11 The Brighter Buccaneer

"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.

"I know Farrell," he said, as quietly as he could. "I had a horse in his stable last year, and he asked me to take it away- just because I didn't always want to win with it. He's changed his principles rather suddenly."

"I-I'm sure he'd never have done it if it wasn't for Derek, Mr. Lesbon. He's really fond of the boy. Derek's awfully nice. He's a bit wild, but ... Well, you see, I'm four years older than he is, and I simply have to look after him. I'd do any­thing for him."

Lesbon cleared his throat.

"Yes, yes, my dear. Naturally." He patted her hand. "I see your predicament. So you want me to lose the race. Well, if Farrell's so fond of Derek, why doesn't he scratch Hill Billy and let the boy win on Rickaway?"

"Because-oh, I suppose I can't help telling you. He said no one ever knew what your horses were going to do, and perhaps you mightn't be wanting to win with Rickaway tomorrow."