Читать книгу The Flying Fifty-Five - Edgar Wallace - Страница 10

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THE paddock was beginning to fill again and the horses engaged in the Ascot Stakes were already parading in the saddling enclosure. Jebson stopped only to exchange a few words with another head lad, who had been less unfortunate, and stationing himself by the gangway which the police kept for the occupants of the lunching tents, he waited patiently till Sir Jacques made his appearance.

"...Insulted me something terribly, sir! You'll never get anything out of him. He's just a low-bred scamp... I'd have knocked his head off if it hadn't been Ascot...."

"See Mr. Baldwin," said Sir Jacques curtly. "I haven't time to bother with you now. Come to my house at Maidenhead to-night. Perhaps I will be able to do something for you."

He himself was intent upon speculation. He walked along the path to Tattersalls and made his slow way, for the lawn was crowded, along the bookmakers that lined the rails between the royal and the betting enclosures. Presently he found the man he sought.

"Will you lay me a price about Lord Fontwell's colt in the Coventry?" he asked.

"Five to one," said the bookmaker promptly.

"Lay me five thousand to a thousand," replied Sir Jacques. "With a run, of course?" he added.

The bookmaker shook his head. "No, sir," he said," if the horse doesn't run you'll lose your money. I couldn't afford to lay you five to one against Meyrick with a run—if he runs he'll be a six to four chance."

Sir Jacques looked at him oddly. "Do you think there is a chance of the horse not running?" he asked,

"There is always a chance of that at Ascot," said the bookmaker, "where owners change their minds at the last minute, and that is what I am betting on."

Now Sir Jacques had lunched with a friend who had an intimate acquaintance with Fontwell's stable, and this man had told him that not only was the horse at Ascot, but that he was a certain runner. Moreover, it was generally known that Lord Fontwell was out of England, or away in the country—at any rate, he was not present at Ascot—and the management of his horses was practically in the hands of Alec Bond, his trainer.

Sir Jacques did not impart his information to the enemy.

"Well, I'll take the risk," he said genially, "and whilst you're about it, you can lay me this bet twice."

"Ten thousand pounds to two Meyrick," said the book-maker in a gentle tone to his clerk. "Sir Jacques Gregory. Mark it," he added, "run or not."

Sir Jacques smiled to himself as he pushed his way into the royal enclosure. When the betting started on the Coventry Stakes, Meyrick, he knew, would be clear favourite. In the circumstances five to one was a most generous price to get.

A man of his experience should have known that bookmakers do not lay ten thousand pounds to two thousand against a horse which would certainly start favourite if it started at all. But Sir Jacques was merely one of many racing people who harboured the illusion that they knew more than the bookmaker. It has brought many a promising racing career to an untimely end.

He watched the Ascot Stakes from the lawn and when the race was decided, strolled out again into the paddock.

He saw Baldwin, his own trainer, a wizened little man, whose legs were so bowed that you could have stood a small cask between them, and Baldwin gave him his first shock.

"Lord Fontwell's horse doesn't run," he said.

"What?" said the horrified Jacques. "Are you sure?"

Baldwin nodded. "I've just seen the boy. He's riding Miss Barrington's horse."

"What about Western Heath?"

"That doesn't run either, nor Lord Thrapton's. If Miss Barrington's colt is any good, he should win it. The others are rags."

Sir Jacques darted out on to the course and with unseemly haste hurried into Tattersalls' ring. He had to fight his way up to the bookmaker, for even before the numbers had gone up, the betting on the Coventry was in full swing.

"That was no bet," he said," the one I had about Meyrick."

The man with the pencil shook his head. "It's on, Sir Jacques. It was a run or not bet."

"You knew the colt wasn't running," said Sir Jacques furiously.

"And you knew that it was," was the calm reply. "I was backing my knowledge against yours. It would have cost me ten thousand if I had been wrong. It will cost you two thousand, Sir Jacques. What are you backing? Do you want to bet on the favourite?"

"What is the favourite?" growled the heated baronet.

"Fifty-Five," was the unexpected reply. "I will lay you five hundred to two."

"Five hundred to two!" sneered Sir Jacques. "What the devil is the good of five hundred to two to me? Lay me five thousand to two."

"No bet," was the reply, and the penciller turned his attention to an inquiry which was being put to him from the other side of the rail.

Jacques went back to the paddock irresolute, and was passing through the gates when he saw Jebson. The man with a look beckoned him, and in some annoyance Sir Jacques obeyed the gesture.

"What the dickens do you mean by——" he began.

"Governor," Jebson's voice was hoarse with excitement, "you haven't backed Fifty, have you?"

"No, I haven't," snapped Sir Jacques.

"Well, go and back the next best thing in the race. It's Merrideon—they think it has a chance."

"But Fifty-Five is favourite."

"He won't win," said Mr. Jebson, with a grin of unholy glee. "Take my advice, sir—back Merrideon!"