11 The Brighter Buccaneer

'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 .....'