’Phone again.
“Hello! Hello!” Whatever Joe’s private simplicities he was magnificent upon the ’phone. He had improved. He was sonorous, breezy, classy — as the occasion demanded. He did not murder King’s English now, except to register extreme affability. He lolled back, grinning, not business this time, just the little lady from the pay box of the Picturedrome giving him a tinkle before her boss came down:
“Hello, Minnie, uh-huh, who did you think it was — Chinglung-soo? Ha! Ha! Oh, you’re barmy, Minnie! What! For the three o’clock… or any race? Hellup, Minnie, what d’ye think I am… Dr. Barnado’s Homes? Expect me to give away state secrets for nowt — I mean nothing. Not on your sweet little Pearl White life, Minnie! I told you before… What!…” His mouth open, gloating suddenly, Joe listened. “Well, that’s different, Minnie, didn’t I always say I would, Minnie? It was you that got up in the air about it. Why, yes, Minnie… if you’ve changed your mind I think I can put you on a cert.” Swelling with elation, Joe kept his tone calm, persuasive, flattering. “You leave it to me, Minnie. Why yes, a cert… I always said you had it in you, Minnie. I’ll do something for you if you do something for me, that’s our motto, eh, Minnie? But listen, if you think you can slip it across me you’re… oh, all right, Minnie. I was only thinking. Eleven o’clock then, outside the Drome, you bet your garters I’ll be there. I’ll bring your winnings!”
Joe rang off exultantly. He’d always said, hadn’t he, that that was the way to do it… like in the school book, make the mountain come to Mahommey. His chest swelled. He wanted to get up and dance, do a cake-walk up and down the office. But no, he was beyond that now, a man of the world, cool, up to a thing or two. He composed himself, rested his toothpick in his waistcoat pocket, expertly lit a cigarette and got down to work.
First he took out all the morning’s slips. He considered each slip expertly, scrutinised and weighed it before he passed it. In the end he had two heaps: one large heap of likely bets and another consisting of three slips, all of which, barring three separate and individual miracles, he knew for certain losers. Tracey, for instance, had three pounds — the biggest plunge he’d ever had — on Hydrangea, an old tubed pacemaker of a horse that wasn’t even trying. Joe smiled slightly for the witless Tracy, as he did a mental calculation — no head for figgers, eh? — tore Tracy’s slip into tiny fragments. Fulbrook and Sweet Orb were on the other slips — he tore these up also. Still smiling he looked at the clock: half-past one, no more coming in. Genially, he picked up the ’phone, chaffed the operator a bit, got through to Tynecastle, a few miles down the wire.
“Hello, that Dick Jobey! This is Joe, Dick. Not a bad day. Ha! Ha! That’s right, Dick. Are you ready, right, Dick, off we go”… Joe began to read out the undestroyed slips. He read them out smartly, clearly, rather sonorously. He finished. “Yes, that’s all, Dick. What? Am I sure? You bet I am, Dick. Ever know me to make a mistake? Yes, that is the lot, Dick. Yes. So-long. See you Saturday.”
Joe smacked down the receiver heartily, rose, winked at the lady in tights, cocked his hat, locked the office and went out. He crossed the bustling street to the Fountain, went through the bar, nodding here, there, everywhere. They all knew him… him… Joe Gowlan… commission agent… Big Joe Gowlan…
He had a beefsteak, a large thick juicy beefsteak, cooked red, the way he liked it with onions, chips and a pint of three X. He enjoyed every bit of the beef, every drop of the bitter. A rare capacity for enjoyment had Joe. Then he had a lump of Stilton and a roll. Good, that Stilton was… by God, it was good… what had he known about Stilton a couple of years ago? …he was going up, up, up in the world… him… Joe Gowlan.
The afternoon was more or less his own. He had a chat with Preston, Jack Preston the landlord of the Fountain… nice fella Jack was. Then he strolled down to Markey’s and played a couple of games of snooker. Tracy was not there, funny Tracy not being there, but never mind, Tracy’s three quid was safe and sound in Joe’s inside pocket.
After the snooker Joe rolled over to Young Curley’s gymnasium. Joe was a regular patron of Young Curley — a fella couldn’t do nothing if he wasn’t fit! Couldn’t enjoy himself neither! Now could he? A little of everything in its right place, thought Joe blandly, remembering eleven o’clock and Minnie.
In the gym Joe stripped his beefy twelve stone, did a turn on the bars, shadow boxed, then sparred three rounds easy with Curley himself. He sweated beautifully, then got into the bath, soaked long and hot. After that a needle shower and a hard rub down. Curley didn’t rub him hard enough.
“Harder, man, harder,” Joe urged, “what d’ye think I pay you for?” He was the boss, wasn’t he? and he had to take it out of Curley somehow. Curley had caught him too loud a wallop on the ear that last third round. Pink and glowing, Joe slid off the table like a big smooth seal. He padded to his cubicle, dressed carefully, threw Curley half a crown and sauntered out.
Five o’clock — just right for the office. On the way back to the Square he bought a late special, inspected the stop-press with a confident untroubled eye. As he had expected, Hydrangea nowhere, Fulbrook fourth in a field of six, Sweet Orb also ran. Joe gave no sign, only the mugs did that, perhaps there was a shade more swagger in his walk as he crossed the street and let himself into the office.
At his desk Joe went through the day’s accounts, picked up the telephone and rang Tynecastle.
“Hello! Dick Jobey there? Hello… what?… Mr. Jobey left early… oh, all right, I’ll ring again in the morning.”
So Dick had left early; well, no wonder, thought Joe pleasantly, Dick couldn’t have had none too good a day. He rose, whistling, straightening his tie. Then the door opened and Dick Jobey walked into the room.
“Why, he-lo, Dick, this is great…. I didn’t expect you here…”
“Shut up, Gowlan. And sit down.” Quiet and unsmiling, Dick Jobey indicated the chair.
Joe’s jaw dropped:
“But, Dick, ole man…” Then Joe went a sickly green. Behind Dick Jobey, young Tracy came in, and behind Tracy an extremely large red-faced man with shoulders like the side of a house and a hard unpleasant eye. The large man shut the door and leant carefully against it. Young Tracy, looking a little less like a mug, put a woodbine in his mouth and gazed without pity upon Joe.
“Gowlan,” Jobey said, “you’re a dirty rotten rigger.”
“What!” Joe gathered himself together, made an agonised effort to carry off a bluff. “Half a chance, Dick. What are you talking about? I’ve just rung you up at Tynecastle a minute ago trying to get you to tell you I’d forgotten to put through Hydrangea. His bet…” He indicated Tracy and went on with growing indignation, “Honest to God, Dick, I did forget and I rang you up the minute I remembered.”
“Shut up, Gowlan. It isn’t only to-day you’ve cribbed me. For a month Tracy has been punting with you. He’s lost thirty-five pounds and I haven’t had a penny of it.”