Part 12 (1/2)
”Was it?” Phillips asked. ”Well, I confess I didn't find it so.
Yesterday at the time of the three o'clock race I was at the Post Club, and, singular to say, we had the same blinding snowstorm in Covent Garden. Now it surprises you, but from your point of view and mine that snowstorm was the most fortunate thing that could have happened. When I sat smoking my cigar in the Post Club there came to me the inspiration of a lifetime. I seemed to see in a flash exactly what had happened, and soon I shall know to a dead certainty. You must restrain your curiosity for a little longer. You will probably know all about it before you go to bed. Try one of these cigars. They are excellent.”
Fielden had hardly got his cigar aglow before the landlady came in with a telegram, which Phillips opened eagerly. There was a smile of triumph on his face as he handed it to Fielden.
”What do you make of that?” he asked.
”I can make nothing of it,” Fielden said. ”It is a wire to the effect that no important wager was made this afternoon on the three o'clock race at the Post Club, and is signed Carden. I presume that is our stout friend with the florid face and ingratiating manner, who was talking to you this afternoon. But how it helps us I haven't the ghost of an idea.”
Phillips rose and threw his cigar in the fire.
”Come,” he said. ”It is time to start. You haven't much longer to wait.”
CHAPTER XIX
THE EMPTY HOUSE
There was just enough moonlight for Phillips' purpose, but not enough to render his task dangerous. Fielden asked no questions, partly because he deemed it would be useless, and partly because he did not wish to spoil what appeared to have in it the making of a dramatic adventure. His spirits were rising, and he was looking forward keenly to something in the way of enterprise. He and Phillips had been in more than one tight place together, and he had every confidence in his companion.
They made their way along the main street in silence, and came presently to the deserted racecourse. There was very little evidence of the afternoon's sport, nothing but a few partially dismantled tents and booths, and the extraordinary remnants of reeking humanity that always haunt a race meeting.
They went across the heath, and by and by Phillips pulled up in front of the avenue to The Nook.
”This is the place,” he said quietly.
”Oh, is it?” Fielden asked. ”Perhaps you had better tell me before we go farther who lives here.”
”That is precisely what we've come to find out,” Phillips said coolly.
”I've got a pretty shrewd notion, but that isn't good enough for me.
I've told you that there's a gang of clever swindlers in England who have put their heads together to rob the betting ring of an enormous sum of money. Operations began last autumn, but the flat-racing was nearly finished, so that they did not make quite such a haul as they had antic.i.p.ated. Still, they made enough to keep themselves in luxury all the winter and to find the necessary funds for carrying on the campaign in the spring. It is a big combine, and unless something is done to stop it, these people will make colossal fortunes. Mind you, one or two of the large bookmakers have a suspicion, but up to now they haven't been able to prove anything. Indeed, without egotism, I may say they would be powerless without me. I got some vague idea of the scheme three years ago from a man who is now dead. Then when racing began again this year I fancied I could see a trace of the same idea in this business. I knew I was right when I discovered that Copley was operating on a large scale.
I lunched at the Post Club with a member who gave me an introduction to Rickerby, the financial agent. You remember him?”
”I ought to,” Fielden said drily. ”Goodness knows, his firm had enough of my money. But go on.”
”Well, I pumped Rickerby. I don't mind telling you that I went to the Post Club on purpose. He has been pretty hard hit. He believes he has been the victim of a swindle, and he is right, though it was no part of my policy at the time to tell him so. He can't very well refuse to take big bets, even when he feels there is something underhand going on. Only a short time ago he was. .h.i.t for some thousands of pounds by one of the gang, and, moreover, had to pay the money.”
”This sounds very interesting,” Fielden said, ”but what has it to do with our present adventure?”
”Oh, I am coming to that,” Phillips went on quietly. ”You see, these bets are always made in the same way. One of the conspirators, who is actually a member of the Post Club, strolls into the smoking-room some five or six minutes before--well, we'll say before the three o'clock race. He hangs about till the horses are about finis.h.i.+ng and then, in the most casual way in the world, makes a bet. Now, mind you, this bet is booked before the race is finished, as a careful comparison of the time shows. Yet the horse has won, and the man in the smoking-room of the Post Club knows it before the judge has given his decision.”
”Impossible,” Fielden exclaimed.
”I know it seems impossible, and twenty years ago you would have said the telephone was impossible, and people would have scouted the idea of wireless telegraphy. But they both came, like the phonograph and other wonders.”
”Oh, that's all very well,” Fielden smiled. ”But you are not going to ask me to believe that this thing is done by thought-reading or anything of that sort? You won't tell me that this famous member of the Post Club is a clairvoyant who sees the race finished while it is being run?
Because, if that were the case, the favoured person would have no need of a syndicate to help him; he would do it all by himself.”