Читать книгу The Twister - Edgar Wallace - Страница 3

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In the summer of nineteen-twenty-something a little trainer of racehorses and a jockey were at variance. The third party to the dispute was a bookmaker of dubious reputation. The trouble arose over a horse called Ectis, which was favourite for the Royal Hunt Cup. Both jockey and trainer were under suspicion; they lived so near a warning-off notice that they could afford to take no risks.

The dispute was whether the horse should be scientifically left at the post or, as the jockey suggested, whether all risks should be eliminated by a little dose of laudanum before the race. Both men were foreseeing certain contingencies. For if the horse were left the jockey was to blame, and if the stewards thought the animal had been doctored and there was an inquiry the trainer would most certainly depart from the turf with some violence.

Eventually the trainer had his way. Ectis was to be caught at the gate flat-footed. The bookmaker who acted for both laid the horse continuously, and from favourite he became second favourite, and from second favourite, third: from thence he drifted into the 100 to 6 class.

"I can't understand it," said the trainer to the owner on the day before the race. "The horse was never better, Mr. Braid."

Mr. Braid drew thoughtfully at a long cigar, and his dark eyes fixed on the wizened little trainer. He was new to the game—in England, at any rate—an easy-going man, very rich, very amenable. He had no racing friends. Knowledgeable racing men regarded curiously the slim figure with the dark graying hair and the long sallow face and without pitying him expressed their regret that so profitable a mug had fallen into the hands of Lingford the trainer and his conscienceless partner, Joe Brille the jockey.

Mr. Anthony Braid did not, apparently, pity himself. He had a lovely little house at Ascot where he lived alone even during The Week, and he was content with his loneliness. You saw him standing aloof in various members' inclosures smoking his long cigar and looking a little vacantly into space. He seldom betted, but when he did he betted in modest tens, he never disputed the suggestions of his trainer, and he made no inquiries of his jockey. You had the impression that racing bored him.

"Possibly," he drawled when the trainer paused, "possibly the bookmakers fancy something else?"

"That's right, sir. They think Denford Boy is a certainty."

Often did Mr. Lingford regret that he could not run Ectis to win—there might be a fortune for him. But he owed a lot of money to the bookmaker who was laying the horse, and it meant the greater part of two thousand to lose.

An hour before the Royal Hunt Cup was run in this particular year Anthony Braid took his trainer aside.

"My horse has shortened a little in price," he said.

Mr. Lingford had noticed the fact.

"Yes, sir, somebody has been backing him all over the country."

He was a little uneasy because that morning the bookmaker mostly concerned had accused him of double dealing.

"Yes," said Tony Braid in his deep rich voice. "I have been backing him all over the country! I stand to win thirty thousand pounds."

"Indeed, sir!" The trainer was relieved. He thought it might have been a confederate of Brille and that the jockey was twisting him. "Well, you'll have a good run for your money, Brille says."

"What Brille says doesn't interest me," said the owner gently. "He doesn't ride the horse—I've brought over a jockey from France. And, Mr. Lingford, I've changed my trainer. I personally handed over the horse to Mr. Sanford half an hour since, and if you go near him I'll have you before the stewards. May I offer you a word of advice?"

The dazed trainer was incapable of reply.

"My advice," said Anthony Braid, "falls under two heads. One: go into the ring and back Ectis to win you enough to live on for the rest of your life because I don't think you'll ever train another horse; two: never try to swindle a man who graduated on the Johannesburg Stock Exchange. Good-morning!"

Ectis won by three lengths, and among the disreputable section of the racing crowd Mr. Anthony Braid acquired a new nickname. He who had been "the Case" and "the Mug"—the terms being synonymous—was known as "the Twister." And the name stuck. He had it flung at him one day in his city office when he caught Aaron Trosky, of Trosky Limited, for considerably over fifty thousand. It is true Mr. Trosky, in the innocence of his heart, had tried to catch Mr. Anthony Braid for a larger sum over a question of mining rights, but that made no difference.

"You're no better than a twister," wailed the quavering Aaron. "That's what they call you, and that's what you are!"

"Shut the door as you go out," said Anthony.

Undeterred by Mr. Trosky's experience one Felix Fenervy brought a platinum proposition to the Twister. He should have known better. Anthony examined the maps, read the engineers' vague reports—they would not have deceived a Commissioner Street office boy—and invited Mr. Fenervy to lunch. Anthony had also a platinum proposition—a strip of territory in Northern Rhodesia. Why not, suggested the gentle Tony, combine the two properties under the title of the Consolidated Platinum Trust and take the complete profit on both flotations? The idea fired Fenervy. The next morning he paid to his victim twenty-three thousand pounds' deposit and was under the impression that he was making money.

This was Anthony Braid, whose wealth none knew but his banker, until that morning he came to call upon a man who closed his door in his face—a man who liked yet was irritated by him. Whether Tony Braid liked Lord Frensham or not is beside the point: his affections were perhaps so concentrated upon another member of the family that Lord Frensham's suspicion and Julian Reef's hatred were matters of supreme indifference.

"Mr. Anthony Braid, m'lord," said the footman.

Lord Frensham shifted back into his deep desk chair, ran his fingers impatiently through his thick gray hair, and frowned.

"Oh!" he growled, looked at the servant, and then with an impatient wave of his hand—"All right, show him in, Charles!"

A square-shouldered man, untidily dressed, unshaven at the moment, strong-featured, big-handed, gruff of voice, abrupt of manner—this was the eighth Earl of Frensham. An obstinate and a loyal man, who had gone into the city to repair a family fortune that was beyond repair, the simple, lovable qualities of his nature everlastingly fought against the remorseless requirements of his circumstances.

When Charles had gone he pulled open a drawer of his desk and took out a folder bulging with documents, opened it, and turned paper after paper. But his mind was not on the affairs of the Lulanga Oil Syndicate: he was framing in his mind a definite and crushing response to the suggestion that would be made to him in a few minutes.

"Mr. Anthony Braid, m'lord."

The man who followed the servant into the library was something of an exquisite. From his well-laundered collar to the tips of his shining shoes he was all that a good tailor and careful valeting could contribute toward a perfect appearance. His spare build gave the illusion of height. His black morning coat was wasp-waisted; his gray waistcoat had onyx buttons; except for the pearl in his faultless cravat and the thin platinum watchguard he wore no ornamentation. The white hands that held gloves and polished silk hat were ringless. Mr. Anthony Braid was forty and as straight as a gun barrel. His hair was almost black and emphasized the sallowness of the long and not unpleasant face. His eyes were dark and inscrutable. He stood, his eyes fixed upon his host, and no word was spoken until they were alone.

"Well?" challenged Frensham impatiently. "Sit down—sit down, will you, Braid? Or are you dressed to sit?"

Mr. Braid put his hat, gloves, and stick with meticulous care upon a small table, hitched his trouser knees with great deliberation, and sat down.

"A lovely morning," he said. He had a deep sweet voice and a smile that was disarming. "I trust you are well, Frensham—and Ursula?"

Lord Frensham was not in the mood to discuss the weather or his niece.

"I had your letter," he said gruffly, "and to tell you the truth I thought it was rather an—er——"

"Impertinence," said Mr. Braid, the ghost of a smile in his eyes.

"Exactly," said the other jerkily. "If not worse. What you tell me in effect is that Julian Reef, who is not only my nephew but a fellow director, is bearing Lulanga Oils—in fact, is doing his best to ruin me. To tell you the truth, Braid, I was rather surprised that you put such a monstrous charge into writing. Naturally I shall not show your letter to Reef, otherwise——"

The dark eyes of Mr. Braid lit up.

"Why not show him the letter?" he asked gently. "I have not the slightest fear of an action for libel. I have some six hundred thousand pounds—perhaps a little more. No jury ever awarded so much damages. There would still be sufficient to live upon."

His hearer scowled at him.

"I daresay, but that is not the kind of publicity I wish," he said. "I'll be frank with you, Braid. Somebody is bearing this stock, the prices are dropping daily, and that somebody is you! Don't interrupt, please! You have a certain reputation—a nickname——"

"The Twister," murmured the other. "I'm rather proud of it. It is the name that crooks give to a man who cannot be caught. And my dear friend Reef has tried to catch me in so many ways!"

"You are a racing man with a peculiar reputation——"

Again the dark-eyed man interrupted him.

"Say 'unsavoury' if it pleases you. It isn't quite true, but if it makes things easier for you, my dear Frensham, say 'unsavoury'—or, as an alternative, may I suggest 'sinister'?"

Lord Frensham's gesture betrayed his irritation.

"It may not be true, but there it is. You are the Twister to more people than you are Tony Braid. You really can't expect me to believe that my best friend is working to ruin me—is betraying me and the board."

The Twister smiled slowly, put his hand in his pocket, took out a gold cigarette case, arched an inquiring eyebrow, and accepted the other's nodded permission. He lit his cigarette with great care, put away the match as carefully.

"Doesn't it strike you that if I have been bearing your stock it is a little crude to put the blame on your friend? If I am a twister would I do anything so uncunning as to bring an accusation against a man you trust? Credit me at least with intelligence."

The door opened suddenly, and two people came in. The elegant Mr. Braid rose at the sight of the girl. The beauty of Ursula Frensham caught his breath afresh every time he saw her. She came toward him, her hand outstretched, surprise and delight in her eyes.

"Tony, you're a bad man!" she said. "You haven't been to see us for months!"

She could not have been aware of her uncle's disapproving frown, though she might have guessed that the smiling young man who had followed her into the room was no longer smiling.

"I have not come because I have not been invited," said Tony Braid with that little gurgle of laughter which was peculiar to him. "Nobody loves me, Ursula—I am an outcast on the face of the earth."

"Don't talk like a fool," growled Frensham.

Mr. Reef, momentarily startled by the unexpectedness of seeing the man he loathed, recovered his smile.

He smiled perpetually, this red-faced man with the thick auburn hair and wonderful white teeth. He was curiously youthful-looking despite his thirty years and had a boyish habit of blurting painful truths. Mainly they were truths that cut like the lash of a whip, and not even his frank and delighted smile soothed the smart of them. Sometimes they only sounded like truth.

"Rot—you're getting sorry for yourself, Braid! You fellows in the fifties may keep your hair suspiciously dark and your waists suspiciously small, but you can't stop yourself getting dull, old boy! I used to ask you to parties—but, Lord! a wet blanket was a dry summer compared with you!"

The Twister was unruffled.

"Your parties bored me," he said lightly, "and when I'm bored I'm dull. I gave up your parties on my thirty-ninth birthday, which was last year. And I don't like your friends—I much prefer meeting chorus girls from the other side of the footlights."

Julian Reef guffawed at this, but his laughter lacked heartiness.

"Don't be cats!" said Ursula reproachfully. "Uncle, ask Tony to lunch to-day. And, Tony, behave!"

Lord Frensham was obviously uncomfortable.

"I'm not asking Braid to lunch because I'm lunching at my club," he said. "And, Ursula, my dear——"

He paused.

"You've got some business to talk—and, Uncle, you haven't shaved!"

She nodded to Tony and went out of the room. Mr. Julian Reef looked from one to the other.

"I'm in the way, I suppose?"

Tony Braid answered.

"No. This concerns you. Show him the letter I sent to you, Frensham."

"I'll do nothing of the kind," snapped Frensham. "I've already told you——"

"That you do not want a scandal," said Tony Braid quietly, "and I assure you that there will be no scandal."

He walked slowly to the desk and tapped the polished edge to emphasize every word he spoke.

"Until six months ago you and I were very good friends. I think I helped you in many ways—I have a larger knowledge of stock transactions than you. But I am not offering that as an argument or as a reproach. I had the entrée to your house, and you had no objection to my meeting Ursula. And then you sent me a note asking me not to call, and requesting that I should not see your niece. This morning you have made the discovery that city sharps and race-course adventurers call me the Twister—you have been well aware of that fact for years! You told me that I'm bearing your stock—selling Lulanga Oils behind your back. I anticipated that accusation by stating categorically that the man who is selling Lulanga oil shares, and who has brought you to the verge of ruin, is your nephew, Mr. Julian Reef, who for some reason—and that reason can only be for his own profit—has been selling Lulangas for the last three weeks."

Julian Reef's face was suddenly distorted with rage. He laid one hand on the other's shoulder and jerked him round.

"You're a damned liar!" he said, and the next instant was sprawling on the floor, overturning a chair in his fall.

"That will do, Braid!"

Frensham was on his feet and between the two men in a second.

"Now you can get out!"

The Twister picked up his hat and carefully smoothed the nap of it. A little smile showed at the corner of his mouth.

"I owe you an apology, Frensham," he said, "but no man has ever called me a liar to my face and got away with it. I believe Mr. Reef is administering certain moneys that are the property of your niece. May I suggest that you send your accountants to examine that fund? It takes money to buy even yellow diamonds."

He collected his gloves and stick at leisure. Reef, who had come to his feet holding his damaged jaw, glared death at him as he passed but made no effort to stop him.