11 The Brighter Buccaneer

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?'

'Hill Billy's the name,' said the Saint, 'and I guess it's good for a hundred.'

'Two hundred and fifty pounds to one hundred for Mr. Templar,' said Mackintyre lusciously, and watched his clerk entering up the bet.

When he looked up the Saint had gone.

Tilbury dropped back to seven to two, and Hill Billy stayed solid at two and a half. Just before the 'off' Mr. Mackintyre shouted, 'Six to one, Rickaway,' and had the satisfaction of seeing the odds go down before the recorder closed his note­book.

He mopped his brow, and found Mr. Lesbon beside him.

'I wired off five hundred pounds to ten different offices,' said Lesbon. 'A little more of this and I'll be moving into Park Lane. When the girl came to see me I nearly fainted. What does that man Templar take us for?'

'I don't know,' said Mr. Mackintyre phlegmatically.

A general bellow from the crowd announced the 'off,' and Mr. Mackintyre mounted his stool and watched the race through his field-glasses.

'Tilbury's jumped off in front; Hill Billy's third, and Ricka­way's going well on the outside. . . . Rickaway's moving up, and Hill Billy's on a tight rein . . . Hill Billy's gone up to second. The rest of the field's packed behind, but they don't look like springing any surprises . . . Tilbury's finished. He's falling back. Hill Billy leads, Mandrake running second, Rickaway half a length behind with plenty in hand . . . Penterham's using the whip, and Rickaway's picking up. He's level with Mandrake-no, he's got it by a short head. Hill Billy's a length in front, and they're putting everything in for the finish.'

The roar of the crowd grew louder as the field entered the last furlong. Mackintyre raised his voice.

'Mandrake's out of it, and Rickaway's coming up! Hill Billy's flat out with Rickaway's nose at his saddle . . . Hill Billy's making a race of it. It's neck-and-neck now. Penterham left it a bit late. Rickaway's gaining slowly-'

The yelling of the crowd rose to a final crescendo, and sud­denly died away. Mr. Mackintyre dropped his glasses and stepped down from his perch. 'Well,' he said comfortably,'that's three thousand pounds.'

The two men shook hands gravely and turned to find Simon Templar drifting towards them with a thin cigar in his mouth.

'Too bad about Hill Billy, Mr. Templar,' remarked Mack­intyre succulently. 'Rickaway only did it by a neck, though I won't say he mightn't have done better if he'd started his sprint a bit sooner.'

Simon removed his cigar.

'Oh, I don't know,' he said. 'As a matter of fact, I rather changed my mind about Hill Billy's chance just before the 'off.' I was over at the telegraph office, and I didn't think I'd be able to reach you in time, so I wired another bet to your Lon­don office. Only a small one-six hundred pounds, if you want to know. I hope Vincent's winnings will stand it.' He beamed seraphically at Mr. Lesbon, whose face had suddenly gone a sickly grey. 'Of course you recognised Miss Holm-she isn't easy to forget, and I saw you noticing her at the Savoy the other night.'

There was an awful silence.

'By the way,' said the Saint, patting Mr. Lesbon affably on the shoulder, 'she tells me you've got hot slimy hands. Apart from that, your technique makes Clark Gable look like some­thing the cat brought in. Just a friendly tip, old dear.'