Gamblers Don't Win (2 page)

Lennox watched as they broke from the gate, picked them up with his glasses as they hit the first turn and followed Spurck's entry, his brows drawing into a scowl. The boy had taken the horse wide going into the back stretch and had dropped from third to fifth, holding him there, the four leaders drawing away ever so slightly.

There was nothing in the ride that the judges could call, but Lennox knew that the kid wasn't trying, that he was holding the horse out of it until too late. They came around the far turn; the field strung along the fence, and thundered into the stretch, with Spurck's horse on the extreme outside. He had no chance, and the boy was driving him now to finish a badly beaten fifth.

Lennox slid his glasses into the case and, turning, stared towards Spurck's box. He saw the producer slumped in his chair, disappointment showing on his heavy features. The boys were weighing in, the official sign went up, and the horses were being led towards the barns. Lennox glanced at his program. Spurck had another horse in the seventh, a good plater that he had picked up in Kentucky.

The horse had a good chance to win, should be at least second favorite. Lennox knew Spurck's orders, had heard the producer tell the trainer that he wanted to win today if possible. Bill's mouth set grimly as he waited. It was grimmer yet as Spurck's horse finished a bad seventh.

Without going near the producer's box, he went out to the parking place and got a cab. It dropped him downtown, and he went directly to the hotel where the rider was staying. He'd been seated in the lobby twenty minutes when he saw the boy come in and go to the desk for his key. Bill crossed to the elevators and rode up in the same car with the jockey, followed him down the hall and waited until he unlocked the door, then crowded into the room after him and shut the door.

The boy stared at him with startled eyes. “Say, what's the idea?” He looked young, very small. Lennox judged that he weighed about ninety pounds. Bill stood there, staring at him for a moment, and a flush of anger crept up into the jockey's cheeks. “I asked you what the big idea was?”

Lennox said, softly, “I'm a friend of Spurck's. I don't like the way you ride his horses.”

The color faded from the boy's cheeks, but he tried to bluster. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Sure you do.” Something that Pop Henry had told him in New Orleans five years before came to Lennox's mind. Pop had been a good trainer, and he'd developed good riders. “Most of them are kids,” Pop had said. “You can't talk to them, but you can use a bat on them. Whale hell out of them. That's the way.”

The boy was staring at Lennox, his fingers twisting nervously. “What right have you to crash in here and talk this way? You ain't got a thing on me.” He sounded nervous, ill at ease.

Lennox smiled coldly. “Listen, Kid. Spurck doesn't know anything about racing, about horses. He got stung plenty when he bought them, but he did get some good horses. That gelding in the fifth could have come close to winning with a decent ride. He didn't get it and I'm up here, asking you why. I know that Spurck would make a swell front for a gambling stable. He'd never know what was going on, and if there was a blow-off, he'd be the goat. He'd probably be ruled off every track in the country. Not that that would matter, but it wouldn't be the kind of publicity he'd want.
He
may be dumb when it comes to racing, but
I
know what it's all about. Get this: I'm watching you from now on, and if you pull another horse, I'll make it my business to see that you don't ride again on any association track in the country. Do you get me?”

It was clear that the boy understood. His lips worked, and there was fear in his dark eyes. “Who are you?”

Bill said: “My name is Lennox. If you kids think you can pull a fast one on Spurck, think again.”

He opened the door and, stepping backward into the hall, closed it behind him. As he rode down in the elevator he thought it over. The obvious thing was to go to Spurck, to get the producer to change riders. But would it do any good to change jockeys? It might be a jockey ring, banded together for betting purposes. If so, the track officials would break it up in time, but Spurck's reputation might suffer, and Lennox did not want that.

He had an affection for the little producer, one that he refused to admit even to himself. He decided to wait and see what happened. He left the hotel, got a cab, and drove to his apartment He'd hardly reached it when the phone on the night stand beside the bed shrilled.

A voice said, “Is this Mr. Lennox, the man who was talking to Frank Jarney half an hour ago?”

Bill said, “Yes.” The jockey's name was Jarney, but he wondered—

The voice said, hurriedly, “Please, Mr. Lennox. This is Frank Jarney. Will you do me a favor? Will you ask Mr. Spurck to get another boy?”

Lennox swore with surprise. “Will I—Say, what is this? You aren't under contract to Spurck. You don't have to accept mounts from him unless you want to, do you? Refuse to ride for him if you don't want to; but I'm warning you. If you do ride, ride to win.”

“But I'm afraid to refuse, I—” Suddenly there was a click at the other end of the wire. For a moment Lennox stared at the silent phone, then with a shrug he hung up. He turned away and pulled off his coat, wondering what the boy was afraid of. Maybe it was a gag, an out, an excuse for pulling Spurck's horses. His mouth set as he went into the bathroom and put a fresh blade into his razor. If the kid thought he could pull another horse and get away with it, he'd better think again.

I
T
was almost twelve-thirty that night when Lennox returned to his apartment hotel, entered the lobby and started across towards the elevator. The night clerk's voice stopped him as he passed the desk. “Oh, Mr. Lennox!”

Bill stopped, turned. “What is it, Tom?”

The clerk said: “Some girl's been calling you every half hour since nine o'clock. She left a number, wants you to call as soon as you came in.”

Lennox glanced at the clock behind the desk. “It's pretty late.”

The clerk said: “She wanted you to call no matter how late it was. I think it's important. She sounded very worried. The number is Rochester 50845.”

“Didn't she leave a name?”

The clerk shook his head. “She didn't, but she seemed terribly anxious to reach you.”

Lennox hesitated, still looking at the clock. “Okey! Ring it for me, will you? I'll take it in the booth.” He turned and, crossing the lobby, entered the telephone booth.

A woman's voice said, “Yes?” inquiringly.

“This is Bill Lennox,” he told her. “Someone from this number left a call for me.”

“Oh, Mr. Lennox,” relief flooded the voice. “This is Betty Donovan. I don't suppose you remember me?”

He said, “Donovan, Donovan?” over to himself. “I'm afraid I don't.”

“I'm Bert's sister.”

“Oh.” He remembered her then, a fourteen-year-old kid with long black curls and a pretty Irish face. “How are you?”

She said: “I hate to bother you, but I've got to see you at once. It's frightfully important.”

“Can't it wait until morning?”

“I'm afraid to wait. Won't you please meet me tonight?”

He said: “Okey. Where are you?” He was tired, very tired, and he had a hard day coming up, but he couldn't refuse Bert Donovan's sister.

She said: “I don't want you to come here. I'll meet you any place you say. A public restaurant would be best, I think.”

He hesitated for a moment, then named one on the Boulevard. “Know where that is?”

She said: “I'll take a cab. I'll meet you there in half an hour,” and hung up.

Lennox left the booth, lighted a cigarette, and stood for a moment, thinking it over. He hadn't seen Bert Donovan for six years, hadn't heard of him for three. He wondered what the girl was doing in Hollywood, hoped that she hadn't come out here with an idea of getting into pictures. Too many did that, too many with pretty faces and no ability.

“Better call me a cab, Tom,” he said finally, and went out to meet it. The cab took him across to the Boulevard and turned west. It was cold, with a chilling wind blowing directly from the ocean. It would probably rain before morning, he thought, as he stepped from the cab before the restaurant, paid the driver, and went in.

A man at the bar spoke to him and Bill nodded in return, without stopping. He went towards the back of the long room, passed the screen which separated the beer bar from the tables at the rear, and looked around. He had no idea that he would recognize her. She'd probably changed in six years. Six years, that would make her about twenty, no, nearer twenty-one.

The room was not crowded. An orchestra on a raised platform played fitfully, and there were perhaps fifty people at the tables clustered about the small dance-floor. Lennox nodded as one of the proprietors, an ex-picture heavy, came up to him. “How's things, Fred?”

The man said: “Not good, not bad.” His face was flat, with a broken nose and bushy eyebrows. He grinned and led Lennox towards one of the leather-upholstered wall booths. “Alone?”

Bill said: “I'm meeting a girl here. She'll probably ask for me.”

The man nodded and moved away as a waiter came forward. Lennox ordered beer, took a long pull at the glass, and looked around. A leading comedian was at a corner table with four women. Lennox knew that he was a little drunk, that he was always a little drunk; but, drunk or sober, he was funny, and Bill grinned in spite of himself as the man raised a hand in salute. Then someone touched his shoulder and he came to his feet to see a dark-haired girl facing him.

She wore a suit of heavy tweed, fur trimmed, with a little hat that perched above one ear. There was something about her that spoke of assurance, capability and of a seriousness that wasn't lost even when she smiled. “Bill Lennox. I'd have known you anywhere.”

He smiled and pulled the table aside so that she could enter the booth. “I should say the same, Betty, but it wouldn't be true. Still, you do look like Bert.”

Color stained her cheeks slightly and was gone. Lennox said: “How is Bert?”

Her eyes widened. “Didn't you know? He was killed in an automobile accident two years ago.”

Lennox swore to himself. “I'm sorry, Kid. He was a swell pal.”

“It means a lot to hear you say that,” she told him. “Bert liked you.”

“And what happened to the stable?” Lennox asked, when he had finished ordering beer for her, and sandwiches.

“I'm running it.” Her lips twisted slightly. “I've got eight horses out here. Al Hinds is training for me. Remember him?”

Lennox nodded. “Not very clearly, but he was tall and thin, without much hair.”

She said, “Right,” and was silent while the waiter served the orders, then her face got serious. “Listen, Bill! I'm going to ask you a favor. I've no right to ask it, except that I know you thought a lot of my brother, and this is pretty important to me. I talked to Frank Jarney tonight. I want to ask you to leave him alone.”

Lennox stiffened. “You talked to Jarney? What did he have to say?”

She was twisting her glass in her fingers, making wet rings on the bare table top. “Only that you threatened him.”

Lennox's smile held no mirth. “I'd hardly call it a threat. I told him that he wasn't riding Spurck's horses the way they should be ridden, and that if he didn't change, I'd do something about it.”

She said, tensely: “He's riding to orders.”

Lennox stared at her. “Not Spurck's orders?”

She shook her head slowly. “No—”

“Then whose?”

“I don't know.”

“Now, listen.” Lennox was leaning across the table, his voice so low that it barely reached her ears. “Spurck bought that stable against my advice. It's not his game. He doesn't know a thing about it, and he got hooked plenty on the purchase, but I'm not going to have a bunch of cheap gamblers run his horses out of the money until they get a price built up and then win with them. I don't know who's giving Jarney orders, but I do know that if he tries any more funny business, I'll have him put on the ground and he'll stay there the rest of his life. I'll see that he never gets a leg up on another horse.”

H
ER
face had a white, pinched look. “Listen, Bill, I'm asking you this, not because you were a friend of Bert's, but because I need help. If Frank were to listen to you, he wouldn't live twenty-four hours. He's got to ride according to orders, not only on Spurck's horses, but on others, and I'm telling you this; he's not the only rider that's taking orders. There are others, not because they want to, but because they're afraid not to.”

Lennox stared at her. “You've either said too much, Kid, or not enough. Who's giving these orders?” he asked again.