I went on. 'I, as you know, was set upon by the Marconicar drivers, and a few days later the man with the husky voice rang me up and told me to take heed of the warning I had been given in the horse-box. One doesn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to see that the crooked racing and the Marconicar protection racket were being run by the same man.' I stopped.
'Finish it off, then,' said my father impatiently.
'The only person who would offer a jockey a large sum to lose a race is a crooked bookmaker. If he knows a well-fancied horse is not going to win, he can accept any amount of money on that horse without risk.'
'Enlarge,' said Lodge.
'Normally bookmakers try to balance their books so that whichever horse wins they come out on the winning side,' I said. 'If too many people want to back one horse, they accept the bets, but they back the horse themselves with another bookmaker; then if that horse wins, they collect their winnings from the second bookmaker, and pay it out to their customers. It's a universal system known as laying off. Now suppose you were a crooked bookmaker and Joe Nantwich is to ride a fancied horse. You tip Joe the wink to lose. Then however much is betted with you on that horse, you do no laying off, because you know you won't have to pay out.'
'I would have thought that a hundred pounds would have been more than it was worth,' said Lodge, 'since bookmakers normally make a profit anyway.'
'Your friend wasn't satisfied with the legitimate gains from the taxis,' my father pointed out.
I sighed, and shifted my stiff shoulders against the frame of the window.
'There's a bit more to it, of course,' I said. 'If a bookmaker knows he hasn't got to pay out on a certain horse, he can offer better odds on it. Not enough to be suspicious, but just enough to attract a lot of extra custom. A point better than anyone else would go to – say eleven to four, when the next best offer was five to two. The money would roll in, don't you think?'
I stood up and went towards the door, saying, 'I'll show you something.'
The stairs seemed steeper than usual. I went up to my room and fetched the racing form book and the little bunch of bookmakers' tickets, and shuffled back to the drawing-room. I laid the tickets out on the table in front of Lodge, and my father came over to have a look.
'These,' I explained, 'are some tickets Bill kept for his children to play with. Three of them, as you see, were issued by L. C. Perth, and all the others are from different firms, no two alike. Bill was a methodical man. On the backs of all the tickets he wrote the date, the details of his bet, and the name of the horse he'd put his money on. He used to search around in Tattersall's for the best odds and bet in cash, instead of betting on credit with Tote Investors or one of the bookmakers on the rails – those,' I added for Lodge's benefit, as I could see the question forming on his lips, 'are bookmakers who stand along the railing between Tattersall's and the Club enclosures, writing down bets made by Club members and other people known to them. They send out weekly accounts, win or lose. Bill didn't bet in large amounts, and he thought credit betting wasn't exciting enough.'
Lodge turned over the three Perth tickets.
Bill's loopy writing was clear and unmistakable. I picked up the first ticket, and read aloud,' Peripatetic. 7 November. Ten pounds staked at eleven to ten. So he stood to win eleven pounds for his money.' I opened the detailed form book and turned to 7 November.
'Peripatetic,' I said, 'lost the two mile hurdle at Sandown that day by four lengths. He was ridden by Joe Nantwich. The starting price was eleven to ten on – that is, you have to stake eleven pounds to win ten – and had earlier been as low as eleven to eight on. L. C. Perth must have done a roaring trade at eleven to ten against.'
I picked up the second card and read, 'Sackbut. 10 October. Five pounds staked at six to one.' I opened the form book for that day. 'Sackbut was unplaced at Newbury and Joe Nantwich rode it. The best price generally offered was five to one, and the starting price was seven to two.'
I put the Sackbut ticket back on the table, and read the third card where it lay. 'Malabar. 2 December. Eight pounds staked at fifteen to eight.' I laid the form book beside it, opened at 2 December. 'Malabar finished fourth at Birmingham. Joe Nantwich rode him. The starting price was six to four.'
Lodge and my father silently checked the book with the ticket.
'I looked up all the other cards as well,' I said. 'Of course, as Bill still had the tickets, all the horses lost; but on only one of them did he get better odds than you'd expect. Joe didn't ride it, and I don't think it's significant, because it was an outsider at a hundred to six.'
'I wish the racing fraternity would use only whole numbers and halves,' said Lodge plaintively.
'Haven't you heard,' I asked, 'about the keen gambler who taught his baby son to count? One, six-to-four, two-'
Lodge laughed, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. 'I'll have to write down these figures on the Perth tickets alongside the form book information, and get it straightened out in my mind,' he said, unscrewing his pen and settling to the task.
My father sat down beside him and watched the telltale list grow. I went back to the window seat and waited.
Presently Lodge said, 'I can see why your father misses you as a fraud spotter.' He put his pen back in his pocket.
I smiled and said, 'If you want to read a really blatant fraud, you should look up the Irish racing in that form book. It's fantastic.'
'Not today. This is quite enough to be going on with,' said Lodge, rubbing his hand over his face and pinching his nose between thumb and forefinger.
'All that remains, as far as I'm concerned, is for you to tell us who is organizing the whole thing,' said my father with a touch of mockery, which from long understanding I interpreted as approval.
'That, dear Pa, I fear I cannot do,' I said.
But Lodge said seriously, 'Could it be anyone you know on the racecourse? It must be someone connected with racing. How about Perth, the bookmaker?'
'It could be. I don't know him. His name won't actually be Perth of course. That name was sold with the business. I'll have a bet on with him next time I go racing and see what happens,' I said.
'You will do no such thing,' said my father emphatically, and I felt too listless to argue.
'How about a jockey, or a trainer, or an owner?' asked Lodge.
'You'd better include the Stewards and the National Hunt Committee,' I said, ironically. 'They were almost the first to know I had discovered the wire and was looking into it. The man we are after knew very early on that I was inquisitive. I didn't tell many people I suspected more than an accident, or ask many pointed questions, before that affair in the horse-box.'
'People you know-' said Lodge, musingly. 'How about Gregory?'
'No,' I said.
'Why not? He lives near Brighton, near enough for the Marconicar morning telephone call.'
'He wouldn't risk hurting Bill or Admiral,' I said.
'How can you be sure?' asked Lodge. 'People aren't always what they seem, and murderers are often fond of animals, until they get in the way. One chap I saw at the assizes lately killed a nightwatchman and showed no remorse at all. But when evidence was given that the nightwatchman's dog had had his head bashed in too, the accused burst into tears and said he was sorry.'
'Pathetic,' I said. 'But no dice. It isn't Pete.'
'Faith or evidence?' persisted Lodge.
'Faith,' I said grudgingly, because I was quite sure.
'Jockeys?' suggested Lodge, leaving it.
'None of them strikes me as being the type we're looking for,' I said, 'and I think you're overlooking the fact that racing came second on the programme and may even have been adopted solely because a shaky bookmaking business existed on the floor above the Marconicars. I mean, that in itself may have turned the boss of Marconicars towards racing.'
'You may be right,' admitted Lodge.