Leslie Charteris - The Brighter Buccaneer

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 —"

The girl looked up into his face.

"I should love to come," she said huskily. "I think you're the kindest man I've ever known. I'll be on the course tomorrow, and if you still think you'd like to see me again —"

"My dear, nothing in the world could please me more." Lesbon put a hand on her shoulder and pressed her towards the door. "Now you run along home and forget all about it. I'm only too happy to be able to help such a charming lady."

Patricia Holm walked round the block in which Mr. Lesbon's flat was situated, and found Simon Templar waiting patiently at the wheel of his car. She stepped in beside him, and they whirled down into the line of traffic that was crawling towards Marble Arch.

"How d'you like Vincent?" asked the Saint, and Patricia shivered.

"If I'd known what he was like at close quarters, I'd never have gone," she said. "He's got hot slimy hands, and the way he looks at you… But I think I did the job well."

Simon smiled a little, and flicked the car through a gap between two taxis that gave him half an inch to spare on either wing.

"So that for once we can give the pin a rest," he said.

Saturday morning dawned clear and fine, which was very nearly a record for the season. What was more, it stayed fine; and Mart Farrell was optimistic.

"The going's just right for Hill Billy," he said. "If he's ever going to beat Rickaway he'll have to do it today. Perhaps your aunt might have five shillings on him after all, Miss Holm."

Patricia's eyebrows lifted vaguely.

"My — er —"

"Miss Holm's aunt got up this morning with a bilious attack," said the Saint glibly. "It's all very annoying, after we've put on this race for her benefit, but since Hill Billy's here he'd better have the run."

The Owners' Handicap stood fourth on the card. They lunched on the course, and afterwards the Saint made an excuse to leave Patricia in the Silver Ring and went into Tatter-sail's with Farrell. Mr. Lesbon favoured the more expensive enclosure, and the Saint was not inclined to give him the chance to acquire any premature doubts.

The runners for the three-thirty were being put in the frame, and Farrell went off to give his blessing to a charge of his that was booked to go to the post. Simon strolled down to the rails and faced the expansive smile of Mr. Mackintyre.

"You having anything on this one, Mr. Templar?" asked the bookie juicily.

"I don't think so," said the Saint. "But there's a fast one coming to you in the next race. Look out!"

As he wandered away, he heard Mr. Mackintyre chortling over the unparalleled humour of the situation in the ear of his next-door neighbour.

Simon watched the finish of the three-thirty, and went to find Farrell.

"I've got a first-class jockey to ride Hill Billy," the trainer told him. "He came to my place this morning and tried him out, and he thinks we've a good chance. Lesbon is putting Penterham up — he's a funny rider. Does a lot of Lesbon's work, so it doesn't tell us anything."

"We'll soon see what happens," said the Saint calmly.

He stayed to see Hill Billy saddled, and then went back to where the opening odds were being shouted. With his hands in his pockets, he sauntered leisurely up and down the line of bawling bookmakers, listening to the fluctuation of the prices. Hill Billy opened favourite at two to one, with Rickaway a close second at threes — in spite of its owner's dubious reputation. Another horse named Tilbury, which had originally been quoted at eight to one, suddenly came in demand at nine to two. Simon overheard snatches of the gossip that was flashing along the line, and smiled to himself. The Mackintyre-Lesbon combination was expert at drawing that particular brand of red herring across the trail, and the Saint could guess at the source of the rumour. Hill Billy weakened to five to two, while Tilbury pressed close behind it from fours to threes. Rickaway faded out to five to one.

"There are always mugs who'll go for a horse just because other people are backing it," Mr. Mackintyre muttered to his clerk; and then he saw the Saint coming up. "Well, Mr. Templar, what's this fast one you promised me?"