He put one to his lips, and pressed a point close to the mouthpiece. A tiny sound followed, and a little spray appeared on the wall opposite him, at least twenty feet away. He laughed.
“Ill bet no one else ever thought of doping a horse from a distance!” he crowed. “One of these in a hay-box, and we’ll have no problems!”
“I still don’t quite see how it works,” objected Matthew.
“You will,” John said, bluffly. “The dope is in a dart-capsule, see? And the capsule breaks on contact with the hay-the slightest touch does it. The dope itself is one of these curare off-shoots: Curol, they call it. Can’t hurt the horses-just relaxes the muscles so they can’t make a hundred per cent effort. It’s a liquid, so it soaks into the hay — stays effective for two or three days — “
“So it can be traced!” Matthew interrupted, sharply.
“If it were in the box at the time of the race, yes,” John agreed. “But the horses will be doped several days before. I’ve two feed salesmen fixed to do the job. They’ll be able to get near enough to blow the dope into the hay-boxes — they won’t have to get near enough to be suspicious. And it’s not a normal dope, either. The stewards could run every test in the book and still never get round to Curol. There’s maybe a chance in a thousand of its being discovered, and even then, it wouldn’t involve us. It might involve two gentlemen from the United States, mind you.” He grinned at his brothers. “So it isn’t foolproof! Show me a bet which will win this kind of money which hasn’t got some sort of risk. We live on risks!”
“I must say I don’t think the risk is very great,” Mark put in, amiably.
“I suppose it’s all right.” Matthew was grudging. “How much have we got on Road Runner?”
“Nearly half a million,” John Spratt replied. “At fives.”
“Bring it up to the level million?” suggested Mark.
Matthew shrugged.
“All right,” said John.
“Can’t we get sixes?” asked Matthew.
“Fives are bloody good!” John told him, going over to the wall to examine the spot where the liquid had struck. “It’s drying already,” he remarked.
“Don’t get too near,” warned Matthew, jocularly. “We don’t want you slowed down!”
And they all laughed.
Mark and Matthew knew that Blake had been killed to ensure that their secret would not be disclosed. They seldom talked about that, however, even among themselves, except by an occasional oblique reference. Until this moment, nothing had been said, today; but now there was a pause and the other two looked at John. He was frowning, the groove between his brows even deeper than usual.
“Is everything all right?” Mark asked, with almost feminine insistence.
“Sure,” John growled. “And what isn’t can soon be put right.” There was another, almost awkward silence, before Matthew, the least imaginative of the trio, forced the issue:
“What isn’t, brother?”
“Our Colonel Hood and Thomas Moffat,” John elucidated. “They are the only two who could have given anything away. That’s almost certainly where Charlie Blake got his facts, all right, so I’ve had them checked. And they’re being watched!”
“Who by?” asked Matthew, in sudden alarm.
“Police,” answered John, completely unperturbed. “So they’ll have to have a little change of plans.” He gave a comfortable sounding laugh, and went on: “There’s another thing we ought to think about. Archie Smith and that beanpole who works for him were at Wimbledon today, watching one of the players — an American negro, named Rudge: Barnaby Rudge. And we know this fellow Willison — Rudge’s sponsor — is trying to put a lot of money on him to win.” He flashed the dazzling white smile which was such a part of his spectacular good looks: “He can’t place it. I think we ought to take it.”
“Why?” demanded Mark Spratt “Are we sure this Rudge isn’t a dark horse?”
“We’ve got too much on Bob Lavis,” John told him. “We’ve been putting money on him for a long time — we can’t afford to let anyone else win. I’m going to have a little talk with Sidey.”
Neither of the others demurred.
“Jackie Spratt’s,” Sydney Sidey was deciding. “They’re the only firm who might cough up. Now I wonder — which of the brothers ought I to talk to?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Gideon reached the Yard a little after five o’clock, in a very dour mood. There was the underlying factor of Kate and there was this shocking attack on the Jamaican girl; quite suddenly, everything else seemed to become unimportant. This was dangerous thinking; he must discipline himself.
He sensed a difference at the Yard, among the policemen on duty outside, the Flying Squad men and other detectives getting in and out of their cars. It was reflected in a kind of tension: a grimness in manner, appearance, even movement. None of them laughed; none of them even smiled; it was as if these men, all big and tough and hardened to crime and violence, had received a great shock.
And of course they had.
This kind of mood spread throughout the Yard whenever a policeman was injured. It was difficult to explain, even to describe; but Gideon had a very strong sense of it as he went in and up the steps. The doorman, usually content to say: “Good-morning”, or “Good-night, sir” ventured: “Shocking thing at Hampstead, sir? Proper devils, these youngsters, these days.”
The hall constable was perhaps forty-five: not so long ago himself a ‘youngster’.
