The 24th Horse
Hugh Pentecost
Published by Bold Venture Press at Smashwords
www.boldventurepress.com
Cancelled in Red by Hugh Pentecost
Copyright 1939 by Judson Philips. Copyright renewed 1967.
By arrangement with the Proprietor. All Rights Reserved.
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express permission of the publisher and copyright holder.
All persons, places and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to any actual persons, places or events is purely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Edition notes
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
About the Author
Other Books by This Author
Connect with Bold Venture Press
Edition notes
The 24th Horse by Hugh Pentecost (pen name for Judson P. Philips) was published in 1940 as a paperback and hardcover book.
Inspector Luke Bradley and his shadow, Detective Rube Snyder, were secondary characters in Pentecost’s debut novel, Cancelled in Red. Now they move to center stage as the third-person narrative switches from Bradley’s investigation to scenes of the various suspects.
The Saturday Review of Literature said of The 24th Horse: “Blackmail in the horsey sets basis of tale with galloping action, glamorous background, some acrid humor and 24-point solution.
An abridged version of The 24th Horse appeared in The American Magazine, October 1940 (The Crowell-Collier Publishing Company). Illustrations by Earl Cordrey accompanied the story.
The Popular Library paperback (1940) was the source for this edition’s text.
Chapter One
In one of the sloping entryways to the north side of the arena at Madison Square Garden stood a young man in a dinner jacket, a black felt hat pulled down over his eyes. He had just thrown away a partially smoked cigarette, and immediately he placed a fresh one between his lips. He never got to light it.
There was a roar of applause from the crowd that jammed every nook and cranny of the Garden. This was the fanciest turnout of the year, all top hats, furs, and jewels. Not like the fight customers, not like the bike-races lunatics, not like the hockey fans. This was the inimitable gathering that appears every November for the last night of the National Horse Show.
Down in the tanbark ring the Open Jumping Championship was under way. One by one, riders took their horses around the difficult, crisscross course rail fence and brick wall, triple bar and chicken coop, in-and-out and hedge, guarded by water beyond. One by one the greatest jumpers in the world, from twenty-thousand-dollar thoroughbreds to cold-blooded army mounts bought for a song, tested their mettle against the championship layout.
“Miss Patricia Prayne, Number 71, riding Tangerine,” droned the announcer by the in Gate.
It was then that the young man forgot his cigarette. His blue eyes fastened on the girl bringing a tall chestnut gelding, with the sloping shoulders and high withers of a jumper, through the In Gate.
She was a brown, wiry kind of a girl in a tweed habit, her blonde hair tucked up under a hunting derby. Perched on the chestnut’s back, she looked small and tense: but her gloved hands rested lightly on either side of the horse’s sleek neck.
Tangerine was quiet. Unlike the last horse, who had been wild-eyed and fretting, he seemed almost bored by the task that lay ahead of him. The girl walked him toward the first jump, let him look at it, and then wheeled back to the starting point.
The young man had jammed his hands into his pockets. His eyes never left the girl as Tangerine broke into an easy lope and the ride was on. The gelding sailed over the five-barred gate without effort. There was confidence in his flowing style. Pat Prayne’s hands kept only the slightest contact with his mouth. She did not need to pull her horse down, to fight him for a steady pace. Tangerine knew his job.
Around he went, over brick wall and triple bar. As he approached the tricky in-and-out, the crowd held its breath. Up … down … quick gathering together and up again! Tangerine flicked up his heels and whisked his tail. He was having a good time. Across the diagonal he came, toward the water jump at which a dozen competitors had already refused. His ears pricked forward, but he didn’t hesitate. He cleared it by a good three feet.
Sound swelled in the throats of the crowd, not quite a cheer yet. Two more to go … brush and then the chicken coop. The slightest nick and the coop would topple.
Now the brush was behind the chestnut. His pace increased as he rushed at the red-painted obstacle. Up … up! Then a flick of polished hind hoofs and he was clear.
The rafters shook. It was a faultless performance, the first of the evening.
The young man in the entryway took a handkerchief from his hip pocket and mopped at his face. When he turned away, he was confronted by a young couple, also in evening clothes. “Why, Johnny Curtin! You know my wife, Johnny?”
“Hello,” said Johnny Curtin. His voice was husky from strain.
“Say,” the man said, “that Prayne girl can certainly ride.”
“She’s okay,” said Johnny.
“Isn’t she Gloria Prayne’s sister?” the woman asked.
“Yes.”
The man grinned at Johnny. “You used to go for her, didn’t you, Johnny, before you started running around with Gloria?”
A muscle rippled along the line of Johnny Curtin’s jaw. “Listen,” he said, “why don’t you for Christ’s sake mind your own business?” He pushed past them into the passage beyond.
“Well, what on earth!” the woman exclaimed.
Her husband laughed. “Good ol’ Johnny. Tight as a tick!”
***
Johnny Curtin paused by the stairs leading to the main floor. After a minute he changed his mind, walked around the passageway, and went through the door of the Horse Show Association Room. A couple of men stood at one end of the bar, which stretched along the far wall. Johnny headed for the other end.
“Scotch and soda,” he said. He rested his hands, fists still tight, on the mahogany top until the bartender brought his drink. His fingers had just closed over the glass when someone came up beside him.
“Hello, Mr. Severied,” said the bartender. “What will it be?”
“Scotch,” said a pleasant, drawling voice.
Johnny Curtin’s glass stopped halfway to his lips. He held it there for an instant, then drained almost half of it before he put it down. He glanced at the man beside him.
“Hello, Guy,” he said.
“Nice ride of Pat’s,” said Guy Severied. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with blond hair which curled. He wore tails and a topper. His expression
was blandly social. Any reporter could have rattled off information about him at a moment’s notice. Forty years old … one of the three largest private fortunes in America … nine goals at polo … a yachtsman … and still unmarried, despite major campaigns by the mothers of ten seasons of debutantes.
“No news, I suppose,” said Johnny.
Guy Severied’s face clouded. “Not a whisper. Johnny, it beats me. I’ve been every place in town where Gloria would be likely to go. No one has seen hide nor hair of her since … since Wednesday night.”
“That,” said Johnny, “was the night I took her to, El Morocco.”
Severied’s lips moved in a faint smile. “Check.”
“It’s a hell of a note,” Johnny said. “Pat’s so worried. I was afraid she might muff that ride.”
“That isn’t all Pat’s worried about, Johnny,” Severied said.
“It’s partly my fault … about Gloria, I mean,” Johnny said. “We had a kind of a row and … she left me flat.”
“That’s standard technique of hers,” said Severied. “But three days is a long time to stay way in a pet.”
“You haven’t had a brawl with her, have you, Guy?”
“No-o,” said Severied.
Johnny looked up at him. “You know, Guy, I’ve been expecting you to put the slug on me.”
“Why?” asked Severied.
“Damn it, let’s not pretend, Guy. You’re as good as engaged to Gloria. Then I barge in and give her a rush. Well, if I’d been you …” He stopped.
Severied knocked the ash from his cigarette. “If I did put the slug on you, Johnny, it wouldn’t be for that.”
“I know,” Johnny said bitterly. “If it wasn’t too lousy a way out, I’d jump in the creek!”
Severied hesitated, as if he wanted to be certain of choosing just the right words. “Gloria’s an amazing’ creature,” he said finally. “No one’s blaming you for having gone overboard. She’s turned cooler heads than yours, Johnny. But Pat is quite something, too.”
Johnny groaned. “Don’t I know it!”
“Do you also know that she’s what they call a one-man woman, Johnny? She loves you … and I don t think you could do anything to change that.” Severied’s tone was dry. “If I were Pat, I would send you packing. But she’s not that kind.”
“Guy!” Johnny looked up. “You think there’s still a chance she might … might …”
“There’s no doubt of it. What she sees in you, Johnny, I don’t know, but…”
“Gangway!” said Johnny Curtin.
“Mr. Curtin!” the bartender called after him. “Your drink!”
“It’s all right,” said Guy Severied. He smiled sourly at himself in the glass behind the bar. “The drinks are on me.”
***
During the week of the National the Garden basement takes on all the color and trappings of the world of horse. Rows upon rows of box stalls, knee-deep in straw, house the most expensive horseflesh money and breeding can produce. Spotted along these rows are improvised tack rooms, their walls and ceilings formed by bright blankets. Here all the equipment of a stable has its place in a neat array. Blue, red, yellow and white ribbons, records of victories past and present, decorate the walls. Here hang saddles, bridles, and harnesses, soaped until they gleam like polished metal.
From morning till night the place swarms with people — shirt sleeved grooms, riders in boots or jodhpurs, ladies in tailored habits, uniformed officers of the army teams, harried officials and judges, spectators in tails and ermine, secretaries from Wall Street who have “the bug.” These latter pause to stare at the horses and to pet an assortment of dogs, cats, goats, and other mascots.
Into this maelstrom moved Johnny Curtin, more like a halfback making an open field run than an ordinary man in a hurry. He saw his objective — the Prayne Stables. He saw Pat. There was a crowd around her, shaking her hand, slapping her shoulders. Suddenly she broke away and started toward the dressing room. Johnny Curtin blocked her path, and she bumped into him with some violence.
“I’m terribly sorry!” Pat said. Then she saw who it was “Johnny!” Eagerness swept over her Face. “Johnny, you’ve found Gloria?”
“No,” he said, watching the light leave her eyes. “To hell with Gloria. She can take care of herself. I’m the one who needs a guardian, Pat! I’ve been out of my mind. When I saw you out there on Tangerine, I …”
She cut him off, a brown hand on his sleeve. “I can’t talk now, Johnny. We’d be interrupted. I … I’ve got to powder my nose, because I’m getting to look like a horse. And there are going to be pictures, and — ”
“I’ve got to talk to you, Pat, now … tonight.”
“Johnny, please! There isn’t any use. I understand.”
“You do not understand!”
Pat hesitated. “Come for dinner tomorrow. Gloria may be back by then.”
“I’ve got to talk to you tonight!” Johnny insisted.
“But, Johnny! Oh, darn it, I suppose if you must you must.” Color had risen in her cheeks. “George and Peter are trucking the horses uptown to the school tonight, so I’ll be driving home in the car alone. If you want to meet me outside the exhibitors’ entrance about one o’clock …”
“I’ll be there,” Johnny said.
***
In the Association Room, Guy Severied was just turning away from the bar when a man came through the door and hailed him. He was tall and slender, with a lined face, brooding eyes, and a clipped black mustache over a firm mouth.
“Thought you’d be up here, Guy,” he said. “I need a drink. Can you go for another?”
“Why not?” said Severied. He leaned his elbows on the bar again. “Pat certainly came through for you, George.”
“What’ll it be, Captain Pelham?” the bartender asked.
“Brandy and soda.”
“The same for me,” said Severied.
Pelham looked down at his polished riding boots. “This has been one hell of a night. I was nervous about Pat. She’s got her mind on Gloria … like all of us. I was afraid she’d muff it, and with Martinson of the Canadian Army Team ready to lay seven thousand bucks on the line if Tangerine came through. It meant a lot to us.”
“Pat isn’t the kind to let anyone down, no matter how tough the pressure is,” Severied said.
“She’s aces,” said Pelham. “Here’s looking at you.” He drank and then set his glass down on the bar. “What about Gloria, Guy?”
Severied shrugged. “Playing games of some sort. When she gets ready to put in an appearance, she will.”
“I don’t like it,” said Pelham sharply.
“Maybe you could suggest something to do about it.”
Pelham turned to look squarely at his friend. “Look here, Guy, I’ve had the feeling for some time that you weren’t happy about things. You don’t have to go through with marrying Gloria if it’s gone sour. We’re not living in the Middle Ages any longer, you know.”
“Aren’t we?” Severied’s tone was bitter.
“Guy, if there’s some way I could help you …”
“Forget it. Gloria and I are going to marry and spend our lives having fun. You know … night clubs, yachts, bridge parties. Jesus!”
“Guy!”
“Sorry. Doesn’t every prospective bridegroom get stage fright at some point? That’s my trouble. I think I shall have me a nice private binge tonight.”
Pelham regarded him anxiously. “Guy, you know there isn’t a damn thing in the world I wouldn’t do for you. If there’s any way I can help, let me do it. God knows, I can never repay you for the way you’ve stood by me in the past.”
“There’s nothing you can do,” said Severied, looking fixedly at the whisky in his glass. “Not a cockeyed thing, George.”
“So help me,” said Pelham, “I’d like to tan Gloria’s behind for treating you this way.”
Severied laughed. “Reserve me a ringside seat, will you?”
***
&nbs
p; Outside the exhibitors’ entrance the Praynes’ yellow convertible was parked. Johnny Curtin, the collar of his overcoat turned up, paced the sidewalk. It was already after one.
Then Pat appeared, loaded down with a couple of coats, a large silver trophy, a suitcase. Johnny took them from her.
“I thought you were never coming,” he said.
“Maybe I’m not here yet, Johnny,” she said. “Be an angel. Put these things in the rumble. Here are the keys. I’ve still got to see two or three people, phone Linda about Gloria, and dish out a couple of tips. I swear I won’t be long, Johnny.”
“It’s your funeral,” he said. “When I start talking, you’ve got to listen till I’m through. It may take all night.”
She slipped her hand into his for an instant. “I don’t think I’m going to mind.” Then she turned back into the building.
Johnny lugged the stuff she had given him over to the curb and unlocked the rumble seat. He stood poised on the rear fender for perhaps thirty seconds. Then he slammed the rumble shut and began piling Pat’s stuff into the front of the car, rapidly. When he had finished, he crossed the pavement toward a uniformed policeman.
“Do you know Miss Prayne by sight?” he asked.
“The one that was just talking to you? Sure.”
“Look. Tell her I couldn’t wait,” Johnny said. “When she comes out, tell her I just couldn’t wait any longer.”
“You taking the car?” the policeman asked.
“Yes.” Johnny fumbled in his pocket and took out a bill. “Give her this and tell her she’ll have to take a taxi home.”
“Maybe she won’t like being stood up,” the policeman said.
“Maybe she won’t,” Johnny said. He went to the far side of the car, jumped in, and drove off toward Ninth Avenue.
Chapter Two
Inspector Luke Bradley of the Homicide Division thrashed restlessly on his bed and at last opened his eyes. Someone was pounding at the door of his apartment. Bradley reached up, turned on the light, and glanced at his wrist watch. Quarter past two!
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