by J. T. Edson
The Home of Great Western Fiction!
They called him Chopper, because of the way he destroyed his victims. Peace Officers claimed he was the most ruthless hired killer since Beguinage ...
Then he made a mistake. He gunned down two of the elite Company Z, and suddenly not only the boys of Z were after him, but also Rapido Clint. The hunt spread to England, the trail of Mr. J. G. Reeder, and Clint and Reeder found they had an identical problem – to discover the identity of Chopper ... then destroy him!
CAP FOG 5: THE RETURN OF RAPIDO CLINT
By J. T. Edson
First Published by Transworld Publishers in 1984
Copyright © 1984, 2018 by J. T. Edson
First Digital Edition: October 2019
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Cover image © 2019 by Tony Masero
Check out Tony’s work here
Series Editor: Mike Stotter
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.
For Mike Codd, who consistently produced excellent artwork for the jackets of our books.
Author's Note
Once again, we wish to thank Ms. Penelope Wallace for her kind permission to bring back her father’s best loved detective, Mr. J.G. Reeder.
To save ‘old hands’ from repetition, but for the benefit of readers new to our work, we have included certain background information regarding Alvin Dustine ‘Rapido Clint’ Fog—known later as ‘Cap’ —the organization operated by Mr. J.G. Reeder and various terms about which we have frequently received requests for clarification in the form of Appendices.
We realize that, in our present ‘permissive’ society, we could use the actual profanities employed by various people in the narrative. However, we do not concede a spurious desire to create ‘realism’ is any excuse for doing so.
Lastly, as we refuse to pander to the current ‘trendy’ usage of the metric system, except when referring to the calibers of certain weapons traditionally measured in millimeters—i.e., Walther P 8. 9mm—we still continue to employ miles, yards, feet, inches, stones, pounds and ounces, when quoting distances and weights.
J.T. EDSON
Chapter One – Why Don’t You Get the Chopper?
‘I’m right pleased I let you talk me into coming here instead of going to the Alhambra, ’specially as Haysoff Spades’d called in sick and won’t be showing tonight,’ declared one member of the audience, crossing the foyer towards the exit of the Interstate Vaudeville Theatre in Fort Worth, Texas, at the conclusion of the Monday evening performance. Tall and burly, in his early thirties, with close cropped blond hair upon which he was setting a tan colored J.B. Stetson hat that had a Luskey Roll crease in its crown, his ruggedly good looking features were reddened by the sun rather than tanned. Like his Texas drawl, his features were suggestive of Teutonic and most probably Germanic origins. ‘That was what I’d call a pretty good show, but the fancy pants dude’s they’ve got for their head he—hooper comedian was way too fast for me. Way he kept on spitting out his quips one straight after another, a man’d be like’ to think’s how he was in one hell of a hurry to finish his act and get off on his way someplace.’
‘He for certain wasn’t letting no flies settle on his tongue, Dutchy,’ conceded the man to whom the comment was made, displaying the usual disregard of ethnic origins frequent amongst Texans. 1 The Stetson he was donning had obviously begun its long life as white, with a Denton Pinch crease, but the passing of time and exposure to the elements had turned it a greenish-grey hue. Matching the blond in height, but considerably older, he had the lean and leathery look indicative of long hours spent out of doors in all kinds of weather. While not otherwise given to displaying his emotions, there was something in the blue eyes of his oak brown face which suggested a dry sense of humor. ‘But I reckon’s how he’s got something and’s like’ to go far as a “comedic-alian” should he start to think a mite about where-at he is and who-all he’s playing to.’
‘You reckon so, huh?’ inquired the burly man, his attitude implying he regarded the opinion of his companion as worthy of consideration.
‘That I do,’ confirmed the second speaker, with the air of supplying information of great importance. ‘Fact being, while we was back of the stage through the “entry-misserion” and you was lollygagging with all them fancy lil dancing gals, that’s what I told Bob O’Donnell over a cup of coffee in his office.’
‘Coffee?’ the blond challenged.
‘Well, I do admit it looked more like Limey tea without milk and didn’t taste over much like Arbuckle’s,’ 2 the older man admitted, his accent implying he too had been born and raised in the Lone Star State.
‘Would it have tasted like sourmash?’ ‘Dutchy’ queried dryly.
‘Sourmash, with Bob O’Donnell?’ the older man gasped, but his next words indicated that his disbelief over the question had not arisen from the fact that he knew the possession and drinking of alcoholic beverages was illegal under the ‘Volstead Act’. ‘Why it was best “Kaintuck” bourbon no less!’
‘Which’s against the law of these United States, I’ve heard tell,’ the blond remarked. ‘But I’m no snitcher. Anyways, what’d you tell him?’
‘“Bob”, I said,’ the elderly Texan replied. ‘“Why don’t you tell that young Hope feller to haul back on his reins a mite and give all us good folks in the ‘order-inance’ a chance to keep up with all them right funny things I reckon he was spouting. Kind of ‘reminder-ate’ him’s how this’s Texas, it’s high summer and hotter’n the hot place. Us folks ain’t going nowheres, but’ve come in here to ‘ree-laxative’ ’n’ be made happy. We don’t want to have to go chasing after words, no matter how ‘commer-ical’. Hell, Bob,” I said. “Way he was going on, you’d’ve thought’s how he was holding a ‘contest-ical’ with us having to guess what he was saying.”’
‘And what’d Bob say to that?’
‘Allowed’s how he’d been thinking along them “pre-zactical” same lines his own self and aimed to drop by ’n’ tell that young Hope feller to slow down a mite.’ 3 If any of the people leaving the theatre had been listening to the conversation taking place between the two men it would have presented puzzling aspects to them. For one thing, it implied they were allowed to go backstage during the intermission. This was a privilege granted to very few who were not in some way connected with the entertainment business, and neither of the men looked to have that distinction. Furthermore, the elderly Texan apparently not only had access to Robert ‘Bob’ O’Donnell—who was head of the Interstate Vaudeville Circuit and of considerable importance in theatrical circles throughout the whole of the United States—but had proffered advice which had been acted upon. Yet, although the impresario was far from being a snob who sought to remain unapproachable to all but those of influence, there was no visible sign of why either had been accorded such preferential treatment. Certainly nothing in their appearance gave the impression that their acceptance could have been caused by one or the other possessing wealth or high social standing in the community. Their attire was that of ordinary working cowhands visiting what was still known as ‘Cowtown’—because of its long standing association with the cattle business which, despite the growing prominence of the oil industry, was still a major factor in the economy of the Lone Star
State—for an evening of relaxation and entertainment. 4
Although he had not been inside to see the show, one person at least on the sidewalk could have explained the matter. Of medium height, skinny, with sallow, sharp and unpleasant features, he was cheaply dressed in a brown three-piece suit, grubby white shirt and multi-hued necktie with a knot hardly larger than a pea. Having earned his living since early childhood by illicit means, generally specializing in picking pockets, Hubert ‘Fingers’ Kretzmer had good cause to know Jubal Branch and Hans ‘Dutchy’ Soehnen. They were sergeants in the Texas Rangers and, as such, were regarded as men of considerable consequence throughout the State.
Even though Kretzmer had not started his usual depredations on the property of the crowd, he had every thief s reluctance to being brought into contact with peace officers of any kind even if—as was the case with the two Texas Rangers—they did not have specific jurisdiction in that particular locality. Deciding neither sergeant had seen him and letting out a sigh of relief, he began to slouch away with the intention of finding a safer area in which to ply his illicit trade. However, just as he had got clear of the crowd, he felt a large hand descend upon his shoulder. Trying to pull away, still without looking to his rear, he was gently yet firmly swung around.
‘What’s up, Fingers?’ Dutchy Soehnen inquired, with what sounded like pained disappointment, and he lowered his hand from the shoulder he had grasped. ‘Way you started to light a shuck as soon’s you saw Jubal and me, a man’d be like’ think you wasn’t friends with us no more.’
‘I ain’t done nothing wrong!’ the pickpocket protested, looking around nervously, regardless of the fact that for once he was completely innocent of offense.
‘Whenever did you?’ Jubal Branch inquired and, moving forward with his companion, he helped to ease their captive into the recessed doorway of a store adjacent to the theatre. ‘And there ain’t no call for you to be looking for ole Lightning. Even though he’s the best danged bluetick coon-hound ever sired, I never take him with me to the “thee … hater” on account of he will start up howling along of the music.’
‘I wouldn’t try taking a greaser standoff, though, on account of him not being to hand to run you down,’ Soehnen advised, a timbre of menace underlying his seemingly amiable words. ‘Jubal and me had us a meal down to the Cattlemen’s Hotel afore the show and, with the size of the steaks they serve inside us, we wouldn’t take kind at all to having to chase after you.’
‘Been working hard?’ Branch asked, his manner apparently solicitous.
‘No I ain’t!’ Kretzmer asserted and, although his abstinence from crime resulted from not having been granted time to start, he adopted an air of self-righteous co-operation. ‘We all know you don’t have no right to, but you can put your hands through me happen you’re so minded.’
‘Why thank you most to death,’ the older sergeant replied sardonically. ‘Would you do the “honor-ablies”, Dutchy?’
‘It’d be a privilege,’ Soehnen declared, aware that his companion’s mispronunciation of words had started as a ploy to appear less shrewd and intelligent than he was and had now developed into an unshakable habit.
Working swiftly, with the deftness of long practice, the blond sergeant set about searching Kretzmer. He found no weapons. Nor, knowing the man with whom he was dealing, had he expected to. Being an errant coward, the little pickpocket always whined when he was caught instead of offering physical resistance, unless the victim was elderly, infirm, or an obviously weak and helpless woman. However, although there were other things which he might have been expected to have in his possession, these too were absent. Failing to find them, in addition to checking the conventional pockets, Soehnen ran his fingers around the bottom of the jacket and over the loosely fitting vest without detecting bulges to indicate stolen property had been concealed there.
‘Looks like he’s clean,’ Branch assessed, watching his companion step back and give a shrug.
‘I wouldn’t go so far’s to say that,’ the burly blond replied, wiping his hands on his sides as if wishing to remove something unpleasant from them. ‘But he’s not toting muggle, 5 nor anything harder, and he’s not packing anybody else’s belongings.’
‘I told you I hadn’t done nothing wrong,’ the little pickpocket pointed out. Then, encouraged by the knowledge that neither peace officer had a reputation for subjecting criminals to rough handling except in justifiable self-defense, he allowed his indignation to prompt him into continuing, ‘There’s some’s might reckon you should’ve better things to do with your time than pushing ’round innocent folks like me.’
‘Day you’re innocent, that’s the day I start voting Republican,’ Branch drawled and eyed Kretzmer quizzically. ‘So what’s these better things you reckon’s how Dutchy ’n’ me could be doing?’
‘Maybe you’ve got something to tell us about whatever new kind of meanness good ole Hogan Turtle’s boys’re doing these days?’ Soehnen suggested.
‘I don’t know nothing about what they’re doing,’ Kretzmer replied hastily. ‘Nor want to!’
‘Nothing at all?’ Branch queried.
‘Not a single Goddamned thing!’ the pickpocket insisted. Then, wanting to remove any impression which he might inadvertently have give the peace officers about his ability to supply information on the illicit activities of a man whose family had been very prominent in the criminal circles of Texas even before independence was won from Mexico in 1836, 6 he continued with the first thing that came into his head. ‘Why don’t you get the Chopper?’
‘The Chopper?’ Branch repeated quietly, darting a glance at his companion. ‘Now why do you reckon we should start looking for him in particular?’
‘Is he around?’ Soehnen demanded and there was no longer any trace of the sardonic mock friendliness in his voice. ‘Or even in Texas?’
Regardless of where he might serve in the United States, no peace officer would consider with equanimity the possibility of the criminal to whom Kretzmer had referred being in his bailiwick!
Although he had only struck once in Texas, ‘the Chopper’ was a very successful professional killer. As he never tried to conceal his guilt, but invariably advertised it through the local newspapers, he had numerous successes elsewhere to his credit. For all that, despite every Federal, State, County and municipal law enforcement agency having tried to discover it, his true identity remained unknown. Such was the excellence of his ability as an organizer, that even those clients known to have employed him and who could be induced to talk about him, could not supply a lead traceable to him. Nor were informers, who could almost always ferret out secrets, any more productive, in spite of a large reward being offered. Every piece of information which it was hoped would direct the search to him had petered out at what was obviously a low level of the chain he had created through which customers could make contact. Only one thing was known for certain and even this was far from helpful. He was a master of disguise and, so far as was known, had never adopted the same one twice. While it was assumed he could not be bulky in build, despite having appeared to be on occasion, descriptions by witnesses had established only that he was neither exceptionally tall nor noticeably short.
‘Now how would I know a thing like that?’ Kretzmer asked, silently cursing himself for the impulse which had led him to mention that particular name. His manner was far from convincing, even though his next words were true. ‘I’ve never even so much as laid eyes on him!’
‘But you know something,’ Branch insisted.
‘Not me!’ the pickpocket denied vehemently, but again without being able to give an appearance of veracity.
‘Do you know something, Dutchy?’ Branch asked, sounding as if shocked by a thought which had just struck him. ‘Did I know such just couldn't be, I’d think good ole Fingers was a-fibbing!’
‘Never, for shame!’ Soehnen gasped, in well simulated horror and disbelief.
‘My eyes ain’t’s good’s they used to be—and ne
ver was,’ the older sergeant remarked to his companion. ‘So do you mind who-all was in the “order-inance” tonight, amigo?’
‘I saw Tobe O’Reilly, Jimmy Tillet, Fernando Robles ’n’ Wee Willie Wolf,’ the younger peace officer replied, aware that the other had excellent vision and guessing what prompted the question. ‘Fact being, now you’ve called it to mind, there was a whole slew more fellers who, should everybody have their rightful rights, ought to be in our “Bible Two”.’ 7
‘Now that’s what I call “hinter-tresting”,’ Branch admitted and his pensive mein was not entirely assumed.
On having noticed there were a number of prominent criminals in the audience, knowing the theatre to be very popular on account of the high quality of its entertainment, the elderly sergeant had considered it was no more than a coincidence they were present. Attending the ‘first night’, even of a show which would be changed at the end of the week, had a cachet which was not restricted to the honest and wealthy. Law breakers also sought to attain the sense of superiority which arose from being able to boast of having attended a performance as early in its run as possible.
Given the suggestion aroused by Kretzmer’s comment, Branch was beginning to envisage another possibility, and he did not doubt it had also occurred to his companion!
If a crime of magnitude was known to be in the offing, particularly one which was the specialty of the Chopper, prominent criminals—even if not involved personally—felt it advisable to ensure they had an alibi capable of standing up during the subsequent investigation. Furthermore the Chopper, without giving the identity or time selected for the demise of his victim, was in the habit of issuing a warning of his proposed activity so that such precautions could be taken. Knowing it was coming, but not where, to whom, or—even if having hired him—when he would strike, they would take care to keep themselves on public display as much as possible until it was done.