The girl glanced casually across the restaurant in the direction indicated. She located the two men at once—there were three magnums on the table in front of them, and their appearance was definitely hilarious.
Simon finished his plate and ordered strawberries and cream.
“The fat one with the face like an egg and the diamond tie-pin is Mr Joseph Mackintyre. He wasn’t always Mackintyre, but what the hell? He’s a very successful bookmaker, and, believe it or not, Pat, I’ve got an account with him.”
“I suppose he doesn’t know who you are?”
“That’s where you’re wrong. He does know—and the idea simply tickles him to death. It’s the funniest thing he has to talk about. He lets me run an account, pays me when I win, and gets a cheque on the nail when I lose. And all the time he’s splitting his sides, telling all his friends about it, and watching everything I do with an eagle eye—just waiting to catch me trying to put something across him.”
“Who’s the thin one?”
“That’s Vincent Lesbon. Origin believed to be Levantine. He owns the horses, and the way those horses run is nobody’s business. Lesbon wins with ’em when he feels like it, and Mackintyre fields against ’em so generously that the starting price usually goes out to the hundred-to-eight mark. It’s an old racket, but they work it well.”
Patricia nodded. She was still waiting for the sequel that was bound to come—the reckless light in the Saint’s eyes presaged it like a red sky at morning. But he annihilated his strawberries with innocent deliberation before he leaned back in his chair and grinned at her.
“Let’s go racing tomorrow,” he said. “I want to buy a horse.”
They went down to Kempton Park, and arrived when the runners for the second race were going up. The race was a selling plate, with the aid of his faithful pin, Simon selected an outsider that finished third, but the favourite won easily by two lengths. They went round to the ring after the numbers were posted, and the Saint had to bid up to four hundred guineas before he became the proud owner of Hill Billy.
As the circle of buyers and bystanders broke up, Simon felt a hand on his arm. He looked round, and saw a small thickset man in check breeches and a bowler hat who had the unmistakable air of an ex-jockey.
“Excuse me, sir, have you arranged with a trainer to take care of your horse? My name’s Mart Farrell. If I could do anything for you—”
Simon gazed thoughtfully at his new acquisition, which was being held by an expectant groom.
“Why, yes,” he murmured. “I suppose I can’t put the thing in my pocket and take it home. Let’s go and have a drink.”
They strolled over to the bar. Simon knew Farrell’s name as that of one of the straightest trainers on the Turf, and he was glad that one of his problems had been solved so easily.
“Think we’ll win some more races?” he murmured, as the drinks were set up.
“Hill Billy’s a good horse,” said the trainer judiciously. “I used to have him in my stable when he was a two-year-old. I think he’ll beat most things in his class if the handicaps give him a run. By the way, sir, I don’t know your name.”
It occurred to the Saint that his baptismal title was perhaps too notorious for him to be able to hide the nucleus of his racing stud under a bushel, and for once he had no desire to attract undue publicity.
“Hill Billy belongs to the lady,” he said. “Miss Patricia Holm. I’m just helping her to watch it.”
As far as Simon Templar was concerned, Hill Billy’s career had only one object, and that was to run in a race in which one of the Mackintyre-Lesbon studs was also a competitor. The suitability of the fixture was rather more important and more difficult to be sure of, but his luck was in. Early the next week he learned that Hill Billy was favourably handicapped in the Owners’ Plate at Gatwick on the following Saturday, and it so happened that his most serious opponent was a horse named Rickaway, owned by Mr Vincent Lesbon.
Simon drove down to Epsom early the next morning and saw Hill Billy at exercise. Afterwards he had a talk with Farrell.
“Hill Billy could win the first race at Windsor next week if the going’s good,” said the trainer. “I’d like to save him for it—it’d be a nice win for you. He’s got the beating of most of the other entries.”
“Couldn’t he win the Owners’ Handicap on Saturday?” asked the Saint, and Farrell pursed his lips.
“It depends on what they decide to do with Rickaway, sir. I don’t like betting on a race when Mr Lesbon has a runner—if I may say so between ourselves. Lesbon had a filly in my stable last year, and I had to tell him I couldn’t keep it. The jockey went up before the stewards after the way it ran one day at Newmarket, and that sort of thing doesn’t do a trainer’s reputation any good. Rickaway’s been running down the course on his last three outings, but the way I work out the Owners’ Handicap is that he could win if he wanted to.”
Simon nodded.
“Miss Holm rather wants to run at Gatwick, though,” he said. “She’s got an aunt or something from the North coming down for the weekend, and naturally she’s keen to show off her new toy.”
Farrell shrugged cheerfully.
“Oh, well, sir, I suppose the ladies have got to have their way. I’ll run Hill Billy at Gatwick if Miss Holm tells me to, but I couldn’t advise her to have much of a bet. I’m afraid Rickaway might do well if he’s a trier.”
Simon went back to London jubilantly.
“It’s a match between Hill Billy and Rickaway,” he said. “In other words, Pat, between Saintliness and sin. Don’t you think the angels might do a job for us?”
One angel did a job for them, anyway. It was Mr Vincent Lesbon’s first experience of any such exquisite interference with his racing activities, and it may be mentioned that he was a very susceptible man.
This happened on the Gatwick Friday. The Mackintyre-Lesbon combination was putting in no smart work that day, and Mr Lesbon had whiled away the afternoon at a betting club in Long Acre, where he would sometimes beguile the time with innocuous half-crown punting between sessions at the snooker table. He stayed there until after the result of the last race was through on the tape, and then took a taxi to his flat in Maida Vale to dress for an evening’s diversion.
Feminine visitors of the synthetic blonde variety were never rare at his apartment, but they usually came by invitation, and when they were not invited the call generally foreboded unpleasant news. The girl who stood on Mr Lesbon’s doorstep this evening, with the air of having waited there for a long time, was an exception. Mr Lesbon’s sensitive conscience cleared when he saw her face.
“May I…may I speak to you for a minute?”
Mr Lesbon hesitated fractionally. Then he smiled—which did not make him more beautiful.
“Yes, of course. Come in.”
He fitted his key in the lock, and led the way through to his sitting room. Shedding his hat and gloves, he inspected the girl more closely. She was tall and straight as a sapling, with an easy grace of carriage that was not lost on him. Her face was one of the loveliest he had ever seen, and his practised eye told him that the cornfield gold of her hair owed nothing to artifice.
“What is it, my dear?”
“It’s…oh, I don’t know how to begin! I’ve got no right to come and see you, Mr Lesbon, but…there wasn’t any other way.”
“Won’t you sit down?”
One of Mr Lesbon’s few illusions was that women loved him for himself. He was a devotee of the more glutinous productions of the cinema, and prided himself on his polished technique.
He offered her a cigarette, and sat on the arm of her chair.
“Tell me what’s the trouble, and I’ll see what we can do about it.”
“Well…you see…it’s my brother…I’m afraid he’s rather young and…well, silly. He’s been backing horses. He’s lost a lot of money, ever so much more than he can pay. You must know how easy it is. Putting on more and more to try and make up for his losses, and still
losing…Well, he works in a bank, and his bookmaker’s threatened to write to the manager if he doesn’t pay up. Of course, Derek would lose his job at once…”
Mr Lesbon sighed.
“Dear me!” he said.
“Oh, I’m not trying to ask for money! Don’t think that. I shouldn’t be such a fool. But…well, Derek’s made a friend of a man who’s a trainer. His name’s Farrell—I’ve met him, and I think he’s quite straight. He’s tried to make Derek give up betting, but it wasn’t any good. However, he’s got a horse in his stable called Hill Billy—I don’t know anything about horses, but apparently Farrell said Hill Billy would be a certainty tomorrow if your horse didn’t win. He advised Derek to do something about it—clear his losses and give it up for good.” The girl twisted her handkerchief nervously. “He said—please don’t think I’m being rude, Mr Lesbon, but I’m just trying to be honest—he said you didn’t always want to win…and…and…perhaps if I came and saw you…”
She looked up at Rickaway’s owner with liquid eyes, her lower lip trembling a little. Mr Lesbon’s breath came a shade faster.
“I know Farrell,” he said, as quietly as he could, “I had a horse in his stable last year, and he asked me to take it away—just because I didn’t always want to win with it. He’s changed his principles rather suddenly.”
“I…I’m sure he’d never have done it if it wasn’t for Derek, Mr Lesbon. He’s really fond of the boy. Derek’s awfully nice. He’s a bit wild, but…Well, you see, I’m four years older than he is, and I simply have to look after him. I’d do anything for him.”
Lesbon cleared his throat.
“Yes, yes, my dear. Naturally.” He patted her hand. “I see your predicament. So you want me to lose the race. Well, if Farrell’s so fond of Derek, why doesn’t he scratch Hill Billy and let the boy win on Rickaway?”
“Because…oh, I suppose I can’t help telling you. He said no one ever knew what your horses were going to do, and perhaps you mightn’t be wanting to win with Rickaway tomorrow.”
Lesbon rose and poured himself out a glass of whisky.
“My dear, what a thing it is to have a reputation!” He gestured picturesquely. “But I suppose we can’t all be paragons of virtue…But still, that’s quite a lot for you to ask me to do. Interfering with horses is a serious offence—a very serious offence. You can be warned off for it. You can be branded, metaphorically. Your whole career”—Mr Lesbon repeated his gesture—“can be ruined!”
The girl bit her lip.
“Did you know that?” demanded Lesbon.
“I…I suppose I must have realized it. But when you’re only thinking about someone you love…”
“Yes, I understand.” Lesbon drained his glass. “You would do anything to save your brother. Isn’t that what you said?”
He sat on the arm of the chair again, searching her face. There was no misreading the significance of his gaze.
The girl avoided his eyes.
“How much do you think you could do, my dear?” he whispered.
“No!” Suddenly she looked at him again, her lovely face pale and tragic. “You couldn’t want that…you couldn’t be so…”
“Couldn’t I?” The man laughed. “My dear, you’re too innocent!” He went back to the decanter. “Well, I respect your innocence. I respect it enormously. We won’t say any more about—unpleasant things like that. I will be philanthropical. Rickaway will lose. And there are no strings to it. I give way to a charming and courageous lady.”
She sprang up.
“Mr Lesbon! Do you mean that…will you really…”
“My dear, I will,” pronounced Mr Lesbon thickly. “I will present your courage with the reward that it deserves. Of course,” he added, “if you feel very grateful—after Rickaway has lost—and if you would like to come to a little supper party…I should be delighted. I should feel honoured. Now, if you weren’t doing anything after the races on Saturday…”
The girl looked up into his face.
“I should love to come,” she said huskily. “I think you’re the kindest man I’ve ever known. I’ll be on the course tomorrow, and if you still think you’d like to see me again…”
“My dear, nothing in the world could please me more!” Lesbon put a hand on her shoulder and pressed her towards the door. “Now you run along home and forget all about it. I’m only too happy to be able to help such a charming lady.”
Patricia Holm walked round the block in which Mr Lesbon’s flat was situated, and found Simon Templar waiting patiently at the wheel of his car. She stepped in beside him, and they whirled down into the line of traffic that was crawling towards Marble Arch.
“How d’you like Vincent?” asked the Saint, and Patricia shivered.
“If I’d known what he was like at close quarters, I’d never have gone,” she said. “He’s got hot, slimy hands, and the way he looks at you…But I think I did the job well.”
Simon smiled a little, and flicked the car through a gap between two taxis that gave him half an inch to spare on either wing.
“So that for once we can give the pin a rest,” he said.
Saturday morning dawned clear and fine, which was very nearly a record for the season. What was more, it stayed fine, and Mart Farrell was optimistic.
“The going’s just right for Hill Billy,” he said. “If he’s ever going to beat Rickaway he’ll have to do it today. Perhaps your aunt might have five shillings on him after all, Miss Holm.”
Patricia’s eyebrows lifted vaguely.
“My…er…”
“Miss Holm’s aunt got up this morning with a bilious attack,” said the Saint glibly. “It’s all very annoying, after we’ve put on this race for her benefit, but since Hill Billy’s here he’d better have the run.”
The Owners’ Handicap stood fourth on the card. They lunched on the course, and afterwards the Saint made an excuse to leave Patricia in the Silver Ring and went into Tattersall’s with Farrell. Mr Lesbon favoured the more expensive enclosure, and the Saint was not inclined to give him the chance to acquire any premature doubts.
The runners for the three-thirty were being put in the frame, and Farrell went off to give his blessing to a charge of his that was booked to go to the post. Simon strolled down to the rails and faced the expansive smile of Mr Mackintyre.
“You having anything on this one, Mr Templar?” asked the bookie juicily.
“I don’t think so,” said the Saint. “But there’s a fast one coming to you in the next race. Look out!”
As he wandered away, he heard Mr Mackintyre chortling over the unparalleled humour of the situation in the ear of his next-door neighbour.
Simon watched the finish of the three-thirty, and went to find Farrell.
“I’ve got a first-class jockey to ride Hill Billy,” the trainer told him. “He came to my place this morning and tried him out, and he thinks we’ve a good chance. Lesbon is putting Penterham up—he’s a funny rider. Does a lot of Lesbon’s work, so it doesn’t tell us anything.”
“We’ll soon see what happens,” said the Saint calmly.
He stayed to see Hill Billy saddled, and then went back to where the opening odds were being shouted. With his hands in his pockets, he sauntered leisurely up and down the line of bawling bookmakers, listening to the fluctuation of the prices. Hill Billy opened favourite at two to one, with Rickaway a close second at threes—in spite of its owner’s dubious reputation. Another horse named Tilbury, which had originally been quoted at eight to one, suddenly came in demand at nine to two. Simon overheard snatches of the gossip that was flashing along the line, and smiled to himself. The Mackintyre-Lesbon combination was expert at drawing that particular brand of red herring across the trail, and the Saint could guess at the source of the rumour. Hill Billy weakened to five to two, while Tilbury pressed close behind it from fours to threes. Rickaway faded out to five to one.
“There are always mugs who’ll go for a horse just because other people are backing it,
” Mr Mackintyre muttered to his clerk, and then he saw the Saint coming up. “Well, Mr Templar, what’s this fast one you promised me?”
“Hill Billy’s the name,” said the Saint, “and I guess it’s good for a hundred.”
“Two hundred and fifty pounds to one hundred for Mr. Templar,” said Mackintyre lusciously, and watched his clerk entering up the bet.
When he looked up the Saint had gone.
Tilbury dropped back to seven to two, and Hill Billy stayed solid at two and a half. Just before the “off” Mr Mackintyre shouted “Six to one, Rickaway,” and had the satisfaction of seeing the odds go down before the recorder closed his notebook.
He mopped his brow, and found Mr Lesbon beside him.
“I wired off five hundred pounds to ten different offices,” said Lesbon. “A little more of this and I’ll be moving into Park Lane. When that girl came to see me I nearly fainted. What does that man Templar take us for?”
“I don’t know,” said Mr Mackintyre phlegmatically.
A general bellow from the crowd announced the “off,” and Mr Mackintyre mounted his stool and watched the race through his field-glasses.
“Tilbury’s jumped off in front, Hill Billy’s third, and Rickaway’s going well on the outside…Rickaway’s moving up, and Hill Billy’s on a tight rein…Hill Billy’s gone up to second. The rest of the field’s packed behind, but they don’t look like springing any surprises…Tilbury’s finished. He’s falling back. Hill Billy leads, Mandrake running second, Rickaway half a length behind with plenty in hand…Penterham’s using the whip, and Rickaway’s picking up. He’s level with Mandrake—no, he’s got it by a short head. Hill Billy’s a length in front, and they’re putting everything in for the finish.”
The roar of the crowd grew louder as the field entered the last furlong. Mackintyre raised his voice.
“Mandrake’s out of it, and Rickaway’s coming up. Hill Billy’s flat out with Rickaway’s nose at his saddle…Hill Billy’s making a race of it. It’s neck-and-neck now. Penterham left it a bit late. Rickaway’s gaining slowly…”
The Brighter Buccaneer (The Saint Series) Page 5