armed, he realized that in his present position Mr. Reeder had no need of assistance.

  Ever since taking up his chosen specialty in the field of crime, Porthos had known that one day he might be faced with some such predicament. Being cognizant with what his fate would be at the hands of the law, which took grave exception to professional killers no matter how novel the methods employed, he had taken certain precautions. Even if the British Government did not allow his extradition to pay the penalty for his work in France, he was wanted for a murder he had committed in Brighton. Either the guillotine of his native land, or an English hangman’s noose awaited him if, as seemed likely, he should be captured. He had a Browning automatic in a shoulder holster, but the straps prevented him from reaching it. Nor would it avail him anything in his restricted position when opposed by a man of Mr. Reeder’s ability. Accepting the inevitable, he took what looked like a chocolate from his uniform top pocket and, removing the tissue paper wrapping, popped it into his mouth.

  ‘Adieu, mon cher Olga!’ Porthos sighed and bit through the chocolate covering.

  ‘Oh bother!’ Mr. Reeder ejaculated, in what for him amounted to a burst of profanity, for he was near enough to see the Frenchman’s action.

  Even as the detective lunged forward, he saw Porthos stiffen convulsively and then go limp. For all his suspicions, he held the Colt ready to be used. As he was reaching out for the door’s handle, he heard Besgrove-Woodstole calling from the other side of the vehicle.

  ‘Be careful. He’ll have to come out your way. This door’s jammed.’

  ‘I’m afraid he won’t come, or … um … go, anywhere under no his own volition,’ Mr. Reeder replied, knowing sufficient of the symptoms of cyanide poisoning to identify the results of an exceptionally potent dose. Holstering the Colt and buttoning his jacket, he went on, ‘In fact, Colonel, I am reasonably sanguine that he will not leave before he is removed for a post mortem examination by the … um … Home Office pathologist.’

  Already a small crowd was gathering. Some of them were known to Besgrove-Woodstole and the majority were able to identify Mr. Reeder from the photographs of him that had on occasion appeared in newspapers. So they were willing to obey when requested to keep at a distance, even before a constable, blowing his whistle to summon assistance, ran up.

  ‘A nasty accident, Mr. Reeder,’ the policeman stated.

  ‘Nasty … um … yes,’ the detective answered. ‘But not an … um … accident as you mean the term. I would suggest you touch nothing until those detestable fellows from Scotland Yard arrive.’

  ‘Whatever you say, sir,’ the constable assented and peered at the van. ‘Is that bloke dead?’

  ‘Remarkably … um … so,’ Mr. Reeder confirmed. ‘Would you be so good as to obtain the use of a telephone and report what has happened?’

  Chapter Thirteen—Neither Was the Black Death

  Fifteen minutes later, having been summoned by radio while on his way back to Scotland Yard, Chief Inspector Frank Gaylor arrived at the corner of Upper Grosvenor Street and greeted Mr. J. G. Reeder sardonically.

  ‘If this keeps up, we’ll have to put on a special squad to follow you around.’

  ‘Quite,’ the detective conceded mildly. ‘Would you inform the Brighton Police that they need waste no further… um … effort in searching for Gaston Porthos?’

  ‘I wondered if that’s who it might be,’ Gaylor admitted. ‘But I’d no idea he was back in this country.’

  ‘Neither had I,’ Mr. Reeder confessed. ‘Otherwise, I might have anticipated such an … um … attempt. In fact, when I saw the cross-straps without being able to make out his face, I imagined it to be a mere crime of … um … imitation.’

  ‘I can excuse my “noses” for not having heard he was coming over,’ Gaylor stated, frowning. ‘But that your lot hadn’t heard beats me. And I got the feeling that Lou Birkstone knew something.’

  ‘So did I and Mr. … um … Churgwin, too,’ Mr. Reeder replied. ‘But neither was inclined to divulge their knowledge even to avoid the possibility of arousing my … um … animosity by remaining silent. Not, I would hasten to add, that my … um … wrath is such a terrible thing—’

  ‘Neither was the Black Death,’ Gaylor sniffed, suffering from no delusions regarding the true nature of the gentle detective. ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘There are times when I wish I wasn’t cursed with my horribly perverse … um … mind,’ Mr. Reeder sighed. ‘But this evil form of reasoning with which I hope you are nev—’

  ‘My wife’s waiting dinner for me,’ Gaylor protested, rolling his eyes heavenwards.

  ‘To my way of … um … thinking,’ Mr. Reeder continued. ‘Such a plethora of experts in the matter of … um … assassination could only have been assembled secretly by one man.’

  ‘Go on!’ Gaylor snorted, but his voice lacked conviction. ‘Old Mad John Flack’s dead.’

  ‘So we have all … um … assumed,’ Mr. Reeder admitted. ‘But if he is, somebody at least as intelligent is not only adopting his … um … methods, but also appears to be able to exert an equal moral ascendancy over even major figures of the … um … underworld.’

  ‘Whoo!’ Gaylor breathed. ‘If that old gentleman wasn’t killed when the cliff caved in, we’re in for a lively time.’

  ‘I consider that, in my … um … simple way, I’m already having one,’ Mr. Reeder remarked, but in spite of his abhorrence for profanity (the man from Scotland Yard had not said gentleman) he agreed with the summation. ‘The only … um … consolation we might draw is that there is no major gold bullion shipment in the near future upon which he could engage his attention.’

  ‘And, with the lessons we learned from the “Terror Keep” job,’ Gaylor growled, ‘he won’t find it so easy to take another.’

  ‘That too has struck me,’ Mr. Reeder said pensively. ‘However, while he has concentrated the majority of his … um … organizing ability upon bullion robberies in the past, he has also dabbled in various other forms of criminal activity. Ah well, there is nothing to be learned here. I’m sure you wish to go home and trust you will give your lady wife my … um … apologies for delaying you.’

  ‘Why don’t you and the Colonel come and do it yourself?’ Gaylor suggested.

  ‘We have other… um … calls to make, I fear,’ Mr. Reeder replied and looked at his guest who had stood listening to the conversation. ‘Unless you have other … um … plans, Colonel?’

  ‘I’ll stick with you,’ Colonel Brian Besgrove-Woodstole decided.

  ‘Well, I’ll be going then,’ Gaylor stated. ‘And, without offence, I hope I don’t see you again today.’

  ‘Equally without… um … offence, I concur,’ Mr. Reeder answered.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ Parker put in, having remained unobtrusively in the background
. ‘Could I trouble you for a ride to the Captain’s flat?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Mr. Reeder agreed, deducing that there was more to the valet’s request than a mere desire to avoid having to make his own way to Park Place Villas, Paddington, where his employer was now in residence. ‘Unless you have any … um … objections, Colonel?’

  ‘None at all,’ Besgrove-Woodstole declared.

  ‘I hope you haven’t been trying to contact me, sir,’ Parker said, as he sat between the detective and the Colonel in the Frazer-Nash Fast Tourer. ‘But, as Captain and Mrs. Gray aren’t in residence, I took the afternoon off to visit a young lady of my acquaintance;’

  ‘Lady Mary Herban’s cook?’ Mr. Reeder asked with a smile.

  ‘Maid, sir,’ Parker corrected. ‘The reason I called Mrs. Grible was that, while it may not come within our province, there’s a possibility that a racing coup is being planned.’

  ‘By Mr. Frithington-Evans?’

  ‘So it would seem, sir. Apparently he and Mr. Siniter had a quarrel in the Cheese Club last night. It ended with each engaging to wager a large sum, which will be donated to a designated charity by whomever wins, that the horse he is entering in the Gore-Hampton Selling Plate at Kempton will pass over the line first.’

  ‘If that’s all there is to it, I doubt whether it will come into the … um … purview of the Public Prosecutor’s Office,’ Mr. Reeder pointed out, although he knew Saul Siniter 48 to be a racehorse owner no more honest than Frithington-Evans and was aware that the Cheese Club in Camden Town was devoted almost exclusively to bookmaking and kindred interests. 49 ‘Do you know anything about the … um … race, Colonel?’

  ‘I can’t say I do,’ Besgrove-Woodstole replied. ‘There’s only been one of our family with any money. He was a bookmaker and he never gave me anything except the advice not to bet on horses.’

  ‘I’m afraid my own education in the Sport of … um … Kings is equally lacking,’ Mr. Reeder confessed sadly. ‘Perhaps you can enlighten us, Parker?’

  ‘The race is only a minor one on the card at Kempton that day, sir,’ the valet obliged, having acquired an interest in such matters because his employer had been actively engaged in horse racing during the ‘Big Printer’ case. 50 ‘It never has a large field and normally there would be little interest or betting on it.’

  ‘The ideal kind of … um … event if one, or two, owners were wishing to indulge in what I believe is called … er … skullduggery,’ the detective guessed.

  ‘That’s what I thought, sir,’ Parker replied.

  ‘Then it might pay us to … um … look into the matter with greater interest,’ Mr. Reeder decided.

  ‘I hoped you would consider it so, sir,’ Parker exclaimed. ‘In fact, I took the liberty of asking Millie—Lady Herban’s maid—to keep me informed on the pretense that I too wished to participate in the coup. She agreed.’

  ‘Good man,’ Mr. Reeder praised, for the valet was a most valuable source of information regarding the activities of a strata of Society beyond the access of the normal type of police ‘nose’.

  ‘You appear to have had an accident, sir,’ Parker remarked, indicating the shattered windshield.

  ‘It was no … um … accident,’ Mr. Reeder corrected. ‘Unless, of course, one assumes it was accidentally broken by a dumdum bullet fired from a high powered rifle.’

  Watching, while the detective gave an explanation of all that had happened since they had been strolling in the garden of Daffodil House, Besgrove-Woodstole noticed what was for Parker a very strong reaction. The valet’s eyebrows moved a fraction of an inch and, sitting with his arms decorously folded, he drummed the fingers of his right hand no less than three times on his left bicep.

  ‘We’ll come up to the flat so I can call the Captain and … um … inform him,’ Mr. Reeder finished, also having observed how the valet responded to the news and feeling even more certain that neither he nor his employer had envisaged the possibility of attempted assassinations.

  ‘Very well, sir,’ Parker agreed, without hesitation.

  Silence fell after the valet’s acceptance. The Tourer had turned from Edgware Road on to Maida Avenue. None of the trio in it anticipated further trouble. They had taken especial care to ensure that they were not followed, but all felt that their vigilance was worthwhile. All of the apartments in Park Place Villas had balconies from which—if Mr. Reeder’s connection with Captain John Gray had become known—an evilly disposed person might have arranged to launch an attack. However, nothing happened and the detective brought his vehicle to a halt outside Number Thirty’s front door.

  Entering the building, Mr. Reeder and his companions went to the lift to ride up to the second floor. With Parker in the lead, they walked to the apartment taken by Captain Gray after his marriage. On arriving, although he took out a key, the valet did not offer to use it. Instead, he glanced at the top of the door and stiffened slightly.

  ‘We appear to either have had, or have, visitors, sir,’ Parker announced, with no more emotion than if he had been commenting upon the weather. ‘I applied the thread on leaving, as always, but it is broken.’

  Not until Besgrove-Woodstole had stared hard for a few seconds was he able to locate a piece of black thread dangling from the upper edge of the door. He realized it was a similar precaution to that which his host had taken with the Frazer-Nash’s bonnet. Then he noticed that Mr. Reeder was once again taking out the Colt Government Model automatic pistol.

  ‘It might be … um … advisable to stand to one side of the door, Colonel,’ the detective said, almost casually, extending the umbrella in the valet’s direction. Take this and give me the key, Parker.’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ the valet replied and made the exchange.

  Waiting until his companions were standing against the wall at the hinged side of the door, Mr. Reeder reached around and placed the key in the keyhole. Turning it, he transferred his left hand to the knob and twisted. Then he began to push open the door. As it moved, there was a crack such as a mousetrap would make on being sprung. The sound was followed by two noises, a “boing” and a “pop” which all of them recognized from past experience with such things.

  ‘Get down!’ Mr. Reeder snapped, jerking the door closed rapidly and flinging himself to the floor.

  Displaying an equal alacrity, Besgrove-Woodstole and Parker duplicated the gentle detective’s actions. Even as they landed, there was an explosion in the apartment and the door was blown outwards.

  ‘I never anticipated that!’Mr. Reeder ejaculated bitterly, rising and looking at the ceiling. ‘Is anybody upstairs?’

  ‘Not in the flat immediately above, sir,’ Parker answered, sounding relieved. ‘I suppose they used a mousetrap, with something to trigger it and a string fastened from its back- breaker bar to the pin of a Mills bomb?’

  ‘That would be my … um … assumption, too,’ Mr. Reeder admitted, reverting to his hesitant form of speech.

  ‘How did they get in to fix it?’ Besgrove-Woodstole demanded, having heard of booby traps being produced by such a comparatively simple method.

  ‘At the moment, Colonel, I’m more worried by the … um … fact that they came here,’ Mr. Reeder declared. ‘It seems that our … um … secret must have been found out, Parker.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the valet answered, sounding worried, for he knew what could be at stake if—as seemed likely—the detective’s fears were justified. ‘I’m afraid it does.’

  Chapter Fourteen—All of Which Means You’ve Failed

  ‘You seem to find that paper interesting, Mr. Rapido Clint,’ Mad John Flack remarked, staring from his place behind the study table to where the small Texan was standing by the window holding a week old copy of the Sporting Chronicle. ‘I saw you looking at it before dinner. Are you so interested in British horse racing?’

  Listening to the words, Clint decided they were further proof of something he had discovered earlier. The old man might on occasions behave in a manner which su
ggested how he had gained the nickname “Mad, but he was also remarkably shrewd and discerning. Although he had not insisted that the Texan be searched, he had asked a number of pertinent questions which indicated that he had no intention of taking the other at face value.

  After showing Flack the manner in which he was armed, Clint had explained how he had located Charles Wagon’s training establishment. However he had refused to divulge the sources of his information and his refusal had been handled so tactfully that he had won the old man’s approval. Hearing that a few dishonest jockeys and a number of professional killers were being sent to England, he had decided there was big money involved and had followed in search of employment. He had traveled over on a ship which was commissioned to collect a cargo of alcoholic beverages which were prohibited in the United States under the terms of the ‘Volstead Act’. 51 Another of the passengers, although Clint had ensured that they never met on the voyage, had been Link Gruber.

  On arriving in the United Kingdom, Clint had trailed the jockey until losing him at Swindon. Having visited two other areas in Wiltshire where racehorses were trained, the Texan had reached Little Venner and learned the most likely place for Gruber to be hiding. His first attempt to verify this had been thwarted when he was seen by the trainer. Doubting whether he would be allowed to explain and despite being armed he had withdrawn and returned undetected feeling sure that he had reached his destination.

  At the end of the explanation, Flack had demonstrated not only his shrewdness but his discernment. That he should have heard of Hogan Turtle, the man Clint had claimed could verify his bona fides, was not surprising. The Turtle family had long been very prominent in the criminal activities of the Lone Star State. 52 However, as Flack had shrewdly pointed out, in spite of employing the jargon of cowhands and gangsters, the newcomer’s accent was that of a well-educated Southron. Admitting that he was the black sheep of a wealthy Texas family, Clint had refused to supply further details. Once again, Flack had accepted his reticence.