by J. T. Edson
Chapter Seven—He Was a Decent and Hardworking Man
For a gentleman who as a pedestrian displayed remarkable concern and caution where what he termed as the Vehicular traffic was involved, 31 Mr. J. G. Reeder’s recently developed taste for possessing his own means of transport was surprising. Certainly Colonel Brian Besgrove-Woodstole, D.S.O., M.C. and Bar found it somewhat amusing to be seated in the passenger seat of the gentle detective’s powerful dark blue 1925 Frazer-Nash Fast Tourer. Certainly his host had driven the vehicle from Brockley Road with considerable aplomb. Cruising along Camden High Street, they were approaching two black police cars which were parked near an intersection. A big, burly, quietly dressed man they both identified as Chief Inspector Frank Gaylor of Scotland Yard 32 was standing on the pavement.
‘Good afternoon, Mr. Reeder, Colonel,’ Gaylor greeted, walking forward as the tourer came to a halt. ‘I hear that you’ve been doing something to liven up Sunday lunch time in Brockley Road.’
‘That is … um … correct,’ Mr. Reeder replied, deciding that the recently gained well deserved promotion of the man from Scotland Yard had done nothing to remove his painful sense of humor.
‘Who’s after you?’ Gaylor inquired, addressing the question to the gentle detective.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Mr. Reeder admitted. ‘In fact, as yet, I’m not certain whether the Colonel or I was the intended … um … victim.’
‘Hasn’t Golden been able to tell you?’ Gaylor asked.
‘No,’ Mr. Reeder answered. ‘Excellent as our sources of information usually are, regrettably we aren’t … um … omniscient. However, I’m reasonably … er … sanguine that, particularly if I was the intended victim, details will soon be forthcoming.’
‘We stayed here and haven’t even as much as looked at Bert’s place,’ Gaylor announced. He had worked With Mr. Reeder on several occasions and had great respect for his judgment. ‘What do you want us to do?’
‘Are your officers … um … armed?’
‘You can bet they are when they’re going after somebody who’s been taking pot-shots at you?’
‘Sir!’ called one of the detectives, thrusting his head through the front window of the nearer car. ‘There’s a message for you just come over the radio.’
There was something close to awe in the officer’s voice as he referred to the instrument with which the vehicle was equipped. While the Metropolitan Police Force had been experimenting with radios since 1922, 33 they were still regarded by many policemen—especially such a one as the speaker, who had recently transferred from a Force in a less progressive part of the country—as being a new-fangled and, because of the difficulties met with ensuring constant reception, not entirely trustworthy means of communication.
‘Well?’ barked Gaylor, being too far sighted to share his subordinate’s misgivings. He strode forward, followed by the newcomers who had left the Tourer. ‘What is it?’
‘The River Police have just pulled “Bert the Jump-Up’s” body out of the Thames at Deptford, sir,’ the detective constable reported. ‘He’s been shot in the back of the head. Sergeant Wade, it’s his boat, said he hadn’t been dead for long.’
‘You were right, Besgrove-Woodstole told his host admiringly.
‘I frequently am, Mr. Reeder answered dolefully. ‘It’s one of the … um … disadvantages of my perverted line of … um … reasoning, due entirely to my er—’
‘Having the mind of a criminal,’ Gaylor finished for the gentle detective. ‘Young Johnny Wade’s a bit that way, too. 34 And he’s seen enough dead ’n’s come out of the Thames to make a good guess at the time of death. What do we do now?’
‘It would seem judicious, humane even, to go and … um … inform his, I suppose it would be proper for me to say … um … widow,’ Mr. Reeder suggested, in a hushed voice that would have been more in keeping with an undertaker discussing a bereaved and wealthy client.
‘You know how Annie feels about Bert, Gaylor remarked. ‘Those blokes aren’t likely to come back after they’ve killed him.’
‘It’s possible they might have,’ Mr. Reeder warned. ‘If she knows them, they might … um … consider that such knowledge is dangerous to their … um … well-being and wish to take steps to ensure it does not continue to be so.’
‘They might,’ Gaylor admitted, patting his jacket’s right hand pocket without realizing he was making the gesture. ‘And they’d just about have had time to get here.’
‘Would you send one car around the back of the Mews and have the other remain here, please?’ Mr. Reeder requested. ‘Then, unless you have any objections, the Colonel and I will accompany you and see what … um … eventuates.’
‘Whatever you say,’ Gaylor assented, knowing that to arrive in vehicles and at full strength would be to attract unwanted attention. Approaching on foot, the three of them might reach their objective undetected. ‘Who do I tell the men to watch out for?’
After passing on the required information, the Chief Inspector went with Mr. Reeder and the Colonel. The alley they entered was lined with mews occupied mainly by families who had made the transition from being grooms to serving as chauffeurs. Externally, there was nothing to distinguish the Fredricks’ residence from those of the neighbors.
Climbing the steps with as little noise as possible, their destination being on the first floor, the three men halted. Glancing at Mr. Reeder, who held the tightly rolled umbrella which he had collected from the stand in the hall of Daffodil House—and was as much his trademark as “Bert the Jump-Up’s” “disguise”—in his left hand whilst unbuttoning his jacket with the right, Gaylor stepped forward meaning to knock on the front door.
‘Wait!’ Mr. Reeder hissed with such vehemence that Gaylor froze as if he had been turned to stone. ‘Step to one side, please. You too, Colonel. It is a laudable … um … precaution I learned from the American police who have had greater need than we to develop such … um … techniques.’
With that, the detective advanced until he was standing with his back to the wall at the unhinged side of the door. Allowing his companions to adopt similar positions opposite, him, he slid the umbrella until he was grasping it by the ferrule. Reaching around, he rapped on the door with the handle.
Glancing across as his right hand went under his jacket, Mr. Reeder observed with satisfaction that his companions were in postures of equal readiness. He also noticed that they were exhibiting to his trained gaze a similar aura of tension to that which he was experiencing. Of the two, he was most concerned with how Gaylor would react if the Americans should be present and if, as they were practically certain to do, they resisted. As he knew, Besgrove-Woodstole had seen active service and killed men in combat. While the chief inspector had considerable courage and was capable of taking care of himself in a roughhouse, he had not been required to face criminals who were carrying and would not hesitate to use firearms.
‘Who is it?’ called a woman’s voice.
‘Police, Mrs. Fredricks,’ Gaylor replied, after looking for and receiving a nod of confirmation from Mr. Reeder. ‘Can we speak with you, please?’
While the man from Scotland Yard was speaking, Mr. Reeder closed his hand around the butt of the Colt Government Model automatic. He could see that his companions were also grasping their weapons. If the Americans were inside, they would be informed of the fact in no uncertain fashion very shortly.
The door began to open!
None of the men drew his weapon, but each was prepared to do so.
‘Oh, it’s you, Mr. Gaylor, I didn’t think it was the “Miller’s” 35 voice,’ said the attractive woman who stepped on to the landing. Then she swung her gaze in the other direction, frowned for a moment and continued, ‘You’re Mr. Reeder, aren’t you?’
‘I’m … um … he, madam,’ the aged-seeming detective confirmed, but more in the manner of one who was making an apology for a regrettable oversight of nature rather than admitting he was a person of some importance.
‘Bert’s not here!’ Mrs. Fredricks declared, returning her attention to Gaylor and displaying such virtuous indignation that many people would have believed her next words could only be the pure and unvarnished truth. ‘He’s gone down to Chalfont St. Giles to see his poor old mum who’s not in the best of health and—’
There was an interruption before the woman would complete an alibi as traditional as “Bert the Jump-Up’s” “disguise” and title. Far from living in the sedately respectable town of Chalfont St. Giles, his mother was currently ruling with an iron hand one of the roughest public houses in the less respectable district of London called Hoxton—slap out of the Nile, as its residents said and, according to the Metropolitan Police Force, the toughest ‘manor’ on Earth bar none—and enjoying exceptionally robust health.
‘Ah-humph!’ Mr. Reeder coughed. ‘We appear to be the object of … um … considerable interest to your neighbors.’ He waved his umbrella-filled hand languidly while—although he was growing increasingly sure that the weapon would not be needed—keeping the other on the butt of the big automatic pistol. ‘Could I suggest that we carry on our … um … discussion inside?’
‘Huh?’ Mrs. Fredricks grunted, then glared around and realized why the gently spoken suggestion had been made. ‘Yes. Come in. That lot across there don’t have nothing better to do than just stand around watching what’s none of their business.’
On the point of following the woman and Gaylor into the building, Besgrove-Woodstole discovered the cause of the comments. A number of female faces were pressed against the windows of the rooms in the apartments across the alley. Then he noticed what Mr. Reeder was doing. The gentle detective raised his high crowned hat and, to the Colonel’s astonishment, poked out his tongue towards the watchers. They disappeared rapidly from their points of vantage and he went in on Gaylor’s heels. Shaking his head in amused admiration, Besgrove-Woodstole brought up the rear.
The Fredricks family occupied a large suite of four rooms. However, there was nothing about the furnishings and other appointments to suggest the owner had a more lucrative means of earning a living than any of his neighbors. Mr. Reeder, for one, was aware that they maintained a much more luxurious home in the best part of Bournemouth which had been bought by his illicit earnings. They used it frequently, excusing their absence by saying that they were traveling with their mythical employers.
‘I don’t know what you’ve come here for, really I don’t, Mr. Gaylor,’ Mrs. Fredricks stated, having seated her unwelcome guests and received a refusal to her offer that she should get them a cup of tea, or something. ‘Oh yes. I know my Bert made a mistake once, but that’s all behind him now. He’s a decent hard-working—’
‘He was a decent, hard-working man,’ Mr. Reeder corrected quietly, grateful that the woman did not threaten them with the righteous wrath of the Right Hon. Horatio Benner, M.P., as had become the habit of many criminals recently.
‘Wha—?’ Mrs. Fredricks began, staring at the elderly- looking detective. Something in his voice and manner sent a shiver through her. ‘Here—What’s brought you here?’
‘I’m afraid that we are the … um … bearers of most distressing … er … news, madam,’ Mr. Reeder replied, his demeanor gentle.
‘What’s wr—?’ the woman commenced, then she stiffened. ‘Something’s happened to my Bert!’
‘I’m afraid so, Mrs. Fredricks,’ Mr. Reeder agreed. ‘I deeply regret having to … um … tell you, but your husband is dead.’
‘D-Dead?’ the woman gasped and slumped into a chair. There was no faking about the alarm, shock and grief she showed. ‘How…What…Wa…Was it an acci—?’
‘No, madam, it wasn’t an … um … accident,’ Mr. Reeder answered. ‘He was murdered by his … um … confederates in crime.’
‘Mur—Mur—?’ Mrs. Fredricks croaked, then a shudder ran through her and she burst into a flood of tears.
Watching Mr. Reeder, Besgrove-Woodstole was impressed. He had men in his Department who were trained and efficient in every form of interrogation methods, but none of them could have handled the distraught woman in a more capable manner. Within a quarter of an hour, she was sufficiently composed to answer questions. Gaylor had used the telephone—fitted and paid for by the ‘Duke’ for whom Fredricks was supposed to be chauffeur ~ to inform his mother and ask her to keep his son Harry at the public house for the time being.
‘Yes, I knew Bert was on a job,’ Mrs. Fredricks admitted, her face reddened and make-up smeared by the tears she had shed, but set in grim and angry lines. ‘That’s why I sent our Harry to his granny’s. But you know him, Mr. Gaylor. He never told me nothing about his work, so’s I couldn’t get into trouble for knowing.’
‘So you’ve always told me,’ the man from Scotland Yard conceded gruffly and, catching the look Mr. Reeder directed at him, hastened to go on, ‘And I’ve always believed you.’
‘He didn’t like this one, though,’ Mrs. Fredricks declared, mollified by the acceptance of what was a valid claim, even though Gaylor had always been inclined to disbelieve it. ‘I could tell that. And he admitted so when I asked, but he said he’d got to go through with it.’
‘Do you mean he was afraid to refuse the … um … proposition when Mr. … er … Birkstone put it to him?’ Mr. Reeder suggested, naming a prominent leader of the London underworld who had good reason to hate him and had been Fredricks’ employer in the past.
‘Him?’ the woman snorted derisively. ‘My Bert wouldn’t have thought twice about turning down anything he put up. He’d have said “no” to Lou Birkstone, Billy Churgwin, or any other of them if he was so minded. He was independent, my Bert, the best driver of them all. None o’ them scared him.’
‘Then who did?’ Mr. Reeder asked mildly, for Mrs. Fredricks’ statement confirmed what he and Gaylor had heard from other sources.
‘I wish I knew! I’d shop him without thinking twice about it!’ the woman replied vehemently and none of the men doubted that, either. ‘My Bert wasn’t scared of nobody—except for old Mad John Flack and everybody was scared of him.’
‘He’s dead,’ Gaylor pointed out.
‘I saw it in the newspapers,’ Mrs. Fredricks answered, then stared at the gentle detective. ‘You got him, Mr. Reeder.’
‘I’m afraid that I didn’t … um … “get” him,’ the gentleman in question corrected. ‘He met his … um … end when the caves under his—hideout—I believe is the term—caved in.’ 37
‘That’s as maybe,’ Mr. Fredricks said, exuding determination. ‘But he was still the only man who could have made my Bert do something he didn’t want to do.’
Nothing could shake the woman from her conclusion. Nor did further questioning by Mr. Reeder produce the slightest suggestion of a clue to the identity of the man behind the murder attempt. So, ascertaining that she would be all right until some of the family arrived to look after her, the trio took their departure.
‘Where now?’ asked Besgrove-Woodstole, as they left Carrington Mews. ‘We didn’t learn anything there.’
‘Nothing … um … positive,’ Mr. Reeder conceded. ‘However, Mr. Gaylor, while I would hesitate to presume to proffer a … um … suggestion—’
‘Why?’ interrupted the man from Scotland
Yard with a grin. ‘You’ve never held back from doing it all the time I’ve known you.’
‘I would suggest that whichever officers you leave to keep … um … watch over the lady are those most competent in the use of their firearms,’ Mr. Reeder went on, as if the other had not spoken. ‘The killers may not share our summation regarding her dearth of … um … knowledge.’
‘I’ll attend to it,’ Gaylor promised, unhesitatingly taking the advice of a man whom he willingly acknowledged as at the top of their mutual profession. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Continue my … um … doubtless ineffectual investigations.’
‘Do you need any help?’
‘Not at the … um … moment.’
‘Have it your way, you always do,’ Gaylor grunted, knowing there were few men in London better equipped to take care of themselves than the frail-seeming detective. ‘Try not to get killed. Or if you do, leave word who’s done it for me.
‘I’ve got a lot of work on at the moment and don’t want to be tied down to another investigation.’
‘I’ll do my … um … best to comply,’ Mr. Reeder promised so solemnly that he might have anticipated being killed and able to oblige by supplying the required information. ‘Would you care to continue to … um … accompany me, Colonel?’
‘Certainly,’ Besgrove-Woodstole agreed. ‘We still don’t know which of us they were after. It could have been me.’
Chapter Eight—He’s Rapido Clint
‘I’ll shoot two hundred!’ announced the player who was shaking the two dice in his cupped right hand. ‘Who wants it?’
It was a well-known, if regrettable, fact that many people involved in the business of training racehorses also have a strong affinity for gambling. Nor do they restrict themselves to making wagers on the abilities of the animals in their care. A visit to the tack-room of practically every training stable throughout the world on a Sunday afternoon would find some form of game of chance in progress. In England, it would probably be a card game such as pontoon, brag, nap, or prop-and-cop.