Читать книгу The Flying Fifty-Five - Edgar Wallace - Страница 6

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THE road was narrow and under ordinary conditions pretty, for it was a road of hills and valleys overhung by the greenery of many trees. Now it was an inferno of noise and noxious odours; packed from path to path with motor vehicles of every variety. The long silver snout of the Rolls stood in line with the black snub-nosed Ford; there were large motor-charabancs overhanging tiny two-seaters (three-seaters for this day), great French cars with high radiators, hired cars shining with the efforts of the amateur lacquerer; cars laden heavily with large men and women who fanned themselves violently all the time. The heat of the June sun in that airless road was hellish, the noise and rattle of the standing cars, the dense fumes of petrol vapour and the tantalising slowness of every move forward, tried the patience and temper of ten thousand imprisoned motorists.

Somewhere ahead three perspiring policemen were endeavouring to blend two interminable streams of traffic which joined at bifurcating roadways. They shouted at drivers and at one another; they waved frantic signals which were either disregarded or misunderstood, and in their frenzy they spat insults at the great and the small who questioned their prescience.

In this tangle all men were equal. The Earl of Fellingfield's luxurious Brayanza car was drawn, running-board to running-board, with a taxi filled with men, two of whom it had been his pleasure to sentence to terms of imprisonment at a recent quarter session. Aaron Wintergeld, in a check suit and wearing his full battery of diamond solitaires, found himself cheek by jowl with Lord Bramton, who had warned him off the turf three years before.

In one resplendent limousine were two bored young men, hot and uncomfortable in their top hats and their swallow-tailed coats, and two women, wearing the strained repressed look which, in the English aristocracy, represent exasperation's furthermost limit.

The car crawled forward a dozen paces and halted with its radiator a few inches behind the number plate of a taxi cab in front.

"This is terrible," said one of the ladies, a slim, pretty woman of forty-five. "We have been an hour covering half a mile. I told Rogers to take the Windsor road. There is a short cut which is never used by the charabanc people."

"If the police had the brains of maggots——" began one of the young men.

"Don't be vulgar, Reggie... who is that man?"

They had drawn abreast of a smart saloon-car, its radiator shaped like the prow of a destroyer.

Within its cool-looking interior was a man of some age. His thin aesthetic face was clean-shaven, except for a strip of snow-white whisker that ran half the length of his ear. The bristling eyebrows were jet black, which alone would have made his face striking in appearance.

He was reading a book through a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, and the younger of the women leaning forward, read the title at the top of the page and laughed.

"Who on earth brings Xenaphon's 'Anabasis' to Ascot?" she asked.

As if he had heard her, the elderly man looked up, taking off his spectacles and peering round at the speakers.

The full view of his eyes gave her a little shock. They were blue, such a blue as Mildred Semberson had never seen in man or woman. It was the vivid blue of burnt steel; as hard, as bright, as fascinating. One glance he gave and then, replacing his glasses with a deft, quick motion, he resumed his reading.

A second later his chauffeur, taking advantage of a momentary gap in the ranks caused by the engine of one of the cars before them going dead, sent his machine swiftly into the opening.

"That is Urquhart—'Hell and Iron' Urquhart," said Reggie Cambray with a chuckle.

"Why has he this profane title?" asked Lady Semberson, frowning. "He seemed to be a most inoffensive old gentleman."

Reggie shook his head. "A bookmaker gave it to him," he said," that is all I know. He is the greatest gambler in England."

Mildred stared at him incredulously. "That nice old gentleman, Reggie? Are you sure?"

"Reggie's not pulling your leg, Mildred," said her brother, who was the second of the bored young men. "Urquhart is what they call a professional backer—a man who bets in thousands, and a holy terror to the ring. I thought everybody had heard of old 'Hell and Iron.' He lives in a big house in Belgrave Square."

Lady Semberson changed the conversation. "Will Lord Fontwell be here, do you think, Reggie?" she asked.

Reggie shook his head sadly. "I don't know what has happened to him," he said.

"You don't know what has happened to him? Nonsense! One of the richest young men in England cannot disappear unless somebody knows the reason. I suppose he is engaged in one of those stupid adventures of his." She glanced thoughtfully at her daughter. "People in his position have obligations," she said.

"He'll meet 'em," said the loyal Reggie.

"I hope so," said her ladyship.

As they were speaking the car moved on and was lost to view. Another halt, this time a short one, and they were moving along the broader road, overhung with calico banners extolling the merits of extemporised garages, in view of the red brick stand of Ascot.

And now they met new streams of traffic. The stream that gushed up from the covered paths that led from the railway station. Here the style and character of the throng grew more varied. There were top-hatted young men with boutonnières of blue cornflowers; smart women, wonderfully dressed; not so smart women, nothing less in wonder, but lacking harmony of colouring and just that finish which Hanover Square can give; shabby men in shabby silk hat and spats that had shrunk in the washing; men and women who were superior to Ascot conventions and had come in everyday clothing. They flocked along by path and road way, each swinging a field-glass in its leather case, and formed into queues before the ticket offices.

Whatever reputation Mr. Jonah Urquhart may have had, he was obviously one of the privileged, for he passed through the gates of the royal enclosure, by virtue of the blue badge he wore, and the attendants evidently knew him, for they touched their gold-banded hats to him as he passed.

He was a sombre figure amidst the gay throng that filled the enclosure and overflowed into the paddock.

From head to foot he was dressed in black. His frock coat was a little old-fashioned in cut but irreproachable in newness. His tie was so dark a grey that at a distance it harmonised with the rest of his funereal garb.

Looking neither to right nor left, he crossed the paddock to the farther end where there were few people, and a man who had seen him enter and had followed, overtook him.

"Well, Robb?"

Urquhart's voice was gentle, almost plaintive, but those burnt-steel eyes of his were fixed on the other hardily.

"Belafort runs in the first race, sir," said his trainer respectfully.

"Belafort?" mused the old man. "We can't beat Belafort with Clockwise, can we?"

Robb shook his head. "Not if the running at Nottingham was right," he said. "Belafort beat Stainless Knight giving him seven pounds, and Clockwise is a good ten pound, behind Stainless Knight."

Mr. Urquhart rubbed his chin, never lifting his eyes from the other.

"Clockwise will win," he said softly. "Stainless Knight wasn't trying very hard at Nottingham—John Stathmore the owner, cut up the race with the owner of Belafort, Sir Jacques Gregory, and that is why Stainless Knight lost. Send Cole to me... who rides my colt?"

"Merritt, sir."

"Send him to me when he's weighed out."

He strolled in solitude up and down the deserted corner of the paddock and presently a man came hurrying toward him.

Cole was his chief commissioner, a man skilled in the ways of the ring, who took charge of all the course betting for this wary old man.

"They'll make Belafort favourite," said Urquhart without preliminary. "Wait until the market is formed, then step in and get me two thousand on Clockwise."

Cole pursed his lips. "You'll have to buy the money, Mr. Urquhart," he said. "There is never much of a market for the Trial Stakes and two thousand will make your horse a howling favourite."

"Let it howl," said the old man laconically, and beckoned forward the dapper jockey who was waiting for his instructions.

"Merritt, you're riding my colt, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. You'll wait on Belafort to the distance and come out and win your race. Don't push him; let him find his stride and if he feels like dropping out coming down the hill, let him drop out. He's bound to sprawl, all his stock do. Balance him and get up-sides with Belafort. You'll have the speed to finish."

"Yes, sir," said the patient jockey," but can Clockwise beat Belafort? I rode Stainless Knight when he beat your horse, and I was beaten to blazes on the Knight at Nottingham."

Only for an instant did the very ghost of a smile flutter at the corner of the old man's sensitive mouth.

"I shouldn't remind anybody about that, Merritt," he said gently. "Sir Jacques Gregory ordered you to get yourself shut in, and you earned your hundred nobly, my boy."

Merritt's youthful face flushed. "I don't know what you mean, Mr. Urquhart," he stammered; "that is a very serious thing to say——"

"Ssh!" said Jonah Urquhart, waving a warning hand, "let us forget all about it—that will do, my boy," and he turned his attention to a man who was strolling toward him.