by J. T. Edson
The housekeeper had accompanied the two men when, using a key acquired by the elderly seeming detective from a member with whom he was acquainted, they had gained admission to the Pinhole Club. Having silenced the doorkeeper, they had not waited for the arrival of the policemen assembled in the vicinity of Leicester Place who were waiting for the commotion as the required excuse to make a raid. Instead, they had hurried upstairs, listening to what was obviously a large scale brawl taking place, to find out how their friends—who were almost certain to have caused it in accordance with their well laid plans—were faring.
‘Going … um … somewhere?’ Mr. Reeder inquired, with what appeared to be an air of genuinely solicitous interest.
Spitting out a profanity, Nina unwound the arm she had draped across her shoulders and left the supporting of Marks to Sylvia!
Springing forward, the massive woman was reaching for the detective when she became aware that the larger man had stepped between them!
What happened next was so rapid and unexpected Nina had only a hazy impression of the events. Her hands were knocked aside with no more discernible effort than if a troublesome insect was being swatted. Then the top and bottom of her white masculine waistcoat were grasped in a grip like steel. Subjected to a surging heave, with a strength exceeding any she had previously encountered, she was swung away from Mr. Reeder by her captor. Released, she could not prevent herself being sent across the landing to plunge down the stairs. Reaching the bottom, she went just as hurriedly and unavoidably onwards to crash into the wall of the reception lobby. Rebounding, as the first of the main raiding party made their appearance through the front door left open by their predecessors, she toppled unconscious to the floor.
Upstairs, as the massive woman was disappearing, Sylvia gave vent to a screech of close to bestial rage. Thrusting aside her employer without a thought over whether he was able to stand unaided, she snatched a wicked looking and razor sharp little stiletto from her reticule. Continuing to display the skill of long practice, the lunge she commenced was just as fast and capable, seeming even more menacing due to the expression of primeval fury distorting her beautiful features.
Having swiveled around to fling Nina down the stairs, Ranse had his back to the platinum blonde and could not have avoided the attack!
Nor, despite knowing something about Sylvia’s true nature, could Mrs. Grible have moved swiftly enough to intervene!
Fortunately, as he had on many previous occasions, Mr. Reeder proved equal to the situation!
Pressing the catch as he raised the umbrella, the detective caused it to perform its designed function by springing open. Deftly interposing it between the forward thrusting stiletto and the blond giant, he averted the attack. The blade sliced through the material of the canopy and a shriek of even greater fury burst from Sylvia as her arm became entangled by the supporting metal ribs. Before she could extricate herself, stepping forward swiftly, Mrs. Grible drove a punch to the side of her jaw which rendered her unconscious.
‘And that is … um … that!’ Mr. Reeder exclaimed in a mildly satisfied tone, drawing free his umbrella as the platinum blonde crumpled flaccidly at his feet. Glancing to where Marks had stumbled against the wall, clearly in considerable agony, he nodded with what seemed a most gentle approval and went on, ‘Shall we go … um … into the Club and see whether our friends are … um … enjoying themselves?’
‘I’m pleased nobody was in the lobby to see us coming in looking the way we do,’ Rita Yarborough stated, as she walked along the dimly lit corridor of the Sunbury Private Hotel’s first—although as an American, she would claim second—floor with the three men who had accompanied her on the hectic visit to the Pinhole Club. 66 Glancing down, with vision impaired by an almost closed and discolored right eye, at the ruined silk stockings which emerged from beneath the cloak she had wrapped about her from neck to knee level, she went on, ‘You must admit I’m not quite at my best just now.’
‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, my dear,’ claimed Jason Grant Reeder, whose face bore a similar adornment as testimony to his participation in the fighting. ‘A black eye in your case.’
‘And as good a one’s I’ve ever seen,’ supported Sergeant Mark ‘Comanche Blood’ Scrapton. Retaining full vision through both eyes, his speech was a trifle distorted from coming through a badly swollen top lip. ‘Anyways, Rita-gal, you look a whole heap better than that high-toned white-haired gal did when they hauled you, kicking ’n’ squalling fit to bust, off her. And, should you get asked who gave you the black eye, you can always say—!’
‘“Nobody, I had to fight for it”,’ the red head interrupted.
‘Really, Comanch’, your jokes are almost as old as the ones Jimmy Reeder tells us.’
‘I’m glad you said almost, dear girl,’ Jason Grant asserted, determined to uphold the family honor. ‘Because nobody, not even Uncle Jeremiah Golden, tells jokes as old as Jimmy’s.’
‘If they do,’ Sergeant Alvin Dustine “Rapido Clint” Fog declared, marks on his face indicating he too had not emerged from the brawl unscathed in spite of his yawara stick and equal mastery of other Oriental fighting techniques. ‘I’ve surely never come across them, nor want to.’
‘Philistine!’ Jason Grant accused and, having reached the door of his room, continued, ‘Well, goodnight, all of you. I’d like to say how enjoyable it’s been, but—!
‘But it hasn't, so you can’t!’ Rita offered, before the comment could be concluded. ‘You Reeders—!’
‘Are innocent of all offence on that one,’ Jason Grant declared, with an air of conscious virtue. ‘I was merely going to say, when I was so rudely interrupted, “But not all of it was over enjoyable.” So, once again, dear friends, goodnight.’
‘Hot damn if Jas’ isn’t right on that,’ Comanche declared with feeling, after the Englishman went into his accommodation. ‘There was times back to that old Club, like when those two big jaspers jumped me, when I wasn’t enjoying it over much at all.’
‘Do you know something?’ Rita inquired, dropping her voice as if meaning to impart a secret of great importance. ‘I got the feeling dear Lady Mary felt that way before we agreed to part company.’
‘What I saw,’ Comanche drawled sardonically, taking the key to his room from his pocket. ‘It took three good ole British bobbies and Mrs. Grible to get you to agree to stop whomping that gal.’
‘I just got a mite carried away,’ the red head asserted, although the estimation of the restraining influence required had been exaggerated, her manner suggesting complete exculpation for her behavior.
‘Now to a half-smart lil ole Texas boy like me,’ the Indian dark sergeant drawled. ‘The only one got “carried away” was her. Goodnight, you-all.’
‘Goodnight, Comanch’, Rita and Rapido responded in the same breath and continued walking hand in hand along the corridor towards the suite they were occupying.
Entering the main room of the Club after having dealt with Wally Marks’ party, Mrs. Grible, Mr. James Garfield Reeder and Sergeant Ranse Smith had found it in a complete shambles. Still without waiting for the police reinforcements summoned by the chair thrown through the window, they joined the fray. However, their participation had been to lend such assistance as was required by the members of their party already there.
It had been the blonde giant who relieved Comanche from the difficulties caused by a combined attack from two of the bouncers to whom he had referred before retiring to his room. In spite of his aged and frail appearance, as he had done with Sylvia Cornelius, the detective had proved equally effective when intervening to rescue Rapido from the attentions of three members of the ‘smart set’ out to avenge the rough handling of Frithington-Evans.
Deciding that—although the attire of both was reduced to only French knickers and ruined stockings—Rita had the upper hand against Lady Mary Herban, who was being straddled and held supine to receive drubbing which would have gladdened the heart of Molly Nickerson, the hou
sekeeper had ensured nobody else interfered until the police came in. Then, without requiring any assistance regardless of the claim made by Comanche, she had persuaded the red head to rise from the unconscious and battered blonde. Having done so, Rita was taken downstairs. In addition to rendering first aid, the housekeeper had retrieved her cloak to cover the loss of clothing she had suffered.
With the fight brought under control, Mr. Reeder had left Chief Inspector Frank Gaylor—ever a willing participant in his operations—to take care of the situation in the main room while he conducted an examination elsewhere on the premises. To his disappointment, he had failed to find anything which might offer even a suggestion of how to locate Olga Flack or where the Chopper could be found. However, even though it did not supply evidence of what happened to Molly Nickerson, the room housing the man who monitored telephone calls proved more fruitful. It had recordings of conversations, some of which were subsequently proved to have been used for the purposes of blackmail. Furthermore, realizing he would be considered an accessory in the eyes of the law, the operator had sought to reduce his sentence by telling how he believed his employer had murdered the prostitute after learning of her attempted betrayal.
To help support Jason Grant’s pose as being a successful jewel thief, although the other participants in the brawl had been allowed to go home after having names and addresses taken, Gaylor had escorted him and the Americans to the local police station ostensibly for questioning. Before leaving the damaged room, however, he had retrieved and returned Rita’s vanity bag to her. Rowing it contained the Remington Double Derringer pistol, he had also ensured it was not searched by any other police officer.
Keeping up appearances had occupied Rita and her companions until shortly after midnight!
Entering their suite and, having closed the door, switching on the lights, the red head and Rapido found somebody had made the most of their absence!
‘Get your hands up, Yank!’ commanded Billy Churgwin, stepping out of the bathroom with a revolver in his hand. He was followed by two of his men, but only the older of them was armed. ‘And don’t you scream, tart!’
Although the gang leader did not know it, Rita and the small Texan were aware that raising an outcry would be useless. One of the Hotel’s well justified boasts was about the privacy it offered to its residents. This included having had all its accommodation for guests most effectively sound—proofed. Only a far greater noise than could be produced by a human voice could penetrate beyond the walls.
‘If this’s a stick-up—!’ Rapido commenced, despite realizing it was far from that.
‘You know it’s not,’ Churgwin growled.
‘Then what in hell do you want?’ the small Texan demanded, standing very still yet as tense as a coil-spring under compression.
‘You!’ the gang leader stated. ‘And don’t try to give me any of that shit about being a Yankee hired gun. Olga Flack told me you’re a Texas Ranger and helped that old bastard, Reeder, kill Mad John.’
‘Olga always did talk a mite too much,’ Rapido claimed, glancing at Rita. Although she gave the impression of cowering in terror, huddling the cloak around her and clutching the vanity bag with her right hand inside it, he knew she was just as alert and ready for any opportunity as himself. ‘So what’re you figuring on doing now you know who I am?’
‘You’re going for a ride,’ Churgwin replied, curiosity having caused him to discover where the supposed American “hired guns” were staying before he had been informed of their true capacity by Olga Flack.
‘The boss was over in America showing them how to do things right,’ boasted the unarmed criminal. ‘He knows how Yankee gangsters do it.’
Studying the trio with experienced eyes ever since they came from the bathroom, Rapido had formed an assessment of the danger they posed. His conclusions suggested the situation was bad, but could have been worse. For one thing, he felt sure neither Churgwin nor the older criminal were anywhere near as competent with firearms as the kind of criminals with whom he was accustomed to dealing in Texas. Nevertheless, he realized this was only marginally advantageous as he was unarmed except for the yawara stick. Effectively as he could wield it, he knew he would only be granted an opportunity if there was some form of distraction. On the other hand, in his favor, the Englishmen did not know of the Remington already in Rita’s grasp and they clearly discounted her as a factor.
Having drawn his summations with regards to the gang leader and older man, the small Texan turned his attention to the other man and recognized the type. Young and inexperienced, he exuded a cockily aggressive self-assurance when not being sycophantic to his boss. Clearly he wanted to establish he was as tough and competent as his older companion.
Unless Rapido missed his guess, the younger underling was the weak link in the chain!
‘He does, huh?’ the small Texan inquired and turned his gaze to the gang leader. ‘Then, seeing’s how you’ve got me and’re taking me for a ride, I hope you’ll do it the way the boys over to home do and grant me a last request. You’ve heard they do, haven’t you?’
‘Of course I have,’ Churgwin lied, his acquaintance with American gangsters having been far less extensive than he liked to imply as a means of impressing his underlings. Being unwilling to admit he was unaware of the protocol required when taking a victim for a ‘ride’, he went on, ‘What do you want?’
‘To be shot with my own gun,’ Rapido answered and gestured with his left hand. ‘It’s in the top drawer of the bedside table.’
‘Get it, Bernie!’ the gang leader authorized.
‘Sure, boss,’ assented the younger underling. Crossing to the bedside table, he opened the drawer and lifted out the Colt Government Model of 1911 automatic pistol with a close to rapturous expression. ‘Isn’t this a beau—!’
‘Watch out!’ Rita yelled in a tone of urgency. ‘He always keeps it loaded and ready. Push the safety catch down.’
Looking at the weapon, Bernard Copley discovered the hammer was at what he realized must be the fully cocked position. Knowing little about firearms, but eager to display a non-existent competence, he took the measure suggested by the red head with the intention of rendering it safe. Having done so, he snapped the pistol forward as he had seen William S. Hart do with a revolver in Western movies and pressed the trigger to, he believed, simulate firing it.
What happened next was no mere simulation!
As Rita was aware when making the suggestion, although Rapido removed and emptied the magazine to conserve its spring when not required for use, he always kept the pistol cocked with a round in the chamber and the safety catch applied. In addition, as an aid to rapid firing, he had had the pressure required to operate the trigger reduced somewhat.
Lacking the red head’s knowledge and being equally in ignorance of the working of the Colt, by following her suggestion, Copley had taken off instead of applying the safety catch. To compound his folly, fortunately without pointing the barrel at anybody, his impersonating of the famous star of Western movies which of all the genre offered by Hollywood most impressed him—the day of ‘gangster’ films still being in the future—caused the weapon to discharge.
‘What the he—?’ Churgwin snarled, as he and the older underling snapped around their heads on hearing the detonation.
Granted the opportunity each had known was desperately needed, Rita and Rapido instantly set about making the most of it.
Throwing off the cloak, oblivious of how doing so left her most scantily clad, the red head flung the vanity bag away from the Remington she was already holding and had cocked without being detected during the conversation. Raising it double handed, she thrust it shoulder high at arms’ length to make the most of its limited potential for accuracy. Even as the small Texan was snatching out the yawara stick and moving forward, she sighted and fired at the man she concluded posed the most immediate threat.
Starting to return his diverted attention, Churgwin was granted no chance to cope with t
he drastically changed circumstances. Spat from the upper barrel of the weapon grasped so competently in the hands of the half-naked girl, and propelled by the black powder charge of a rimfire cartridge, a .41 bullet took him between the eyes. Killed outright, he spun and fell with the revolver flying from his hand.
Seeing through the swirling white smoke of the burned powder that her shot had taken effect, Rita did not waste time on self-congratulation. Aware the threat was still not ended, she thumbed back the hammer and caused the firing pin to descend until level with the lower of the superposed barrels. Turning the weapon, she saw the shock and consternation which came to the face of the older underling. His revolver was being allowed to dangle downwards, but she knew it could easily enough be aligned if he was granted an opportunity. With that in mind, making the most of his confusion, she sighted and fired in a less lethal fashion. Hit in the right shoulder, he dropped the gun and, without realizing to do so would have been impossible until she had reloaded, he yelled for her not to shoot again.
Just as much alarmed as his companions had been by the Colt going off in his hand, Copley gave a snarl of mingled alarm and fury as he saw the small Texan darting towards him. Bringing the weapon around, he snatched at its trigger when sure the barrel was pointing in the required direction. To his distress, instead of the desired explosion and a bullet being emitted, nothing happened. Before he could appreciate the full implications of this phenomenon, he found himself in even more serious difficulty.
Bounding into the air, performing what a connoisseur of Japanese karate would have identified as a perfectly executed yoko tobi geri side jumping kick, Rapido sent the ball of his right foot into the center of the criminal’s chest. Precipitated backwards into a corner, Copley remained on his feet. Only for a moment, however. Following him, the small Texan swung the yawara stick into contact against the top of his head and he collapsed unconscious with a fractured skull.