Читать книгу The Flying Fifty-Five - Edgar Wallace - Страница 7

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THERE are some men who would rather make a crooked penny than earn an honest pound. Their natures are such that a game to them that does not bring chagrin and a sense of loss to somebody else, has no attraction.

Sir Jacques Gregory thrived on such a reputation. A man of fifty-five, who looked no more than forty, a straight-backed soldierly man, whom the years had treated favourably, he had found wealth in everything he had touched. Yet there was a time, before he became the proprietor of one of the wealthiest coal-mines of the country, and his name began to appear amongst the directors of the gilt-edged companies, when money had not come in such a respectable fashion.

There were stories whispered of a gang of card-sharping men about town, of which he was the ruling spirit, of young fools fleeced by this suave, immaculate man; stories of racing coups bordering upon sheer robbery which had brought him under the attention of the stewards.

But to-day no one dared whisper these things aloud. A newspaper which, in its temerity, had made a reference to the past, had been instantly sued for libel and had paid rather than carry its shaky case into court.

Yet the old Adam endured, and very few years had passed since he 'shopped' his best friend with stories of a marvellous horse he possessed. And one Derby Cup Day poor Burton Barrington had risked every penny he possessed, had mortgaged the future of his beloved daughter, on a horse which Gregory knew was not trying, and which his agent had 'laid.'

It was difficult to get the money on to his horse without shortening the price, he had told Barrington and had introduced him to a newcomer in the book-making world, who undertook to back the horse with as much money as Barrington could get. And then, when the money was down, there was a little consultation between owner, jockey and trainer in a corner of the Derby paddock, and Sir Jacques Gregory's horse, which had a fair, though not an outstanding chance of winning, was scientifically shut in coming into the straight and finished a poor fourth.

The old man watched the military figure out of the corner of his eye and seemingly oblivious to the presence of Sir Gregory, he took from his pocket a leather cigar-case, selected a black rank-looking weed, and lit it.

"Good morning, Urquhart."

He looked up slowly and his steel blue eyes fixed on the smiling face of the baronet.

"Good morning, Sir Jacques," he said, without enthusiasm.

"Is your horse going to win this race?"

Urquhart took out his cigar and looked at it thoughtfully

"No, I don't think so," he said. "I can't beat your horse, Belafort, can I?"

"I don't think so," said the other, and the old man thought he detected relief in Gregory's face.

"To tell you the truth, I'm rather glad, because I've had a plunge on mine. He ought to win after his running the other day. He beat Stainless Knight easily enough."

"Stainless Knight wasn't trying," said Mr. Urquhart without heat, "and nobody knows better than you that it wasn't trying, because you squared the owner."

The other laughed, seemingly unperturbed by the alarming statement.

"That is a pretty grave charge to make against a respectable owner of race-horses, Urquhart," he said. "You're still feeling sore with me, aren't you?"

"I am a bit," said Urquhart, and stared across the paddock to the gay throng, above which the colours of the riders were showing, for the horses were leaving the paddock.

"You think I am responsible for your son's untimely end. Tell me this, Urquhart, how comes it that you, once a highly respected Professor of Mathematics at Cambridge, should be in this game? I never knew you were a racing man until four or five years ago, when you suddenly blossomed forth."

Urquhart removed his cigar and again scrutinised it as though he were reading upon the tightly-rolled leaves the answer he must give.

"I came into this game," he said, with the same deliberation, "because it is at this game that I can eventually ruin you, Gregory. Ruin you as assuredly as you ruined my son, and sent a promising boy to a suicide's grave. It is true I knew nothing about racing until five years ago, but racing, like other sports and professions, is largely a matter of mathematics. I learnt everything I know in the cheap rings, in the paddocks of small race meetings, and now I know a lot."

He said no more, but made his slow way toward the enclosure, and Sir Jacques Gregory followed him, the hint of a scowl upon his placid face.

The Trial Stakes is the first race of the opening day at Ascot, and backers who have a weakness for starting the day well, were betting with greater freedom than Urquhart's commissioner had expected.

From Tattersalls' ring came that nervy roar of sound which only a busy betting ring can produce. The preliminaries of the day were over, the Royal procession with its purple and scarlet outriders had made its dignified entry and had passed behind the stands. The royal enclosure was a kaleidoscopic garden of every hue and across the course where the tents of the clubs were standing shoulder to shoulder, the flaring posters of the outside bookmakers flecked the drab grey of the crowd with colour.

Mr. Urquhart made a leisurely entrance to the royal enclosure and crossed to the barrier which divides the enclosure from Tattersall's ring. He heard one voice above the clamour of sound:

"Four to one—bar one!"

He approached a bookmaker on the rails. "What do you bar?" he asked.

"I bar Belafort."

The old man nodded. "He is favourite, eh—what price do you lay my colt?"

"I'll lay you four monkeys, Mr. Urquhart."

Urquhart nodded. "Twice?"

"Once," said the bookmaker with a smile. "I don't like laying your horses to lose a lot of money. I'll lay you four monkeys once and fourteen hundred to four once."

"I'll take it."

He heard a snort of anger behind him. Gregory was glowering at him.

"I thought you said you didn't fancy your horse?" he demanded angrily. "You told me——"

Urquhart laid a gentle hand upon the other's arm. "My friend," he said," I always back my horses on principle; whether they win or lose."

It was a lie. Gregory knew it was a lie, and yet... doubted. He had backed his own horse for more money than he wanted to lose and if Urquhart's colt was fancied he could save his stake by backing it.

"What price Mr. Urquhart's colt?" he demanded.

"Five to two," was the unpromising reply, and Gregory cursed.

"You're asking me to buy money——"

"They're off!"

A bell clanged and the roar of Tattersalls died down to an almost complete silence, broken only by a staccato voice:

"Nine to four... Bela-fort!... Nine to four... Bela-fort."

Presently they would be betting on the horses as they ran—a flashing repartee of offer and acceptance.

Over the crest of the hill came the field in line like a charging squadron of cavalry.

Urquhart's glasses were fixed on the horses and side by side with him stood Gregory, breathless.

"Your horse is beaten, Gregory!" said the old man with grim satisfaction, and then...

"I'll lay four monkeys Patience!" The bookmaker who shouted was close at hand.

"I'll take you—twice!" Old Urquhart almost spat the words.

And then from the line one horse drew out; a big lathering bay who galloped sprawlingly but with a stride that carried him to the front.

The grey and blue jacketed figure that crouched on his back seemed to thrust him farther forward with every stride.

"Patience has won it," said the old man complacently, and marked his card. "That's a pretty good horse... who owns it?" He read in silence for a second. "Miss S. Barrington, and trained by Miss Barrington," he read.

He looked up and eyed the other gravely. "Barrington," he said. "Burton Barrington's daughter, Gregory, and her name is—Nemesis!"

The big man's face twitched. "What the hell do you mean?" he demanded. "Nemesis!"

Old Urquhart nodded his white head. "She has beaten me and she has beaten you, Gregory," he said slowly. "In the biggest race of all she will beat you again. You'd have the terror of death in your cinder heart, if you saw what I see, Gregory. That girl is going to break you!"