by J. T. Edson
‘Go fetch Jason, honey!’ Rapido commanded, retrieving the Colt dropped on to the bed as he passed his victim.
While Rita was redonning her discarded robe and leaving, the small Texan collected and started to feed rounds into a magazine. Sliding this into the butt slot when ready for use, he snapped back and released the cocking slide to charge the chamber. Such was his competence, he had done practically all the reloading without more than glancing momentarily away from the criminal now kneeling and holding the wounded shoulder.
There was a delay before Rita returned, but the effect which resulted from this made it well worthwhile! Accompanying the red head, was Mr. J.G. Reeder!
Having following his usual precaution of having what he needed available, Jason Grant had been able to transform himself into looking sufficiently like the occupant of Daffodil House to satisfy the one conscious criminal whose injury had rendered him less discerning than might otherwise have been the case.
‘Carrying a … um … shooter now, are you, Jesse?’ the newcomer inquired, in the appropriate tone. ‘That’s good for another seven … um … years on your sentence.’
‘Billy made me do it, guvnor!’ the underling claimed, glancing to make sure his boss was in no condition to refute the statement or take reprisals for it having been made. ‘And, if you’ll make it easy for me with the Wig, I’ll give you something that’ll make it worth your while.’
‘Well, well, well!’ Mr. Jason Grant Reeder breathed, with none of the usual hesitancy, after having heard the information imparted by the criminal in the hope of reducing the added sentence always given in Britain at that time for the carrying of a firearm in the commission of a crime. ‘Now I know why the Vimy was stolen!’
Chapter Sixteen – Let’s Go to the Palladium
Sitting in the rear of the Vickers Vimy bomber as it lumbered on a warm and otherwise clear Monday afternoon, at close to its ‘ceiling’ of seven thousand feet through the scattered clouds towards Brockley, Kent, Olga Flack was filled with a sense of wild elation!
Of slightly more than medium height, the daughter of Mad John Flack was a strikingly beautiful brunette whose features only rarely gave an indication of the evil which was her true personality. 67 Nature had imbued her with a beautiful face, concealed at that moment beneath a flying helmet and goggles, which gave an impression ideally suited to the winning over of such susceptible male victims as were required to serve her unlawful needs. What was more, not even being clad in a long leather jacket, riding breeches and boots, could entirely conceal the fact that she had a shapely slender figure. She never hesitated before employing its attractions sexually to achieve her illicit ends.
People often wondered how the mentally deranged master criminal could have sired such an outwardly beauteous woman as his only known offspring!
Those better informed about Olga claimed she was very much her father’s daughter!
Some even went so far as to assert that the delicate seeming brunette exceeded old Mad John in her cold blooded disregard for any human life except her own!
Even though confined in Holloway Prison For Women, albeit already planning for her escape, Olga had been hired to organize the theft of the unconventionally modified big biplane from the Royal Air Force’s Aircraft and Armaments Experimental Station at Martlesham Heath. Not only had her arrangements—made through Wallace Oswald ‘Wally’ Marks on his frequent visits, ostensibly to discuss the progression of his attempts to obtain an appeal against her sentence—proved successful in procuring the Vimy for her principals, but they were sufficiently thorough to have ensured it remained concealed when she modified the original plan for her own benefit.
Throughout the whole period of her incarceration, the brunette had sought to bring about the death of the man she hated more than any other in the world. That was why she had made the offer of presenting her father’s already legendary ‘Encyclopedia of Crime’ to whoever killed Mr. J.G. Reeder. Making his regular visits, Marks had had to admit there were only failures to do so. Therefore, she had decided to take the matter in hand personally once she had acquired her liberty. With this achieved, discovering Louis ‘Lou’ Birkstone was organizing an attempt shortly after she had attained her freedom, she could not resist the temptation to accompany Herbert McPriest to Waterloo Station and see what happened. It had been she who killed the failed assassin as he approached her car in the belief that she would carry him off to safety.
The latest abortive effort had served to strengthen Olga’s determination to arrange for the detective to be dealt with herself!
It was only shortly before the theft was successfully perpetrated that, learning something she considered of great interest, the brunette had envisaged the purpose to which the stolen biplane was now being put. On announcing the change of plan, she had found need to be grateful once again for having a face and body so pleasing to men. It had only been by exerting all the charm she could employ so effectively that the Russian pilot supplied by the sponsors of the acquisition was induced to delay his departure from England—although he had given the impression of having done so when flying away from ‘Wings and Bangs’—and carry out her wishes.
While Olga had had little liking for the sexual recompense demanded by the uncouth Russian as a bonus to the monetary payment involved, she considered the aeroplane would never be employed for a better purpose. Within less than ten minutes, the organization built up by the man who had first caused the confinement in Broadmoor Asylum For the Criminally Insane and later killed her father would be ruined. Even if Mr. J.G. Reeder should survive the onslaught of the strafing attack she planned to make upon the chicken farm which served as his, she felt sure he believed, secret headquarters, the British people would never allow him to operate again after having endangered—perhaps even cost—the lives of his Royal visitors.
Being informed that William Maxwell ‘Billy’ Churgwin had been found shot through the head in Hyde Park, the brunette had concluded an attempt to extract vengeance in another direction had met with failure!
Olga had realized at first sight that the ‘Sergeant Alvin Dustine Fog’ who was met by Mr. Reeder at Waterloo Station was not the same one who had posed as ‘Rapido Clint’ and, by successfully hoodwinking her father—having in fact, fired one of the fatal bullets into him—had helped to cause his death. Deducing correctly that the substitution must mean the genuine Texas Ranger had also arrived from the United States, almost certainly to hunt down the Chopper, she had had no difficulty in verifying the supposition with regards to his identity while he was making the rounds of London’s night spots and criminal rendezvous. Satisfied on that point, she had seen what she believed to be an opportunity to extract vengeance upon him as well as the British detective.
Being fully occupied with her plans for the attack upon the chicken farm, the brunette had assigned the removal of the genuine Sergeant Fog to Churgwin. Despite having given an impression of developing a strong romantic attachment for him, she had never considered him as other than a disposable tool to be used and eventually discarded. Nor, even without realizing he had taken an opportunity to remove a threat to himself while helping her, had her feelings changed when he provided the woman whose body was an essential factor of her escape from Holloway. Therefore, she had felt more relief than remorse—albeit tinged with annoyance at what she felt sure had been his failure to achieve his purpose—on learning he was dead.
Knowing where she had sent Churgwin to find and dispatch the Texan, Olga had concluded correctly that his body was removed from the Sunbury Private Hotel with the connivance of Mr. Reeder so as to avoid unwanted publicity for the American peace officer who was responsible for his death. For once, her generally effective sources of information had been unable to find any trace of either of the underlings who had assisted the gang leader. She was aware that, if they too were killed, their bodies would have been left with him. As this was not the case, she concluded they were in the hands of the authorities and hidden away to su
it the needs of the detective. Nevertheless, disturbing as the prospect was, she had drawn consolation from her belief that neither knew anything about her affairs and would be unable to seek a reduction of punishment by betraying her.
Satisfied that she had nothing to fear because of the latest failure of those upon whom she had to depend for implementing her schemes, the brunette turned her thoughts to the vengeance she was soon to extract upon the hated Mr. Reeder.
Even though the clouds were far too scattered to permit an approach to be made unseen, Olga considered there was no danger of being detected by her intended victims. While the aircraft in which she was flying had been stolen, she saw no reason why its appearance over the chicken farm should arouse suspicion. There was no external sign of its modifications for a ‘ground attack’ role and it was the standard drab color scheme, given to all its kind by the Royal Air Force’s Bomber Command, lacking the distinctive and eye-catching decoration of fighters. Her sources of information had indicated the ploy of having it flown off over the North Sea and, when out of sight of land, circle back across a thinly populated section of the East Coast to come down at a place she had prepared for it to be hidden—the landing area already having been made ready for another scheme upon which she was engaged. 68 Everything had been successful in so far as all the searching for it was being concentrated upon the Continent. Therefore, she felt sure the detective would suspect nothing of the danger when it was coming towards him until too late to avoid the consequences.
A piercing whistle diverted the brunette from her reverie! Picking up her end of the Gosport tube, 69 Olga heard the voice of the Russian pilot and realized from its tone he was in a state of consternation!
‘Look to your right!’
Turning her gaze in the required direction, Olga saw that three small aircraft painted white and with the red, white and blue roundels of the Royal Air Force were diving towards them. Each upper wing and fuselage was also decorated by two crossed scarlet bolts of lightning which, although she was not aware of their meaning, was the insignia used to offer more easily discerned indications of ‘ownership’ by 28 Squadron than the usual registration letters and numbers. Single seaters, even without the assistance of the momentum acquired in the angled descent, they were considerably faster than the Vimy. Retaining their ‘arrowhead’ formation, they closed in to range alongside the bomber. Waggling his wings to attract the attention of its occupants, the pilot of the leading aircraft made gestures with his hand which clearly meant they should turn around and land.
‘They’re on to us!’ the Russian screeched, being better informed than his passenger, recognizing the newcomers were flying Sopwith F7.1. Snipe fighters and reverting to his native tongue in his panic.
‘To hell with them!’ Olga replied in the same language, hoping by using it to lessen the close to panic assailing the man ahead of her. ‘Keep going!’
A competent enough aviator, albeit very much a ‘man of the people’ and lacking the social graces of his contemporaries in the Royal Air Force, Lieutenant Boris Andropov was silently cursing himself for having left his homeland. From the beginning, he had not wanted to be sent to pilot the aircraft stolen for his Government with the connivance of some British ‘liberals’ and Communists active in the trade union—movement. Unfortunately, he lacked the requisite influence with the Commissariat to have the assignment given elsewhere and was all too aware of the extremely unpleasant fate meted out to anybody who refused the dictates of those in higher authority.
Despite the Russian’s serious misgivings, the theft had proved so easy he had wondered why he felt concerned in the first place. Instead he had been eager to fly such a potentially lethal device when the time came to invade Finland, Poland and other East European countries as the start of spreading the blessings of Communism all over the world. However, his lust for money and the sexual benefits which went with it had caused him to delay making the delivery as originally intended. To ease what passed as his conscience, he had accepted the assurance of the prominent ‘liberals’ to whom he was introduced by Olga that—due to the quality of some of the intended victims—his actions would bring high acclaim from his superiors on his delayed return.
Now, faced with the almost certainty of capture, the pilot was wishing he had been more circumspect and followed his orders to the letter. Regardless of that, accepting that he had disobeyed, he was equally aware there was no way he could escape from the trio of fighters. Even without being burdened by carrying so much extra equipment, the bomber lacked the performance required to lose them by speed or powers of maneuverability.
‘We have to do what they want!’ Andropov wailed, having drawn his unpalatable conclusions and wondering whether he possessed any military information with which he might reduce the consequences of his actions.
‘Like hell we do!’ Olga denied vehemently.
While the original Larsen All-Metal Attack Plane was armed entirely by Thompson submachine guns, as an inducement for financial assistance by their manufacturers, the Vimy still retained a portion of its earlier armament.
Knowing how to operate them, hoping there might be an opportunity to use them on Mr. Reeder if he should evade the volume of fire pouring from beneath the aircraft, the brunette had had the twin Lewis guns on the Scarf ring in the rear cockpit loaded prior to taking off. Spitting out the words in English, she slipped into position and swung the weapons on their efficient mounting. 70 Sighting on the leading fighter, which was sufficiently close for her to feel confident of making a hit, she set the light machine guns working. As flame spurted from the muzzles and empty cartridge cases were ejected, she saw the man who had given the command to turn and land suddenly jerk and his aircraft spun away. To her added delight, although she had not fired at it as yet, the nearer of the other two machines immediately followed her victim downwards.
Wearing the mandatory flying helmet and goggles and the largest pair of white overalls available in the Quartermaster’s Store at the Station of 28 Squadron, Sergeant Ranse Smith was sitting in the cockpit and piloting a Sopwith F7.1. Snipe for the second time!
However, on this occasion, the blond giant was not flying for pleasure!
With the assistance of Scotland Yard, who were delighted to see the end of such a dangerous and successful criminal, Jason Grant Reeder had disposed of Billy Churgwin’s body so it could be ‘found’ in Hyde Park. He had also arranged for the two injured criminals to be taken to an outlying police station and held incommunicado. Then he had wasted no time in acting upon the information received from the less seriously injured of the pair. However, despite the search he had set into motion, the missing Vickers Vimy bomber had not been located on Sunday. Called into conference with the Prime Minister and Home Secretary, having temporarily resumed the persona of the occupant of Daffodil House, he had suggested measures for the protection of the Royal visitors to the family’s headquarters the following day.
The precautions had resulted in Ranse becoming a far more active participant than he or anybody else envisaged!
It having been considered impolitic under the circumstances for the contingent from Company ‘Z’ to be presented to the Royal Family, they had been invited as guests of the officers’ mess at 28 Squadron’s Station. Although Major John Gray Reeder was at the chicken farm, Colonel Brian Besgrove-Woodstole was with them. In his capacity as the current head of British Military Intelligence, he was assigned to co-ordinate the defensive patrols of fighters from the base and, hopefully, take charge of any prisoners should the Vimy put in the anticipated appearance and possibly be compelled to land on the airfield. However, if the people aboard it refused to follow the orders, the pilots had been authorized to take whatever other action proved necessary to prevent them from reaching their objective.
To avoid attracting too much attention, which was also considered politically undesirable, it had been decided that the task of protecting the Royal Party against an attack from the sky was to be handled by only the neares
t available single squadron. Therefore, on being assigned the duty, Squadron Leader Arnold Blandish had insisted that every available pilot and aircraft must be employed to ensure as complete a cover as possible was maintained over the vital period when the attack would have to take place. Having one man absent on leave and beyond recall, and remembering the display of flying he had seen during the previous visit, he had asked Ranse to make up the number.
Taking off as the third member of the ‘vie’ led by Blandish, the blond giant had ascended to the ten thousand feet ‘ceiling’ of the Snipe. From this position, higher than the Vickers Vimy could attain, the arrowhead formation had been ideally positioned when—by a turn of fate which would be discarded by any author of fiction as being too improbable to be used as a plot device—it came into view from amongst the clouds. Acting upon the signal from the Squadron Leader at the point of the ‘vie5, the fighters descended to make their interception and, in accordance with his orders, he had indicated the course of action expected from the pilot of the stolen bomber.
Although he had received training in how to cope with similar conditions and far from being a coward—he was later to distinguish himself, in particular, throughout the Battle of Britain during World War II—seeing his commanding officer hit by the Lewis guns in the Vimy, the young pilot officer nearest to it could not prevent himself from following Blandish's involuntary dive.
Equally startled, although from his position in the ‘vie’5 Ranse was unable to observe what had caused the departure, he guessed what had happened and reacted in a way which any experienced fighter pilot would have admired. Thrusting on the throttle, he caused the Snipe to gather speed and kept it in level flight. Going past the bomber, his supposition over the departure of his companions received confirmation. Bullets from the bigger aircraft slashed through the fuselage of the Snipe, fortunately without hitting him or any vital part. Once clear, he twirled the maneuverable little fighter around and returned head on.