Gamblers Don't Win

by W. T. Ballard

  Custis looked towards the girl, his eyes seeming to ask a question, then they switched back to Lennox, cold, hard, like two gray flames. His lips still smiled, but there was no mirth in his face. His eyes went back to the girl. “Coming?” It was a command.

  Lennox looked at her also, saw her hesitate, then without a word, turn and follow Custis. He swore softly under his breath, trying to decide, then with a shrug turned and climbed the stairs.

  He found a seat in the stand and sat down to think it over. His first impulse was to tell the D.A. what he knew. The girl would be picked up for questioning, and then—Lennox couldn’t think what would happen then. In spite of her evident connection with Custis, it was impossible to think that she had had any part in Jarney’s murder. After several minutes he rose, still undecided, and walked towards the exit. In the large parking place he crossed towards a cab, climbed in, and told the man to take him to town. They swung out onto Huntington Drive and started in. Lennox, his hat pulled low over his eyes, leaned back into the corner of the seat.

  A big, black car left the parking place and tailed them, its speed moderate. He peered back at it a couple of times, then grinned sourly. That would be some of the D.A.’s men, following him. He wondered if they had seen him talking to the girl. He’d forgotten about being tailed, had not noticed anyone since leaving the studio. The big car gained speed, creeping closer. Finally its horn sounded and it swung out to go around the cab.

  Lennox frowned. Maybe he’d made a mistake. Maybe they weren’t tailing him, maybe they’d just—then he swore suddenly and tugged at the gun in his shoulder-clip, for the car had swung in, crowding the slower cab towards the curb until the driver was forced to jam his brakes. Two men leaped from the other car. One shoved a gun though the half-open window towards Lennox. “Easy punk,” and to the driver, “Keep your eyes front.”

  Lennox stopped, his gun half clear of the clip. He said: “What is this?”

  The man did not bother to answer. He had the door open, the gun still steady on Lennox. “Out with you.”

  Bill got out slowly, wondering if he dared try for his gun, and decided against it The man caught his wrist, pulled his hand away from the coat empty, had the gun from the clip in a moment, and dropped it into his coat pocket The second man tied a handkerchief over the taxi-driver’s eyes, bound his wrists behind his back. A third raised the cab’s hood and pulled the wires loose from the plugs with one sweeping jerk. Then they shoved Lennox into the big car and it swung into motion.

  The whole thing had taken less than three minutes. The big car moved fast, swung away from the usual lines of traffic and made a detour. They were ducking pursuit. As they crossed Sunset Bill asked: “Why’s Custis having me brought to town? We’ve passed some swell ditches.”

  He tried to make his voice light and almost failed. He knew Custis. The man killed or had his killings done if it suited his purpose, and Lennox could think of no reason why the gambler should wish him to live.

  The man on his left said, “Custis who?” and Bill gave it up.

  The car continued along the wide concrete street until it reached Beverly, then turned right and went west. The gun against his side pressed harder as the traffic increased, but the men made no effort to blindfold him, no move to prevent his knowing where he was being taken.

  At Vermont they went south, slowing now. They passed policemen at almost every corner, and Lennox grinned sourly. He hadn’t wanted to help them, and now he couldn’t ask their aid. They turned west again at Ninth, covered several blocks, and swung into a side street, then into the driveway of a rambling, shingled bungalow.

  9

  THE yard was large, screened by neglected shrubbery. The car went around to the back, stopped before a double garage which looked as if it had been a carriage-house at one time. On order, Lennox stepped to the ground, followed closely by the man with the gun. They stood waiting while one of the other men unlocked the back door of the house, led the way across a screened porch and into a long, wood-paneled front room. The house was very large and at one time had been a show place. Lennox looked around curiously. It wasn’t the type of place he would have expected Custis to choose, yet it offered an excellent hideout, well back from the little-used street, with an empty house next door.

  What puzzled him was why they had bothered to bring him here. He couldn’t imagine his being released alive, after Custis’s threat over the phone, but why take all this trouble? Shrugging, he sat down on the big couch and picked up a morning paper he found there. The man with the gun grinned.

  “You’re pretty cool, guy.” There was a note of admiration in his voice.

  Lennox looked at him. “It wouldn’t buy me much to get excited.”

  The man grinned. “It wouldn’t buy you a thing. The boss’s orders were to keep you here, to leave you loose if you acted smart, to tie you if you got funny. Take your choice.”

  Lennox masked his surprise. “I’ll act nice,” he said. “What about the radio?”

  The man said, “Help yourself,” and sat down on a chair beside the door.

  Lennox rose and turned it on; then crossed the room to the row of bookshelves beside the fireplace and examined the titles. Someone, he saw, had good taste. Was it Custis, or had they rented the house furnished? He helped himself to one of Dumas’ and returned to his place on the couch.

  About six, another man appeared with a tray which he set upon the low table beside Lennox’s elbow; then relieved the man at the door. Bill ate in silence, wondering how long this would last.

  He was still wondering on the third morning after, when he rolled over on the couch bed and stared at the guard in his regular place beside the door. “Has anyone in this joint got a razor?”

  The man grinned. “Why worry about your looks? You ain’t going anywhere.”

  Lennox ran his hand across the stubble on his chin. “It itches,” he complained.

  The man shrugged. “All right, Sport. As soon as Bob comes, we’ll see about digging up a razor. There’s the paper.” He tossed it across the room. Bill carried it to the fireplace and sat down before the blaze. It was chilly and he shivered. He opened the paper to the sports page, after a brief glance at the banner head which read, “Film Man Still Missing. Police Hunt Lennox as Murder Witness.”

  The man by the door said, “You’re getting a lot of swell publicity,” but Bill paid no attention. His eyes went to the race column. He looked at the results for the preceding day and finally at the entries. Suddenly he stiffened. The girl’s horse, the same black colt, was entered in the sixth race. He whistled under his breath, remembering Custis’s words. “We’ll win the next time out.” That would mean today. He looked towards the man beside the door, but the guard had turned his head and was apparently listening.

  Sound reached Lennox. A car had come into the driveway. The back door opened and closed, and in another minute the man called Bob appeared in the doorway. The guard rose and grinned at his pal.

  “Lennox is getting particular. He wants to shave.”

  The newcomer looked towards the fireplace. “A shave wouldn’t hurt him. I’ll go out and dig up a razor. There’s the food.” He laid three well-filled sacks on the chair, and, turning, disappeared. The guard laid his gun beside the sacks and drew out a cardboard container of coffee, some rolls, and a glass of jelly. “Come and get it.” He picked up the gun and backed away.

  Lennox crossed the room, picked up the chair, and carried it with its burden to the couch. He sat down and ate quickly, thinking things over as he did so. He was still puzzled that he was alive. He couldn’t imagine any reason why Custis hadn’t had him killed before this, but evidently he was to continue to live, at least for the time being. Certainly otherwise his guards would not take the trouble to get him a razor. What mattered whether or not a man about to die shaved?

  It was almost half an hour later when the other guard returned and tossed a small, paper-wrapped package onto the couch. “There you are. You know where the b
ath is.”

  Lennox nodded and, picking up the package, unwrapped it. There was a new safety razor, a package of blades, and a tube of shaving cream.

  He said, “Thanks. I’ll remember this when you’re in jail.”

  The man laughed. “When I am, brother. You might as well go eat, Charley, while Lennox cleans up.”

  The other man nodded, and, handing over his gun, disappeared. Lennox went towards the door, saw his guard back into the hall ahead of him, the gun ready. They weren’t taking any chances, but they weren’t being as cautious as they had been. He went along the hall to the bath and went in, not troubling to close the door. The room was small, dark, opening off of what had evidently been the maid’s room, its single window giving onto an air shaft. There was no chance of escape that way. He switched on the light, turned on the hot water, then pulled off his shirt and rubbed lather into his face with the tips of his fingers.

  “You might have brought me a clean shirt,” he suggested. “This one could stand alone.”

  The guard was leaning against the wall in the hallway. He said, “You won’t be needing one after today—” and stopped suddenly.

  Lennox stiffened, half turned, then didn’t. With fingers which he kept steady by effort he adjusted the razor. “Meaning what?”

  The other was silent for a moment, then he laughed. “I’ll let you figure that out yourself.”

  Lennox was doing just that, and he didn’t like the answer his mind evolved. He drew the razor cautiously along one cheek, staring in the mirror at the guard, measuring his chances. He could slam the door and shoot the bolt into place before the man could stop him, but what then? Even if the window had opened onto the yard instead of the air shaft it was too small to permit the passage of his shoulders. He continued his shaving, still unable to figure out why they had kept him alive for three days only to kill him now. There could be only one answer.

  Maybe the girl wouldn’t stand for his death. Maybe Custis had kept him alive in an effort to hold the girl in line until after today’s race. He finished his shaving and returned to the other room, just as the regular guard came in at the kitchen door.

  Lennox looked at the clock above the fireplace and saw that it was almost eleven-thirty. The sixth race would go to post in about four and a half hours. It would be at post three or four minutes perhaps, and it would take another minute or two to run. If he were right in his surmise that it was to hold the girl in line that Custis was keeping him alive, he had something like five hours to live. His mouth was a grim line as he saw the regular guard take up his place beside the door, saw the other leave, and heard his car back out of the driveway.

  They were alone in the enormous house, alone, two men, one with a gun. Lennox eyed the gun. He wished that he could get close enough to grab it, to have a chance to fight it out; still, he wasn’t sure that he’d make it, even then. The man was powerful, with wide shoulders and a heavy frame. He did not look like a gangster, a gunman. His face was tanned, and the knuckles of his long-fingered hands were knobbed as if from work.

  Lennox decided that he must have been a track roustabout whom Custis had picked up somewhere. He said, “Shame we can’t see the horses run today.”

  The man yawned. “I’d rather sleep. You got it easy, Sport. All you have to do is lie down and snooze. I’ve got to keep my eyes open.”

  Lennox grinned sourly. “It would be okey with me if you closed them. What’s Custis paying you for this job?”

  The man shrugged, his leather-like face not changing. Bill said: “I might be able to dig up ten grand. That would be pretty nice for you, all alone, no cuts, and no danger. If you’re caught, there’s a kidnaping rap against you, and it’s tough for kidnapers in this state. They catch them.”

  The man said, “No sale. Forget it, Sport.”

  Lennox walked restlessly about the room. The clock above the mantle struck, twelve times. He said finally, “How about a little two-handed stud? I’ve got to do something or go nuts.”

  The guard hesitated for a moment. “Okey. You can deal them on the low table. Bring it over, but not too close,”

  Lennox obeyed. He got a deck of cards from the shelves beside the mantel and carried the table across to a spot a couple of feet in front of the guard’s chair.

  “What’ll we play for? Let’s make it a dollar a card with five on the last if you want to draw.”

  The man shook his head. “That’s too steep for me. Better make it a quarter with a dollar on the last.”

  Lennox peered at him, then shrugged. “What difference,” he thought, “did it make what they played for if he were going to die that night. His captor would never have to pay off; still, the man might have funny ideas.” He said, “Okey,” and dealt.

  The man looked at his hole card and kicked in a match in place of a chip. Lennox stayed and was beaten by a pair of fours, back to back. He played on, steadily, the matches drifting across the table one by one. He thought, grimly, “It’s lucky we aren’t playing for dollars. I never could pay off.” From time to time he glanced at the clock, saw the hand creep to two, to three, to quarter after, then to half-past. Once he threw down the cards in disgust and, looking up, saw the guard grinning at him.

  The man was not so careful now. His gun rested on his knees, his eyes dropped to the cards, stayed there. Lennox lost again, had a pair of kings beaten by three deuces. Cursing, he gathered up the deck, started to shuffle it, and suddenly scaled the loose cards into the man’s face. They struck him directly in the eyes. Instinctively his hands went up, but Lennox jumped forward across the low table, his shoulder striking the man’s chest, carrying him and the chair over backwards, the gun flying half across the room, the man’s head thudding heavily on the floor.

  The guard groaned once and lay still, his head rolling sidewise, his big body tangled in the wreckage of the chair.

  For an instant Lennox thought that the man was dead as he rolled over and got slowly to his feet; then he saw the guard was breathing, that he was merely out.

  Bill shot a glance at the dock. It was almost twenty minutes of four. The race would go to post about four-thirty. He looked at the man again, then dived towards the hall, raced along it and out the rear door. A black coupe stood in the graveled parking place. He hesitated for an instant, then leaped towards it. The keys were in the lock and, jerking the door open, he slid beneath the wheel.

  The motor was cold and he wasted seconds getting it started. Then he swung about the driveway and out into the street. He smiled grimly. It seemed such a simple getaway, but he knew it had been built on three days of careful acting that had dulled the guard’s alert watchfulness and finally given him his chance.

  10

  THE coupé, a ’31 Ford, had evidently had excellent care. Lennox drove it across town, using the side streets to avoid traffic, hit Beverly just west of Vermont, and went over to Silver Lake. It was four twenty-seven as he turned into the parking place at the track, drove down the long lane, and stopped almost at the gate. An attendant came running. “You can’t park here,” he growled, but Lennox did not hear him. He was already out of the car and sprinting for the gate.

  The horses were already at the post when he reached the lawn before the grandstand. He paused, hesitated for a moment. He didn’t know what to do, how to proceed. He’d intended to reach the track, to get hold of the girl, and force her to withdraw the horse from the race, but it was too late for that now. He could go to the judges, of course, but could he prove anything, could he—? He stiffened as he saw Custis across the lawn, near the fence.

  Betty Donovan was not in sight, anywhere that he could see. The crowd was milling forward and he went with it, forcing his way until he was within twenty feet of the gambler. Then there was a cry, “They’re off!”

  Lennox did not have his glasses. Without them, he saw the horses break from the gate and come up the back stretch in a bunch. It was hard to pick out the black colt without glasses, hard; then Lennox saw him, third on the rail
, running easily. His hands tightened as he watched. The boy was riding a canny race, holding his position. No. He was pulling out farther towards the middle of the track. Lennox stared. Was he trying to go round the leaders? He didn’t seem to be. The horse was still under wraps, and two others had passed it on the inside.

  Bill stole a glance at Custis. The gambler was leaning forward, his eyes glued to his glasses. Something about his shoulders spoke of anger as the field hit the far turn. The black colt was sixth now, still coming wide, on the outside. It was evident to Lennox that he couldn’t get up, that he hadn’t a chance. The race thundered into the stretch, the black colt still on the outside. Then the boy went to bat. The horse was creeping up, running over slower horses, but the two leaders had him by twenty lengths. He hadn’t a chance, and barely got up to beat a staggering horse for third.

  Lennox’s mouth was a thin line as he stared at the numbers. What had happened? Had there been a change of plans? This was the day the horse was supposed to win. Then he looked towards Custis. The gambler was also staring at the track, his face dead white, his long fingers nervously twitching at the strap which held his glasses. He turned and passed within three feet of Lennox without seeing him, and went towards the betting shed.

  Lennox turned and followed. It was evident from Custis’s face that whatever had happened had not been part of the original plan. Lennox tried to think it out as he threaded his way through the crowd. That the horse could have won with a better ride was obvious. He had had much more speed at the finish than the leaders. They had both been ridden out with just enough left to come down under the wire. The black colt had lost plenty of ground by that swerve in the back stretch, and more by coming wide at the turn. It might have been an accident, of course, but it looked deliberate to Lennox.