Minutes later-it seemed like centuries-a key turned in the locked door, and a man came in. Through the bilious yellow mists that swirled over his eyes, Mr. Croon saw that he was tall and wiry, with a salt-tanned face and far-sighted twinkling blue eyes. His double-breasted jacket carried lines of dingy gold braid, and he balanced himself easily against the rolling of the vessel.
"Why, Mr. Croon-what's the matter?"
"I'm sick," sobbed Mr. Croon, and proceeded to prove it.
The officer picked him up and laid him on the bunk.
"Bless you, sir, this isn't anything to speak of. Just a bit of a blow-and quite a gentle one for the Atlantic."
Croon gasped feebly.
"Did you say the Atlantic?"
"Yes, sir. The Atlantic is the ocean we are on now, sir, and it'll be the same ocean all the way to Boston."
"I can't go to Boston," said Mr. Croon pathetically. "I'm going to die."
The officer pulled out a pipe and stuffed it with black tobacco. A cloud of rank smoke added itself to the smell of oil that was contributing to Croon's wretchedness.
"Lord, sir, you're not going to die!" said the officer cheerfully. "People who aren't used to it often get like this for the first two or three days. Though I must say, sir, you've taken a long time to wake up. I've never known a man be so long sleeping it off. That must have been a very good farewell party you had, sir."
"Damn you!" groaned the sick man weakly. "I wasn't drunk -I was drugged!"
The officer's mouth fell open.
"Drugged, Mr. Croon?"
"Yes, drugged!" The ship rolled on its beam ends, and Croon gave himself up for a full minute to his anguish. "Oh, don't argue about it! Take me home!"
"Well, sir, I'm afraid that's --"
"Fetch me the captain!"
"I am the captain, sir. Captaine Bourne. You seem to have forgotten, sir. This is the Christabel Jane, eighteen hours out of Liverpool with a cargo of spirits for the United States. We don't usually take passengers, sir, but seeing that you were a friend of the owner, and you wanted to make the trip, why, of course we found you a berth."
Croon buried his face in his hands.
He had no more questions to ask. The main details of the conspiracy were plain enough. One of his victims had turned on him for revenge-or perhaps several of them had banded together for the purpose. He had been threatened often before. And somehow his terror of the sea had become known. It was poetic justice-to shanghai him on board a bootlegging ship and force him to take the journey of which he had cheated their investments.
"How much will you take to turn back?" he asked; and Captain Bourne shook his head.
"You still don't seem to understand, sir. There's ten thousand pounds' worth of spirits on board-at least, they'll be worth ten thousand pounds if we get them across safely-and I'd lose my job if I --"
"Damn your job!" said Melford Croon.
With trembling fingers he pulled out a cheque book and fountain-pen. He scrawled a cheque for fifteen thousand pounds and held it out.
"Here you are. I'll buy your cargo. Give the owner his money and keep the change. Keep the cargo. I'll buy your whole damned ship. But take me back. D'you understand? Take me back --"
The ship lurched under him again, and he choked. When the convulsion was over the captain was gone.
Presently a white-coated steward entered with a cup of steaming beef-tea. Croon looked at it and shuddered.
"Take it away," he wailed.
"The captain sent me with it, sir," explained the steward. "You must try to drink it, sir. It's the best thing in the world for the way you're feeling. Really, sir, you'll feel quite different after you've had it."
Croon put out a white, flabby hand. He managed to take a gulp of the hot soup; then another. It had a slightly bitter taste which seemed familiar. The cabin swam around him again, more dizzily than before, and his eyes closed in merciful drowsiness.
He opened them in his own bedroom. His servant was drawing back the curtains, and the sun was streaming in at the windows.
The memory of his nightmare made him feel sick again, and he clenched his teeth and swallowed desperately. But the floor underneath was quite steady. And then he remembered something else, and struggled up in the bed with an effort which threatened to overpower him with renewed nausea.
"Give me my chequebook," he rasped. "Quick-out of my coat pocket --"
He opened it frantically and stared at a blank stub with his face growing haggard.
"What's today?" he asked.
"This is Saturday, sir," answered the surprised valet.
"What time?"
"Eleven o'clock, sir. You said I wasn't to call you --"
But Mr. Melford Croon was clawing for the telephone at his bedside. In a few seconds he was through to his bank in London. They told him that his cheque had been cashed at ten.
Mr. Croon lay back on the pillows and tried to think out how it could have been done.
He even went so far as to tell his incredible story to Scotland Yard, though he was not by nature inclined to attract the attention of the police.
A methodical search was made in Lloyd's Register, but no mention of a ship called the Christabel Jane could be found. Which was not surprising, for Christabel Jane was the name temporarily bestowed by Simon Templar on a dilapidated Thames tug which had wallowed very convincingly for a few hours in the gigantic tank at the World Features studio at Teddington for the filming of storm scenes at sea, which would undoubtedly have been a great asset to Mr. Croon's Consolidated Albion Film Company if the negotiations for the lease had been successful.
The Owners' Handicap
"THE art of crime," said Simon Templar, carefully mayonnaising a section of truite ŕ la gelče, "is to be versatile. Repetition breeds contempt-and promotion for flat-footed oafs from Scotland Yard. I assure you, Pat, I have never felt the slightest urge to be the means of helping any detective on his upward climb. Therefore we soak bucket-shops one week and bootleggers the next, the poor old Chief Inspector Teal never knows where he is."
Patricia Holm fingered the stem of her wineglass with a faraway smile. Perhaps the smile was a trifle wistful. Perhaps it wasn't. You never know. But she had been the Saint's partner in outlawry long enough to know what any such oratorical opening as that portended; and she smiled.
"It dawns upon me," said the Saint, "that our talents have not yet been applied to the crooked angles of the Sport of Kings."
"I don't know," said Patricia mildly. "After picking the winner of the Derby with a pin, and the winner of the Oaks with a pack of cards --"
Simon waved away the argument.
"You may think," he remarked, "that we came here to celebrate. But we didn't. Not exactly. We came here to feast our eyes on the celebrations of a brace of lads of the village who always tap the champagne here when they've brought off a coup. Let me introduce you. They're sitting at the corner table behind me on your right."
The girl glanced casually across the restaurant in the direction indicated. She located the two men at once-there were three magnums on the table in front of them, and their appearance was definitely hilarious.
Simon finished his plate and ordered strawberries and cream.
"The fat one with the face like an egg and the diamond tiepin is Mr. Joseph Mackintyre. He wasn't always Mackintyre, but what the hell? He's a very successful bookmaker; and, believe it or not, Pat, I've got an account with him."
"I suppose he doesn't know who you are?"
"That's where you're wrong. He does know-and the idea simply tickles him to death. It's the funniest thing he has to talk about. He lets me run an account, pays me when I win, and gets a cheque on the nail when I lose. And all the time he's splitting his sides, telling all his friends about it, and watching everything I do with an eagle eye-just waiting to catch me trying to put something across him."
"Who's the thin one?"
"That's Vincent Lesbon. Origin believed
to be Levantine. He owns the horses, and the way those horses run is nobody's business. Lesbon wins with 'em when he feels like it, and Mackintyre fields against 'em so generously that the starting price usually goes out to the hundred-to-eight mark. It's an old racket, but they work it well."
Patricia nodded. She was still waiting for the sequel that was bound to come-the reckless light in the Saint's eyes presaged it like a red sky at sunset. But he annihilated his strawberries with innocent deliberation before he leaned back in his chair and grinned at her.
"Let's go racing tomorrow," he said, "I want to buy a horse."
They went down to Kempton Park, and arrived when the runners for the second race were going up. The race was a Selling Plate; with the aid of his faithful pin, Simon selected an outsider that finished third; but the favourite won easily by two lengths. They went to the ring after the numbers were posted, and the Saint had to bid up to four hundred guineas before he became the proud owner of Hill Billy.
As the circle of buyers and bystanders broke up, Simon felt a hand on his arm. He looked around, and saw a small thick-set man in check breeches and a bowler hat who had the unmistakable air of an ex-jockey.
"Excuse me, sir-have you arranged with a trainer to take care of your horse? My name's Mart Farrell. If I could do anything for you --"
Simon gazed thoughtfully at his new acquisition, which was being held by an expectant groom.
"Why, yes," he murmured. "I suppose I can't put the thing in my pocket and take it home. Let's go and have a drink."
They strolled over to the bar. Simon knew Farrell's name as that of one of the straightest trainers on the turf, and he was glad that one of his problems had been solved so easily.
"Think we'll win some more races?" he murmured, as the drinks were set up.
"Hill Billy's a good horse," said the trainer judiciously. "I used to have him in my stable when he was a two-year-old. I think he'll beat most things in his class if the handicaps give him a run. By the way, sir, I don't know your name."
It occurred to the Saint that his baptismal title was perhaps too notorious for him to be able to hide the nucleus of his racing stud under a bushel, and for once he had no desire to "Hill Billy belongs to the lady," he said. "Miss Patricia Holm. I'm just helping her watch it."
As far as Simon Templar was concerned, Hill Billy's career had only one object, and that was to run a race in which one of the Mackintyre-Lesbon stud was also a competitor. The suitability of the fixture was rather more important and more difficult to be sure of, but his luck was in. Early the next week he learned that Hill Billy was favourably handicapped in the Owners' Plate at Gatwick on the following Saturday, and it so happened that his most serious opponent was a horse named Rickaway, owned by Mr. Vincent Lesbon.
Simon drove down to Epsom early the next morning and saw Hill Billy at exercise. Afterwards he had a talk with Farrell.
"Hill Billy could win the first race at Windsor next week if the going's good," said the trainer. "I'd like to save him for it- it'd be a nice win for you. He's got the beating of most of the other entries."
"Couldn't he win the Owners' Handicap on Saturday?" asked the Saint; and Farrell pursed his lips.
"It depends on what they decide to do with Rickaway, sir. I don't like betting on a race when Mr. Lesbon has a runner-if I may say so between ourselves. Lesbon had a filly in my stable last year, and I had to tell him I couldn't keep it. The jockey went up before the Stewards after the way it ran one day at Newmarket, and that sort of thing doesn't do a trainer's reputation any good. Rickaway's been running down the course on his last three outings, but the way I work out the Owners' Handicap is that he could win if he wanted to."
Simon nodded.
"Miss Holm rather wants to run at Gatwick, though," he said. "She's got an aunt or something from the North coming down for the week-end, and naturally she's keen to show off her new toy."
Farrell shrugged cheerfully.
"Oh, well, sir, I suppose the ladies have got to have their way. I'll run Hill Billy at Gatwick, if Miss Holm tells me to, but I couldn't advise her to have much of a bet. I'm afraid Rickaway might do well if he's a trier."
Simon went back to London jubilantly.
"It's a match between Hill Billy and Rickaway," he said. "In other words, Pat, between Saintliness and Sin. Don't you think the angels might do a job for us?"
One angel did a job for them, anyway. It was Mr. Vincent Lesbon's first experience of any such exquisite interference with his racing activities; and it may be mentioned that he was a very susceptible man.
This happened on the Gatwick Friday. The Mackintyre-Lesbon combination was putting in no smart work that day, and Mr. Lesbon whiled away the afternoon at a betting club in Long Acre, where he would sometimes beguile the time with innocuous half-crown punting between sessions at the snooker table. He stayed there until after the result of the last race was through on the tape, and then took a taxi to his flat in Maida Vale to dress for an evening's diversion.
Feminine visitors of the synthetic blonde variety were never rare at his apartment; but they usually came by invitation, and when they were not invited the call generally foreboded unpleasant news. The girl who stood on Mr. Lesbon's doorstep this evening, with the air of having waited there for a long time, was an exception. Mr. Lesbon's sensitive conscience cleared when he saw her face.
"May I-may I speak to you for a minute?"
Mr. Lesbon hesitated fractionally. Then he smiled-which did not make him more beautiful.
"Yes, of course. Come in."
He fitted his key in the lock, and led the way through to his sitting-room. Shedding his hat and gloves, he inspected the girl more closely. She was tall and straight as a sapling, with an easy grace of carriage that was not lost on him. Her face was one of the loveliest he had ever seen; and his practised eye told him that the cornfield gold of her hair owed nothing to artifice.
"What is it, my dear?"
"It's . . . Oh, I don't know how to begin! I've got no right to come and see you, Mr. Lesbon, but-there wasn't any other way."
"Won't you sit down?"
One of Mr. Lesbon's few illusions was that women loved him for himself. He was a devotee of the more glutinous productions of the cinema, and he prided himself on his polished technique.
He offered her a cigarette, and sat on the arm of her chair.
"Tell me what's the trouble, and I'll see what we can do about it."
"Well-you see-it's my brother . . . I'm afraid he's rather young and-well, silly. He's been backing horses. He's lost a lot of money, ever so much more than he can pay. You must know how easy it is. Putting on more and more to try and make up for his losses, and still losing. . . . Well, he works in a bank; and his bookmaker's threatened to write to the manager if he doesn't pay up. Of course Derek would lose his job at once ....."
Mr. Lesbon sighed.
"Dear me!" he said.
"Oh, I'm not trying to ask for money! Don't think that. I shouldn't be such a fool. But-well, Derek's made a friend of a man who's a trainer. His name's Farrell-I've met him, and I think he's quite straight. He's tried to make Derek give up betting, but it wasn't any good. However, he's got a horse in his stable called Hill Billy-I don't know anything about horses, but apparently Farrell said Hill Billy would be a certainty tomorrow if your horse didn't win. He advised Derek to do something about it-clear his losses and give it up for good." The girl twisted her handkerchief nervously. "He said- please don't think I'm being rude, Mr. Lesbon, but I'm just trying to be honest-he said you didn't always want to win- and-and-perhaps if I came and saw you-"
She looked up at Rickaway's owner with liquid eyes, her lower lip trembling a little. Mr. Lesbon's breath came a shade faster.
"I know Farrell," he said, as quietly as he could. "I had a horse in his stable last year, and he asked me to take it away- just because I didn't always want to win with it. He's changed his principles rather suddenly."
"I-I'm sure he
'd never have done it if it wasn't for Derek, Mr. Lesbon. He's really fond of the boy. Derek's awfully nice. He's a bit wild, but ... Well, you see, I'm four years older than he is, and I simply have to look after him. I'd do anything for him."
Lesbon cleared his throat.
"Yes, yes, my dear. Naturally." He patted her hand. "I see your predicament. So you want me to lose the race. Well, if Farrell's so fond of Derek, why doesn't he scratch Hill Billy and let the boy win on Rickaway?"
"Because-oh, I suppose I can't help telling you. He said no one ever knew what your horses were going to do, and perhaps you mightn't be wanting to win with Rickaway tomorrow."
Lesbon rose and poured himself out a glass of whisky.
"My dear, what a thing it is to have a reputation!" He gestured picturesquely. "But I suppose we can't all be paragons of virtue . . . But still, that's quite a lot for you to ask me to do. Interfering with horses is a serious offence-a very serious offence. You can be warned off for it. You can be branded, metaphorically. Your whole career"-Mr. Lesbon repeated his gesture-"can be ruined!"
The girl bit her lip.
"Did you know that?" demanded Lesbon.
"I-I suppose I must have realised it. But when you're only thinking about someone you love-"
"Yes, I understand." Lesbon drained his glass. "You would do anything to save your brother. Isn't that what you said?"
He sat on the arm of the chair again, searching her face. There was no misreading the significance of his gaze.
The girl avoided his eyes.
"How much do you think you could do, my dear?"
"No!" Suddenly she looked at him again, her lovely face pale and tragic. "You couldn't want that-you couldn't be so-"
"Couldn't I?" The man laughed. "My dear, you're too innocent!" He went back to the decanter. "Well, I respect your innocence. I respect it enormously. We won't say any more about-unpleasant things like that. I will be philanthropical. Rickaway will lose. And there are no strings to it. I give way to a charming and courageous lady."
She sprang up.
"Mr. Lesbon! Do you mean that-will you really --"
"My dear, I will," pronounced Mr. Lesbon thickly. "I will present your courage with the reward that it deserves. Of course," he added, "if you feel very grateful-after Rickaway has lost-and if you would like to come to a little supper party -I should be delighted. I should feel honoured. Now, if you weren't doing anything after the races on Saturday --"
11 The Brighter Buccaneer Page 4
