“Can that girl talk, yet?”
“Juanita Conception? No, but she can hear questions and write the answers.”
“Good. I want all the details she can give me about the thousand tickets —” He saw Hobbs’ expression change, and asked abruptly: “What’s up?”
“Bligh went to see her this afternoon, and she told him,” Hobbs replied. “The tickets are all for tomorrow, that’s why I am sure about the day.”
There was a long pause, before Gideon let out a deep breath, smiled wryly, and said: “Then no doubt Bligh will tell us what action he proposes to take in the morning.” They both laughed.
Lou Willison was not laughing. He was standing in the drawing-room of The Towers, fighting hard to hide his almost unbearable anxiety.
Barnaby Rudge was sitting awkwardly on the arm of a sofa, only a string-vest over his magnificent chest and torso. The injury to his leg made standing painful, and he held his right arm close to his shoulder. A doctor was piercing the top of a capsule with a hypodermic needle, holding it up to the window as he drew the liquid into the syringe.
“This will take the pain away,” he promised.
“But will it —” began Willison, and stopped abruptly. But Barnaby said it for him.
“Doctor Miller,” he asked, in a low-pitched voice, “will that help me get fit for a match tomorrow?”
“It won’t help you, and it won’t make the chances any less,” said the doctor, who was young and lean and healthy-looking. “Let’s have your arm!” He sponged a spot with alcohol, and put the needle in so quickly and skilfully that Barnaby did not even flinch. Then drew it out, slowly, and dabbed the spot with a fresh piece of cotton-wool. “There’s no point in fooling yourself, Mr. Rudge,” he added. “You won’t be fit for practice or match- play for several days.”
Barnaby looked sick. He got up almost blindly and crossing to the window, stood staring out at the shrubbery which hid the practice court, his jaws clenching and unclenching.
“Are you absolutely sure?” Willison asked desperately,
“Absolutely.” The young doctor shrugged. “He might be all right in three days, but either the shoulder or the leg could let him down if he plays too soon. That gash in his leg will take some healing, but there’s no muscle damage and we can kill the pain.”
Barnaby was muttering to himself: “So they hate me — hate me because I’m a negro! They hate me.” He turned slowly to Willison and the doctor, and they stood appalled at the expression in his eyes. “They hate me and I hate them! Every damn white man, I hate.” He was quivering with fury, and his eyes were glazed. “I was going to win, I tell you! I was going to win!’
Dr. Miller said as reassuringly as he could: “There will be another time, Mr. Rudge. If you need me again, Mr. Willison, I’ll be at home.” He packed his bag and went to the door; then, as Barnaby still stood glaring at them both, he paused to add: “I shall do anything I can.”
Willison was thinking: Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars — disappeared into thin air. My God, this will ruin me! Then his train of thought changed and he moved towards the young negro. If he himself felt as if the ground had been blasted from under his feet, what must Barnaby feel like?
“Barnaby,” he said, quietly. “Maybe you need another year. This way, you haven’t lost. This way, you’ll have a lot of sympathy next year. And you’ll win then, all right! It’s just a question of waiting.” Every word had to be forced from his lips: all the time, he was sick at the thought of how much he had lost.
Barnaby muttered: “Just because I’m black. No other reason — just because I’m black!”
Willison was thinking: Two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars! He put his hand on Barnaby’s left shoulder, but the boy shrugged himself violently free. Willison kept his hand outstretched and said: “Barnaby, you feel like hell and I don’t blame you. But don’t take it out on me.”
There was no softening in the hardness of Barnaby Rudge’s eyes.
There was a bright glint in John Spratt’s eyes as he read the Evening News, later that evening; for a front page banner headline screamed:
RACE HATRED HITS WIMBLEDON Play on Number 3 Court at Wimbledon today was interrupted by a cry of ‘Go home, nigger!’ as Barnaby Rudge, a non-seeded player of great power, was about to serve for a match point against Bruce Hamilton, the Queensland champion. The cry put Rudge off his service, and Hamilton, in a splendid sporting gesture, threw away the next two points.
This was the first time any hint of racial prejudice has ever been revealed among the Wimbledon crowds . . .
The story was a summary of Rudge’s playing career, named Willison as his sponsor, and made reference to the several other non-white contenders. Then John Spratt looked down at the stop-press, and saw the red-printed paragraph:
Barnaby Rudge attacked.
Negro contender for Wimbledon crown attacked in car park late this afternoon. Understood his right shoulder and left leg were injured. Police on the scene prevented more serious injuries. See p. 1.
Soon, a messenger was on the way from John Spratt’s office to Sebastian Jacobus, with two hundred and fifty pounds inside an envelope which John himself had sealed.
Jacobus was alone in his small flat in Chelsea, when the front door bell rang. It made him jump, and he hated the possibility that this was the police. Instead, it was Spratt’s messenger. He ripped open the envelope, saw the money, gave the messenger a pound note from his pocket and returned to his living-room. He poured himself a strong whisky-and-soda, for his nerves had been badly shaken by the near-disaster. Then he counted the money, but even that did little to soothe him.
His three associates had gone to ground in their respective homes; but he knew that if anyone had been recognised, it was he.
