by J. J Marric
"You mean—money?" He had hardly had time to feel relieved before this new worry was presented.
"Yes," she answered.
"How—how much, Ethel?" He was acutely conscious of his empty pockets, and there was a kind of despair in him that he might have to tell her that there was nothing that he could do to help. It might be as much as ten pounds. He found himself wondering desperately how he could lay his hands on that amount, when Ethel blurted out:
"Twenty-five quid."
"What?"
"I know, it's awful," Ethel said, and her hands met his and held them tightly. "It's mounted up over the weeks, that's the trouble, I've just had to borrow for my mother's sake and I went to a moneylender. He lent me fifteen pounds and it's grown to twenty-five before I could look round. If I don't pay up tomorrow, he'll come to the flat. I don't know what would happen if he did. My mother simply couldn't stand the shock."
Reggie muttered, "It's a hell of a lot of money. I just don't see how I can lay my hands on it. I'd give anything in the world if I could—I'd do anything."
Ethel looked at him with her brilliant eyes, her red lips parted a little, as if breathlessly, and the white of her teeth just showing; she was truly a beauty in a buxom way, and tonight she wore a dress which was high at the neck but had no sleeves; she had beautifully rounded white arms.
"Would you, Reggie?"
"You know I would."
She moistened her lips. "I—I asked a friend of mine if he would help, and he said he knew a way of getting his hands on fifty if I could drive a car. But I can't drive."
Reggie's eyes lit up. "Well, that's easy, then! I can drive a car. It's simple. There isn't a car in the world I can't drive," Reggie boasted, and in that moment he believed it. "Just show me what to do, and I'll do it."
"Why don't you keep your voice down?" a man asked from just behind him. Reggie swung round on his stool, and saw a little dark-haired, sallow man with a turnip-shaped forehead, standing close by. "Take it easy, now, I'm Ethel's pal, and I can make easy money for you, if you'll do what I tell you," this sallow intruder said. "There's no risk in it, not really, you just have to be able to drive and keep your wits about you. How about it?"
Reggie asked, "What—what is this job?"
The man had very small pupils which looked almost black, and the whites of his eyes were huge and yellowish. He gave a little sneering smile, but didn't speak. There was no need to speak, really. No one paid fifty pounds for a "job" unless it was risky, and that meant breaking the law. But there was Ethel, sitting so helpless and hopeless, her hand on his; and she was leaning against him.
There wasn't anything he wouldn't do for Ethel.
"You just get into a car and drive it to a certain place, where it will be taken over," the little man said. "I know the car and I know where it is. When you've delivered it, there'll be fifty quid on the nail. Cash. How about it?"
Ethel pressed harder against Reggie's shoulder. His mouth was very dry, and his heart was beating fast again, while his lips were sticky. For the first time he had a feeling that Ethel had been egging him on to this, and that once he was in, it wouldn't be easy to get out. This was a moment of decision, and he could go whichever way he chose.
He moistened his lips.
"Show me the car, and I'll drive it," he said.
Half an hour later, he walked toward an Austin A70 which was parked near the corner of a street in Chelsea. There were dozens of cars nearby, for this was quite near two cinemas and a theater. He had two ignition keys in his pocket, and was assured that one or the other would switch on the engine, and that he would find that the door was open. As he walked toward the car, he felt as if a thousand pairs of eyes were turned toward him. A man and a woman came walking along slowly, arm in arm, and he thought that they were staring at him. Two men came, briskly. There was a public house on a corner opposite, and a man and woman came hurrying out of that toward the cars; toward this car? He was beetroot red when he walked past it. The couple got into a car some distance along, and Reggie turned back.
No one was in sight now.
He was acutely aware of the windows of the houses on either side of the street, and of the possibility that a door would open and someone would come to the car. But now was the chance. When he strode to the car he was shivering, and yet his head felt hot. He depressed the handle and pulled, and the door opened. He darted a glance up and down, and then slid into the seat and slammed the door. For a moment, he was trembling so much that he did not think he would be able to keep the keys steady, but he made himself. The metal of the key scratched on the ignition, and it seemed an age until he had pushed it in. A girl hurried past, swinging a tennis racket. He pushed the key right in and turned, but it did not work. He began to mutter to himself and was clenching his teeth so hard that his jaws ached. He tried the second key —and it turned and the ignition glowed.
Now, his heart began to pound.
He pressed the self-starter, and it worked at once. He glanced into the driving mirror, knowing there was good room to maneuver. Quite suddenly he felt cool, aware of no panic and no trembling. The wheel of a car had always affected him like that, too. He put the gear into reverse as if he had been driving this particular car for weeks, went back a little, and got out of the parking position at the first turn. As he began to press the accelerator and gain speed, he felt a surge of excitement. At twenty miles an hour, he swung into the road; nothing was coming in either direction. He drove a little faster, and then turned toward Sloane Square and the street where he had been told to leave the car, with the ignition key in it.
"Why, it was easy," he told himself chokily. "It was dead easy! If that's worth fifty quid—"
He didn't finish.
When he reached the appointed place, he got out of the car and walked toward the furthest corner, as he had been told. A little man in a raincoat, the man who had been at the coffee bar, was leaning against the wall. Reggie knew exactly what to do, and did it; he walked straight past, taking a small bundle from the other's hands as he did so. It was not until he was in a shop doorway in King's Road that he opened the envelope and looked inside.
There was the money; fifty soiled one-pound notes—about fifty, anyhow.
He could not get to Ethel quickly enough. He had got her out of trouble, and there was no telling how she would say thanks. He was a man, wasn't he? He was eighteen. Fellows actually got married at eighteen.
Nearer the heart of London, in Victoria, a young man of twenty-three was standing at the bar of a small, select club, with a glass in front of him and a blonde by his side. His name was Arthur Kingsley, and he had never heard of Reggie Cole, who was from a different world. Kingsley had been to one of the lesser-known public schools. He knew that his parents had sacrificed much to pay the fees, and it had never occurred to him that he was ungrateful. They lived in the country, in a little cottage, and he was on a newspaper as a sporting correspondent at a fantastically low salary—less than fifteen pounds a week. There was the rent of his flat to pay, five pounds a week, and the odds and ends that had to be met, and by the time he had finished the normal weekly payments on his television, a daily help, his food and laundry, he had only two or three pounds left. He didn't drink much at home because he couldn't afford it, but he had to spend more freely at the club. Either he had to mix with his own set, or else cut loose; and he could not bring himself to do that.
It was not because of any particular girl; girls were two-a-penny, in bed or out. It was the métier: this kind of club, with its fat entrance fee and its high prices, mixing with men who were really well off, who talked in thousands when he thought in tens; meeting the kind of people he had known for years. This was his world, and he belonged here; yet he was practically broke. He had borrowed on his insurance, borrowed from the few friends who had money, sold a typewriter and a watch—and now he was really up against it. He could not even stand a round of drinks cheerfully, because a big round would tip him further into the red,
and he had chalked up to his limit. Soames, the manager, had been gently insistent about that.
If he didn't stand his round, on the other hand, he would be a laughingstock. He had seen it happen to others who had tried to make the grade but could not. The best thing was to find some excuse for leaving early.
He was trying to make up his mind to go when Soames came out of the office. The manager was a tall, lean man, fair-haired with a fresh look about him, more the outdoor than the indoor type; he had a good reputation as a tennis player and was known to be a gambler, mostly on horses. He treated everyone exactly alike: millionaire and Arthur Kingsley, duke and chorus girl. Kingsley thought uneasily that Soames was probably coming this way, and might even be coming to speak to him. Surely he wasn't going to mention that bill? Usually anyone with too much on the slate was called to the office, and he hadn't been called. It was all done so smoothly and pleasantly, but it was a fact that very few members who went to the office showed up next day.
Soames came straight to Kingsley, who was the more heavily built man, a rugged type to look at. He had played for the public schools at both Rugby and cricket. Now, Kingsley felt as if the room were stiflingly hot, and he could not think clearly. He probably owed nearer fifty than forty pounds, but it couldn't be seriously more than fifty. A girl with brassy-colored hair, who bulged in a strapless cocktail dress, caught Soames's arm and cooed, "Peter, darling, it's so long since I've seen you." Soames talked to her for a few minutes, small talk which meant nothing, while she pouted up at him. Then he disengaged himself courteously and came up to Kingsley.
"Hallo, Mr. Kingsley," he greeted, and his even smile was friendly enough. "Are you likely to be going to Epsom tomorrow?"
Kingsley was so astounded that he almost shouted "Well, yes, as a matter of fact I am."
"I wonder if you'll carry out a little commission for me," Soames said. "I want to back Black Eye at starting price if it's better than tens, and I think it will be. I can't get away to handle it myself."
Kingsley was still on the verge of shouting.
"Well, yes, I'll be glad to! Can't say my money will be on Black Eye, but if you think it's a good thing I might change my mind."
"Come into my office and have a look at the form," suggested Soames, and led the way. Kingsley felt dazed and bewildered as he followed, more bewildered when Soames poured out a whisky and soda and raised his glass. "Cheers." They drank. "Kingsley, I hope you won't mind my being frank," Soames went on, and immediately Kingsley's alarm returned, and he went tense. "But you're a bit short in cash, aren't you?"
"Well, yes, but it won't last," Kingsley made himself say. "I'm in line for promotion any time now, and that will be worth at least another five hundred a year. That would put me in funds. I assure you that I won't leave my account standing too long."
"I could put you in the way of an extra hundred a month, no questions asked, no tax, no worries," Soames said easily.
"It sounds too good to be true!" Kingsley felt a flare of excitement which echoed in his voice.
"It's true all right," Soames assured him. "It's simply a matter of taking a slight risk. It mustn't be done too often—just a killing now and again, and my principals will find it well worth that hundred a month. It's simply a question of slipping a little stuff into the right place—anyone's who's trusted can do it, and you've got a first-class reputation."
"You mean—doping a horse?"
"Just pepping it up a bit, or unpepping it," Soames said, and gave his most pleasant smile. He had the look of the glamorized young Nazi; the same upright back, the same flat head, the same spare body and square shoulders, and he always seemed to be at attention. "Everything will be arranged, and you'll be told what horse to fix in good time. You'll be given the dope in liquid form and all you have to do is get it into the water the horse drinks. There's not a chance in a thousand of being caught, provided it isn't done too often."
Kingsley moistened his lips.
"How—how often?"
"Oh—two or three times a year," said Soames. He went to his beautifully figured walnut desk, took out a loose-leaf book, turned the pages deliberately, and then came to one which Kingsley saw was headed with his name. "I see you've chalked up sixty-four pounds ten," Soames went on. "To show that I'm serious, I'll mark this paid and advance you the first month's allowance. You have only to say the word."
He opened a drawer and took out a bundle of new one-pound notes, fresh and crisp, and held together with brown paper bands. He ran his thumb over the edge of these and they made a whirring sound, like a pack of cards being bent back and then allowed to flip forward. He put the bundle on the desk, smiled up, and said:
"How does it sound?"
"Supposing—supposing I don't manage to do it?" Kingsley said huskily.
"You'll find a way," Soames declared confidently. "You'll find the principals very understanding and helpful, too. It's simply a matter of co-operation. If there's a big win, you'll get a cut in it. Shall I cross off this account?"
Kingsley said, "Yes. Yes, please. I'll do the best I can."
The smell of the horses, the air of excitement, the sight of the jockeys and the trainers, the smell of leather, all of these things were like a drug to Kingsley, and that morning he felt a fierce excitement to go with it; and nervousness, too. He had been told how best to put the tiny soluble capsule of liquid into a pail of water; had practiced on his own and was quite sure that he could get away with it. No one seemed in the slightest degree suspicious, but when he actually let the capsule fall and it spread over the surface of the water he felt a moment of panic, and had to force himself to stand still. There were three people within sight, but none of them took the slightest notice of him, and the capsule disappeared beneath the surface. He moved away. An hour later he stood in the enclosure, glasses at his eyes, watching the bunch of horses tearing round Tattenham Corner to the straight. The excitement of the crowd, the roaring, the sun shining on the motley, were all almost non-existent: he had doped a 25 to 1 outsider, and had been told that with the dope it could not fail to win. It was Disc, with a young apprentice up, and no one really gave it a chance. He saw the colors, green, red, and white hoops, in the middle of the bunch; five horses were all very close together. Then he saw Disc begin to surge forward, saw the apprentice make for a gap in the rails, heard the sudden hush as the crowd watched the favorite being overhauled. Teeth gritting, hands clenched, ringers like steel bands round the glasses, Kingsley saw Disc sweep past and pass the post two lengths ahead of the field.
And he had put twenty-five pounds on it; twenty-five pounds at twenty-five to one. He had made a fortune!
Mixing with the thousands on the heath were Surrey C.I.D. men as well as some special squads from Scotland Yard, all on the lookout for pickpockets and con men. The sun was warm, men carried their coats and jackets, women in light cotton dresses had their handbags hanging over their arms. Gray topper was next to cloth cap, the latest Dior next to a dress from Marks and Spencer. Sunshine reflected from the thousands of cars making a sprawling rainbow of color—and sunshine reflected from the glasses of a man who was making his way toward the motorcycle park on the downs. He was looking toward the ground all the time, and in spite of the heat he wore a raincoat and a trilby hat pulled rather low over his eyes. Now and again he glanced up and round, as if afraid that he was being followed, but no one appeared to take any particular notice of him.
At that moment, no one was.
His name was Carslake, and two weeks ago he had murdered a man named Robson, because he was in love with Robson's wife. Until yesterday he had thought there was a chance of getting away with it, but the morning's paper had been full of the discovery of the body, and his own photograph had been in several of them, with the ominous words: Hector Carslake, who the police think may he able to help in inquiries. He did not know what to do. He had only a little money, and doubted whether he could get out of the country, for he had never had a passport. His chief hope was t
hat he could get to Ireland; he had a feeling that a stretch of water would help to make him safe.
He had come here partly because he spent most of his free time at the races or studying forms, and he had lost two pounds on the first four races, when hoping desperately to make enough to last him for several weeks.
He was a biggish man, slightly splay-footed.
He pushed between the rows of motorcycles and motor scooters, looking for an old one which would not be conspicuous, and which he could wheel away easily and so get a good start. He believed that there were so many people on the Downs that he would get away; there was safety in numbers, he kept telling himself; it was easy to get lost in a crowd.
He spotted an old Norton, with the paint badly scratched and the rubber of the pedals worn smooth. He stopped by it. No one was near. He held the handlebars and released the stand, then wheeled the heavy machine into the path where he could ride it. He stared down at the ground all the time, not daring to look up in case a car park attendant or one of the policemen saw him, and came to make sure that it was his machine. Now that he was on the point of riding away, he was near panic.
Some way off, a detective sergeant from one of the South London Divisions glanced toward the motorcycle park, when the sun glinted on a man's glasses, a hundred yards or so away. The sergeant, named Miles, was feeling very hot in his brown serge suit, although he wore no waistcoat, and part of the time he carried his hat because his head became sticky with sweat. Yet there was a man wearing a trilby pulled low over his forehead, the only man in sight wearing a raincoat; he was staring fixedly at the ground.
Miles, wise in police work, strolled casually toward the spot where the motorcyclist would come on his way out. He made no sign that he was interested and took off his hat and wiped his forehead of sweat. He actually turned his back on the motorcycle as it started up, but swung round when it was close to him.