Grey Timothy/Chapter 12
XII.—BRIAN MAKES ACQUAINTANCES
The Saturday afternoon before Goodwood, Brian spent at Hurst Park, an interested spectator of the racing. The presence of the ‘big punter’ was always a source of nervousness to the ring. Impossible horses were rushed to favouritism on the rumour that ‘Pallard had his maximum’ on that particular animal, only to be banished to obscurity when the rumour was disposed of.
Brian had a wonderful eye for a horse.
If you had stood at his shoulder, as the horses cantered to the post, and could have read the curious shorthand which he employed, you would observe him jotting down for future reference, against each horse’s name, some comment which was at once brief and illuminating. His race-card at the end of the day was covered with hieroglyphics which translated into ‘Fat’, ‘Untrained’, ‘Will stay’, ‘Ran well for five furlongs’, ‘Overtrained’, etc. He took racing seriously. It was a sport and an occupation, and for all the stories that have gone the rounds as to his reckless betting, the truth is that he was a most careful investor. He never backed a horse that was not his own property—at least, not to any amount. A sovereign was his limit on the tips which necessarily came to him, and these he only invested to give him a ‘gambling interest’ in a race.
He loved racing for racing’s sake; he could enjoy a week at Newmarket without soiling the virgin leaves of his betting-book. But when he betted, he betted freely. No price was too short for him. His ravaging commissioners devoured the markets as locusts devour the land.
And the public came in on his trail. There was never any secret about his fancy. “He comes late but often,” said the greatest of the bookmakers, “and he goes back heavily laden.”
In other words, he waited till a ‘market had been formed’, till some other horse had been installed favourite; then he stepped in and took a hand in the proceedings.
To-day he had only one horse engaged, and one which was not seriously fancied by him. It had been one of the horses with which Grey Timothy had been tried, and had finished a very bad last in the gallop.
A friend strolled up to him in the paddock. “Fancy yours, Pallard?”
Brian shook his head.
“I’ve got a fiver on him,” he said; “but it would have been better to have given it to a charity.”
Strolling round, he came upon Caggley, resplendent and glittering. The man, from his apparent uneasiness, was anxious to speak, and Brian stopped him.
“Well, Caggley, you are still at large, I observe?” he said banteringly.
Caggley grinned.
“Still at liberty, Captain. If I might be so bold as to say, I have backed your horse in this race.”
“If I might be so bold,” said Brian, “you are a fool: if this horse wins, I shall be a much-surprised man.”
He was strolling on when:
“Beg pardon, Captain,” said the man in a low voice, “you got my wire?”
Brian nodded and passed on.
He came to the members’ stand and took out his glasses.
Whitefax, his own colt, was drawn on the extreme outside, the worst place in the world on the five-furlong course at Hurst Park. That settles him, thought Brian, and gave no more thought to the matter.
He was chatting with Ernest, who had put in an unexpected appearance, when the sharp roar of the crowd told him that the race had started.
The horses bunched together on the far side of the course, and something in green and red was making the running on the rails. The diagonal black-striped jacket, he saw with mild surprise, was in the fighting line.
“Well, I’m dashed!” he said, in astonishment.
“Why are you dashed?” asked Ernest.
“My horse is going to win,” said Brian.
And at the distance the black and white jacket went suddenly to the front and, though challenged left and right, passed the post a comfortable winner by a length.
Brian put back his glasses and joined the throng making its way to the paddock.
“Backed away,” he heard somebody say; “one of these wretched starting-price jobs, don’t you know.”
Brian grinned to himself.
In the paddock he met the man who had asked him about his horse’s chances.
“You won, after all,” he said, with a meaning smile. “You beggar, why didn’t you tell me?”
Brian heaved a deep sigh.
“My dear, good friend,” he said patiently, “I told you all I knew.”
“Had a good win?” persisted the other.
Brian’s face went very red.
“I have told you I had nothing on the horse, beyond a fiver—don’t you believe me?”
His tone was sharp and threatening.
“Oh, of course, if you say so” protested the other hastily.
Brian took Ernest by the arm and walked out to meet the winner as he returned to scale.
“The only thing I have against the English race-goer,” he said, “is that he credits you with being a clever liar.”
Whitefax, steaming and blowing, was being led through the gate of the paddock, and Brian fell in by the side of the horse.
“What happened to all the other horses?” he asked the jockey.
“I don’t know, sir,” said the lad. “We came a good gallop, and the horse was just a little better than the others at the finish.”
Later, Brian sought out his trainer.
Ebenezer Colter shared a distinction enjoyed by six out of every ten trainers of race-horses—in that he did not look like a man who had anything to do with horses. A spare man of fifty, with hair and moustache turning grey, he might have been a major of an infantry regiment, as indeed he was, for there was no more enthusiastic Territorial than the quiet man who presided over Pallard’s stable.
He stroked his moustache gravely as Pallard expressed his surprise at the unexpected win.
“You are not more surprised than I am,” he said. “The only consolation I have is knowing what Grey Timothy can do to this young fellow.”
He always spoke of his horses as though they were human.
“If Tim runs up to his trial,” Colter went on, “he’ll leave the field standing still.”
“That reminds me,” said Brian; “you are taking every precaution against interference?”
Mr Colter nodded.
“Yes—but, seriously, do you expect trouble?”
“Yes. I think you do, too.”
“I do and I don’t,” said Mr Colter, a little perplexed. “The two men who Pinlow has sent to watch the horses have been attempting to ingratiate themselves with the lad in charge of the colt—there’s nothing remarkable in that. It’s a way the tout has. I have told the lad to humour them, to give them all the information they need, and if they become too pressing, to let me know.”
“That is right,” agreed Brian, “and if there is any fun going, I hope you will not leave me out of it.”
“I would not let you miss it for anything,” he said; “but, seriously, is Pinlow the sort of man?”
“The sort of man! My dear chap, I could give you a list of Pinlow’s iniquities that would fill a volume as big as ‘Races to Come’. He did exactly the same thing in Australia. By the way, I have written to my uncle to come along and see the stable on Monday. Will it be convenient?”
Mr Colter was surprised, and looked it.
“Certainly,” he said; and then, “he wasn’t exactly the visitor I should have expected.”
“I shan’t expect him myself till I see him,” confessed Brian. “He’ll probably bring—er—Miss Callander.”
After which he changed the subject.
He waited until just before the last race, and left the course in a taxi, driving to Hampton Court Station.
There were very few passengers on the platform, for the last race of the day was the Vyner Handicap, an event which was rather popular with the race- goers.
He walked along the platform till he came to an empty first-class carriage, and entered it.
He was hardly seated before he heard the guard’s whistle blown, and simultaneously the door was pulled open, and five men tumbled in.
The train was on the move as they seated themselves, and Brian looked at them over his paper.
“A tough-looking crowd,” he thought.
He noticed that each man had a clean white collar and an obviously new tie. This was interesting and ominous. They had been ‘got up’ for some occasion.
The train had cleared the station when the man sitting in the corner opposite to him leant forward and bought his hand down heavily on Brian’s knee.
“Hullo, Pallard,” he said familiarly, “how are yer?”
“Fine,” said Brian, and as he spoke his terrible ‘left’ came round with a lightning swing.
The man saw it coming, and lifted his hand to ward off the blow, but it was too late.
It caught him on the point of the jaw, and he went down to the floor of the carriage with a thud. The man sitting next to the owner of Whitefax seized his left arm, but withdrew his hand with a howl of agony, for the heavy black barrel of a Browning pistol had rapped down on his knuckles.
“And if any of you want trouble,” said Brian, leaning forward and sideways, “you can have it.”
The wicked muzzle of the pistol waved uncertainly in his hand, and the gang shrank back before the seeming irresponsibility of its erratic movements.
“Now, I don’t know whether it was Pinlow,” Brian went on carefully, “or one of his pals, who paid you to put me through the mill, but I think you’ll agree with me that it’s a tough job.” The man on the floor groaned and struggled into a sitting position. He blinked stupidly at the pistol.
“Did you hit or shoot me?” he asked.
“I believe I hit you,” smiled Brian; “but not to any extent.”
“Can I get up?”
“Yes—but you’ve got to behave. Give him a hand, you.”
Brian indicated a man by the simple expedient of allowing the muzzle of his pistol to remain in one direction for a fraction of a minute; and the man hastily obeyed. For the remainder of the journey, the calm young man entertained them with a brief and pointed lecture on manners. Nearing Clapham Junction, he drew a handkerchief from his pocket:
“Tie that to the handle outside,” he commanded, and one of the men obeyed.
“No man will attempt to alight at Clapham,” he said cheerfully; “but at Vauxhall I will dispense with your attendance.”
“What’s the game, governor?” growled one of the men. “What’s this handkerchief?”
“That is a little joke,” said Brian politely.
He kept them at Vauxhall just long enough for a dozen watchers who had waited all the afternoon to locate his carriage; then he dismissed them.
“I have been expecting this,” were his parting words. “I have seen you following me round the paddock; I know that you came after me from the course. You will leave Vauxhall marked men; detectives will follow you to your homes, and by to-morrow morning I shall know much more about you than you know about yourselves. Good afternoon.”
Cowed and beaten, they crept from the carriage. They bunched together, making for the stairs, one holding his bruised hand, another nursing his jaw.
Brian watched them from the carriage window. He saw the unobtrusive shadows fall in behind, and returned to his seat.
That night when Lord Pinlow returned to his flat, he found a package waiting for him marked ‘urgent’. He opened it and was puzzled, for it was no more than a snapshot photograph of five men walking along a station platform. Then, with a curse, he recognized the leader as a man whose services he had enlisted to settle his feud.
What did it mean?
He turned the photograph over. There was some writing.
“Five friends of yours, I think. I had an idea that you would like to have them framed.—B. P.”
For Brian had made his plans with great completeness, even to the extent of posting a photographer near the exit, and the cheery offensiveness of the inscription was pardonable, for Brian had received an interesting wire from his trainer.