by J. T. Edson
Chapter Three—Which of Us Were They After?
Colonel Brian Besgrove-Woodstole, D.S.O., M.C. and Bar, might have considered himself fortunate in that he had gone against his family’s tradition and taken his commission in the 95th Regiment of Foot instead of following his three older brothers and several other predecessors into the Brigade of Guards. Being arguably the British Army’s finest light infantry regiment, the Rifle Brigade did not march at the generally accepted one hundred and twenty paces a minute. Performing drill movements at a lively one hundred and eighty paces’ timing trained a man to think and act with great rapidity. Although the Colonel had been seconded to duty away from his regiment, he retained the swiftness of reaction which had been instilled in him.
Hearing his host’s command—the words, spat out in a vastly different fashion to that of Mr. J. G. Reeder’s normally hesitant delivery—the Colonel did not waste time asking questions. A quick glance at the Clyno Royal sedan, which was rushing nearer at an ever increasing pace, indicated why the warning had been given. For some reason that was as yet far from obvious, the detective believed the occupants of the vehicle were up to no good. Nor, in spite of his much vaunted “criminal mind”, was Mr. Reeder an alarmist given to over-dramatic flights of fancy.
Even if Besgrove-Woodstole had thought otherwise, the sight of the two Latin-featured passengers producing the sawed-off shotguns would have removed all his doubts that the peril was genuine. So, acting with commendable speed, he twisted and flung himself down behind the thick privet hedge at the right side of the garden gate.
Satisfied that his guest not only appreciated the danger, but was taking the correct measures to counter it, Mr. Reeder gave thought to his own welfare. Nor, from what he could see happening, had his realization of their precarious situation come a moment too soon. In fact, he wondered if he might have delayed his plunging dive in the opposite direction to the Colonel too late to save himself.
Consternation showed briefly on the two would-be assassins’ swarthy faces as they watched their prospective victims disappearing behind the dense masses of dark green foliage on either side of the gate. The understanding that their sinister purpose had been detected came just an instant too late. Try though each might, neither could prevent his right forefinger from completing the necessary pressure on the trigger and causing the twin barrels’ charges to fire. Experts in their line, they both knew that their victims stood a better than even chance of passing beyond the spread of the disgorged buckshot balls.
Realizing that his companions’ plot was miscarrying and knowing against whom they were contending, the driver’s only thought was to get as far away from Brockley Road in the shortest possible time. With that in mind, he thrust his foot down even harder upon the accelerator. Ignoring a demand from the passenger at his left side—delivered in the harsh and snarling dialect peculiar to a certain type of Italian-born citizen of the United States—for him to stop so that they could return and finish the job, he kept the Clyno’s speed increasing.
Conscious of the swishing caused by lead passing through the foliage above him, Besgrove-Woodstole alighted on his hands and knees without injury. Listening to the car speeding onwards and wishing he had a weapon with which to defend himself if the attackers should return, he glanced over his shoulder to find out how his host had fared.
What the Colonel saw caused him to feel considerable alarm.
Although the pince-nez had been dislodged by the violence of Mr. Reeder’ s evasive action, he still retained his hat and had clearly come through the attack unscathed.
However, much to Besgrove-Woodstole’s consternation, he was already starting to rise with remarkable agility for one who seemed to be so ancient and fragile. Knowing his host, the agility was not the cause of the Colonel’s emotion. Rather it was produced by what he regarded as the other’s incautious behavior. While the Clyno sounded as if it was continuing to depart, it could still return, giving its occupants a chance at a second attempt. Yet, despite the fact that he too was unarmed, Mr. Reeder showed no indication that he was contemplating a dash for the safety and shelter of Daffodil House.
Oblivious of the apprehension experienced by his guest, the detective peered over the hedge. He was equally aware that there could still be danger, but he had snatched a quick glance at his front door. What he had seen told him that it was reasonably safe for him to carry out an observation of their attackers.
Even as Mr. Reeder attained a position from which he could gaze along Brockley Road, the Clyno had come almost level with the constable. Showing no hesitation, which was remarkable under the circumstances, he darted forward. Instead of keeping up its speed, the vehicle slowed down and he threw himself on the running board. Almost as soon as he had done so, the driver accelerated once more. Nor, strangely enough, did the other occupants make any attempt to dislodge what one might have assumed to be an undesirable burden to their flight. Instead, with the blue clad figure clinging to it, the car sped down Tanners Hill. It passed out of sight beneath the railway bridge and disappeared into Deptford.
‘Just as I suspected,’ Mr. Reeder said quietly, and with an air of gloomy satisfaction. Replacing his pince-nez, he turned his gaze to where his guest was rising. ‘I trust you aren’t hurt, Colonel?’
‘I managed to dodge them, too,’ Besgrove-Woodstole replied. Having risen just in time to catch a glimpse of the Clyno as it went out of sight, he looked around and decided that, as none of the neighbors were making an appearance to investigate, the sound of the shots had gone unnoticed or had not been recognized as such by them. Then he remembered something else. ‘Where’s that policeman?’
‘He was carried off by the vehicle,’ Mr. Reeder answered.
‘Carried off,’ repeated the Colonel. ‘Gad! It might have been foolhardy of him, but he was a brave man to try and tackle those thugs.’
‘I’m afraid you have … um … over charitable regard for his motives,’ Mr. Reeder contradicted, if his hesitant correction could be described by such a strong term. ‘In fact, Colonel, I regret that you are in … er … something of an error when you refer to him as a policeman.’
‘Gad!’ Besgrove-Woodstole barked, swinging around to glare at his host. ‘Do you mean that he wasn’t a constable?’
‘I do,’ Mr. Reeder confirmed dismally. ‘While he certainly passed muster as far as his attire and deportment—I believe that is the correct theatrical term—went, he has no connection with the Metropolitan Police Force other than a possible … um … reference to him in the Records Office at Scotland Yard.’
‘Come on,’ Besgrove-Woodstole growled, turning away from the gate. ‘We’d better go and put the police on their track.’
‘Mrs. Grible is just going to attend to it,’ Mr. Reeder replied, nodding towards his house. ‘But, of course, there are certain … um … details which she will be unable to supply and we will be able to do so.’
Turning his gaze in the same direction, the Colonel realized why his host had not been concerned over the possibility of their attackers returning. Holding a double barreled shotgun of similar caliber but more conventional dimensions than the pair’s weapons (which he had not been aware was on the premises) the lady in question was stepping back through the front door.
Almost six foot tall and weighing in the region of two hundred pounds, none of which was flabby fat, Mrs. Jane Amelia Grible had been in Mr. Reeder’s service, ostensibly as a housekeeper, for a number of years. 17 Although the neighbors found her to be dour and uncommunicative where her famous employer’s affairs were concerned, they could not find fault with the manner in which she performed her household duties. Only a select few people knew just how competent she was in other, more exacting, fields. 18
‘Which of us were they after, Mr. Reeder?’ Besgrove-Woodstole inquired, as he accompanied his host along the garden path. He guessed that, having come to the front door to announce that lunch was ready, Mrs. Grible had seen the attack being launched. Realizing that neither
of them had the means to defend themselves, she had armed herself ready to do so if necessary. However, his question prevented him from wondering from whence she had obtained the shotgun. It also took precedence over his interest in the matter of the man in the constable’s uniform. ‘Was it you, or I?’
Considering that the Colonel was the head of M.I.5, British Military Intelligence—which at that time was the supreme force in the field of international espionage—the query was no mean tribute to the high esteem and regard he had for the man to whom it had been put.
‘That … um … point had occurred to me too, Colonel,’ Mr. Reeder admitted. ‘As this is my home, it suggests I was the intended victim. As against that, however, the nature of your … er … appointment presupposes you are required to keep your Department informed of your whereabouts. If, and I hesitate to suggest such an … um … unpalatable contingency, some member of your staff should be disloyal, the miscreants could have learned that you are paying a visit to me.’
‘They couldn’t have known we’d be out in the garden,’ Besgrove-Woodstole objected. ‘If lunch hadn’t been delayed, we’d have been inside, eating it.’
‘In the dining room, at the front of the building and with a large bay window commanding an excellent view of Brockley Road,’ Mr. Reeder pointed out, almost apologetically. ‘I’m afraid that they were prepared for just such an … er … eventuality, Colonel.’
‘Blast it!’ Besgrove-Woodstole ejaculated. ‘If you knew it was going to happen—’
‘Good gracious, Colonel!’ Mr. Reeder protested, sounding aghast over the imputation that he would have deliberately placed a visitor to his home in a position of jeopardy. ‘If I had had the slightest … um … inkling that such a thing was even contemplated, I would have taken steps to prevent it.’
The comment gave rise to other questions, but Besgrove-Woodstole was diverted from uttering them. Arriving at the front door as he finished his protest, Mr. Reeder allowed his guest to precede him into the house. On doing so, the Colonel found out how Mrs. Grible came to have a weapon available so fortuitously. The discovery momentarily drove all other considerations from his head.
The housekeeper was not to be seen, but her voice could be heard through the open door of Mr. Reeder’s study as she was speaking over the telephone. However, instead of putting away the shotgun before going to inform the authorities, she had left it leaning against the wall. There was no doubt from whence it had come.
To the right of the front door, within easy reach of anybody who was standing on the threshold, was a particularly unattractive bust of Napoleon set on a sturdy wooden pedestal. For the first time, Besgrove-Woodstole learned that it was more than a mere ornament. Opening a secret panel in the pedestal gave access to a well-equipped arsenal which he had not known was in his host’s possession. 19
Held in clamps on the wall of the pedestal facing the front door were a .303 Lee Enfield No. 1 Short Magazine Mark V rifle 20 equipped with a telescopic sight and a Moran silencer, 21 one of the powerful .177 Webley & Scott Mark I air rifles that had come on to the market in 1926 and a Winchester Model of 1897 twelve gauge trench gun with a bayonet in its scabbard attached to its muzzle. 22 A dozen assorted revolvers and automatic pistols—the latter with their magazines removed and placed on shelves which also held boxes of ammunition for the various weapons—hung by their trigger guards on hooks.
To a man of the Colonel’s military background, it was obvious why Mrs. Grible had selected the double barreled shotgun instead of the more accurate rifle, or the trench gun which would have allowed her to fire five times instead of only twice. It was, to his way of thinking, further proof of her clear thinking competence. Leaving the springs of the firearms’ magazines, or the mechanism of the air rifle, under compression for long periods could weaken and render them ineffective. So the Lee Enfield, Winchester, Webley & Scott and the automatics were only charged when they would be required. While the revolvers could be—and were—left loaded without detriment to their functioning, they were essentially short range defensive arms. So, appreciating that the distance was beyond their capacity, the housekeeper had wisely chosen the other type of weapon which could be kept ready for immediate use.
‘With the exception of the air rifle, we’ve never had to put any of the shoulder arms to use, Colonel,’ Mr. Reeder remarked, noticing his guest’s unconcealed interest in the arsenal. 23 ‘But it is a matter of some considerable … um … comfort to know they are available if the need for them should—as today—arise.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Mrs. Grible said, coming to the door of the study and speaking with a note of asperity. ‘I’ve just called Lewisham Police Station. Inspector Mudgkin says he’ll come round straight away and take charge personally.’
‘Most … um … reassuring,’ Mr. Reeder answered, in tones which—on the surface at any rate—held not a trace of sarcasm. For all that, his visitor suspected he shared the housekeeper’s obvious dislike for the police officer she had mentioned. ‘I trust you warned him—’
‘I didn’t have a chance, sir,’ Mrs. Grible put in, oozing indignation. ‘He just said you were to wait until he got here and hung up before I could ask you if that was all right with you.’
‘Botheration!’ Mr. Reeder ejaculated, in what—for him—was an outburst of great profanity. Inspector Mudgkin was one of those members of the Metropolitan Police Force who regarded him as an interloper and an outsider. ‘Very well, Mrs. Grible. In that case, call Scotland Yard, please, and have them send half a dozen men to Camden High Street. Ask whoever is in charge if he will await my … um … arrival near, but out of sight of, Carrington Mews—’
‘Carrington Mews!’ Mrs. Grible growled, before her employer could complete his instructions, and an expression of incredulity came to her face. ‘That couldn’t have been “Bert the Jump-Up” driving!’ 24
‘I’m afraid it not only … um … could have been, but was,’ Mr. Reeder confirmed. ‘And please tell the officer in charge that I consider it would be most … um … judicious for he and his men to be armed.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Mrs. Grible assented and disappeared into the study once more.
‘Who is this “Bert the Jump-Up” chap?’ Besgrove-Woodstole demanded, watching his host returning the shotgun to its place in the arsenal.
‘His full name is Albert Henry Fredricks,’ Mr. Reeder explained, closing the secret panel to leave no sign of the pedestal’s second function and glancing out of the front door. ‘Shall we wait in my study until the Inspector arrives to … um … take charge.’ Leading the way as his guest nodded agreement, he went on, ‘ “Jump-Up” is the archaic term given to the formerly lucrative practice of … um … waiting, suitably attired, until a carter left his horse drawn vehicle, then climbing—or jumping—aboard and driving off with the load. The current name employed by what the more … um … sensational newspapers refer to as the “underworld” is “dragging”—’
‘Stealing cars,’ the Colonel translated.
‘Chief Inspector Gaylor says he’ll do as you ask, sir,’ Mrs. Grible reported, hanging up the telephone as the men entered.
‘Very well,’ the detective replied. ‘If you would be so kind as to make the rest of the … um … calls from your room, please—?’
‘Certainly sir,’ the housekeeper agreed.
‘As you say, Colonel, stealing … um … motor vehicles,’ Mr. Reeder agreed, going to the desk as Mrs. Grible left the room. From it, he extracted a Colt Government Model .45 automatic pistol, three empty magazines, a box of fat, rimless 25 cartridges and a special type of holster. He continued talking while feeding seven bullets into each of the magazines. ‘Fredricks is considered one of the finest … um … exponents. However, as his father and grandfather were equally capable as “jump-up” men, he used the title as a … er … tribute to their memories.’
‘You’re sure it was him?’
‘In this day and … um … age, Colonel, one can rarely be sure of … um … anythi
ng. However, while I can’t claim any personal acquaintance, I have been informed that “Bert the Jump-Up” invariably “disguises” himself by wearing a black bowler hat, respectable raiment, dark glasses and a false black beard when … um … perpetrating a theft, or whilst driving a stolen vehicle during some form of criminal activity.’
‘So he’s a habitual then?’ Besgrove-Woodstole inquired, realizing what had provoked Mrs. Grible’s response on learning who had been driving the car.
Very sensibly, at that time the courts of Great Britain dealt severely with crimes of violence. Having no desire to invoke the exceptionally painful consequences, the majority of habitual criminals were chary of being involved in the use of firearms during illegal enterprises.
‘As he has had six, or is it seven?, convictions for stealing cars, or being in possession of a vehicle used in the commission of a crime, I believe one could say he is a … um … habitual criminal,’ Mr. Reeder conceded, pushing a charged magazine into the butt of the pistol. Drawing back and releasing the cocking slide, he caused it to feed the uppermost round into the chamber. Without the need for conscious thought, he eased up the safety catch before slipping the weapon into the compact holster.
‘Yet he was driving the Clyno,’ Besgrove-Woodstole pointed out, as the detective unbuttoned his jacket. ‘And he must have known what was going to happen.’
Designed to carry the eight and a half inches long, thirty- nine ounce automatic as inconspicuously as possible while still allowing it to be withdrawn swiftly when necessary, the holster was not meant to be attached to a belt. Instead, Mr. Reeder slipped it inside the waistband on the left side of his trousers, with the pistol’s butt pointing forward so as to be accessible to either hand. It was held securely in place by its steel spring retaining clip around the top of the trousers. When he had refastened his jacket, only by looking very carefully could his guest detect that he was armed with an extremely potent weapon.