Brighter Buccaneer (5 page)

“I am the captain, sir. Captaine Bourne. You seem to have forgotten, sir. This is the Christabel Jane, eighteen hours out of Liverpool with a cargo of spirits for the United States. We don’t usually take passengers, sir, but seeing that you were a friend of the owner, and you wanted to make the trip, why, of course we found you a berth.”

Croon buried his face in his hands.

He had no more questions to ask. The main details of the conspiracy were plain enough. One of his victims had turned on him for revenge-or perhaps several of them had banded together for the purpose. He had been threatened often before. And somehow his terror of the sea had become known. It was poetic justice-to shanghai him on board a bootlegging ship and force him to take the journey of which he had cheated their investments.

“How much will you take to turn back?” he asked; and Captain Bourne shook his head.

“You still don’t seem to understand, sir. There’s ten thousand pounds’ worth of spirits on board-at least, they’ll be worth ten thousand pounds if we get them across safely-and I’d lose my job if I —”

“Damn your job!” said Melford Croon.

With trembling fingers he pulled out a cheque book and fountain-pen. He scrawled a cheque for fifteen thousand pounds and held it out.

“Here you are. I’ll buy your cargo. Give the owner his money and keep the change. Keep the cargo. I’ll buy your whole damned ship. But take me back. D’you understand? Take me back —”

The ship lurched under him again, and he choked. When the convulsion was over the captain was gone.

Presently a white-coated steward entered with a cup of steaming beef-tea. Croon looked at it and shuddered.

“Take it away,” he wailed.

“The captain sent me with it, sir,” explained the steward. “You must try to drink it, sir. It’s the best thing in the world for the way you’re feeling. Really, sir, you’ll feel quite different after you’ve had it.”

Croon put out a white, flabby hand. He managed to take a gulp of the hot soup; then another. It had a slightly bitter taste which seemed familiar. The cabin swam around him again, more dizzily than before, and his eyes closed in merciful drowsiness.

He opened them in his own bedroom. His servant was drawing back the curtains, and the sun was streaming in at the windows.

The memory of his nightmare made him feel sick again, and he clenched his teeth and swallowed desperately. But the floor underneath was quite steady. And then he remembered something else, and struggled up in the bed with an effort which threatened to overpower him with renewed nausea.

“Give me my chequebook,” he rasped. “Quick-out of my coat pocket —”

He opened it frantically and stared at a blank stub with his face growing haggard.

“What’s today?” he asked.

“This is Saturday, sir,” answered the surprised valet.

“What time?”

“Eleven o’clock, sir. You said I wasn’t to call you —”

But Mr. Melford Croon was clawing for the telephone at his bedside. In a few seconds he was through to his bank in London. They told him that his cheque had been cashed at ten.

Mr. Croon lay back on the pillows and tried to think out how it could have been done.

He even went so far as to tell his incredible story to Scotland Yard, though he was not by nature inclined to attract the attention of the police.

A methodical search was made in Lloyd’s Register, but no mention of a ship called the Christabel Jane could be found. Which was not surprising, for Christabel Jane was the name temporarily bestowed by Simon Templar on a dilapidated Thames tug which had wallowed very convincingly for a few hours in the gigantic tank at the World Features studio at Teddington for the filming of storm scenes at sea, which would undoubtedly have been a great asset to Mr. Croon’s Consolidated Albion Film Company if the negotiations for the lease had been successful.

1. The Owners’ Handicap
   

“THE art of crime,” said Simon Templar, carefully mayonnaising a section of truite ŕ la gelče, “is to be versatile. Repetition breeds contempt-and promotion for flat-footed oafs from Scotland Yard. I assure you, Pat, I have never felt the slightest urge to be the means of helping any detective on his upward climb. Therefore we soak bucket-shops one week and bootleggers the next, the poor old Chief Inspector Teal never knows where he is.”

Patricia Holm fingered the stem of her wineglass with a faraway smile. Perhaps the smile was a trifle wistful. Perhaps it wasn’t. You never know. But she had been the Saint’s partner in outlawry long enough to know what any such oratorical opening as that portended; and she smiled.

“It dawns upon me,” said the Saint, “that our talents have not yet been applied to the crooked angles of the Sport of Kings.”

“I don’t know,” said Patricia mildly. “After picking the winner of the Derby with a pin, and the winner of the Oaks with a pack of cards —”

Simon waved away the argument.

“You may think,” he remarked, “that we came here to celebrate. But we didn’t. Not exactly. We came here to feast our eyes on the celebrations of a brace of lads of the village who always tap the champagne here when they’ve brought off a coup. Let me introduce you. They’re sitting at the corner table behind me on your right.”

The girl glanced casually across the restaurant in the direction indicated. She located the two men at once-there were three magnums on the table in front of them, and their appearance was definitely hilarious.

Simon finished his plate and ordered strawberries and cream.

“The fat one with the face like an egg and the diamond tiepin is Mr. Joseph Mackintyre. He wasn’t always Mackintyre, but what the hell? He’s a very successful bookmaker; and, believe it or not, Pat, I’ve got an account with him.”

“I suppose he doesn’t know who you are?”

“That’s where you’re wrong. He does know-and the idea simply tickles him to death. It’s the funniest thing he has to talk about. He lets me run an account, pays me when I win, and gets a cheque on the nail when I lose. And all the time he’s splitting his sides, telling all his friends about it, and watching everything I do with an eagle eye-just waiting to catch me trying to put something across him.”

“Who’s the thin one?”

“That’s Vincent Lesbon. Origin believed to be Levantine. He owns the horses, and the way those horses run is nobody’s business. Lesbon wins with ‘em when he feels like it, and Mackintyre fields against ‘em so generously that the starting price usually goes out to the hundred-to-eight mark. It’s an old racket, but they work it well.”

Patricia nodded. She was still waiting for the sequel that was bound to come-the reckless light in the Saint’s eyes presaged it like a red sky at sunset. But he annihilated his strawberries with innocent deliberation before he leaned back in his chair and grinned at her.

“Let’s go racing tomorrow,” he said, “I want to buy a horse.”

They went down to Kempton Park, and arrived when the runners for the second race were going up. The race was a Selling Plate; with the aid of his faithful pin, Simon selected an outsider that finished third; but the favourite won easily by two lengths. They went to the ring after the numbers were posted, and the Saint had to bid up to four hundred guineas before he became the proud owner of Hill Billy.

As the circle of buyers and bystanders broke up, Simon felt a hand on his arm. He looked around, and saw a small thick-set man in check breeches and a bowler hat who had the unmistakable air of an ex-jockey.

“Excuse me, sir-have you arranged with a trainer to take care of your horse? My name’s Mart Farrell. If I could do anything for you —”

Simon gazed thoughtfully at his new acquisition, which was being held by an expectant groom.

“Why, yes,” he murmured. “I suppose I can’t put the thing in my pocket and take it home. Let’s go and have a drink.”

They strolled over to the bar. Simon knew Farrell’s name as that of one of the straightest trainers on the turf, and he was glad that one of his problems had been solved so easily.

“Think we’ll win some more races?” he murmured, as the drinks were set up.

“Hill Billy’s a good horse,” said the trainer judiciously. “I used to have him in my stable when he was a two-year-old. I think he’ll beat most things in his class if the handicaps give him a run. By the way, sir, I don’t know your name.”

It occurred to the Saint that his baptismal title was perhaps too notorious for him to be able to hide the nucleus of his racing stud under a bushel, and for once he had no desire to
“Hill Billy belongs to the lady,” he said. “Miss Patricia Holm. I’m just helping her watch it.”

As far as Simon Templar was concerned, Hill Billy’s career had only one object, and that was to run a race in which one of the Mackintyre-Lesbon stud was also a competitor. The suitability of the fixture was rather more important and more difficult to be sure of, but his luck was in. Early the next week he learned that Hill Billy was favourably handicapped in the Owners’ Plate at Gatwick on the following Saturday, and it so happened that his most serious opponent was a horse named Rickaway, owned by Mr. Vincent Lesbon.

Simon drove down to Epsom early the next morning and saw Hill Billy at exercise. Afterwards he had a talk with Farrell.

“Hill Billy could win the first race at Windsor next week if the going’s good,” said the trainer. “I’d like to save him for it- it’d be a nice win for you. He’s got the beating of most of the other entries.”

“Couldn’t he win the Owners’ Handicap on Saturday?” asked the Saint; and Farrell pursed his lips.

“It depends on what they decide to do with Rickaway, sir. I don’t like betting on a race when Mr. Lesbon has a runner-if I may say so between ourselves. Lesbon had a filly in my stable last year, and I had to tell him I couldn’t keep it. The jockey went up before the Stewards after the way it ran one day at Newmarket, and that sort of thing doesn’t do a trainer’s reputation any good. Rickaway’s been running down the course on his last three outings, but the way I work out the Owners’ Handicap is that he could win if he wanted to.”

Simon nodded.

“Miss Holm rather wants to run at Gatwick, though,” he said. “She’s got an aunt or something from the North coming down for the week-end, and naturally she’s keen to show off her new toy.”

Farrell shrugged cheerfully.

“Oh, well, sir, I suppose the ladies have got to have their way. I’ll run Hill Billy at Gatwick, if Miss Holm tells me to, but I couldn’t advise her to have much of a bet. I’m afraid Rickaway might do well if he’s a trier.”

Simon went back to London jubilantly.

“It’s a match between Hill Billy and Rickaway,” he said. “In other words, Pat, between Saintliness and Sin. Don’t you think the angels might do a job for us?”

One angel did a job for them, anyway. It was Mr. Vincent Lesbon’s first experience of any such exquisite interference with his racing activities; and it may be mentioned that he was a very susceptible man.

This happened on the Gatwick Friday. The Mackintyre-Lesbon combination was putting in no smart work that day, and Mr. Lesbon whiled away the afternoon at a betting club in Long Acre, where he would sometimes beguile the time with innocuous half-crown punting between sessions at the snooker table. He stayed there until after the result of the last race was through on the tape, and then took a taxi to his flat in Maida Vale to dress for an evening’s diversion.

Feminine visitors of the synthetic blonde variety were never rare at his apartment; but they usually came by invitation, and when they were not invited the call generally foreboded unpleasant news. The girl who stood on Mr. Lesbon’s doorstep this evening, with the air of having waited there for a long time, was an exception. Mr. Lesbon’s sensitive conscience cleared when he saw her face.

“May I-may I speak to you for a minute?”

Mr. Lesbon hesitated fractionally. Then he smiled-which did not make him more beautiful.

“Yes, of course. Come in.”

He fitted his key in the lock, and led the way through to his sitting-room. Shedding his hat and gloves, he inspected the girl more closely. She was tall and straight as a sapling, with an easy grace of carriage that was not lost on him. Her face was one of the loveliest he had ever seen; and his practised eye told him that the cornfield gold of her hair owed nothing to artifice.

“What is it, my dear?”

“It’s … Oh, I don’t know how to begin! I’ve got no right to come and see you, Mr. Lesbon, but-there wasn’t any other way.”

“Won’t you sit down?”

One of Mr. Lesbon’s few illusions was that women loved him for himself. He was a devotee of the more glutinous productions of the cinema, and he prided himself on his polished technique.

He offered her a cigarette, and sat on the arm of her chair.

“Tell me what’s the trouble, and I’ll see what we can do about it.”

“Well-you see-it’s my brother … I’m afraid he’s rather young and-well, silly. He’s been backing horses. He’s lost a lot of money, ever so much more than he can pay. You must know how easy it is. Putting on more and more to try and make up for his losses, and still losing… . Well, he works in a bank; and his bookmaker’s threatened to write to the manager if he doesn’t pay up. Of course Derek would lose his job at once …..”

Mr. Lesbon sighed.

“Dear me!” he said.

“Oh, I’m not trying to ask for money! Don’t think that. I shouldn’t be such a fool. But-well, Derek’s made a friend of a man who’s a trainer. His name’s Farrell-I’ve met him, and I think he’s quite straight. He’s tried to make Derek give up betting, but it wasn’t any good. However, he’s got a horse in his stable called Hill Billy-I don’t know anything about horses, but apparently Farrell said Hill Billy would be a certainty tomorrow if your horse didn’t win. He advised Derek to do something about it-clear his losses and give it up for good.” The girl twisted her handkerchief nervously. “He said- please don’t think I’m being rude, Mr. Lesbon, but I’m just trying to be honest-he said you didn’t always want to win- and-and-perhaps if I came and saw you-“

She looked up at Rickaway’s owner with liquid eyes, her lower lip trembling a little. Mr. Lesbon’s breath came a shade faster.