by Morris West
He was puzzled and a little hurt. He pressed the point.
“But you can’t blow in and blow out like this. Of course you must stay.”
“Perhaps you’d better hear why I’ve come, first.”
It was a graceless mumbling sort of answer to give to a man you haven’t seen in twelve years; and yet, what else was there to say? I felt awkward; loutish. I was sorry I had come.
He took my elbow and steered me gently across the veranda and into the living-room, a wide expanse of polished floor with bright rugs and good pictures and leather chairs grouped about a great stone fireplace.
“Make yourself easy, Renn. I’ll fix a drink. Scotch?”
“Thanks.”
The armchair was deep and comfortable, but I could not relax. The muscles of my face were tight, my mouth was dry. My hands were unsteady and I pressed them hard against the arms of the chair to stop them trembling. McAndrew brought the drinks, handed me mine and then sat down; facing me across the fireplace.
“Good health, Renn—and happy meetings!”
“Good health, Mac.”
The whisky went down, smoothly, as a good whisky should, and then lay like a warm coal at the pit of my stomach. McAndrew watched me with sober concern.
“Renn, are you ill?”
“Ill?” I tried to laugh, but it was a dry, coughing sound in my throat. “No, not ill. At least not the way a doctor would read it.”
“A friend might read it differently.”
His gentleness, his puzzlement his genuine kindness, made me suddenly angry with myself. I heaved myself out of my chair and stood by the fireplace looking down at him. The words seemed to force themselves out, rasping my throat as they came.
“Look, I'm a bad risk for friendship. I didn’t come here today for the pleasure of seeing you. I—I came because I need a thousand pounds and you’re the only man I could think of who could help me get it.”
McAndrew showed no surprise. He stared into his glass and said, “Then I’m glad you did come to me, Renn. A thousand pounds is little enough to ask of a man whose life you saved. I’ll write you a cheque for it before you go. Now, will you relax and enjoy your drink.”
It was so simple, so bland and casual, that it took my breath away. And yet I had not, even then, the grace to accept and be done with it. I talked on, brashly, foolishly:
“But I don’t want it that way.”
“How do you want it then?”
“I want to tell you first why I need it.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Just the same I want to tell you.”
And I told him. I told him of Jeannette and myself and our island in the sun. I told him of the old coin and the old ship from which I believed it had come. I told him of Manny Mannix and my final folly at Manny’s tables, and my ignominious exit from the university. I poured it out in an orgy of self-flagellation and when I had finished I felt suddenly empty and tired.
McAndrew didn’t say a word. He got up and refilled my glass and handed it to me.
“Drink it up, man. It’ll make you feel better.”
I grinned sourly. “That’s an old wives’ tale. I’ve tried. It doesn’t work.”
McAndrew smiled and clapped a friendly hand on my shoulder.
“You’ve been drinking in the wrong company, that’s all. If you’d had sense enough to come to me in the first place . . .”
We drank. I laid down the glass carefully and, just as carefully, I explained to him.
“Mac, I want money, yes. I want it more than I can say, for more reasons than I can explain, but I don’t want your money.”
“Call it a loan then; to be paid when you raise your treasure-ship.”
“No, Mac. Not a loan, either. I want it to be my money. If I find what I’m looking for, I want it to be mine, too . . . I don’t know if I can make you understand this. But I want something like you have here . . . your land, your horses, your own life. That’s what I want from, my treasureship. A place of my own, a life of my own.”
“Would you be happy in it? Without her?”
“I don’t know. But if I can’t have Jeannette, I want the other things. The things I hoped she would share with me. Can you understand that?”
“Yes, I can. But I don’t see what you mean about the money.”
“Then I’ll tell you. Call me crazy, if you like. But this is how I want it. You race horses. You race winners. When you have a good one coming up, at a good price, tens or better, I want you to tell me. I want you to give me the same chance as the stable, to lay my money on it. It’s only a hundred. It won’t kill the market . . . and if it comes home, I’ll have my stake and a small revenge on the bookies. That’s all I want.”
McAndrew stared at me in amazement.
“Renn, you’re crazy. Every race is a gamble. Every horse is a gamble. The best horse in the world can lose. What then?”
“Then I’ll go to Queensland and cut cane or get myself a job as shearer’s cook. All I ask is the chance. Mac, the same chance that the stable has. A good horse trying to win.”
“But if it loses, you lose everything.”
“I lose a hundred pounds. That isn’t everything.”
“It’s everything you have. My way, you could have the money without risk, without obligation.”
“That way I lose the one thing I still have—independence.”
There was a long, long minute while McAndrew considered the proposition. It was plain that it was distasteful to him. By all rules I was making a damn fool of myself. I was also cheating a gentle, good man of the chance to repay a debt with generosity. Had I known then what I know now I should have taken his cheque and kissed the hand that offered it to me. But I was a cross-grained historian who refused to learn the lessons of history, so I let McAndrew piece out the answer himself. He gave it to me quietly, without restraint.
“All right, Renn. If you would let me give you the money, or even lend it to you, you’d make me very happy. You won’t. I think I understand why. Black Bowman is running in the third at Randwick tomorrow. He’ll open at twelves and start somewhere about threes. So get your money on early. We think he’ll win. If he doesn’t, it won’t be our fault or his. I wish you luck.”
I held out my hand. He took it. And before he released it, he said to me, “You’ve had a stormy passage, Renn. It isn’t over yet. But there’s a safe landfall at McAndrew’s. Remember that.”
“I’ll remember it. I’m more grateful than I can say. But I’m sailing my own course, and if I don’t make harbour it’ll be no one’s fault but my own.”
I left him then and walked down the long drive to the highway. Across the far side of a paddock a black stallion picked up his heels and set off at a gallop round the perimeter. For a fleeting moment I thought it was Black Bowman. But then I remembered Black Bowman would be in his stall by now, resting his strength for the third race at Randwick.
I arrived at the course in the middle of the second race. The crowds were roaring as the favourite was being beaten in a canter by a rank outsider from the country. The bookies’ ring was deserted, as I knew it would be, and I took up my position near the rails of the enclosure, where the big men laid the odds to big money and a hundred-pound bet wouldn’t send the market tumbling.
It’s a touchy business when the stable is set for a strike. There are thousands of pounds to invest before the odds tumble to threes or worse and every bookmaker in the ring is warned to close the betting before the betting closes on him. There are a dozen commission men in the ring, each with the stable’s money in his pocket, and the pencillers are busy totting up the risks and the runners watch beady-eyed for the familiar faces of these men who make a business out of beating the books for owners and trainers and the big gambling syndicates. I had to beat the bookies and the commissioners both. I had to place my bet as soon as the odds were called. So I took up my position near the stand of Bennie Armstrong, the biggest bookie on the course, and waited.
A groan went
up as the outsider came home, lengths ahead of the field. Two minutes later the betting opened on the third race.
On Australian courses the odds are displayed on every bookmaker’s board and changes are made on numbered rollers rather like markers in a billiard-saloon. Bennie Armstrong showed twelve to one against Black Bowman. Five yards away a colleague was offering fourteen. I calculated the time it would take me to push through the crowd and take the longer odds. It wasn’t worth the risk. The commissioners would be spreading their money and the odds might tumble in thirty seconds. I turned to Bennie, held up a bundle of five-pound notes and called my bet.
“Twelve hundred to a hundred, Black Bowman. . . .”
Bennie shot me a quick glance. His clerk grabbed my money, counted swiftly and stuffed it in his bag; he nodded to Bennie, who pencilled a ticket and thrust it at me.
“You’re on. Twelve hundred to a hundred.”
Then he twisted the roller on his board and the odds were down to ten. I glance across at the other board. Eights! I had been lucky. The stable money was going on now . . . and before the barrier went up Black Bowman would be offering at evens.
I put the ticket in my wallet and walked across to the grandstand to find myself a seat. My mouth was dry and my stomach was knotted with excitement. I needed a drink badly; but the thought of the bar with its clamour of voices and its smell of spilt liquor turned me sick. I swallowed and licked my lips to moisten them and wiped the clamminess from my hands, then mounted the steps near the broadcasting booth on the main stand.
It was a clear day, but there was no heat in the sun. The women on the lawns seemed touched with the drabness of autumn. The flower-beds lacked colour and the crowd was thinner than usual. But the track was firm and the air was still and that was enough for me. I saw the strappers lead the horses into the enclosure. I watched the small men in bright silks carrying their saddles to the scales. I saw the purple and gold of the McAndrew stable and my heart beat a little faster. McAndrew had Minsky riding for him, and if God had made a horse to win the mile and a half he would have picked Minsky to ride him.
They were saddling up now. Minsky and McAndrew and McAndrew’s trainer were talking together. They stood in the relaxed attitudes of men who know their business, who know that they have done all that can be done, and that from this point everything depends on the horse and jockey and God Almighty.
The trainer hefted Minsky into the saddle. He tried the girth and tightened the leathers. Then Minsky reached down and McAndrew reached up and they clasped hands along the sleek, rippling shoulder of Black Bowman. It was an odd intimate little ritual in which I had no part. Black Bowman was carrying my money and my future but I had no part in him, nor he in me. If he won it would be because McAndrew had bred him and McAndrew’s men had trained him, and a gnome in the McAndrew silks crouched over his neck. I was a punter and a punter is a parasite on the pelt of a noble horse.
Now the clerk of the course was leading them out on to the track. His thick-barrelled hunter made a laughable contrast with the fine, nervous lines of the thoroughbreds. Minsky was taking the Bowman at a gentle walk and the black stallion was stepping as daintily as a ballerina. He started and side-stepped as a big bay passed him in a warming canter, but Minsky quietened him and tightened the reins a fraction. A good man, Minsky, a wise old Jehu. I was glad my money was riding with him.
Black Bowman was drawn number ten at the barrier. It was a good position in the middle of the field. They couldn’t pin him against the rails or jostle him on the turns, and if Minsky could get him away to a clean start he could run freely with the field until they came to the last five furlongs that make proof of a horse’s muscle and heart and of his jockey’s cunning and skill.
The air was full of a metallic buzzing as the commentator called the positions and tried to convey to his unseen audience the small confusion at the barrier. I couldn’t distinguish the words but I raised the glasses and saw Black Bowman standing steady at the tapes while the starter moved the last three mounts into line. One was in and the other two were turning away. The jockeys pulled them round and faced them in again. They moved forward. The tapes went up. The crowd roared. They were racing. . . .
I saw the flash of purple and gold as Minsky moved out to a clean start. Then I lost him in the press of horses that settled down behind the pacemakers for the first half-mile.
A roan gelding and a big grey were out in front. There was a straggle of bad starters coasting along for the exercise. But the winner was somewhere in the tight bunch in the middle of the field and nobody could begin to guess at him till they thinned out at the three-quarter mile and the boys who were riding to win nosed up into position.
The roan dropped out at the mile and at the seven the grey was in the lead, but dropping back into the field. By the time they hit the five the bunch was split in two, and I saw Minsky and Black Bowman striding comfortably at the tail of the first eight horses. At the half-mile there were still eight, but two were falling back and Black Bowman was still tailing the first half-dozen. Minsky was riding a copy-book race until they turned into the straight. Then my heart sank. The favourite moved across to the rails. Three more riders moved abreast and Black Bowman was a length behind the fourth. I tried to focus on him but the horse ahead of him blocked my view. I saw the favourite’s rider take to his whip. I saw the first three horses lengthen strides as the riders crouched forward in their irons. If the Bowman didn’t move now he was finished and so was I.
Then I saw. And the crowd saw. And we leapt to our feet and roared. Minsky had moved Black Bowman to the outside. He was four lengths behind the leader. But he was out of the saddle, cramped by his skinny knees right up on the shoulders of Black Bowman. His head was down behind the rear of his mount, he was giving him rein, as much as he wanted and the big stallion was stretching out. Three lengths—two—then he was level with the leader. Then Minsky laid the whip across his flank so lightly that you wondered that he felt it, and the Bowman leapt forward to win by a length and a half.
I waited to see the numbers go up. I waited till correct weight had been signalled. I patted my pocket to assure myself that the bookie’s ticket was safe. Then I walked from the course and caught a taxi to my lodgings. I was richer by twelve hundred pounds. I wondered that I felt so little excited by it.
On Monday morning I went to the settling at Tattersalls Club. Bennie Armstrong paid, as he always did, with a smile and an invitation to do more business with him.
I was counting the crisp new notes and stuffing them into a brief-case when Manny Mannix slapped me on the shoulder.
“Looks like you had a good day, Commander.”
I nodded briefly and said, “Yes, quite good.”
“More than a grand in that little lot,” said Manny.
I stowed the last of the notes in the brief-case and snapped the catch.
“That’s right, Manny. More than a grand.”
Manny grinned shrewdly.
“So, now you’ve got your stake, eh, Commander?”
“As you say, Manny, I’ve got my stake.”
He smiled then—the old, hearty no-hard-feelings smile —and held out his hand.
“I guess you had it coming, Commander. I wish you luck.”
I ignored his hand and looked him full in the eyes.
“You’re a bastard, Manny,” I said softly.
Then I tucked the brief-case under my arm and walked out of the club.
That was the second mistake I made. Call another man a bastard and he’ll punch you on the nose. But a man like Manny wants to show you how much of a bastard he really can be.
Chapter 4
MY money was stowed in the bank. My seat was booked on the aircraft. There was a letter in the post to the Lands Department of the Queensland Government telling them of my arrival to negotiate the purchase or lease of an inner-reef island noted thus and thus in the surveys. My gear was packed and my rent was paid. I took a ferry-ride up the Lane Cove to talk to
Nino Ferrari.
Nino is a Genoese; a spare, stringy, brown man with crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. Nino had been a frogman with Mussolini’s navy and Nino had sent more than a few thousand tons of Allied shipping to the bottom of the Mediterranean.
A migrant now, he ran a small waterfront factory fabricating aqualungs for the navy and the spearfishermen and the boys who have fallen under the spell of the blue deeps. His work is precise, reliable. His knowledge of deep-water skin-diving is encyclopedic.
I told him what I wanted—aqualung and cylinders.
He questioned me gravely.
“This is for pleasure, Signor Lundigan—or business?”
“Does it make any difference, Nino?”
“Si, si . . . it makes a great deal of difference.”
“Why?”
Nino shrugged and spread his hands in deprecation.
“Why? I will tell you why. You buy this thing for pleasure, you will find yourself a nice interesting rockhole twenty feet deep maybe and you will play for hours without much danger. You will take a holiday in the sun and go down and look at the coral—spear fish maybe . . . and that is that. You are careful of the sharks, you observe a few simple rules and no harm can come to you. But for business. . . .”
He broke off. I waited a moment, then prompted him gently. “For business, Nino?”
“For business, my friend, you need training.”
“I haven’t time.”
“Then you will probably kill yourself, very soon.”
That stopped me in my tracks. Nino wasn’t fooling. Nino was a professional. Nino had nothing to lose by telling me the truth. I asked myself whether I had anything to lose by telling Nino the truth. His cool, level eyes answered that I had not. So I told him.
“I'm looking for a ship, Nino.”
To Nino this was a commonplace. He nodded soberly.
“Salvage?”
“Treasure.”
Nino’s weathered face relaxed into a smile. “You know where this ship is?”
“I know where it should be. I have to find it first.”
“Where do you expect to find it?”