There were hundreds of small bookmakers in London, but only three major houses. Of these, Jackie Spratt’s was a law unto itself. The others were wholly reputable and trustworthy, despite rumours that they would ‘fix’ this fight or that race. It wasn’t simply that bookmakers were as honest as any other businessmen; it was that they were particularly vulnerable to any rumours of dishonesty or fixing. The police knew this as well as anybody, and since the new Gaming Act had come into force and betting was easier to conduct legally, a camaraderie had been built up between the police and the bookmakers as individuals, as well as through their main association.
On that particular evening, while Gideon was sitting in his Fulham garden, trying to get cool, and Martha Triggett had cancelled a Charm School session because it was so hot, two of the Big Three bookmakers sat on the terrace of the Royal Automobile Club, drinking cold beer.
One, Sir Arthur Filby, was tall, handsome, grey-haired and aristocratic in appearance. The other, Archibald Smith, looked the prototype of the typical musical comedy bookmaker-big, overweight, red-faced and with a neck so thick that there were always two rolls of fat at the back, lurking above his invariably over-loud, over-check suit. His grey hair was cut so short that at a distance he appeared almost bald; at close quarters, it bristled.
“We had an odd one in, today,” he remarked, owlishly.
“Concerned with what?” asked Filby.
“Barnaby Rudge.”
“The tennis chap, you mean?”
“The darkie,” Smith nodded, “from Alabama.”
“What’s so odd about him?” Filby queried, blankly.
“Didn’t say odd about him, old boy! An odd one about him. Ten thousand pounds on any odds the chap could get, that Rudge will win Wimbledon.”
“Take it!” urged Filby, promptly. “He hasn’t an earthly. Even at a hundred to one, you’d pick up ten thou. Want to hedge some of it?”
“I want to know more about it.” Smith’s deep-set, periwinkle-blue eyes had a speculative glint. “I checked around a bit. No one else has been approached. The general feeling was a hundred to one others — and he’s one of them!”
“Humph,” ejaculated Filby.
“And if he won,” Smith pointed out, “someone would be a million down!”
Filby sat up, contemplated his glass as if suspicious of its cleanliness, and then looked hard at Smith.
“I see what you mean,” he said. “Impossible.”
“A pony,” Smith shrugged. “Even a hundred. Possibly a thousand quid — I could understand anyone putting it on as a long shot. But ten thousand! That isn’t chicken-feed, even to a millionaire.”
Filby sipped, stared moodily at his glass, tossed the drink down and raised a hand for a waiter.
“Who’s behind it?” he asked.
“I’ve no idea.”
“No name? Same again, by the way?”
“Ta. I can manage one more.”
Filby raised two fingers and as the waiter turned and went off, he echoed: “No idea?”‘
“Oh, I know who wants to put the money up.”
“Cash?”
“You’re not very bright tonight, old boy!” Smith protested. “You don’t think anyone would be expected to take that on credit, do you?”
“I must be drinking too much,” Filby murmured. “But really! Who wants to risk his ten thou?”
“A man named Lous Willison. An American.”
“What’s he do?”
“He’s a builder.”
“From Alabama?”
“Not bad,” Smith shot Filby a glance that was half-wondering, half-amused. “Yes — Alabama and Georgia.”
“Is he in a big way?”
“As a builder, I don’t know. I checked with the American Consulate, Trade Division — said I was contemplating putting up a factory there and I’d been recommended to use Willison. They gave him a perfectly good reference but said he wasn’t a very big operator.”
“Black or white?”
“What do you mean?” Smith asked, then suddenly saw the implication and said shortly, his voice hardening: “White. But what difference does that make?”
“Could make a lot,” replied Filby, soothingly. “If there’s a group of negroes who would like to see their man win Wimbledon —” He broke off, choking back a laugh. “Could be they’ve got a bombshell and see Wimbledon as a terrific race symbol?”
“As a matter of fact,” Smith told him, soberly, “it could have a bloody big impact-don’t make any mistake about that. And when you get a good negro athlete-look how nearly Ashe pulled it off! How long ago was that?”
“Last year. The question is, did you take the bet?”
“I stalled.”
“Lay it off with the smaller boys, Archie,” Filby advised, as if tiring of the subject.
“Not yet.” Smith’s mind was obviously quite made up. “First, I want to know if anyone else is putting heavy money on Barnaby Rudge. Barnaby Rudge,” he repeated, in a puzzled way. “Isn’t that name familiar?”
“You could read a chap called Dickens,” Filby said drily. “All right, I’ll keep my antennae out, and pass on any news.” Their drinks had been set down as he spoke and he handed Smith his and then raised his own. “Cheers. How’s the money shaping, on the Derby?”
Smith frowned. “Damn queer about that, too,” he complained. “Something’s up.”
“That’s what my scouts and my books keep telling me.” Filby squinted at his glass, then drank deeply. “And that’s very worrying, Archie — that could really take us. If you ask me . . .”
CHAPTER THREE
The Old Steps
The Old Steps, at Limehouse, was one of the most celebrated and popular public houses in the East End of London, for at least three reasons. It was in Wapping High Street, overlooking the Thames-not far from the Headquarters of the Thames Division of the Metropolitan Police — and a very old, very narrow alley which ran down beside it to steps and a jetty contributed to an ‘atmosphere’ of gas-lit eeriness.
Indeed, by night the approach at least was gas-lit, for the publican retained the gas lamps in the alley and over the doorways. It was a ‘free house’: not tied to a brewery or chain, but independently-owned and so able to dispense every conceivable kind of beer and spirits. What was more, it boasted a pianist: one of the best in London. He was young, but adept in the tradition of the late Victorian and Edwardian ages, and every night was chorus and sing-song night. The pianist, a pale, hunched little man, could play almost any’ tune by ear or from long practice, with the kind of beat which made everyone join in the singing: he himself seemed to put every ounce of energy into his playing.
He was at the piano when Chief Superintendent Lemaitre entered, that evening, to a roar of voices singing: “. . . give me your answer, do!”
Lemaitre began to hum as he pushed his way through the smoke-blue haze towards the saloon bar. No one appeared to take especial notice of his progress, but at least three pairs of eyes turned towards him, half-furtively. Lemaitre was quite aware of it. He looked like an ageing sparrow in his pale brown suit and spotted red and white bow tie; thin-faced, spare-boned, his sparse, dark hair slicked down. Without appearing to notice, he knew that one expert cracksman, one well-known shop-lifter and a man who made his living by stealing fruit from the wholesale markets, was in the saloon. Two were alone, one was with his wife. In a far corner were two detective-sergeants from the Thames Division, and one raised his hand. Lemaitre gave him the thumbs-up sign, and began to hum:
“I’m half-crazy, all for the love of you! . . . Half of light, Joe . . . It won’t be a stylish marriage, I can’t afford a carnage .., My old dutch been in?” he wasn’t expecting his wife, but he wanted the barman and everyone within earshot to think that he was. “. . . upon the seat of a bicycle built for two . . . ! Ta.”
“Ain’t seen her,” grunted the barman.
“Out with her latest and finest, I suppose,” said Lemaitre. “Women!” He tossed down half of the beer. “Cheers.”