Lemaitre’s mouth was wide open, his eyes brighter than they had been since he had entered the office. He began to get up, immediately.
“I’m on my way. But George, if they’re on board—”
“We’ll have someone fly out to New York — be there when the ship arrives. One man will do for the job. He can telephone his report then fly back, he needn’t be away for more than three or four days. Look slippy, Lem!”
Lemaitre’s eyes were glowing; he needed no telling that he would be the ‘someone’ to fly to New York.
“George,” Lemaitre said on the telephone, an hour later.
“Yes?”
“Four smoking-room stewards are on board the QE2 at the moment, and I’ve a list of the passengers on the last trip, it shouldn’t be difficult to identify and trace the two Yanks Charlie was talking about. Four days should do it.” There was a pause, then an anxious: “George, you did mean me to go, didn’t you? There’s a one p.m. flight tomorrow, B.O.A.C. —”
“Get your ticket,” Gideon ordered.
That was about the time when Sir Arthur Filby was in Archibald Smith’s private suite above his offices in Chelsea. It was a high-rise building, overlooking Chelsea Embankment, the river, and the great pile that was the Battersea Power Station, on the south bank. The sky was a vivid blue, and the four stacks gave off a kind of shimmer but no actual smoke. Smith turned from a cocktail cabinet and handed Filby a drink; his more usual whisky and soda. Filby surveyed the glass with his habitual suspicion.
“So what?” he asked, now.
“This Barnaby Rudge is practising in a secluded garden at Wimbledon, Arthur.”
“Top-rank players often practise in private.”
“This one is like a hermit’s hide-out-and Willison is tenant of the house.”
Filby sniffed, drank, and put his glass down. He was such a distinguished-looking man, and so absurdly handsome in profile, that even Smith watched him, fascinated, for several seconds. Then Filby looked up and asked bluntly: “What’s on your mind, Archie?”
“I want to know what that boy’s got to hide.”
“Don’t we all?”
“You and me are the only ones to know about it.”
“Shouldn’t be too sure of that,” retorted Filby. “Walls have ears, in these electronic days. But you could be right, old boy. Supposing you are?”
“If Barnaby Rudge has got a surefire winner streak—”
“No such thing.”
“Don’t be such a bloody pessimist!” Smith growled.
“Got to be, old boy. Thinking of taking a lot of money on the others?”
Smith laughed. “Wouldn’t you?”
“Might be an idea,” conceded Filby. “Might be a damned good idea. If the betting’s too strong on one or two of the others, we’d normally put some out, but if we handled it between us, and Barnaby won —” He broke off.
“That’s it,” said Smith. “And I’ve checked on the money put on Lacey as well as Crosswall and a few outsiders last year. Well over three million.”
“My God, was it?” Filby looked moodily at his glass, then suddenly drank. “So, how can we learn more about Barnaby Rudge?”
“Have him watched,” answered Smith, promptly. “I’ve got a man on him.” He broke off, and finished his own drink, then asked: “Other half?” in a most off-hand voice.
Sir Arthur Filby lifted his gaze from his glass and looked squarely into Smith’s eyes. Then his lips parted in a quite mirthless grin, and suddenly his mouth became very wide and very thin and his teeth seemed to have a shark-like sharpness. He finished his drink and held out his glass.
“So you want me to share the expenses, old boy!”
“Share and share alike,” murmured Smith, moving to the cabinet.
“And you’re hedging your bets, so that I pay half the cost and take half the risk?”
Smith, squirting soda, looked up with complete frankness, and his deep-set eyes were very bright.
“That’s it,” he agreed.
“What’ll the expenses be?”‘
“Five hundred.”
“It’s plenty.”
“We’ve got to keep a man’s mouth shut.”
“I daresay.” Filby nodded. “Five hundred. And we share everything?”
“Like you said, risks and all.”
“We don’t take any risks until we’ve discussed them,” Filby stated flatly.
