by J. T. Edson
‘Life’s funny,’ the girl remarked, glancing sideways. ‘I never expected to meet a Yankee when I left home this afternoon.’
‘Where’d you come across one, ma’am?’ the young man inquired, swinging his gaze around from watching the lane behind them.
‘Why you, of course,’ Beryl explained, but the winding nature of the lane prevented her from looking at her passenger. ‘You’re one, aren’t you?’
‘No, ma’am, I’m not!’ the stranger declared and his lazy sounding drawl contrived to sound very emphatic. ‘And, was I you-all, I wouldn’t go calling anybody else from Texas a Yankee.’ The words came out as ‘ah’, ‘yawl’, ‘Taixsus’ and ‘Yonkee’. ‘It’s all right by me, mind, I’ve been raised tolerable broadminded. But most folks back home to Texas’d rather you said’s they’d voted Republican than for you-all to go accusing them of being Yankees.’
Something in her passenger’s voice caused the girl to turn her head in his direction without regard for the winding state of the lane. She found a pair of gray eyes which were twinkling with merriment. They seemed out of place in the tanned and otherwise expressionless face which was focused upon her.
Suddenly Beryl had an uneasy suspicion that she might have been mistaken about the young man who was sitting by her side. One of her reasons for helping him had been because she had assumed he was slightly younger than herself. On making a closer examination, she decided that there was vastly more to him than had been suggested by her original and, of necessity, hurried glance. Various details began to impress themselves upon her. There was, she observed, an aura of controlled self-assurance about him that was not in accord with callow youth. He certainly was somewhat older than she had imagined, in his mid-twenties at least and with far more worldly wisdom than his appearance implied. What was more, he was far from puny. The spread of his shoulders, trimming down to a lean waist, and the play of the thigh muscles which stretched tight the upper legs of his peculiar trousers suggested a physical strength well above average for his height.
‘Wouldn’t want to sound pushy, ma’am, being your guest and all,’ the young man commented, with a note of strangely unhurried urgency coming into his voice although his general demeanor did not change. ‘Only I reckon’s it’d happen be better was you to watch the trail.’
‘I don’t know how it is in the United States,’ Beryl said, after a piece of skillful manipulation on her part had taken the speeding tourer around the fairly sharp bend that had provoked her passenger’s advice. ‘Or should I say how it is in Texas—’
‘Shucks, ma’am,’ the young man replied, still with the faintly sardonic timbre to his voice which the girl was finding increasingly annoying. ‘Us Texans let the United States join up with us back in ‘Forty-Six. 13 We’n’s don’t mind folks figuring we’re a part of it, just so long’s they don’t forget we’re the biggest and dad-blasted best State of all.’
‘I’ll be sure to remember!’ Beryl promised, practically spitting the words out and seeking for a way to disturb the calm composure of the man by her side. ‘I don’t know how it is in Texas, but you shouldn’t let yourself be talked into touting race-horses in this country. Particularly where somebody like Charlie Wagon is concerned. If he’d caught you—’
‘Likely, ma’am,’ the young man replied, as the girl allowed her words to trail away in what she regarded as a dramatically warning manner. ‘Happen this here “touting” means what I reckon it does, it’s not took kindly to back home to Texas neither. Only I wasn’t on his range trying to see how fast his horses can run.’
‘Then why were you—?’ the girl began, before she could prevent herself.
‘This here’s a right smart lil old jalopy you’ve got, ma’am,’ the Texan drawled, after his politely prohibitive gaze and the girl’s innate good manners had brought the question to a halt. ‘It doesn’t handle too bad at all, but give me my Kissel Eight Seventy-Five most any ole time. Now there’s a gas- buggy with what I’d call real good road-handling and performance.’
Belonging to a generation with an inborn sense of purpose and with no need to try and boost a realization of personal inadequacy, Beryl was infuriated at the young foreigner’s somewhat condescending reference to her highly prized vehicle. While its manufacturers were already developing more powerful and sophisticated models to supersede it, the little MG Super Sports Tourer had built up a good reputation, even in comparison with various more expensive overseas’ competitors. Certainly she did not accept that it deserved to be dismissed as nothing more than a “lil ole jalopy”, “right smart” or otherwise. So she decided to show her passenger that he was riding in a car which possessed qualities that left nothing to be desired.
Causing the tourer to go faster, the girl guided it along the lane in a way which she felt sure was displaying it to the very best advantage. Although she managed an occasional swift sideways glance in the hope of discovering if the Texan was impressed by the demonstration, driving required her complete attention and precluded the possibility of continuing, the conversation.
Beryl had reached Little Venner and the Texan was asking to be put down before she realized that she had not satisfied her curiosity about him. As she drove away, leaving him standing at the edge of the village green and looking towards the front door of the Starter’s Hack public house^ she wondered if that was the reason he had made the provocative comment.
Chapter Two—Get Down, Quickly
‘Personally, although I can’t dispute that in general their egg-laying capacity is inferior, I’ve always found Minorcas to be far less excitable than either Brown or White Leghorns,’ remarked the slightly shorter of the two gentlemen who were strolling in a leisurely fashion across the front lawn of Daffodil House. He watched his companion as if searching for a reaction to his words as he continued, ‘But none of them stand out as well as Buff Cochins when it comes to catching the judges’ eye and, from what I hear, Cochins are what old Barraclough’s putting his faith in for Crystal Palace this year.’
‘I’ve heard rumors to that … um … effect too, Colonel,’ admitted the second stroller, his mild tones almost apologetic in their timbre. He gave no sign that he was aware of the other’s scrutiny.
‘They stand out even better than … Wyandottes … shall we say?’ the first speaker remarked in a somewhat challenging fashion.
‘That is, of course and with … um … respect, a matter of opinion,’ the second man answered, but his attitude suggested that he would not think of arguing with the other’s point of view.
Despite each being a person of some considerable importance in his own right, there was nothing out of the ordinary in the pair’s appearance apart from the taller’s rather archaic attire. In fact, they blended harmoniously with the early Sunday afternoon’s peace and tranquility which pervaded Brockley Road.
The first speaker was a little above medium height, spare of build and had close cropped, iron gray hair. There was a firm, disciplined hardness about his tanned and clean shaven face which, taken with his ramrod straight carriage was suggestive of a military background. He had on a smartly tailored Harris tweed suit, a white shirt and a Rifle Brigade’s diagonally striped black and dark green regimental tie such as a serving, or retired, officer in mufti 14 might be expected to wear.
Almost six foot tall, the second of the gentlemen did not exude any such martial aura and, apart from a mutual interest in domestic chickens, he seemed to have little in common with his companion. His clothing was of a style which had been practically de rigueur for the bailiff of a County Court, or a coroner’s officer, in an earlier decade. In spite of being on his own property, he sported the kind of high and flat crowned black bowler hat which had ceased to be fashionable several years ago. Nor was his black frock coat, buttoned tightly around him as if to emphasize his slender frame, any more modem in its cut. Furthermore, a ready-made cravat of the broad “chest protector” pattern—buckled under a white Gladstonian shirt collar—combined with the coat, somewhat
narrow legged striped trousers and a pair of black, square-toed boots to imply that their wearer was no longer in the first flush of youth. For all his sprightly movements, his sandy side-whiskers, rather outstanding ears, mournful cast of features and fairly prominent nose—upon which, secured to his lapel with a silk cord, steel rimmed pince-nez perched so far down that it would be impossible for him to see through them—failed to do anything to correct a general impression of advanced middle age.
‘I haven’t made up my mind what to enter,’ the military- looking visitor remarked, coming to a halt at the front gate.
‘Neither have we,’ his host replied.
‘You wouldn’t have any difficulty in making your selection if Curly Toes was still alive,’ the visitor commented, referring to the other’s champion Blue-Laced Wyandotte hen which—in addition to its almost perfect physical conformation—had been celebrated for its predilection towards eating fruit cake. 15 ‘We’re not likely to see her equal for a long time.’
‘Hardly, Colonel, hardly,’ agreed the elderly seeming owner of Daffodil House, his whole bearing redolent of sorrow at the reminder of the superlative Curly Toes’ demise.. ‘Regrettably as yet, none of her … um … progeny have attained such high standards.’
‘Then you won’t be showing any of them?’ the visitor inquired, with a guileless air that begged to inspire confidence.
‘As I … um … said, Colonel,’ the host sighed, as if regretting having to impart such negative information. ‘As yet, we haven’t reached any definite decision about which birds to enter.’
Mr. J. G. Reeder always derived considerable enjoyment from discussing his hobby with such an eminent authority—albeit, also a friendly rival—as Colonel Brian Besgrove-Woodstole, D.S.O., M.C. and Bar. That afternoon, the conversation was being given the added fillip of parrying the visitor’s attempt to discover which of his birds would be exhibited at the forthcoming National Poultry Show at the Crystal Palace. However, he did not forgo his habit of constant—if far from obvious or noticeable—all round observation. Even before he had succeeded to the post of Chief Investigative Officer for the Director of Public Prosecutions, he had learned the value of unceasing vigilance as a means of avoiding the attentions of persons who had reasons to be evilly disposed towards him.
On the face of it, there was not much for Mr. Reeder to see and certainly nothing to cause him concern.
At that hour on a Sunday, especially such a pleasant one, those residents of Brockley Road who were not paying visits to the sea-side, the Zoological Gardens in Regent’s Park, or other areas of pleasurable and cultural relaxation, were seated around the tables of their respective dining rooms and partaking of that most sacrosanct of British institutions, Sunday lunch. In fact, if there had not been some minor contretemps in the kitchen of Daffodil House, Mr. Reeder and his guest would have been conforming with the tradition. So, except for a police constable who was approaching along the opposite pavement from the direction of Tanners Hill and a car that had turned out of Lewisham High Road, the detective and the Colonel were the only signs of life.
Big and heavily built, the constable was walking with his hands behind his back and using the slow, measured stride which seemed to epitomize the reassuring solidarity of a legal system that still had a bite to ensure that its authority was respected. However, even as Mr. Reeder’s gaze turned upon him, he came to a halt and stared ahead. Although a good hundred yards separated them, to the detective it seemed that the officer’s attitude was suggestive of his having seen something unexpected. Yet there was no apparent reason for his behavior. Certainly it had not been caused by the sight of Mr. Reeder and his guest. It was common knowledge, particularly to the local constabulary, that the former was the owner of Daffodil House and might be seen in its grounds, but the Colonel was not sufficiently famous in his official capacity to arouse interest.
Nor, at first sight, did the car appear worthy of the constable’s attention. It was a dark blue 1926 Clyno Royal four door sedan and had the comfortably solid look becoming a competitor with the Ford, Austin, or Morris ranges of vehicles which were aimed at the suburban family market. Driven by a thickset, black bearded man of middle height who had on a black bowler, respectable brown suit, white shirt with a sedate blue tie and thick rimmed dark glasses, it was carrying two just as soberly attired but bare headed passengers seated one behind the other. It was cruising in a decorous manner to which even the most officious police officer could not take exception.
In spite of the constable’s behavior, to most people the scene would have been one of orderly suburban peace and serenity. However, as Mr. Reeder not infrequently mentioned, he was possessed of what he described as a “criminal mind”. It caused him to look behind the exterior of everything which came to his notice. Fie could examine the most innocuous seeming sights and activities, considering how they might be converted to the purposes of evil and wrong doing. When, for example, his views had been made public on how the harmless and generally accepted practice of leaving deliveries of milk on doorsteps in the early hours of the morning might become an adjunct to mass murder 16 they were said to have caused great consternation in the dairy industry.
Whether the sensation was due to the potentially criminal inclinations of his mind, or because his brain had been trained to function as an orderly and efficient card-index file, Mr. Reeder began to feel perturbed. It had often been claimed that he was the best informed man in England. To a great extent, that was true. Details gathered from a multitude of sources were brought to his attention and, once absorbed, he never forgot them.
In conjunction with what Mr. Reeder had observed and was deducing, two such items came crowding to the fore.
They were alarming in their implications!
‘In a way, it’s a deuced pity that we can’t make line-breeding an exact science,’ Besgrove-Woodstole went on, oblivious of the disturbing thoughts which were assailing his host and still hoping to gain some idea of the kind of competition his prize Barred Plymouth Rock cocks and hens would have to contend with in the dual-purpose—egg-laying and table meat producing—classes at the Crystal Palace. ‘But if we did, there’d be no pleasure and anticipation, nor any real purpose even, in holding the National Poultry Show.’
‘That is very true, Colonel,’ Mr. Reeder conceded.
Even as the detective was speaking, although the Clyno’s occupants were unaware of the fact, he kept his attention directed towards it and could now make out certain highly significant details. The driver, for all his bushy beard, was undoubtedly British, but, in spite of their attire having been purchased in England, the passengers had the swarthy features distinctive of Latin certainly and probably Italian parentage.
Although Mr. Reeder had drawn his conclusions from the appearance of the man behind the steering wheel and the possible nationality of the passengers, he realized that the constable was too far away to have been able to duplicate it. Nor, at that distance, would the two letters and three numbers of the vehicle’s London and May 1926 registered license plates be readable. So none of those details could have supplied the officer with a suggestion that something was wrong.
Yet a further item for Mr. Reeder to add to the puzzle was that he did not recognize the constable. While he could not claim to be acquainted with every member of the Metropolitan Police Force, he had had dealings—even if only to the extent of supplying a surreptitious cup of tea on a cold and wet night—with those officers who were generally assigned to the beat which incorporated Brockley Road. Of course, there were a number of completely innocent reasons why an unfamiliar man should have been assigned to the duty.
But, as has been mentioned, Mr. Reeder had a “criminal mind”.
All of which suggested—
Yet there had been no warning that—
While Mr. Reeder was trying to reconcile the lack of information to his fund of alarming conjecture, he noticed that the man in the front passenger seat was saying something in the brisk manner of on
e who was giving an order. Instantly, the Clyno’s leisurely pace was accelerated and, to add to his suspicions Mr. Reeder observed that both of the left hand windows had been wound down until fully open.
In itself, the latter discovery ought to have meant little or nothing.
However, if Mr. Reeder’s theory was correct, the windows were open for more than letting the occupants take advantage of the exceptionally clement weather.
They were posing a very serious and terrible threat to the lives of the detective and his guest!
‘Get down, quickly!’ Mr. Reeder snapped and, while the words were exploding from his lips, he wondered if his appreciation of the situation had come too late.
Already, despite there having been nothing to give a warning that they had such devices in their possession, each of the passengers brought into view a wicked looking double barreled, sawed-off shotgun. Working with the deft motions which were indicative of considerable training, they started to thrust the yawning .729 of an inch caliber muzzles through their respective windows. Instead of placing the butts to their shoulders, the pair were aiming by rough alignment. They were confident that the nine buckshot balls in each of the four chambers’ shells would spread upon being discharged and encompass the two victims standing by the front gate of Daffodil House.
Without the need for conscious guidance, two right forefingers tightened on triggers. To the accompaniment of an almost simultaneous quadruple roar, so expertly had the weapons’ mechanisms been adjusted, white smoke gushed from first the right and then the left barrel of each shotgun. It followed in the wake of the invisible to the naked eye, but nevertheless potentially lethal, sprays of .32 caliber lead balls which were being emitted.