At that time, Barnaby Rudge was sitting in a high comer seat at the Centre Court, watching the favourite for the Men’s Singles, Bob Lavis, playing an unseeded Russian. There wasn’t a spare inch of space, and the sun shone on white and coloured shirts and dresses, on shielded eyes which moved with the ball, as it hurtled or spun or was lobbed over the net. Except for the burst of applause when a point was scored, there was near-silence, broken only by the voices of the umpire and the linesmen. The match was in its fifth set. The unknown Russian, wearing an eyeshade, was crouching to meet Lavis’ service. If he could break it this time, he might well pull off the sensation of the day.
Lavis’ service was a true cannonball. He stood poised, at match point. The Russian, a dark-skinned man with Mongolian features and black hair matting his legs and his forearms, crouched as if immobile.
Lavis served: Whang! Fourteen thousand pairs of eyes moved with the ball as it struck the far corner. It should have aced his opponent, but with a powerful spring that was a miracle of agility, the Russian reached and returned it.
There was no power in the return, however, and it dropped slightly to the favourite’s right. Lavis moved across and, perhaps in a momentary loss of concentration because he was so sure that this was the end, he struck the ball with the side of his racquet. There was a gasp from the crowd, the ball hit the net near the top, and fell back into his own court. As Lavis stood staring as if he could not believe it, there was a roar of applause.
The Russian, giving no sign that he had even noticed this, calmly crossed to the other side of the court to await the next service and a ball-boy scooped up the ball and scampered off-court again. After what seemed an interminable time lag, the umpire called: “Deuce!”
Lavis wiped his forehead, caught the two balls a boy bounced towards him, and moved across for his next service.
And netted.
He served again, a little more carefully. The ball swerved and as the Russian pounced and struck with almost wild abandon it shot back past Lavis — and smacked into the ground with an inch or two to spare. There was another, louder roar of applause, another delay as the umpire waited for silence, then:
“Advantage, Serov.”
He pronounced it Seer-ov.
Barnaby watched, lynx-eyed, every step, every movement Lavis made, for he still believed Lavis would win. If he did not, there would be others to watch and study, for Serov would never get through to the final — not even the quarterfinals-by this power game alone. He took far too many chances, although on his day would be almost unbeatable.
And now, Lavis let fly with all his strength and skill — and aced Serov, who did not even attempt to return the ball. The applause was terrific, but neither more nor less than that accorded the Russian.
“Deuce!”
Lavis let fly again, with another ace which left Serov standing.
“Advantage, Lavis!” called the umpire: “Match point!”
Lavis put his body and his heart into his next service. The Russian made a prodigious leap and reached the ball, but could not get it back over the net.
“Game, set and match to Lavis.”
The Russian acknowledged the applause, and at last Lavis allowed himself the luxury of a smile. There were the usual end-of-match pleasantries, then the two men walked off together.
Barnaby Rudge was smiling very faintly. Lavis was known to have the finest, fiercest service in the world, and he, Barnaby Rudge, knew that his own was immeasurably superior. Well, he had another game tomorrow: he must go to The Towers and practise.
Lou Willison was at The Towers, but did not go to join Barnaby in the kitchen or the court. He was with a friend who had just come in, and Willison’s baby-face was darkened by a scowl, and by the shock of disappointment.
“I can’t place it, I tell you,” the other man, an Englishman, was saying. “I can get a hundred on, here and there, but no big money.”
“But it’s crazy!” blurted Willison.
“It looks to me as if you tried to put too much on in one bet,” said the other. “It was a mistake.” He tossed back a whisky-and-soda, and went on: “There’s only one firm we haven’t heard from.”
“Who’s that?” Willison asked sharply.
“Jackie Spratt’s.”
“Jackie Spratt’s? But isn’t that one of the biggest?” Willison almost screamed.
“Yes, it is, but—”
“If they’ll take the bets, why do you say you can’t place the money?”
“I never use Spratt’s, if I can help it,” the Englishman explained. He had a long face with long features and a lugubrious expression, rather like a horse, and the similarity was heightened by long hair which drooped over each temple. “I’d put on a couple of hundred at six of their shops.”
“Get the rest on,” urged Willison. “Get as much on as you possibly can!”
That was about the time when John Spratt entered the company’s Putney High Street shop, and went through to the back room. The shop was closed, for the day’s racing was over, but a dozen clerks were still busy, some of them chalking up the Tote prices and other details on huge boards. A woman cleaner, blue-smocked, blue-bonneted, was mopping the synthetic tiles of the floor. The manager, a chunky, middle-aged man with a heavy jowl and unblinking, expressionless eyes, stood up from his desk.
“Good-evening, Mr. John.”
“Hullo, Fred,” John Spratt greeted him, pleasantly. “Is our friend here?”
“Waiting in there.” The manager inclined his head towards a second door.
“Has he said anything?”
“Just says he’s got to see you — it’s very important. And I daresay it is, to him.”
“What do you know about him?”
“He does a lot of leg-work for Archie Smith, I can tell you that. He wouldn’t do that for long, if he weren’t reliable.”
Spratt nodded, and went into the other room.
Sydney Sidey was sitting at a small table with an Evening News spread out in front of him, reading the back page. He pretended not to notice the door open but as it closed, sprang to his feet, letting the newspaper fall. He was painfully thin, gawkish, awkward-looking, with huge hands and feet.
“Good-evening, Mr. Spratt!”
“Hallo, Sidey.” Spratt’s manner was still pleasant, but he went on: “I hope you haven’t wasted my time. I’m a very busy man.”
“Oh, I know you are — I assure you I haven’t!” Sidey spluttered. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Spratt — it’s very important, I promise! I’ve got photographs—” He delved in the inside pocket of his jacket: “I wouldn’t have troubled you, if I hadn’t been sure.”
“That’s good,” Spratt murmured.
“It’s about this American darkie — Barnaby Rudge,” Sidey told him, eagerly. “Honest, Mr. Spratt — I can tell you that that man will win the Men’s Singles this year — and I mean Wimbledon! And I also happen to know that Mr. Smith-Archie Smith, you know — won’t take money on him to win, says he’s not quoted. And I thought —” A cunning glint appeared in his eyes: “I thought it would be worth a pony to you, if I tipped you off not to take any money on this guy. He’s going to win, Mr. Spratt!”
Sidey was fumbling with the photographs, as he talked, haste making him even clumsier than usual.
“I doubt it,” Spratt told him, drily. “What makes you think he will?”
“He’s got a service no one can stand up against-it will absolutely demoralise his opponents, Mr. Spratt! I’ve been watching him, and I’ve seen them all — I’ve seen the very best — but I’ve never seen a service like this one. It’s a rocket, never mind a cannonball! Look.” He had the small prints spread on a table, now-twenty of them, in all — and they showed Barnaby Rudge in all manner of poses. They were cleverly taken at a different point in each service so that they made almost a moving picture, and something of the enormous power of the man suggested itself. Spratt studied them intently, and said at last: “He looks good.”