He followed Custis across the betting shed, saw the man grab a hurrying stable boy by the arm, and pressed close in an effort to hear what the gambler said. Custis’s voice was low, contained, yet with a strident note which reached Lennox’s ears.
“Have you seen Miss Donovan?”
The boy grinned. He was freckle-faced, fifteen or sixteen; then, as he saw the gambler’s face, his smile vanished. “She was out at the barn a little while ago.”
Custis nodded and turned away. He went across the shed with Lennox following, and walked rapidly towards the distant barns. Lennox saw a plain-clothesman in the crowd and ducked behind a post. The man might not recognize him, but with every cop in town looking for him, there was a chance; and he did not want to be stopped now. He waited until the man moved on, then hurried after Custis.
The gambler had disappeared when Bill reached the barns and he stopped a hurrying swipe. “Where’s the Donovan barn?”
The man turned and pointed, white teeth flashing in his dark face.
Lennox slid a quarter into the man’s palm and went on. He reached the corner of the barn, got close to an open door, when he heard voices, Custis’s, level, cold with suppressed anger. “Did you see the race?”
Then the girl’s answer. It held a flat note, a note of finality which Lennox had not heard there before. “I saw it.”
“Wait until I get my hands on Gentry. I thought that kid knew how to ride. He let the colt go out in the back stretch and then took him wide. If I thought he’d done it on purpose—”
“He did.” The girl’s words seemed to hang in the silence like some suspended thing.
“What?”
“I said,” her voice was measured now, slow, “that Gentry did it on purpose. He rode to orders, to my orders. I told him to lose the race.”
“You told him?” It seemed that Custis’s collar was suddenlv too tight. “You told him. Why?”
She said: “Because you had money bet on that horse, Custis. Because I knew you had flooded every handbook in the country, that you had swamped the bookie clearing-houses in Syracuse and Akron. Because I knew all your friends had bet on him, bet on him at your say-so. They’ll be looking for you, Custis, the boys you play with, the wise boys, the gamblers. They’ll think you crossed them, lied to them, that you didn’t bet your own money. You know what that means, don’t you?”
Custis knew what it meant. Lennox could tell by his very silence that he knew. The man sounded strangled when he said, “You did that? You ruined me, took every nickel I had, put me on the spot? Why?”
“Because,” her voice was very clear, very steady, “you killed my brother. You didn’t know that I knew, that I suspected, did you? I couldn’t prove it. I hadn’t a chance to do anything, but the man that loosened that steering gear the night Bert was killed, told me when he was dying. I hadn’t anything but his word. I had no proof that you paid him for the job. I couldn’t even prove that you wanted Bert out of the way because he wouldn’t play your game, because he was protecting the riders from you. All I could do was to take over the stable, to wait, to throw in with you when I got the chance and play your game, waiting for a time when you had all your money bet, when you had tipped your friends.
“I was set to do it once last summer in the East; then something happened and I had to wait. The boys helped me, the riders that had been loyal to Bert, the ones that were riding to your orders. I didn’t expect you to kill Jarney. I might have gone to the police then, but I couldn’t prove anything, and you had too much money, too much power. You haven’t got it now. I’ve stripped it from you, and your own friends, your own kind, will be yapping—no, don’t move.” Her voice had sharpened, and Lennox stepped quickly forward to the open door.
Custis stood with his back to the door, facing the girl. He was leaning forward, his shoulders hunched. Something in her hand glittered. “Keep back!” It was a small gun.
Even as Lennox reached the door, he saw Custis spring forward, saw the little gun speak once, the bullet just missing his ear as Custis, with the litheness of a cat, sprang in, caught her wrist, twisted it until the gun dropped to the floor of the “tack” room, his other hand closing over her mouth.
“So you framed me.” Something in the man seemed to have snapped his power of control. Lennox sensed it as he leaped in, sensed that in another instant the girl might be dead. His arm locked about Custis’s neck, pulling his head back sharply, breaking his grip on the girl.
The gambler twisted with the swift movement of a snake, drove his elbow into the stomach, just above Lennox’s belt, broke Bill’s grip and backed away, his jade-like eyes flaming, his right hand, concealed for a moment in his coat. Then it appeared, holding a short, squat gun.
Lennox leaped at him, felt something burn his side, heard an explosion almost in his ear; then his arms were locked about Custis and they went over onto the floor together. The gambler was trying to bring up his gun, Lennox, his fingers locked about the man’s wrist, attempting to keep it down. His breath was short and Custis’s shoulder against his nose made it harder. His lungs seemed to be bursting, yet he knew that if he once released his grip it meant death, death not only for himself, but also for the girl.
Tiny black spots danced before his eyes. Custis was strong, surprisingly so. His arm was like a coiled band of steel, coming up, slowly, ever so slowly, despite all Lennox could do. Inch by inch the gun moved. Lennox sank his teeth in his lower lip as he hung on, then he suddenly released his grip with his left hand on the man’s back and rolled over, feeling Custis’s arm, the gun beneath him. He lashed out with his left fist, heard the man’s muffled curse, rolled clear, and kicked hard at the wrist. His shoe hit the gun instead, sending it spinning half across the room to strike the girl’s side, but Lennox never saw it.
He was on his knees, then his feet, swaying there for an instant. Then he jumped at the gambler, storming through the blows raining upon him, his shoulder striking the man’s chest, his fingers searching for the white throat as they went over again. Confusedly he knew there were other people in the room, but he had no idea who they were, did not in the least care. He was tired, too tired to be certain of things.
11
THEN big hands had his shoulders and were hauling him to his feet and a voice he knew said, “What the hell’s going on here?” With the back of his left hand Lennox wiped the sweat from his eyes and stared at Spellman. He tried to grin, but his upper lip was puffed, swollen. “I never thought the day would come I’d be glad to see you, Copper.”
“So you’re glad to see me?” Spellman’s heavy voice held sarcasm, “Well, I’m kinda glad to see you. I’ve been looking for you for only three days.”
“Swell.” Lennox was trying to straighten his coat. “It’s nice to know I’ve been missed. How’d you happen to blow in so opportunely, Floyd?”
The city detective shrugged. “I saw you hiding behind a post in the betting shed a few minutes ago and thought I’d tail you and see just what the idea was.”
“For once in your life,” Lennox told him, “you did right. If you’d grabbed me then, this gentleman,” he indicated the silent Custis, who was being held by a couple of barn men, “might have got rough.”
Spellman looked at Custis. “Who is he? His face is familiar.”
Lennox said: “Just a gambler. You probably saw a circular on him sometime. Besides that, he’s the killer who got that rider at the hotel the other night.”
“The hell you say!” Spellman was looking at Custis with renewed interest. “Can you prove it?”
“Of course not.” Custis had regained his self-control. “The idea’s absurd, Captain. I had a little personal trouble with Lennox, and this is his way of paying me back.”
Spellman looked questioningly at Lennox, who hesitated. After all, he had no proof that Custis had had Jarney killed. But Betty Donovan said, suddenly, “I can prove it. At least I can get six jockeys to swear that he threatened them, that they heard him make threats against
Jarney. I can prove that he’s been framing races for a year.”
Spellman looked at her. He said to Lennox, suddenly, “Is this the girl that was with you at the hotel?”
She answered before Bill had a chance. “Yes, I’m the one. I was with him when he found Frank Jarney’s body.”
Spellman scratched his head. “I guess you’d all better come downtown. The D.A. will have to straighten this out.”
12
IN the police car, riding towards town, Lennox could not talk to Betty because of Spellman’s presence. Custis was in a car ahead in the custody of two of Spellman’s men. Bill watched her set face, thinking how pretty she was. And her gameness. The thought of it made him wince. She had played the game with one of the country’s smartest gamblers, played without asking favors, and won. He wanted to tell her about it, what he thought of her carrying on for Bert, and that he was sorry he had doubted her, but Spellman’s hulking shoulders beside the driver were half turned, and he knew that the detective captain would be listening.
The District Attorney heard their story and questioned them for almost an hour, then let them go with orders to report to his office in the morning. Lennox gave the address of her hotel to the cab driver and hesitated. “I’d like to come up and talk to you for a little while, if you’re not too tired.”
She said, “It’s you that should be tired. That wound in your side—”
He grinned. ‘Forget it, Kid. That wasn’t much more than a burn, and the doc out at the track fixed it up swell.”
“Then come on.” He got in, settling himself on the seat gingerly. “What I can’t understand,” he said, when the cab was in motion, “is why Custis didn’t have me killed when he had me. I don’t get why he kept me alive for three days.”
Betty Donovan stared at him, her expression changing. “You thought it was Custis that—that held you in that house? It wasn’t, it was I.”
“You?” He stared at her and she nodded.
“Yes, I. You see, after the way you spoke to me at the track the other day, I was afraid that you’d do something to spoil my plan. I almost told you what I was doing. Then Custis came up behind us and I was afraid, so I had three of my barn men kidnap you. The house where they held you is one that I’ve been living in this winter. I moved to the hotel that night. But you’re not going to make a charge against me—are you, Bill?”
Lennox chuckled softly. “You’re swell, Kid.” Then he sobered. “I’m sorry about Bert. It’s tough, and I’m afraid they won’t get Custis on a murder for Jarney. They’ll get him, yes, on a gambling charge of some kind, but murder—” He shook his head. “I talked to the D.A. after you were through. They haven’t enough evidence. They’ll probably let him make a plea of some kind.”
The girl’s face set and he feared for a moment that she was going to cry, but no tears came. He said: “If I can help you, Kid—”
One of her small hands closed over his. “You can, Bill. Have dinner with me tonight. I feel so terribly alone.”
He said, “Sure,” and opened the door as the cab stopped in front of the hotel. Half an hour later, over coffee in one corner of the large dining-room, he asked, “What will you do now?”
She moved her shoulders. “Sell the stable. I’m sick of it, Bill. It killed Bert because he was too honest. I hung on, hoping for a chance to even things up. There’s a boy in New York. He didn’t understand why I kept on and I couldn’t explain. I was afraid he’d get mixed up in things.”
Lennox nodded. He was liking her better all the time. “So what?”
She said: “I’m going to sell out and go East. I want to see if it’s too late.”
“It won’t be,” he told her, “not if—” He turned as a page came into the dining-room, his voice sounding clearly above the chatter:
“Calling Mr. Lennox. Calling Mr. William Lennox.”
Bill said, “Here, boy,” and raised his finger.
The page turned and came to the table. “You’re wanted on the phone.”
Lennox slipped a quarter into his hand and rose. “Excuse me a moment.” He left the dining-room and walked to the row of phone booths. Spellman’s voice reached him over the wire.
“Thought I’d catch you there. Saw you getting into the cab with the jane. She’s not bad looking.”
Lennox said sourly, “Did you call me up to say that?”
The detective captain laughed dryly. “I called you to tell you that your boy friend isn’t any more. They got him as he came out of the building, got one of the guards in the shoulder at the same time. Thought you’d like to know.”
Lennox said, “Custis?” with surprise.
“Who do you think I’m talking about? Santa Claus? You wouldn’t have any idea who got him, would you?”
Lennox’s voice was flat, final. “I wouldn’t.”
“Now, now,” Spellman began, but Lennox hung up. Before he got back to the dining-room he heard, behind him, the bellboy calling again:
“Mr. Lennox. Paging Mr. Lennox.”
That would be Spellman, calling back, Bill knew, and paid no attention. Betty Donovan looked up inquiringly as he reached the table.
“What was it?” Her voice was nervous.
He said, softly, “Someone shot Custis as he was leaving the D.A.’s office. You can forget him, Kid. Your brother’s debt is paid.”
She was silent a long time, said finally, “I wonder who got him?”
Lennox shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, and I don’t care. One of the boys he’d been playing with, probably, one of those he told to bet on your horse. They probably figured he’d crossed them.”
“I wish,” her voice broke, “I wish it hadn’t happened that way. I wish the law had got him.”
Lennox bent forward. “Listen, Kid; don’t cry, don’t feel bad. It wasn’t you that got Custis. It was the way he lived. If it hadn’t happened now, it would have some time.” He was silent, thinking of what he had said to her earlier, “Gamblers Don’t Win.”
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1935 by Pro-Distributors Publishing Company, Inc.
Copyright © renewed 1963 by Popular Publications, Inc., and assigned to Keith Alan Deutsch as successor-in-interest to Popular Publications, Inc., Proprietor of Black Mask Magazine, and conservator of all copyrights, test and art.
Cover design by Andrea C. Uva
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Gamblers Don't Win Page 5