Hard Pressed Part 21

"What else have you in your mind?" he asked.

"Oh, business, of course. About the Blenheim colt? I am taking it for granted that you will scratch him. I don't see very well how you can back out. I have made the arrangements with Absalom & Co., and as they have withdrawn their action they will expect you to do your part. Now what do you say to letting the colt have a run in the Champion Stakes next week at Mirst Park? I thought it would be a very good way of getting out. To begin with, the public will be glad to see whether or not their fears are justified, and if the horse cuts up badly, why, then, you can scratch him at once. It would appear absolutely fair and above board; in fact, it will be. Or, if you like, you can let it be understood that the horse is not quite fit and that you still have hopes of getting him in fettle for the Derby. Either seems a good scheme."

"I see," Sir George said thoughtfully. "Yes, on the whole, that isn't a bad idea of yours. I shall be glad to get it over, too. I hadn't the slightest intention of sending the colt to Mirst Park, but Raffle reports that he is much fitter to-day, so that there is no reason why I should not adopt your suggestion. There is the chance that people will blame me for taking the risk, but, at the outside, that will be the worst of it. I will talk it over with Raffle in the morning, and let you know definitely."

Shortly after breakfast next morning Mallow came into the library to hear what his employer had to say. The trainer would hardly believe his ears when Sir George unfolded his plan. He had a score of practical objections to make, but Haredale put them all impatiently aside.

"Does the colt belong to you or to me?" he asked. "I have the very best of reasons for what I am going to do. It has always been my policy to take the public into my confidence. I want them to see at Mirst Park exactly what the horse can do. If they like to go on backing him after that it will be their own look-out."

"But that isn't the point, Sir George," Mallow insisted. "The colt is coming on splendidly again. It would be madness to extend him just now, and if he breaks down badly, don't blame me. I'll do my best between now and the day of the race, not because I want to, but because you are my employer and I must obey orders."

Mallow refused to say more. He closed his mouth obstinately and went back to the stables in a peculiar frame of mind. He had had twenty years of turf experience. There was no cunning wile or deep-laid plot that was not familiar to him and he was wondering what dodge Sir George was up to. Hitherto he had found Sir George Haredale the soul of honour and integrity, but it was one of Mallow's theories that every man had his limits. Besides, no one knew better how critical Sir George's financial affairs were. Of late, too, Sir George had been hand in glove with Raymond Copley, and Mallow hated Copley from the bottom of his heart. In his own phraseology, Copley was a wrong 'un.

Raffle was past all words when, in the fullness of his heart. Mallow confided in him. Raffle was a keen judge of such matters. He sought an opportunity later in the afternoon of seeing Fielden and telling him what had happened.

"Is Sir George mad?" Fielden asked.

"I don't think so, sir," Raffle replied. "I don't like it at all. Depend upon it, Sir George has got into a mess over his money matters and has thought out some scheme for putting himself right. Call me a fool if that there Copley isn't at the bottom of the whole thing. He and Sir George have been as thick as thieves lately. They say you can't touch pitch without being defiled. And since those two have been so friendly, Sir George is quite another man. However, unless you like to interfere, I must act upon instructions. I am bound to do as I am told."

"How could I interfere?" Fielden asked.

"Well, sir, the colt rightfully belongs to you. He is as much yours as the coat on your back. I can't see why you should stand quietly by and watch the ruin of one of the finest horses that ever trod the turf."

"I had forgotten that," Fielden said. "Perhaps, later, I may have something to say, but for the present that must be our secret, Joe.

Mallow must carry out his instructions. By the way, what are they?"

Something like a grin crossed Raffle's face.

"Oh, we've got to run him, sir," he said. "We've got to run him and do our best. That there is the faintest chance of his winning Sir George does not believe for a moment. Still, if you refuse to take a hand, I must do as I am told, that's all. Perhaps you will be at Mirst Park yourself on the first day."

"Of course. I am taking one or two of our crocks there. But I must be off, Joe."

The conversation haunted Fielden. It was with him night and day till the first day of the Mirst Park meeting arrived. He had seen little or nothing of Phillips for some time, but that morning he had received a telegram asking him to meet Phillips in London early in the afternoon.

He gathered from the message that Phillips had something important to say and so he decided to go to town. It would be easy to get back in time to see the end of the afternoon's sport. None of the Haredale Park party was over. Nor had Copley put in an appearance, and Fielden had his time almost to himself. He ran against Raffle in the paddock half an hour or so before the race for the Champion Stakes. There was a queer grin on the old man's face as he suggested that Fielden should go and have a look at the horse. They found the Blenheim colt in his stable looking in much better condition than Fielden had expected.

"He looks splendid," he said.

"Ah, he is a bonny colt," Raffle exclaimed with a look of affection in his eyes. "I never saw a better-tempered horse or a more genuine trier.

He'll go every inch of the way, and I shouldn't be surprised if--but we won't talk about that."

Raffle refused to say more. Moreover, he had the colt to look to, for the race was close at hand; so Fielden made his way into the stand, where he could command a good view. Not that he had any interest in the race. It was a foregone conclusion that the Blenheim colt would be beaten and in only one or two instances did he carry any public money. A moment or two later Raffle took up a position by Fielden's side.

"The colt moves well," said Fielden, looking through his gla.s.ses, "and I don't see much signs of staleness, either. Upon my word, if I had any money to spare I'd back him for a trifle myself."

"You might do worse," Raffle chuckled.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

THE FIVE BASKETS

There was the usual roar from the ring which began to die down as the horses were seen fidgeting at the post. Then a murmur arose from the spectators, and the dancing kaleidoscope of colours broke into a thin stream as the field got away to a capital start. They came along all in a cl.u.s.ter round the bend of the course till, presently, there was a hoa.r.s.e shout from the onlookers and the name of the Blenheim colt was on every lip. The horse hung for a moment or two coming up the straight, then seemed to recover himself and, moving along with a beautifully free and easy stride, caught the leaders a dozen lengths from home and slipped past the post a winner by a short head.

"What did I tell you?" Raffle chuckled. "Well, they can't blame me. I was told by Sir George to do the best I could with the horse and I carried out my instructions to the letter. No, sir, I didn't back him myself. I wasn't quite sure. Besides, Sir George wouldn't have liked it.

Between you and me, sir, I don't think he'll be altogether pleased."

Fielden asked no questions. Whatever suspicions Raffle had he kept to himself. Fielden glanced at his watch and saw he would just have time to catch a train to town and join Phillips at the rendezvous in Covent Garden. He hurried away from the course and caught his train by sheer good luck.

He wasn't at all easy in his mind. He was inclined to agree with Raffle that there was more than met the eye in this affair and that Sir George had little consideration for the public when he decided to run the colt at Mirst Park. On the face of it, it was a mad thing to do and the fact that the horse had won rendered Sir George's policy all the more inexplicable. There was something sinister, too, in the close friends.h.i.+p which had sprung up between Haredale and Copley. That Copley was an unscrupulous blackguard Fielden knew very well. Possibly this knowledge was not shared by Sir George, but there was no getting over the fact that Haredale's money matters were in a critical state. Better men than Sir George had yielded to temptation.

Fielden was still debating the matter when he reached town. He turned up at the hotel in Covent Garden where Phillips was awaiting him, it wanting then just ten minutes to three. Phillips was relieved when Fielden came in.

"I thought you were going to fail me," he said. "I began to think that you had missed your train."

"I very nearly lost it," Fielden laughed. "But why do you want me?"

"We shall see that in good time, sir," Phillips said. "In about ten minutes from now we shall begin operations. There is just time to smoke a cigarette before we start. What is the best news from Mirst Park? I haven't seen a paper yet. Was the Blenheim colt beaten very disgracefully?"

"He wasn't beaten at all," Fielden said. "In fact, he won with considerable ease. There was very little trace of staleness about him.

But it is early to talk about that. We must wait and see what old Raffle says to-morrow. I should not be surprised if the colt has done himself some serious injury to-day."

Phillips burst into a hearty laugh.

"What a joke!" he cried. "And what a sell it will be for Sir George! Oh, I know a thing or two, Mr. Fielden. I haven't been moving about with my eyes shut lately. It is very good of your old friend to pull out his horse in public, for the benefit of backers generally, but the man who will be most surprised and most disappointed at the result of to-day's race will be Sir George himself. If there is another man madder than Sir George it will be that scoundrel Copley."

"What do you mean?" Fielden asked.

"Never mind, sir. The least said soonest mended. But if I had ten thousand pounds I'd cheerfully back my opinion to the last penny that Sir George never hoped for and never expected a victory for the colt.

I'll explain all in very good time. Now the sooner we are off the better. We are going to meet a gentleman named Chaffey whom I expect to see in a few minutes not very far from the Post Club on the other side of the street. You remember telling me how Chaffey turned up at Seton Manor, and what he said when he was drunk. I am glad you overheard that, because it solved a point that has been puzzling me for some time. I couldn't for the life of me make out how it was that Jolly & Co. managed to signal the result of the three o'clock race at Mirst Park into the smoking-room of the Post Club. I doubt if I ever should have found out had not Chaffey gone down to Seton Manor and hinted that if he couldn't get what he wanted somebody else might have his job of playing with the fruit baskets in Covent Garden. I saw at once that this was connected with the swindle, but for the life of me I couldn't place it. After thinking over it for the best part of a week, I took a stroll through Covent Garden market and finally stood in front of the Post Club trying to piece the puzzle together in my mind. There were a good many men about loading and unloading baskets, and I saw that most of them carried them on their heads. Why, some of these porters can carry as many as eight or nine bushel baskets on their heads. While I stood watching them an idea flashed into my mind. Look at this copy of to-day's _Sportsman_. Turn to the probable starters in the three o'clock race, and you will see for yourself that there is a number by the side of every horse. Now most racing men carry a _Sportsman_. There would be nothing suspicious in a backer pulling the _Sportsman_ out of his pocket and consulting it at any moment. He might do it in a railway carriage, or on the course, or in a smoking-room, and it wouldn't attract any attention. Unless I am greatly mistaken, I have found the clue to the means by which Copley & Co.'s confederate has the result of a race at Mirst Park conveyed to him into the smoking-room of the Post Club practically before the horses are past the post. Then, of course, he can make what bets he likes. He is perfectly safe, because he can't lose.

But, come along, it is past three and I don't want to lose this chance of verifying my conclusions. Only we must be careful. We must not rouse Chaffey's suspicions. He must not know that we are even watching him.

Close to the Post Club there is a shop where we can procure some cigars and cigarettes and keep our eye upon what is going on. Are you ready?"

Fielden was ready and willing, for his curiosity was aflame. When he and his companion reached Covent Garden, they turned into a cigar shop in the same block of buildings in which the Post Club was situated. A good many customers had to be attended to, so that it was excusable to stand inside the door way and watch what was taking place on the other side of the road.

The market was practically empty. Business had been finished for the day, and there were only two or three casual porters loafing about waiting on the off-chance for an hour's work. One of them standing by a pile of baskets with hands plunged deeply in his pockets and a pipe in his mouth was Chaffey.

"No mistake about him?" Phillips asked.

"That's the man," Fielden whispered. "I could swear to that expression of his anywhere. But what is he doing there? He doesn't seem to be particularly busy."

"He is getting well paid for his job, anyway," Phillips chuckled. "As it is not likely to last long he'll be gone in a few moments. Have you the right time about you? What do you make it? Five minutes past three by post office time? The result ought to be here at any moment. Ah, I thought so. Just keep your eye closely upon Chaffey."

In his excitement Phillips bent over and grasped his companion's arm.

Fielden saw Chaffey suddenly pull himself up and moisten his hands. He touched his ragged cap as if in response to a distant call, then he proceeded to fling five baskets one on the top of the other and balance them on his head. With this pyramid thus arranged he walked slowly across the market and disappeared down one of the corridors, where he was lost to sight.

"What on earth does it mean?" Fielden asked.