John Creasey - Gideon’s Sport

“What do you want to do as you get older, Barnaby?”

“Play more tennis, sir,” came the swift answer.

“Big tennis? Professional tennis?” asked Willison.

“Only one place means anything to me in tennis, sir. Just one place-and that’s Wimbledon.” Barnaby uttered the name in awe.

“Wimbledon!” gasped Willison.

“That’s what you’ve been keeping me for, sir, isn’t it?” asked Barnaby, and Willison quickly recovered his poise and told his harmless white lie.

“Yes-but I didn’t think you realised it.” After a pause, he went on: “Wimbledon can be murder, Barnaby. You would need a lot of competition and match-practice to get anywhere near the final. You must know that.”

“I surely do, sir,” said Barnaby, humbly. “But I got one tiling I haven’t shown even you, sir — a surefire winner anywhere I use it. I wanted to wait until I had it perfect; you taught me the value of patience real well!”

Willison, half-amused, half-amazed, pondered; then asked, almost warily: “How near are you to perfection?”

“I can show you any time,” declared Barnaby. “All we need is a tennis court with no one looking on, Mr Willison. Maybe if one of your friends would let me show you on a private court —” He looked shyly hopeful.

Three days later, he gave his demonstration; and Willison was astounded.

Barnaby had a fireball service which no player in the world was ever likely to be able to return. He admitted that he didn’t know exactly how he did it: there was something in the way his biceps and forearm muscles flexed and merged in tremendous power at the moment of contact between gut and ball. But he could now use it with devastating accuracy, striking any part of the court he desired at will.

After the demonstration, shiny-faced, perspiring, he looked to his sponsor for comment.

“Barnaby,” Willison told him urgently, “don’t show that service to a soul. Not a single person, do you understand? Keep it in practice, but hide it from everyone except me.”

“I certainly will,” Barnaby promised fervently.

“And now we’ve got to get you some competition — you’ve got to work on the rest of your game. But understand: don’t let anyone so much as glimpse that service!”

“It sure is a fireball, isn’t it?” Barnaby said, with a fascinating mixture of humility and confidence. “It sure is a surefire winner, Mr. Willison. It sure is good.”

Only a few weeks later, when he had paid the substantial expenses of the trip, Willison had run head-on against his first business disaster. He put up a bottling and distributing plant for a new nation-wide soft drinks company, which went bankrupt. His losses were so great that he had to borrow to meet his obligations, and he came close to cancelling the trip to England. But the more he thought, the more he saw Barnaby as the means of recouping his losses. If he could get long odds on a substantial sum, and Barnaby won, he could not only repay his debts but have all the capital he needed for future business.

The venture which had started as a model of altruism had become absolutely vital to him.

CHAPTER FOUR

Morning Reports

Gideon dropped off to sleep in the small hours, and there was by comparison a touch of coolness in the air when he woke a little after seven o’clock. But the morning wasn’t really fresh; simply less hot and humid than the night had been. Kate had her back to him, one bare arm over the bedspread, dark hair with touches of grey in a hairnet, which was half-on, half-off. She was so sound asleep that he felt sure she hadn’t managed to drop off until summer’s early dawn, or thereabouts. He got out of bed, drew up the trousers of his pyjamas, and crossed to the door. The bedroom, with its high ceiling and big, old-fashioned wardrobe creaked as he trod on a loose board beneath the carpet, but the sound did not wake Kate.

Three other doors led off this landing, all open. Penelope, the Gideon daughter who was still unmarried and lived at home, should be in one room, but her bed was empty. Malcolm, their youngest son, who usually slept late and had to be rousted out of bed, was not in his room, either. Gideon finished in the bathroom, peeped in and saw Kate still sound asleep, and went cautiously down the stairs. As he opened the kitchen door, Penelope turned from the gas stove on which eggs were sizzling.

“Oh, hallo, Daddy! You up already?”

“What are you up to, that’s more to the point,” Gideon countered.

“I thought I’d make my own breakfast and get off without waking Mummy. You haven’t woken her, have you?” she demanded, suddenly accusing.

“Not yet.”

“Then don’t you dare!”

“Why not?” asked Gideon, feeling the brown earthenware tea-pot. He snatched his hand away, and picked up a padded pot-holder before pouring himself some tea.

“She’s tired out,” Penny said. “This hot weather’s almost finished her.”

“Now, don’t be-!” began Gideon, but he didn’t finish. That was not wholly because of the warning expression on his daughter’s pretty face. It had dawned on him that Penelope had simply pointed out to him what he had already subconsciously noticed yet hadn’t talked about: the fact that Kate was very tired these days.

“How bad is she?” he asked.

“I think she ought to see a doctor,” said Penelope, promptly.

“Have you suggested it to your mother?”

“She looks at me pityingly every time I do-as if she can’t understand what’s happened to her baby! Seriously, Daddy, she isn’t well. She really isn’t. She needs a rest or a change — surely you know that?”

“Suppose I do,” conceded Gideon gruffly. He watched Penny put two eggs, several slices of bacon and some fried bread on her plate, sit down, hitch her chair forward, and tuck in with gusto. He wondered idly whether all young women-pianists were such hearty eaters. She played with one of the B.B.C. orchestras, which was often on the air; he could never quite believe it, even now.

“Malcolm’s gone to play tennis before school — there’s a tournament on,” she offered. “I can’t see why anyone is so crazy about knocking a soft ball about with a bat!”

“Racquet,” corrected Gideon, absently.

“Bat is good enough to me! Oh, well, better hit a little ball about than nothing, I suppose. Daddy, darling, you couldn’t give-I mean lend-me ten bob, could you?”

Gideon studied her open face and candid blue eyes, and felt a great warmth of affection for his youngest daughter,

“Better take a pound while you’re about it,” he said mildly, “You’ll find one on your mother’s dressing-table.”

“Bless you!” she cried. “And now I must fly.”

“Where are you going to fly to?” he enquired, mildly.

“Oh, Daddy, I told you, last night! The whole orchestra is going down to Brighton, we have to play, this evening. Oh, you’re impossible!” She went racing out of the room, and flung over her shoulder: “Malcolm said tell Mummy he’ll go straight on to school.”

Gideon nodded as he tightened the sash of his dressing-gown, and contemplated the stove. Cook, or eat cold?

He decided on bacon and eggs, pondering over Penelope’s remarks about Kate. She was right, of course, Kate had taken the hot weather very badly: he simply hadn’t thought much about it. Way she all right? It wasn’t the change of life; that was long past. Over-tired? One wouldn’t think so, now that all but Malcolm were off her hands. And only a few weeks ago she had been saying she must find something to do, time was too heavy on her hands. He sat down to three eggs, as many rashers, and liberally-buttered toast, had some instant coffee, then returned upstairs.

Penelope, overnight case in hand, was tip-toeing out of the main bedroom. She put her fingers to her lips but did not close the door.