Читать книгу The Flying Fifty-Five - Edgar Wallace - Страница 13

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"HELL AND IRON" URQUHART folded his serviette and placed it on the table by his side. He dined early, and the pretty dining-room was flooded red with the rays of the setting sun.

Except for a grey silent servant, who stood watching his master, the room was empty.

The table was set for two. It was always set for two, though Jonah Urquhart had never been known to entertain a guest. He sat at the head of the table—the extra place was set on his right, and from time to time as the dinner proceeded, he glanced at the vacant chair with a whimsical smile, Now, as he rose, he turned his head slowly in the direction of the waiting man.

"Well, James," he said, "did you win any money to-day?"

It was his one grim jest, for, to the man who had served him for forty years, betting and racing were anathema.

"No, sir," was the invariable reply.

"You missed an opportunity, James," said the old man as he took out his cigar-case and chose a weed; "racing is the sport of kings; a noble and an innocent recreation which attracts ladies and gentlemen of the highest principle."

He turned slowly towards the big fire-place, filled now with flowers; but it was not the bank of roses which hid the grate from view at which he was looking; his eyes travelled upwards to the big canvas above the mantelpiece. It was the picture of a youth of eighteen, evidently the work of a clever artist, for it had been painted from a photograph. It was a picture of a smiling young man, bare-headed, with his black college gown fluttering behind him—a happy snapshot of exuberant youth.

Old Jonah looked long and thoughtfully and then he smiled again.

"Well, Walter," he said, "how are you this evening? Cheerful and bright as usual, always cheerful and bright, God love you!" He raised his white hand to his lips and blew a kiss at the picture, and then, turning his back upon it, lit his cigar with a steady hand.

"Yes, James, you lost a great opportunity to-day of meeting one of nature's noblemen, Sir Jacques Gregory, one of the pillars of society." He smiled to himself at his jest and the man made no answer. "He's a rich man, too, James. He has a coal-mine of sorts, is financially interested in a bookmaker's business, has a few investments in South African mines, but he isn't so rich, James, that he cannot be pulled down."

"No, sir," said James quietly.

He had heard this so often that it had become almost a daily ritual. He had witnessed and listened to these nightly conversations between the old man and the portrait, and had schooled himself to overcome the emotions which they had evoked in the days when the boy's death had stricken the Urquhart household with grief. If Walter Urquhart was alive and vital to his father, he was no less alive to James Blount, who had nursed the boy when he was a baby. James did not even regard his master's conduct as eccentric.

"Being rich, James," Urquhart went on slowly as he puffed at his cigar, "is a habit. You have to be born and bred to richness, otherwise you can never hold your possessions. Or you must have won them by hard work and the application of your genius, gathering your possessions together pound by pound. Otherwise, richness is an exciting incident—'easy come, easy go'—that's an old proverb, but it's like most old ones, James, a true one. Almost as true as that other proverb, 'Familiarity breeds contempt.'"

He was silent for quite a long time, looking down upon the polished floor, and then his head jerked.

"I found an ally to-day," he said, but did not offer any further explanation. "Cole should be here now," he said looking at his watch.

"He's in the drawing-room, sir; shall I ask him to come in?"

"Show him into the library."

Mr. Urquhart went out by a door flush with the fire-place and came to a handsomely furnished room, the walls of which were covered with books. Presently Cole was shown in.

"Sit down, Cole," said the old man, "I won't offer you my cigars because you do not like them. Well?"

Cole, the commissioner, produced a note-book and opened it.

"You lost four hundred pounds on the day, Mr. Urquhart," he said.

The old man nodded. "I know that. What did our friend Gregory lose?"

"He won about seven hundred, sir. He backed Merrideon."

"I guessed that," nodded Urquhart," and Miss Barrington—did you take any note of her investments?"

"She backed her own horse, sir, but after the objection I saw Mr. Cambray chasing along the line taking any price he could get about Merrideon, and I have an idea that he was acting for her, for Mr. Cambray is not a heavy better."

Urquhart looked at him sharply. "I don't think Cambray knows the girl," he said. "However, that doesn't matter. By the way, I shall not be at Ascot for the remainder of the week. I want you to keep an eye on Gregory's investments and I wish particularly to know if he is betting heavily on the Hunt Cup. In that case, I should want to know the horse he was betting on."

"I could tell you that now, sir. He's had several big bets on Mendoza."

Urquhart frowned. "Mendoza?" he said. "That can't win the Hunt Cup."

He rose and went to one of the shelves, taking down a large book that had the appearance of a ledger. This he carried to the table and opened it, turning the leaves quickly. Presently he came to a page on the top of which was written the one word "Mendoza." The page was covered with his own fine handwriting and he ran his fingers along line by line. Presently he shook his head.

"Mendoza cannot win it," he said, "he's too slow a beginner; he has never raced his first furlong under fourteen seconds and that would be fatal to his chance here. You want a horse for the Hunt Cup who has the speed of a Portland Plate winner and the stamina of a Cup horse. That sounds farcical, but it is true."

"They say that Mendoza has been tried a certainty," said Cole, but the old man smiled.

"'They say? What say they? Let them say'—that is the motto of a famous Scottish family, Cole. I have heard what 'they say' about Mendoza. The poor little backer is broken by talking horses. It doesn't matter what they say, Cole, it is what the Book of Form says. Horses are not machines, but they are nearer machines than anything I know. Look at this. Here was his time for covering the first hundred and twenty yards of the Rous Course; here is the time for the first one hundred and twenty yards of the Epsom five furlongs—the fastest half-furlong in the world; here is his time for the same distance run in the spring at Newbury—the hardest course in England. And the times do not vary by a fifth of a second. Now I'll show you something."

He walked to the shelf and took down another book.

"Here are the times taken by the Hunt Cup horses for the past ten years, worked out furlong by furlong. Run your eye down this."

Cole came to his side and looked over his shoulder.

"You see? It is impossible for a horse to win the Royal Hunt Cup if he cannot gallop the first furlong in twelve and two-fifths of a second. Racing is solely a matter of mathematics. I have treated it as such and it has paid me. Sometimes one makes a mistake, sometimes a horse is not quite as well one day as he is another, but it is your own fault if you make any mistakes after seeing the horse in the paddock and watching him going down to the post."

He closed the two books and replaced them and then:

"You can go to Ansem or to Smoulder and lay them Mendoza to lose me twenty-five thousand pounds. I don't often take the role of a bookmaker, but Mendoza represents very easy money."

Cole looked dubious. "Do you think you're wise, Mr. Urquhart? I know that they've tried this horse as a certainty. It is true that he has done nothing on the race course, but he has vastly improved——"

"Bah!" said the old man contemptuously. "A talking horse! A whispering horse! I know the breed. The only horses that win races are winners, Cole! Horses that have done something under the eye of the judge; horses that have battled out their races in public, not in six o'clock in the morning trials! Horses that have won races with the odds betted on them—they're the fellows that turn up in these big handicaps. Mendoza will start a hot favourite and will finish down the course. Mark my words! Good-night, Cole."

As the man left, Urquhart nodded to his servant. "I will see my sleuths," he said humorously.

They came in, three red-faced men, men who obviously lived in the open air, and took the chairs that James placed for them.

Old Urquhart paid each of these men a thousand a year. They attended every race-meeting throughout the year and yet only one of them had seen the finish of a race for two years. One was posted a furlong from the start, a second at the half-distance, the third saw the finish and timed it.

"Here are the times, Mr. Urquhart," said one, handing in a paper.

Urquhart glanced at the array of figures and placed the paper on his table.

"What happened to Abelite in the Ascot Stakes?" he asked. "He fell out of the race suddenly when he had a winning chance?"

"He was knocked over by that thing of Mr. Bennett's, sir," was the reply. "Forman Printer was not trying, neither was Fiery Prison. The jockey had him well hidden before the field turned into the straight. Lisanda wasn't trying in the Coventry Stakes. He was fit, and I think he had a big chance, but they didn't back him, from what I was told."

"He could have finished second or third," said the second of the men; "I made a note on the bottom of my report, Mr. Urquhart."

"What happened to Fifty-Five?" asked the old man.

The third of his watchers smiled. "I happen to know because I was on the other side of the course. Somebody whistled just before the horse swerved and putting two and two together, I went into the paddock and had a talk with one of Miss Barrington's stable-boys. I think it was the head lad she recently dismissed who whistled. The horse is scared to death of him and recognising the whistle, was frightened. Fifty-Five is a flyer, sir. He did the five furlongs in fifty-eight and a fifth seconds."

"He did the first furlong in eleven and two-fifths," said the man who had first spoken.

In turn these three also were dismissed, and Mr. Urquhart, after a quarter of an hour's examination of the figures and the times which the men had brought with them, passed into a small room adjoining the library, where two clerks were working.

It was a small office; three shelves covered one wall and these were filled with loose-leaf ledgers, whilst the big table at which the men worked was piled high with letters.

Urquhart maintained his own system of training reports and had his own correspondents at every training quarter. Day by day news came to him, was examined by his clerks, tabulated and compared; day by day the results of the races were analysed and cross-indexed, so that at any moment he could put his hand, not only upon the past performance of any race-horse, but he could tell where it was in any part of the race; the time it had taken to reach that point; and the amount of confidence its owner had in its winning. The "springer" in the market, the horse that opened at ten to one and came rapidly to five to two; the horses that were discovered to be no good just before the race, and entering the market as valiant favourites, drifted out at forlorn prices, they also were grouped and sub-grouped and indexed.

"I want Mendoza," he said.

The records kept in this room were distinct from those which he kept for his own information.

A clerk took down a ledger, turned the leaves quickly and the old man sat at the table and pored over the page.

Mendoza's history was written in black and red and green; there were only two lines in red ink and these he read. Red ink was employed in this office when a horse had performed creditably and was noted for a future race.

"Great Town Plate, Lincoln, November," he read. "Ran respectably for six furlongs, but faded out, finishing unplaced. May win minor sprint in second class company. Heavily backed, started favourite, no excuses offered."

He put away the book, and going back to his library, wrote a telegram. It was addressed to Sir Jacques Gregory, Riverside House, Maidenhead, and it ran:

"MENDOZA IS EXTRA GOOD FOR THE HUNT CUP."

He signed it "Flack," and Flack was the name of one of the best-advertised tipsters in England. Incidentally it was Urquhart's own business. He had spent two thousand pounds that year in advertisement, and had secured hundreds of clients. The one client he sought had come to him only a week before Ascot, and had been worth all the money he had expended.