by J. T. Edson
Like Olga Flack, the blond giant was conversant with the armament of his aircraft. The two Vickers machine guns mounted on top of the engine cowling, being synchronized to send their bullets through the arc of the whirling propeller without striking its blades, were operated in much the same fashion as those of the Boeing PW-9 ‘pursuit’ fighter he had flown on a ‘firing run’ with the American Army Air Corps in Texas. Aiming the Snipe straight at the Vimy and waiting until his instincts suggested he was within effective range, he cut loose with a twin burst of .303 bullets at a rate of—although he did not continue to fire for that long—about five hundred per minute. One in ten were ‘tracers’ and, by the smoke-like trail they emitted, he could see he was hitting the front of the fuselage.
Still firing as prudence demanded he turned aside to avoid a collision, Ranse sent more lead into the starboard engine. Its propeller stopped and a spurt of flame erupted from its body. Furthermore, the Vimy was already making a swing in the opposite direction to that in which he was going. Looking over his shoulder as he was bringing the Snipe around to continue the attack if this should prove necessary, he watched the bomber making a slowly spinning dive with the blaze from the engine spreading.
In the Vimy, having swung the Lewis guns as far as the arc of the Scarff ring would allow, Olga glared furiously after the Snipe as it went beyond her line of fire. Looking forward and discovering it was swinging back, she released the weapons and grabbed for the mouthpiece of the Gosport tube. Screaming down it for the Russian to turn so she could aim at it, the bomber having no forward firing armament, her words elicited no response.
Although Lieutenant Andropov heard his passenger, in his present frame of mind he was unable to translate her words into Russian from the English she was using in her stress. This was the first time he had encountered danger to himself. He had gained his training as a pilot and rank as a reward for having helped with the ‘removal’—a polite name for murder —of several families considered by the Commisariat as undesirable ‘enemies of the State’, but they had always been unarmed and entailed no threat to his well-being. Faced with the possibility of very grave personal peril, his thoughts were too numbed to listen to Olga or even think of taking evasive measures.
Just as an instinct for self-preservation was belatedly forcing the pilot to consider making some move, it was too late. His last living sight was of spurting jets of flame coming from the machine guns on the cowling of the rapidly converging fighter. Then bullets were ripping into him. They were a dead man’s hands which involuntarily jerked at the control stick to make the Vimy swerve as if wishing to escape the damage being inflicted upon the front of its fuselage.
To her horror, Olga watched the earth seeming to revolve as the aircraft went into a plunging spin with the flames from the engine spreading to the upper wing. There was nothing she could do to save herself. Having claimed it would be unnecessary, she had refused the offer of a parachute. Even if she had had one, the realization of her terrible predicament produced such a freezing effect upon her normally lightning fast senses that she could not have tried to quit the rear cockpit as a means of escaping. She could do nothing more than scream much as Molly Nickerson had done while being killed by Churgwin, although she had not been present to hear it, as she watched the ground rushing nearer at an ever increasing speed.
Circling and following the Vimy in its uncontrollable descent, Ranse watched it disappear into thick woodland which he knew to be about three miles from its chicken farm objective. Pulling out and passing over, he felt the shock wave as it struck the ground and, gazing back, saw an ever growing mass of flame arising from amongst the trees. Then, turning his gaze upwards, he discovered the other two Snipes were approaching. Relieved by the implication that Blandish had escaped serious injury when fired upon from the Vimy, he concluded the same was unlikely to prove the case with its occupants.
‘What with the fire setting off all those drums of ammunition, the aircraft and everything in it was blown to fragments and burned beyond recognition before we arrived,’ Colonel Besgrove-Woodstole informed a most attentive, small and formally dressed, audience. ‘But I think we can safely say that this time Olga Flack is really dead.’
‘At the risk of appearing … um … callous,’ Mr. Jeremiah Golden Reeder declared. Tm afraid I, for one, can't say I5m deeply … um … grieved by hearing that.’
The owner of the chicken farm received nods of agreement from his assembled relatives and the contingent from Company ‘Z’.
As a precaution, the Royal Party had delayed Their arrival until the Vickers Vimy had been reported destroyed and the danger was over. Nevertheless, the visit had been a great success. Among other things, Mr. Jeremiah Golden was informed that he was to be gazetted a Knight Commander of the Bath in the forthcoming New Year's Honors List. After They had taken Their departure, he had invited his nephews, the wives of two and fiancée of the third, and the Americans to a celebratory dinner. On being joined by the Colonel, who he had asked to come as an old friend and fellow chicken raising enthusiast, he had been as eager as all the others to learn of the latest developments in the affair.
‘By the by, before we go on with the festivities,’ Besgrove-Woodstole said. ‘It slipped my mind with all the excitement, but do any of you know a black chap who's a burglar?5
‘I can't bring … um … one to mind,’ James Garfield Reeder declared.
‘Really, James,’ Mr. Jeremiah Golden protested, before his youngest nephew could continue. ‘You do a good job of being me, but I … um … never say … um … nearly as often as you do.’
‘Sorry, … um … , sir,’ the current occupant of Daffodil House apologized with a grin. Becoming serious, after his relatives had also disclaimed knowledge of the matter raised by the Colonel, he continued, ‘If it isn't an indiscreet question, Brian, why this sudden interest?’
‘The butler at General Anstruther's place in Hampshire saw a black chap lurking in the bushes,’ Besgrove-Woodstole explained. ‘He ran off and got away in a fast car, but he left a jemmy behind. Which made me wonder if he was a burglar.’
‘Wasn’t the General your predecessor?’ James Garfield inquired.
‘He was,’ the Colonel confirmed. ‘And he did such a good job of it all through the Great War, it’s not an easy post to fill.’
‘Yes, I thought he was running your office in the War,’ James Garfield said pensively. Then, swinging his gaze to the Americans, he went on apparently at a tangent, ‘Let’s go to the Palladium tomorrow evening.’
‘I thought your taste in entertainment ran more to a Drury Lane melodrama.’ Rita Yarborough commented, despite concluding from the absence of the word “… um … ” there must be something far more than a mere desire for entertainment behind the suggestion.
‘It is, my dear … um … young lady, hoping I’ve got it right this time,’ answered the current occupant of Daffodil House. ‘However, I think it may prove sufficiently … um … melodramatic to satisfy us all.’
Chapter Seventeen – You Are the … um … Chopper
‘What the hell’re you doing, coming in here?’ the man billed as ‘Haysoff Spades’ demanded coldly, glaring at Mr. James Garfield Reeder and Sergeant Alvin Dustine ‘Rapido Clint’ Fog as they entered and closed the door of the ‘star’s’ dressing room at the Palladium Theatre. ‘Didn’t they tell you I don’t see nobody backstage?’
‘I’m afraid I told a … um … fib,’ the elderly seeming detective replied, in a tone seemingly hushed by the enormity of his misbehavior and disregarding the fact that he had produced official authorization for the visit when seeking admission. ‘I led the … um … stage manager to assume you had summoned Sergeant Fog and myself to … um … see you upon a matter of some urgency when, in fact, it is we who wish to see your good … um … self.’
‘Then get the hell—!’ the entertainer commenced, sitting in his shirt sleeves—albeit with the ‘blackface’ make up and white cotton gloves he always wore in publi
c—at his surprisingly uncluttered dressing table. The angry words died away and he stiffened slightly as he noticed the silver star-in-a-circle badge suspended on the left breast pocket of the smaller visitor. To men as watchful and discerning as they were, the hostility in his invariable stage stereotype ‘poor Negro’ voice became tinged with perturbation as he continued, ‘Just who th—what the hell are you, cops?
‘I am a mere … um … dilettante, with scarcely any official standing,’ Mr. Reeder claimed, with little justification as he had a status equivalent to a superintendent of police and although the first part of the question at least had been directed at the small Texan. ‘But my colleague could correctly if inelegantly be classified as a … um … “cop”, being, as you undoubtedly deduce from his badge of … um … office, a sergeant of the Texas Rangers.’
‘I’m always pleased to do a benefit for a cop,’ Haysoff Spades declared, but his tone conveyed little conviction of him being at ease to either experienced visitor. ‘If that’s what you’ve come about.’
‘It is not, as you have doubtless already also … um … deduced,’ Mr. Reeder replied in his most apologetic and, to those who knew him well, therefore his most dangerous fashion. ‘We have come to ask you to accompany us to the nearest police station.’
‘Accompany you to the—!’ the entertainer began, dropping his gaze briefly to a drawer of the dressing table that he always kept locked when absent, and open while in occupation of the room. Then, letting his left hand go into it with what appeared a casual and unthinking gesture, he went on with what seemed to be a complete lack of comprehension. ‘What for?’
‘Because.’ Mr. Reeder answered, like ‘Rapido’ giving no sign of having noticed or attached any significance to the apparently harmless yet nervous response his previous words had elicited. ‘You are the … um … Chopper!’
‘If that’s a joke,’ the man at the dressing table snarled, trying a desperate bluff. ‘It’s in lousiest taste I’ve ever come across!’
‘The matter is quite easily settled,’ the detective claimed. ‘All we have to do is see you without all your make up and check the fingerprints of yourself, not those of your … um … alter ego is, I believe, the appropriate foreign … um … term!’
Once again the ‘criminal mind’ of Mr. J.G. Reeder had been put to excellent use!
Always possessed of an exceptional memory—a trait of all his family—the current occupant of Daffodil House had formulated a theory arising out of the request for information about a ‘black burglar’ from Colonel Brian Besgrove-Woodstole the previous evening. Stimulated by the question, he had remembered what he was told about the night Sergeants Jubal Branch and Hans ‘Dutchy’ Soehnen were killed. When first hearing the story, knowing of certain social conditions in the United States, he had been reminded of a theory once expressed by his older cousin. However, at that time he had refrained from mentioning the supposition aroused by one aspect of the events. With his interest rekindled, he had explained his reasons for such a belief and found his audience were in agreement that it could explain many puzzling aspects about the Chopper’s career.
Despite the concurrence, putting the theory to the test had had to be delayed until that evening as the attempted assassination by Olga Flack had been considered a greater priority!
Although Mr. Reeder eventually unearthed the names of the ‘liberals’ and Communist trade unionists behind the affair, his efforts to obtain sufficient evidence for an arrest came to nothing. Nevertheless, those in the vicinity of the chicken farm had fled as soon as they saw the Vickers Vimy being shot down in the flames. Being disinclined to trust one another, the majority of the conspirators fled the country to live as ‘expatriates’ proclaiming constantly their disillusionment and disinclination to remain in a ‘capitalist society.’ 71 Strangely, in spite of this point of view and their assertions describing it as a paradise on earth, none of them went to, much less settled in, Russia.
The death of Billy Churgwin had been explained and the action taken was given approval by the Home Secretary. However, the verdict reached by a coroner’s court and the story which subsequently appeared in the press, claimed he had been shot by an American professional hired killer, ‘James Bowie “Rapido” Clint’, brought a second time to England for this purpose. Interviewing Wally Marks in hospital, Mr. Reeder had come away convinced he had not been informed of the true state of affairs regarding the small Texan by Olga Flack. Such reticence, the detective knew, had always been a trait of hers and had led her never to tell her associates any more than she considered absolutely necessary.
Nor had the two injured underlings, on being questioned, been any better informed. Their boss had told them only that they were to assist him to get rid of a ‘Yankee gunman’ hired by an unspecified ‘business rival’ to kill him.
A further assumption by the detective, based upon the sour look of the dishonest solicitor when the point was raised, had been that he was also in ignorance of the location of Mad John Flack’s ‘Encyclopedia of Crime’. Nevertheless, in the future, further attempts to earn it would lead Mr. Reeder to assume it was still being sought for by members of the underworld.
With the other details either concluded, or left in the hands of Jason Grant and Major John Gray Reeder—the latter in his capacity as an officer of the Rifle Brigade seconded to British Military Intelligence—the current occupant of Daffodil House and the contingent from Company ‘Z’ had been at liberty to attend to the other matter. Contacting Chief Inspector Oliver Rater and explaining his theory, James Garfield had asked if he could confront the suspect personally. Another friend of long standing, the Orator had raised no objections even when told that one of the Texans would also be present.
Having had Jubal Branch serve as his guide, mentor and partner during the trial period following his enrolment in the Texas Rangers, therefore having been closer than the other two sergeants, Rapido had been accorded the right to accompany the detective. However, arrangements had been made by which it was hoped he could continue to preserve the identity of his alter ego for future undercover duties.
Realizing what must be implied by the remark about his own fingerprints and those of his alter ego, the man who the world believed to be entertainer and war hero, James ‘Haysoff Spades’ Ogilby concluded it was almost certain his secret was known to his visitors!
What was more, the peace officers were aware of how easily the assumption that he was the Chopper could be confirmed!
A graduate of the Texas Southern University For Negroes, at Houston, the hired killer was descended—although he was unaware of the fact—from a member of the Lulongo tribe which inhabited part of the so called ‘River Territories’ of British West Africa and had once been described by the authority who subsequently made the identification of his origins as, ‘a bitter, crabbed and beastly people’. 72 His ancestor had been sold into slavery after being captured by another nation in the course of a war. While very intelligent, he had inherited all the worst traits of his ancestry and turned instinctively to crime. Learning of the special dispensation given to Ogilby, seeking to find more lucrative illegal fields than were available to a member of his race in those days, he had seen how this could be done.
Obtaining employment as the entertainer’s ‘dresser’, the Chopper had acquired all the information he required to make work the substitution he proposed to effect. When satisfied this was the case, he tendered his resignation. Two days later, he murdered and took the place of ‘Haysoff Spades’. Putting to use his extensive knowledge of the underworld, aided by a masterly skill at disguise and special equipment he had acquired, he had established himself as a professional killer and had built up a network of contacts through which he could be reached without anybody being able to trace the chain from beginning to end.
The popularity of Haysoff Spades, which he had just enough talent to sustain when helped by keeping alive memories of why the blackface make up had always been worn by his victim, allowed the Chopper
to be able to obtain engagements to appear at theatres in whichever city he had received a ‘contract’ for a kill. Such had been his competence in his major line of work, it was not until the night in Fort Worth that he had made a serious error. This was having allowed himself to be found in the alley by the police officers. Knowing they would be upon him quickly, he had hidden his Thompson submachine gun in an empty trash can and, gambling—as had occurred upon previous similar occasions—upon the peace officers believing a Negro could not be the man they were seeking, allowed himself to be questioned. The problem had arisen as a result of the means he had selected to end the first attempt at pursuit made by the pair of peace officers from near the Interstate Vaudeville Theatre.
Successful though the ploy had been, due to the furor aroused by his having killed two sergeants of the Texas Rangers as well as his intended victim, the Chopper had concluded he would be well advised to leave the country until things quietened down. Fortunately, as he had considered it at the time, he had lucrative offers for engagements in both of his forms of employment from England. He was satisfied his disguise would stand up to whatever checks were made upon it, particularly the face masks—upon which the ‘minstrel’ make up was applied—and the gloves he had had made simulating the effects of the ichthyosis. As an added precaution, which he had not needed on his arrival at Southampton, he had had the latter given ridges and whorls which exactly duplicated the fingerprints of his alter ego.
While the Chopper had never heard of it, he had found there was truth in the assertion by Jason Grant that—like certain good wines and types of tobacco—criminal activities were best confined by the perpetrator to the country of his origin!
It had soon become apparent to the hired killer that, in spite of the considerable success he had attained throughout the United States, he was likely to find things vastly different in England!