Meet The Baron

“John, you darling! Oo, and I forgot. The carnations were divine. How did you know that I liked them?”

“You must have let it slip out,” said Mannering dryly.

2.05 p.m. Mannering hurried towards the car waiting for him outside the Ritz, but stopped as Toby Plender’s voice hailed him.

You again,” he smiled. “Don’t tell me you’ve been lunching with the flighty.”

“A client,” said Plender. “I didn’t think it possible, J.M., to go lower than Mimi Rayford, but you win.”

“What’s this ? Another way of calling me a fool ?”

“There aren’t any other ways left,” said Plender amiably. “Where are you going?”

“Lingfield, via Croydon. Coming?”

“I earn my living.”

“I get mine honestly,” chuckled Mannering.

He travelled to Croydon by road, and in his haste to catch the plane that was going to the racecourse broke many speed-regulations, and spared little time for thinking. But in the air, with the country-side opening out beneath him like a large-scale relief map, and the sun burning into the cabin, he thought a great deal. Toby was still worrying the bone, even though the solicitor had no idea how close his friend was to the border-line. Even now Mannering was not conscious of the idea that was to master him so soon, but he did recognise that the need for finding a way of making money was increasingly urgent; he had not the slightest desire to go under. Of course, it was possible to make money on horses, but. . .

He smiled sardonically, and watched the teeming crowd below as the aeroplane circled over the course and then prepared to land in a near-by field. Despite the fact that he had taken a great deal of trouble to make sure he reached Lingfield, he did not feel the same fascination as he had done a few months before. There was something lacking in the appeal of racing and betting; only the gambler’s instinct in him urged him on.

 

4.00 p.m. Lord Fauntley — plain Hugo Fauntley a few years before — grey-hatted and grey-haired, was fretting nearly as much as the horses at the tape. Mannering, next to him, was smiling easily, hands in pockets and cigarette in the corner of his mouth. The crowd was humming; the raucous voices of the bookies laying their last-minute odds were high above the hum. The line of horses was level at last, and the tape went up.

The crowd roared, and Lord Fauntley bit his lip.

And then the din subsided until it was like distant thunder, with only those spectators near the rails catching the beat of the horses’ hoofs thudding against the sun-baked turf. Mannering heard Fauntley shifting from one foot to the other, and smiled.

“Where is she, Mannering, where is she?” Fauntley stammered. “I didn’t see — I’m still as nervous as a kitten at this game, and I’ve been in it more years than I can remember. Where

“She had number five,” said Mannering, “and started well. Blackjack dropped to fours, did he?”

“Yes — damn Blackjack !”

“But not Feodora.” Mannering grinned, and swept the course through his glasses. He saw the yellow and red of Simmons, on Feodora; he was riding his mount well. Feodora was running fourth, between a little bunch in the lead, and the rest of the field was huddled together twenty yards behind.

“Will she . . .” began Fauntley.

“She’s capable of it,” said Mannering. “She’s moving up. . . The Setter’s dropped behind . . .”

“Where are my glasses ?” muttered Fauntley. “I never can find the darned things.”

“Shouldn’t stuff ‘em in your pockets,” said Mannering.

He smiled to himself, knowing that Lord Fauntley, with five hundred on Feodora, could have laid five thousand or fifty thousand, and taken a loss without being worried. There would be a certain amusement to be derived from separating Lord Fauntley from the Liska diamond, for instance.

“You had a job getting the Liska,” Mannering said aloud.

“Damn the Liska! Where’s Feodora ?”

“Second at the mile and a half.”

“Second, eh ? And she’s a stayer — I know she’s a stayer.”

“Marriland is coming up,” said Mannering thoughtfully.

He was thinking less of Feodora and Marriland, battling now towards the two-mile post ready for the straight run home, than of Lord Fauntley and the Liska diamond. The Post that morning had recorded, with its superb indifference, that Fauntley had outbidden Rawson for the diamond at the figure of nine thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds. The Liska would eventually adorn the plump neck of the peeress, and it was difficult to imagine a less worthy resting-place — or so Mannering believed. H’m ! A particularly foolish train of thought.

Was it? Fauntley could stand the loss.

“Where is she?” muttered Fauntley irritably. “Damn it, Mannering, you know my eyes aren’t what they were.”

“Still second,” said Mannering, “and turning into the straight! Ah! Simmons is touching her. Good boy, Simmons ! She’ll do it.”

The excitement of the finish stirred him now. Feodora and Marriland pounded along the hard track, with the rest of the bunch fighting for third place. The murmur of the crowd was fiercer now, and the sea of white faces