She strolled in the paddock sunning herself and exchanging greetings with her friends. She half-hoped that Larry Hughes might be there, although there were none of his horses running. It might be easier to deal with him face to face. It was possible that her letter had not been emphatic enough. Larry could be a hard man. She shook off a tremor of apprehension, and waved a hand lightly to an earl who was a director of one of Solly Gertstein’s companies.
The serious business of the day demanded attention, and she moved over towards the bookmakers. “Dickie” puckered his face as he saw her approach and whispered something under his breath to his clerk. But she passed him by with her head tilted in the air. She smiled winningly on another of the princes of the ring, who hesitated for the fraction of a second and then accepted her bet.
So she made her rounds. There were men, perhaps not so blunt as “Dickie,” who would have told her that their books were full on the horses she fancied. She did not risk these snubs. There were others who were quite willing to have the wealthy Mrs. Gertstein as a client, the more so as on the first race she was content with tens and twenties, instead of the hundreds with which she had plunged before those other men had become shy.
She lost on the first race. The second, a selling plate, she increased her stakes with the idea of still showing a profit if Laburnham won. But Laburnham, a short-priced favourite, came in fourth and she was so far three hundred pounds down on the day. That hurt, but, after all, three hundred pounds was a trifle. There was no question but that Bonnie Chevalier would win the Stewards’ Cup. The three-year-old, carrying but eight stone, was one of the biggest certainties of the day. There was nothing that could touch it.
Curiously enough she was almost alone in her opinion among her friends. Those who had any pretensions to knowledge of racing shrugged their shoulders when she mentioned the horse’s name. But she held doggedly to her opinion. True he was an outsider at twenty to one, but then outsiders did sometimes win in face of all the experts. She did a mental calculation. At twenty to one she would stand to win six thousand with an outlay of three hundred pounds. If she could get five hundred pounds on it would be ten thousand. She need not have written to Larry Hughes after all. Why, she would be several thousands in hand. She had that optimistic confidence which delights the soul of the bookmaker, when he beholds it in a rich punter.
The price had shortened to fifteens before she had laid out her full five hundred, but she felt satisfied. She had by her own wit and shrewdness got out of her financial dilemma. It only wanted the formality of running the race.
Someone touched her on the shoulder. She looked round quickly. A beefy man in a morning coat, that did not fit so exquisitely as others round about, raised his hat.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
She bowed and passed on. Detective sergeant Malone lifted his eyebrows interrogatively to the man by his side. “Is that the woman who passed the stumer cheque?” he asked.
The other shook his head dubiously. “I couldn’t swear to it. She’s like her but I wouldn’t care to be certain.”
All unaware that she had been under the scrutiny of a cashier of the Midland Bank, Mrs. Gertstein made her way back to the grand stand. In a few minutes the race would start and the runners were already taking their places at the gate. She focused her glasses and tried to make out Bonnie Chevalier. The draw for places was likely to have an important bearing on the race.
Her heart moved a beat quicker as she picked out the blue, white and gold that marked Bonnie Chevalier’s rider. The starters danced round in a colourful welter as they were coaxed to their order. But she had only eyes for one. She gave a sigh of relief as she noted that he had drawn an inside place.
The score or so of colours shifted again with a sudden plunge. They were off. A muffled roar came to her ears, growing in intensity as the race drew towards her. Bonnie Chevalier had shot to the front with a cloud of rivals pressing him hard. Her hands tightened on the glasses. The field began to space out. She lowered her glasses, which she found difficulty in keeping steady, and leaned forward in tense eagerness. One of the leaders stumbled and went down, with lashing hoofs and writhing body. There was a little confusion, and she uttered an exclamation of dismay, as the favourite stealing out of the tangle began to draw alongside Bonnie Chevalier.
Her breath was coming fast. Inch by inch the favourite drew level and there were others at his shoulder. They must have done three furlongs when the favourite got his head in front. Another furlong and Bonnie Chevalier was half a length behind the first three, and still losing ground. Her face grew hard and stony, but she refused to realise defeat. There was still a hope. But in the next few seconds it was dissipated. Bonnie Chevalier’s jockey knew when he was beaten and eased up his mount. The race was over for him.
Through her ashen lips Mrs. Gertstein ripped
