“Deuce!”
Lavis let fly again, with another ace which left Serov standing.
“Advantage, Lavis!” called the umpire: “Match point!”
Lavis put his body and his heart into his next service. The Russian made a prodigious leap and reached the ball, but could not get it back over the net.
“Game, set and match to Lavis.”
The Russian acknowledged the applause, and at last Lavis allowed himself the luxury of a smile. There were the usual end-of-match pleasantries, then the two men walked off together.
Barnaby Rudge was smiling very faintly. Lavis was known to have the finest, fiercest service in the world, and he, Barnaby Rudge, knew that his own was immeasurably superior. Well, he had another game tomorrow: he must go to The Towers and practise.
Lou Willison was at The Towers, but did not go to join Barnaby in the kitchen or the court. He was with a friend who had just come in, and Willison’s baby-face was darkened by a scowl, and by the shock of disappointment.
“I can’t place it, I tell you,” the other man, an Englishman, was saying. “I can get a hundred on, here and there, but no big money.”
“But it’s crazy!” blurted Willison.
“It looks to me as if you tried to put too much on in one bet,” said the other. “It was a mistake.” He tossed back a whisky-and-soda, and went on: “There’s only one firm we haven’t heard from.”
“Who’s that?” Willison asked sharply.
“Jackie Spratt’s.”
“Jackie Spratt’s? But isn’t that one of the biggest?” Willison almost screamed.
“Yes, it is, but—”
“If they’ll take the bets, why do you say you can’t place the money?”
“I never use Spratt’s, if I can help it,” the Englishman explained. He had a long face with long features and a lugubrious expression, rather like a horse, and the similarity was heightened by long hair which drooped over each temple. “I’d put on a couple of hundred at six of their shops.”
“Get the rest on,” urged Willison. “Get as much on as you possibly can!”
That was about the time when John Spratt entered the company’s Putney High Street shop, and went through to the back room. The shop was closed, for the day’s racing was over, but a dozen clerks were still busy, some of them chalking up the Tote prices and other details on huge boards. A woman cleaner, blue-smocked, blue- bonneted, was mopping the synthetic tiles of the floor. The manager, a chunky, middle-aged man with a heavy jowl and unblinking, expressionless eyes, stood up from his desk.
“Good-evening, Mr. John.”
“Hullo, Fred,” John Spratt greeted him, pleasantly. “Is our friend here?”
“Waiting in there.” The manager inclined his head towards a second door.
“Has he said anything?”
“Just says he’s got to see you — it’s very important. And I daresay it is, to him.”
“What do you know about him?”
“He does a lot of leg-work for Archie Smith, I can tell you that. He wouldn’t do that for long, if he weren’t reliable.”
Spratt nodded, and went into the other room.
Sydney Sidey was sitting at a small table with an Evening News spread out in front of him, reading the back page. He pretended not to notice the door open but as it closed, sprang to his feet, letting the newspaper fall. He was painfully thin, gawkish, awkward-looking, with huge hands and feet.
“Good-evening, Mr. Spratt!”
“Hallo, Sidey.” Spratt’s manner was still pleasant, but he went on: “I hope you haven’t wasted my time. I’m a very busy man.”
“Oh, I know you are — I assure you I haven’t!” Sidey spluttered. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Spratt — it’s very important, I promise! I’ve got photographs—” He delved in the inside pocket of his jacket: “I wouldn’t have troubled you, if I hadn’t been sure.”
“That’s good,” Spratt murmured.
“It’s about this American darkie — Barnaby Rudge,” Sidey told him, eagerly. “Honest, Mr. Spratt — I can tell you that that man will win the Men’s Singles this year — and I mean Wimbledon! And I also happen to know that Mr. Smith-Archie Smith, you know — won’t take money on him to win, says he’s not quoted. And I thought —” A cunning glint appeared in his eyes: “I thought it would be worth a pony to you, if I tipped you off not to take any money on this guy. He’s going to win, Mr. Spratt!”
Sidey was fumbling with the photographs, as he talked, haste making him even clumsier than usual.
“I doubt it,” Spratt told him, drily. “What makes you think he will?”
“He’s got a service no one can stand up against-it will absolutely demoralise his opponents, Mr. Spratt! I’ve been watching him, and I’ve seen them all — I’ve seen the very best — but I’ve never seen a service like this one. It’s a rocket, never mind a cannonball! Look.” He had the small prints spread on a table, now-twenty of them, in all — and they showed Barnaby Rudge in all manner of poses. They were cleverly taken at a different point in each service so that they made almost a moving picture, and something of the enormous power of the man
