by J. T. Edson
Much to the unspoken disapproval of Wagon and the Gambel brothers, Flack had invited the Texan to stay in the house. Having managed to hire a car, the Right Hon. Horatio Benner, M.P. had arrived. Learning that Clint’s luggage was at the room he had taken at the Starter’s Hack, the old man had instructed that he accompanied Olga ‘Garvin’ Flack and Benner into Little Venner so he could collect it. The M.P. in particular had been displeased by the arrangement, but he had kept his thoughts to himself.
Olga had not intended visiting the village, much less in the company of the Texan or Benner, but she had been prevailed upon to do so by her father. As he had pointed out, the girl who had given her a ride from Swindon might have recognized the M.P. In which case, his presence in the district was certain to arouse interest and it was undesirable he should give the impression that he was there secretly. So Olga had telephoned Beryl Snowhill. Apologizing for her unsociable behavior in the car, she had asked the girl to let her make amends by meeting for a drink at the Royal Colors Hotel. Although Beryl had not been too eager, she had yielded to Olga’s insistence and it was arranged they would get together at nine o’clock.
Between Clint’s arrival and dinner time, the pallid faced “country dweller” had delivered two more messages. Remembering a certain fitment he had noticed on the roof of the house, the Texan could guess how they had arrived. On each occasion, Flack had flown into a rage over learning there had been yet another failure to kill J. G. Reeder and Olga had succeeded in calming him down. Clint had been impressed by noticing how the Gambel brothers, Benner and Wagon had shown alarm during Flack’s tantrums. Their behavior had struck him as convincing proof, although he had not needed any, that their leader was an exceptionally malignant and dangerous person.
Waiting for Wagon’s servants to announce that dinner was ready, Clint had picked up the copy of the Sporting Chronicle. It was opened at a page devoted to horse racing. The first thing to catch his eye was what he took to be a photograph of Bucky Borofin riding a horse which was being led by a large, triumphant looking woman. Reading the heading over the picture, he had found that he was in error regarding the identity of the jockey.
LEM DOOBY BRINGS HOME FAVOURITE AT NEWMARKET
The resemblance to Borofin was remarkable. What was more, the jockey behind Dooby might have been Ivan Drobsky. However, according to the small print beneath the picture, his name was Jim Gold.
An intelligent young man, Clint had realized that the resemblances were more than a mere chance coincidence. Noticing that Flack was watching him, he had seen a way to satisfy his curiosity and also strengthen his position. He had already treated the old master criminal with a respect that hinted at hero-worship and it had clearly been found most acceptable. However, as yet he had not been told what the other was organizing. He had wondered if a comment about the resemblances might produce an enlightening disclosure.
The group had been called for dinner before Clint could put his idea into operation. While the food had been good and he had learned something about the character of Mr. J. G. Reeder, the conversation had done nothing to inform him of what was being organized. He was too wise to ask until after he had prepared the ground and gained the old man’s confidence.
After the meal, Olga, Benner and Maurice Gambel had gone upstairs and Wagon left to make an inspection of the stables. Telling Clint to accompany them, Flack had taken Cyril Gambel into the study. However, he and his second-in- command had started a softly spoken conversation at the table. Their attitudes had warned the Texan that he was not expected to join them. So he had resumed his examination of the Sporting Chronicle. Olga had just returned, dressed for the visit to Little Venner and carrying a handbag which was slightly larger than the current fashion, when her father had addressed Clint.
‘I’d say that depends on who-all’s doing the riding, sir,’ the Texan replied, replacing the paper on the small table. ‘Now if it’s a couple—’
At that moment, there was an interruption. In spite of the curtains being drawn, it was possible to see the lights and hear a powerful car coming along the drive towards the front of the house.
‘Who’s this?’ Gambel asked.
‘I would advise you to go and see,’ Flack answered.
‘And I’d advise you to fasten your coat, or leave the Luger behind,’ Olga went on. ‘It may be one of the neighbors, or somebody who isn’t connected with us.’
Complying with an angry gesture, Gambel stalked across the room and disappeared from sight. The other occupants listened to him crossing the hall and opening the front door. By then, the car had stopped. They heard his startled exclamation, followed by the sound of voices pitched too low for what was said to be audible, after which several pairs of feet approached the study.
On his return, Gambel proved to be accompanied by three men. One was tall, well built, blond haired, good looking and attired in the style of an English country gentleman. In his right hand, dangling with its muzzle directed at the floor, was a Colt 1917 .45 revolver. Flanking him, the others were shorter and more thickset. Obviously of Italian extraction, they had on long Ulster overcoats and each had their right hand thrust into the pocket. The blond’s gaze swept the room, halting for a moment on Rapido Clint before dismissing him as one of the imported jockeys and of neither danger nor any importance.
‘Go and stand over there with the punk, Gambel,’ Joseph “Joe the Actor” Steffens ordered. ‘And keep your hands where I can see them all the time.’
‘Well, gentlemen,’ Flack greeted without cordiality, after his second-in-command had obeyed and the trio were standing in a loose arrowhead formation at the other side of the table. His restless hands moved until the right was touching the wide left sleeve of his dressing gown. ‘Have you come to tell me why you didn’t kill J. G. Reeder?’
‘We missed him all right, but it wasn’t our fault,’ Steffens replied, showing annoyance rather than remorse over having failed to justify his employer’s confidence. ‘Your man said he’d be alone and inside the house. Instead, he was walking in the garden with another feller. Then that damned driver you got for us shows up wearing what anybody with half an eye could see was a false beard, which’s what gave the whole snap away. And, to cap it all, he lammed like a bat out of hell instead of stopping—’
‘All of which means you’ve failed!’ Flack interrupted, voice rising slightly.
‘We may have done,’ Steffens answered. ‘But it wasn’t our fault.’
‘When do you intend to try again?’ Olga inquired, holding her bag in both hands.
‘Again!’ Steffens snorted. ‘Listen, girlie, you only get one stab at the kewpie doll in this game, particularly that kewpie doll. Do you think a feller as smart as Reeder would fall for it twice?’
‘Then try another way!’ Flack commanded.
‘We only work one way,’ Steffens stated. ‘Which being so, we’ll take our money and go work for somebody else.’
‘Money?’ Flack repeated. ‘What money?’
‘The balance of our pay,’ Steffens elaborated and his tones grew harder as Gambel made as if to move forward. ‘Stay put, limey. This’s between your boss and us.’
‘I promised to complete the payment after that swine Reeder was dead,’ Flack pointed out. ‘And, from what I’ve been told, he’s still alive. Very much alive, in fact.’
‘That’s still none of our fault,’ Steffens insisted, with an air of grim finality. ‘So you can start shelling out.’
‘Shelling out!’ the old man spat furiously, his voice raising and his beard seeming to quiver and bristle in rage. ‘Shelling out, you say. And for what, might I ask? That swine Reeder is still alive. Why should I pay you?’
‘Because I’m telling you to,’ Steffens answered, starting to raise the Colt. ‘So get doing it, you crazy old son-of-a…’
Giving his challenger no time to complete the demand, Flack produced a short, spear-pointed 53 knife from the sheath strapped to his left forearm. Before the Colt could be ele
vated into alignment, his right hand whipped up and down in a lightning swift motion.
There was a brief flicker of light on shining steel. Then the old man’s weapon, speeding through the air with unerring accuracy, buried itself to the guard of the concave ivory hilt in the center of Steffens’ throat. An expression of horror mingled with agony came to his face. Releasing his hold on the Colt’s butt so it fell unfired to the floor, he reeled backwards with both hands rising towards his neck.
Startled exclamations burst from the two Italians as their leader made a pirouette between them. When he collapsed, blood spurted from the severed jugular vein in the wake of the knife he had inadvertently wrenched out of his flesh. For all their surprise, the pair reacted with considerable rapidity.
Each began to jerk out the revolver he was grasping in his ulster’s pocket.
Taken unprepared, although he should not have been as he was aware of the knife in his superior’s sleeve and how quickly it could be brought into action, Gambel grabbed for and started to unbutton his jacket. It was obvious that he would not be able to arm himself quickly enough to intervene.
Showing an amazing agility for one so aged, Flack tipped over his chair and went from it in a backwards roll that many a far younger man would have been hard put to duplicate. Even as he landed, he was looking and holding his right hand towards his daughter.
Displaying no horror at what she had seen, Olga jerked open the bag. Her right hand disappeared into it, closing around the pearl grips of a wicked looking, old fashioned, black powder firing, but none the less deadly little Remington Double Derringer. Fetching out the .41 caliber superposed twin barreled pistol, she tossed it—with a similar precision to that with which the knife had been aimed—in the direction of her father’s extended palm.
For all the speed with which Olga was moving, her efforts—like those of Gambel—would have been too slow.
Old “Mad” John Flack might have died at that moment, but for the expertise of the man called Rapido Clint.
Setting his weight firmly on the balls of his feet, which were spread apart to the width of his shoulders, the Texan bent his legs slightly and inclined his torso forward. His left hand rose and pulled open the side of his jacket to leave unimpeded access for its mate. Flashing across at least as quickly as Flack had moved, the right hand closed around the ivory stocked butt of a big black Colt Government Model pistol held in the retention springs of an open fronted shoulder holster. Pivoting downwards, he liberated the weapon. Moving with the kind of devastating speed which had earned him his nickname, he turned it outwards until his right elbow was about eight inches ahead of his right hip.
Not until the muzzle was pointing away from him did Clint’s forefinger enter the trigger guard, or his thumb thrust down the manual safety catch. For all that—although a bare sixth of a second had elapsed since his hands’ first motions—when the big automatic thundered, its .45 caliber bullet passed into the center of Generoso Rizzito’s forehead and shattered its way hideously out at the back of the skull.
Impelled by the pistol’s recoil, the cocking slide jerked rearwards to eject the spent cartridge case and cock the hammer. Going forward, it fed the top round from the magazine into the barrel’s chamber.
Swinging the Colt, knowing he had nothing further to fear from the first Italian, Clint saw Giovanni Aiello’s revolver was clear of his pocket. However, the professional killer was suffering from indecision. He was not given an opportunity to make up his mind which enemy, the Texan or Flack—who was sitting up holding the Remington—presented the greater danger.
Aimed as its predecessor had been, by instinctive alignment and without the use of the sights, Clint’s second bullet hit Aiello high in the left shoulder. Although he reeled, he did not release the revolver. Having had experience with the kind of man he was up against, the Texan did not hesitate. Changing the angle of the Colt’s barrel slightly, he squeezed the trigger. Again there was the thunderous detonation from the heavy caliber weapon. Then a fourth shot left it. Struck twice in the left breast, either of which would have produced a fatal injury, Aiello was pitched backwards. The bullet Flack sent into him was unnecessary and he joined his dead companions on the floor.
Tm right sorry I had to do that in front of you, ma’am,’ Clint remarked in a matter-of-fact tone, glancing at the singularly unconcerned Olga and returning his gaze to her father. ‘But it’s like I told Bucky Borofin. It looks like your daddy needs some real capable help around him.’
Chapter Fifteen—You Don’t Know Which Are the Sucker Bets
‘Hello there, Mr. Smith,’ greeted the proprietor of the Starter’s Hack public house, showing relief at the sight of his small guest entering the lounge. ‘I thought you’d got lost until I heard you upstairs.’
‘Shucks, no,’ answered Rapido Clint, noticing that his arrival seemed to be disturbing Slick Markey, the only other occupant of the room. ‘I’ve found me some work, so I just drifted in to collect my gear.’
‘You took the room for a week,’ Haggerty protested.
‘Why sure,’ Clint drawled. ‘And, seeing’s how I won’t be able to stay on, you-all keep what I paid you. It’s all my misfortune and none of your own, which’s opposite to what the song says.’ 54
‘That’s good of you, sir,’ Haggerty stated, although he had never heard the song to which the Texan had referred. ‘Will you take something with me?’
‘I was hoping you and Mr. Markey’d take something with me,’ Clint suggested. ‘I’ll have me a whisky. Can’t get used to drinking warm beer, unless there isn’t any other kind to be had.’
‘I’ll have the same,’ Markey grunted, deciding that the newcomer had not been sent after him and always willing to accept a free drink.
‘Arid me, if that’s all right with you, sir,’ the publican went on, accepting the pound note which the Texan had taken from one pocket of his Levi’s pants. ‘Then I’ll have to go and see what the lads in the taproom want.’
Watching Haggerty depart after having drunk his health, Clint thought that he was not sorry for an excuse to leave.
‘How’d you-all make out in the crap game?’ the Texan asked, swinging his gaze to the sullen-faced jockey.
‘Bad!’ Markey almost spat the word out.
‘It’s a whole heap harder than it looks,’ Clint remarked, tossing off his drink. ‘Especially when you don’t know which are the sucker bets.’
‘Sucker bets?’ Markey repeated, in tones redolent of suspicion. ‘What’re they?’
‘Things like offering even money that the shooter won’t throw a six or eight in his next two rolls,’ the Texan explained. ‘There’re a whole slew of them. They sound all right, but they sure’s hell aren’t.’
‘Tell me the rest of ’em!’ Markey requested.
‘Shucks, I don’t know them all,’ Clint answered, but gave several examples.
‘I took some of ’em and won a couple,’ the jockey stated at the end of the recital.
‘Only you lost a whole heap more than you won,’ the Texan guessed. ‘Hell, they’re not certain winners for the feller’s makes them. But they’re a whole lot better than even money bets, you’ll never win one for one.’
‘You’re right about me losing a lot more than I won,’ Markey admitted.
‘There’s other ways which don’t give you-all even that much of a chance, though,’ Clint warned, reaching into his leather jacket’s right side pocket and extracting a pair of dice.
‘How do you mean?’ Markey demanded, drawing an inference from the Texan’s manner.
‘Take a look,’ Clint countered, dropping the dice on the bar counter.
‘There doesn’t look like there’s anything wrong with them,’ the jockey growled, picking up the cubes and studying them without comprehension.
‘You-all try shooting an even number with them,’ Clint challenged. ‘Then you’ll right soon find out what’s wrong with them.’
‘Are they loaded?’ Markey hissed angrily
, after making about a dozen throws all of which produced odd numbers, having heard that it was possible to affix weights in dice and ensure they fell in a favorable manner.
‘They’re a heap more certain than any old “loads” would make them,’ Clint replied. ‘Back to home, we call them “dispatchers”, because they’ll surely dispatch you-all to the cleaners faster’n a jack-rabbit with its butt on fire getting chased by a coyote.’
‘I still don’t see—!’ the jockey protested, scowling at the two dice on the counter.
‘That’s ’cause you can only see three sides of each dice.’
‘Huh?’
‘You-all put a mirror at the back of them galloping dominoes, or pick one up and turn it over. The count of the spots on the opposite sides should come to seven.’
‘Hey!’ Markey yelped, after he had carried out the experiment. ‘There’s only one spot on each side!’
‘You’ll find it’s the same with the three and five sides,’ the Texan drawled. ‘And the other dice’s got nothing but twos, fours and sixes.’
Although Markey was not conversant with the mathematics involved in working out the correct odds for the various bets in the game of “craps”, he was able to appreciate the meaning of the two dice being made in such an eccentric fashion. With such a combination of numbers on them, there was no way of adding their combined total to produce an even number.
‘They don’t make it for certain sure, mind,’ Clint continued, as the jockey began to splutter indignantly. ‘But they give the “shooter” one hell of a good chance of throwing a “natural” on his come out.’
‘I can see that!’ Markey snarled, thinking back to how Kinch had thrown no less than seven consecutive “passes” at a considerable loss to himself and how the Texan had picked up the dice they were using. ‘Are these the pair we were playing with?’
‘I surely wouldn’t take it kind was you-all to think I’d be toting my own “dispatchers”,’ Clint warned, in the quietly menacing way which he could produce so effectively. ‘And, was I you-all, I’d stay well clear of crap games until you know a whole heap more about how it’s played and how you can get flimflammed.’