by J. T. Edson
Halting the Austin out of sight of the entrance into which the other vehicle had disappeared, Mr. Reeder had stated they would complete the remainder of their journey on foot. There was no sign of the van when they arrived at the corner around which it had disappeared. However, there was only one direction it could have taken and they assumed that, wishing to avoid attracting unwanted attention, the occupants had switched off its headlights when no longer needed to avoid being stopped by the police on the street.
Going along the narrow alley which gave access to Stivinn’s Wharf, Mr. Reeder was pleased to discover the conditions were still much the same as on his previous visit. 51 Although the entrance gates were wide open, he halted just outside instead of entering the property. Motioning for his companion to take up a similar position at the other side, he stepped behind the wall to his right. Looking across, he saw Ranse was reaching beneath the buckskin jacket. Having been told there might be the possibility of serious trouble, with a distinct likelihood of shooting, the blond giant brought from its holster the Burgess folding riot gun he had elected to carry as more suitable than his Webley-Fosbery Automatic Revolver.
Waiting until his companion had opened out the shotgun ready for immediate operation, the detective removed the magnesium flare he carried for convenience inside his umbrella. Slipping his forefinger through the primer ring, he jerked it out to ignite the combustible compound. Tossing the device through the gates, he and Ranse remained behind the wall and shut their eyes against the brilliant glow which erupted from it.
A moment later, the silence of the night was shattered!
From the river at the opposite side of the property, the searchlights of police launches waiting at the instigation of the detective illuminated the van from which the grave robbers were removing their gruesome loot!
Nearer at hand, a voice with a pronounced Glaswegian accent bellowed, ‘The old bastard’s on to us. Awa’ oot with you the noo and shoot anybody’s gets in the way!’
Chapter Twelve – There’re a Lot of Black Faces About
Acting upon the shouted suggestion, three men carrying sawn-off double barreled shotguns burst out of a dilapidated building—which had once housed a weigh bridge and its office—at the right just inside the main entrance to Stivvin’s Wharf. They were brought at once into the brilliant glow emitted by the magnesium flare. Big and brutal looking, there was sufficient likeness between their rage suffused faces to imply they were closely related. Despite the Glaswegian accent of the speaker, their attire was no different from that of any working man spending a ‘night out’ in London, regardless of his nationality.
Having glanced towards the bank of the River Thames and discovered it was being illuminated by the searchlights of the police launches, the trio clearly discounted any idea they might have had of selecting it as a possible avenue of escape. However, on starting to run towards the open main entrance, startled imprecations burst from them as they found themselves confronted by Mr. J.G. Reeder and Sergeant Ranse Smith, who had stepped swiftly into view from either side of the gates. Finding their intended departure was also likely to be impeded in that direction, they immediately skidded to a stop.
Recognizing the Hamilton brothers of Glasgow from the photographs of them he had seen in the Criminal Records Office at Scotland Yard, and knowing their reputation and numerous illegal activities, the elderly looking detective felt certain they had not halted with the intention of throwing away their weapons and surrendering. Aware that the act of merely carrying a gun in the commission of a crime entailed the addition of up to seven years as a sentence, the general run of habitual law breakers in the British Isles either refrained from being armed or did so merely to frighten a victim. They would discard their arms when threatened by arrest. However, Mr. Reeder knew the trio did not belong to the general run of criminals. In fact, they had been selected by their current employer—on account of their mutually vicious and callous disregard for the sanctity of human life—as the most suitable perpetrators of the task they were to carry out.
Therefore, even if the nefarious William ‘Bad Wullie’ Hamilton and his brothers failed to recognize their proposed victim because of the burnt cork he had applied to his otherwise easily distinguishable features, they would not have the slightest compunction over opening fire in order to make good their escape.
The correct identification of Mr. Reeder had, in fact, been made by the trio at first sight!
However, while aware of how dangerous an antagonist the apparently meek and ancient detective could be, not one of the brothers appreciated just how competent was the opposition with which they were confronted!
What none of the trio realized was that they were in contention against a kind of law enforcement officer far different from any with whom they were acquainted!
On the other hand, the sergeant of the Texas Rangers had no need of his British colleague to warn him about the type of men they were facing!
The way in which Ranse responded to the threat was that of a peace officer trained in the hard school of Texas’ gun fighting. Even in that day and age, given the added inducement of the situation inadvertently caused by the ratification of the ill-advised Volstead Act, this was still likely to prove as effective and deadly as it had in the days of the Old West’s pistolero valientes such as Dusty Fog, John Wesley Hardin and his maternal grandfather, Mark Counter.
Therefore, without needing any prompting from Mr. Reeder, the blond giant swiftly brought the Burgess folding riot gun into the firing position!
Sighting with an equal rapidity along the twenty inch barrel, aware of just how lethal the sawn-off shotguns would be at such a distance, Ranse squeezed the trigger almost as soon as the brass butt plate settled against his right shoulder and before any other combatant could open fire.
With his well-developed instinct as a gun fighter suggesting he had hit his selected target in spite of the speed with which he was moving, the big Texan gave a smooth jerk with his right hand to manipulate the slide action and replenish the chamber of the Burgess. Simultaneously, his left arm was swinging the barrel into a fresh alignment. Before the ejected shell case completed its flight through the air, the weapon crashed again and vomited another nine .32 caliber buckshot balls. Seven of them ripped into the chest of the second brother, being one more than had hit his already mortally wounded sibling. They proved equally efficacious. Twirling around, he fell in the wake of the first Hamilton to be stricken, who still had not yet arrived on the ground.
Holding his Colt Government Model of 1911 automatic pistol doubled handed, having leaned his umbrella against the wall and drawn the gun after igniting and throwing the flare, Mr. Reeder had as little doubt as his companion over how to cope with the situation!
Nevertheless, ignoring his knowledge of how dangerous a type of criminal they were up against, the detective hoped to take a prisoner who could be questioned. With that in mind, he sent off a bullet as accurately and at the same target as Major John Gray had selected outside Waterloo Station the previous afternoon. Unfortunately, the wound he inflicted proved less of a deterrent against further attempts at hostility.
Hit in the leg, Bad Wullie Hamilton stumbled against the side of the dilapidated building without dropping his sawn-off shotgun. Finding he was not completely incapacitated, although reduced to a condition in which rapid flight would be impossible, he braced himself against the wall. Then, mouthing obscenities it is unnecessary to repeat, 52 he tried to use the weapon!
Although Mr. Reeder hesitated, still hoping for a captive, the blond giant did not!
Acting as he had been taught was the only sensible way when faced with a wounded criminal who was still holding a weapon and showed signs of meaning to use it, Ranse once more changed the direction in which the Burgess was pointing and fired for the third time.
Slammed back by the buckshot which ploughed into his torso, the last of the evil brothers discharged both barrels of his shotgun!
Fortunately for the inten
ded victims, the impact of the six balls caused the twin barrels to be inadvertently elevated just enough!
Mr. Reeder’s high crowned old hat was sent spinning from his head by one of the discharged load!
Another ball passed through the wide brim of Ranse’s Stetson and snatched it upwards to the rear, but its fancy barbiquejo chinstrap kept it dangling on his broad shoulders!
However, the rest of the flying lead passed harmlessly above the intended victims!
'Are you all right, amigo?’ the blond giant inquired, instinctively operating the mechanism of the Burgess to recharge it and keeping his attention upon the three sprawled out men.
‘Yes, thank you,’ Mr. Reeder replied, with none of the usual hesitancy in his voice. ‘Are you?’
‘Carved a hole through my J.B is all,’ Ranse drawled. ‘I’m right pleased it wasn’t my best one.’
‘That would have been a tragedy of … um … magnitude,’ the detective declared, reverting to his normal tone. Warily starting to walk forward, with the blond giant by his side, holding their weapons ready for further use if the need arose, he ran his gaze from one to another of the brothers. None of them were moving and he concluded that, if appearances were any guide, they never would again under their own power. Knowing the full extent of their unsavory activities, which were believed to have included four particularly brutal and cold blooded murders—although sufficient evidence had never been obtained on any occasion to permit them to be brought to trial—he felt disappointed that none would be able to supply information; but not the slightest remorse over having to help cause their deaths. ‘I wonder what kind of story the … um … Daily Working Man will fabricate about this?’
Much the same sentiments were uttered by Chief Inspector Frank Gaylor of Scotland Yard when he crossed from the other side of Stivinn’s Wharf to report that his part in the operation had met with just as complete, albeit less fatal, success. Working in conjunction with Inspector Jonathan Ambrose ‘Johnny’ Wade of the Thames River Police, 53 he and their men had dashed ashore just in time to prevent the grave robbers from throwing the purloined body into the water. There had been some attempt at physical resistance, the men engaged for the unpleasant activity being brutal rather than brainy, but they had been taken into custody suffering from nothing worse than concussion and some minor bruising.
The interview he had had with Wallace Oswald ‘Wally’ Marks had convinced Mr. Reeder that the theory developed by his much vaunted ‘criminal mind’ was correct. Therefore, he had known that any attempt to have the corpse legally exhumed would be delayed by the crooked solicitor with the intention of causing sufficient time to elapse to prevent the true state of affairs being ascertained. However, acting as the detective wished, the person most vitally concerned with avoiding the truth being established had inadvertently played into his hands. While the means in which he intended to acquire the requisite information were completely unofficial (nevertheless being carried out with the tacit approval of the Director of Public Prosecutions) he considered they were fully justified if they helped circumvent the person he believed to be behind the robbery of the grave.
Also in the raiding party, in fact having been an active participant in the ensuing fight—despite the apparent impropriety of such behavior by one of his eminence—was Britain’s leading pathologist. He had agreed to come along as a gesture of friendship for Mr. J.G. Reeder, and had just as willingly overlooked the fact that there was no official sanction for his presence; to carry out the tests necessary to establish whether the corpse was indeed that of Olga Flack. Unlike Molly Nickerson, who the detective felt sure had been the actual occupant of the rifled coffin, the daughter of the mentally deranged and now deceased master criminal had not had her appendix removed. Therefore, if that particular internal organ was absent—as could be ascertained by such a skilled pathologist, despite the badly charred condition of the body—it would provide incontestable proof that the working of Mr. Reeder’s ‘criminal mind’ was on the right track.
‘I’ll say one thing, though,’ Gaylor remarked, at the end of a most satisfactory report which had included the fact that, ‘Sir James has whipped it away to do the carving’. Big, burly, with a ruggedly good looking face which was normally cheerful, Gaylor continued to employ what his elderly appearing associate and good friend Mr. Reed occasionally referred to as his “painful sense of humor”. ‘You two look so pretty made up like you are, you might even be able to get a date with Sylvia and Nina from Wally Marks’ chambers.’
‘Knowing my luck,’ Ranse drawled, aware that the two female private and confidential secretaries of the crooked solicitor shared sexual proclivities which made them completely disinterested in masculine company. ‘I’d be willing to bet I get the ugly one.’
‘I don’t know how it is in the … um … “Colonies”, old boy,’ 54 Mr. Reeder remarked, in his most apparently sober and, therefore, most humorous frame of mind. ‘But in the Mother Country, we always say like cleaves to like.’
‘Nina could have her good points,’ Gaylor asserted, knowing the massive woman supplemented her secretarial duties by acting as an exceptionally proficient bodyguard for her less than savory employer. Becoming serious, he went on, ‘Anyway, from what I heard before I left the Yard, there’re a lot of black faces about tonight.’
‘How do you mean?’ Air. Reeder queried.
‘Of course, you wouldn’t have heard. You’ve been here all night,’ Gaylor said. ‘Do you know Frederick Manton?’
‘Not … um … personally,’ the detective admitted. ‘Although even I am aware he is the star of the musical … um … extravaganza at the—I believe it is—Apollo Theatre on the Shaftesbury Avenue.’
‘He was the star,’ Gaylor corrected. ‘But somebody shot him as he came out of the stage door after tonight’s—last night’s, before somebody tells me—performance.’
‘Good heavens, that seems a rather … um … drastic way of registering disapproval of his performance,’ Mr. Reeder stated, feeling sure there was something of considerable importance behind the information he had received. ‘Or wasn’t the … um … perpetrator a theater-goer?’
‘He could have been,’ the Chief Inspector claimed.
‘But there is reason to … um … presuppose otherwise?’ the detective hinted, as he knew he was supposed to do.
Like every great performer, Mr. James Garfield Reeder knew and was always willing to oblige when he was expected to play the ‘straight man’ in a conversation!
‘There could be,’ Gaylor conceded, in an impressive, albeit mock, judicial fashion. ‘The Orator was lucky enough to get the case and he told me at the Yard, just before I came to rescue you two, that a witness had seen the chap who did it.’
‘And the aforementioned … um … “chap” was something out of the ordinary?’ the detective suggested, sounding as if he harbored grave doubts as to whether a person as insignificant as himself could possibly have arrived at a correct solution.
‘You might say that,’ the Chief Inspector confirmed dryly. ‘Unless the witness was seeing things—which we all know does occasionally happen—the man who shot Mr. Manton was black.’
‘Unlike in your section of the … um … Colonies,’ Mr. Reeder pontificated gravely, yet apparently with such diffidence that he gave the impression he was expecting to be taken to task for some error at any moment. ‘If you will accept my most … um … humble apologies for having employed such a term in your presence, my dear young … um … lady?’
‘I would have preferred the “um” between the “dear” and the “young”,’ Rita Yarborough asserted, before continuing in so somber a voice she might have been formally presenting the elderly looking detective with the ‘keys’ to the whole United States of America. ‘But feel free.’
‘We in this country do not have any great number of … um … colored denizens of the—as the popular … um … newspapers call it—underworld,’ Mr. Reeder obliged. ‘Furthermore, those who do infringe upo
n our … um … hospitality by commit ting acts of … um … criminal violence tend to restrict themselves to nothing more up-to-date than razors of the … um … “cutthroat” variety, which I believe you Colonials refer to as … um … “Harlem scalpels”. Mostly they refrain from the usage of firearms.’
The time was half past four in the afternoon following the thwarted attempt at grave robbing!
Having caught up with some sleep and dealt with the inescapable paperwork and other routine details attendant to the incident, the detective and Ranse Smith were engaged in what amounted to a council of war with the rest of the contingent of Company ‘Z’; to which the girl was an unofficial, yet tacitly approved, serving member. To aid their pose of being American criminals on vacation in England, she, the other two sergeants and Jason Grant, still in his guise as the jewel thief, were staying at a small and luxurious hotel in London. However, to avoid the chance of arousing suspicion if they should all be seen together, this meeting was taking place at the chicken farm which served as the headquarters—Daffodil House being their main base in town—of Mr. Jeremiah Golden Reeder’s organization in Brockley, Kent.
In spite of the misgivings expressed by the detective and Chief Inspector Gaylor, there had been hardly any mention of the incident at Stivinn’s Wharf in the morning newspapers. This was, in part, a result of the lateness of the hour at which it had occurred and also because the area around the location was very thinly populated outside the normal working day. However, by far the most important factor behind the dearth of coverage—which, for obvious reasons, Mr. Reeder and his associates hoped would continue—had been the murder of the prominent West End actor, Frederick Manton. As it had occurred so close to the Capital’s main entertainment region, it had attracted newspaper reporters who might otherwise have been at a loose end, thereby picking up word of the activity in the more remote section of the River Thames.