that on credit, do you?”
“I must be drinking too much,” Filby murmured. “But really! Who wants to risk his ten thou?”
“A man named Lous Willison. An American.”
“What’s he do?”
“He’s a builder.”
“From Alabama?”
“Not bad,” Smith shot Filby a glance that was half-wondering, half-amused. “Yes — Alabama and Georgia.”
“Is he in a big way?”
“As a builder, I don’t know. I checked with the American Consulate, Trade Division — said I was contemplating putting up a factory there and I’d been recommended to use Willison. They gave him a perfectly good reference but said he wasn’t a very big operator.”
“Black or white?”
“What do you mean?” Smith asked, then suddenly saw the implication and said shortly, his voice hardening: “White. But what difference does that make?”
“Could make a lot,” replied Filby, soothingly. “If there’s a group of negroes who would like to see their man win Wimbledon —” He broke off, choking back a laugh. “Could be they’ve got a bombshell and see Wimbledon as a terrific race symbol?”
“As a matter of fact,” Smith told him, soberly, “it could have a bloody big impact-don’t make any mistake about that. And when you get a good negro athlete-look how nearly Ashe pulled it off! How long ago was that?”
“Last year. The question is, did you take the bet?”
“I stalled.”
“Lay it off with the smaller boys, Archie,” Filby advised, as if tiring of the subject.
“Not yet.” Smith’s mind was obviously quite made up. “First, I want to know if anyone else is putting heavy money on Barnaby Rudge. Barnaby Rudge,” he repeated, in a puzzled way. “Isn’t that name familiar?”
“You could read a chap called Dickens,” Filby said drily. “All right, I’ll keep my antennae out, and pass on any news.” Their drinks had been set down as he spoke and he handed Smith his and then raised his own. “Cheers. How’s the money shaping, on the Derby?”
Smith frowned. “Damn queer about that, too,” he complained. “Something’s up.”
“That’s what my scouts and my books keep telling me.” Filby squinted at his glass, then drank deeply. “And that’s very worrying, Archie — that could really take us. If you ask me . . .”
CHAPTER THREE
The Old Steps, at Limehouse, was one of the most celebrated and popular public houses in the East End of London, for at least three reasons. It was in Wapping High Street, overlooking the Thames-not far from the Headquarters of the Thames Division of the Metropolitan Police — and a very old, very narrow alley which ran down beside it to steps and a jetty contributed to an ‘atmosphere’ of gas-lit eeriness.
Indeed, by night the approach at least was gas-lit, for the publican retained the gas lamps in the alley and over the doorways. It was a ‘free house’: not tied to a brewery or chain, but independently-owned and so able to dispense every conceivable kind of beer and spirits. What was more, it boasted a pianist: one of the best in London. He was young, but adept in the tradition of the late Victorian and Edwardian ages, and every night was chorus and sing-song night. The pianist, a pale, hunched little man, could play almost any’ tune by ear or from long practice, with the kind of beat which made everyone join in the singing: he himself seemed to put every ounce of energy into his playing.
He was at the piano when Chief Superintendent Lemaitre entered, that evening, to a roar of voices singing: “. . . give me your answer, do!”
Lemaitre began to hum as he pushed his way through the smoke-blue haze towards the saloon bar. No one appeared to take especial notice of his progress, but at least three pairs of eyes turned towards him, half-furtively. Lemaitre was quite aware of it. He looked like an ageing sparrow in his pale brown suit and spotted red and white bow tie; thin-faced, spare-boned, his sparse, dark hair slicked down. Without appearing to notice, he knew that one expert cracksman, one well-known shop-lifter and a man who made his living by stealing fruit from the wholesale markets, was in the saloon. Two were alone, one was with his wife. In a far corner were two detective-sergeants from the Thames Division, and one raised his hand. Lemaitre gave him the thumbs-up sign, and began to hum:
“I’m half-crazy, all for the love of you! . . . Half of light, Joe . . . It won’t be a stylish marriage, I can’t afford a carnage .., My old dutch been in?” he wasn’t expecting his wife, but he wanted the barman and everyone within earshot to think that he was. “. . . upon the seat of a bicycle built for two . . . ! Ta.”
“Ain’t seen her,” grunted the barman.
“Out with her latest and finest, I suppose,” said Lemaitre. “Women!” He tossed down half of the beer. “Cheers.”
He looked about the crowded room at fifty or sixty faces, but could not find the man he had come to see: the ‘accidental’ meeting had been arranged by telephone. He had no doubt that his informant, a man named Charlie Blake, knew what he was talking about. And tonight he was to pass on the names of the people planning the doping of Derby runners.
Charlie wasn’t among the crowd, now clapping and cheering as the pianist took first a bow and then a drink from a pewter tankard on top of the old, burl walnut piano. People were calling out:
“Give us another, Tommy!”
“How about a bit of pop, for a change?”
