The Great Melbourne Cup Mystery Page 10

  Trained to face just such a barrier as this, Olary Boy bounded forward a split second before his rider’s command reached him. In the comparative stillness of that part of the course, the twenty-one human contestants heard above the thudding hoofs the throbbing mighty voice announcing the start.

  Twenty-one equine thoroughbreds, trained to the minute, each a poem of action, each a picture of wonderful beauty, almost in line abreast, running over a green ribbon that sharply divided great areas of colour-specked grey masses of people; massed people strangely silent after that first throbbing note; tens upon tens of thousands of minds, even as Tom Pink was a mind, incapable now of physical feeling, but shot through and through with flashes of spiritual ecstasy.

  And with the fading, the vanishing of physical feeling, so the utter banishment in the sense of time. Time was not—and men were gods.

  ‘Now, now, Olary Boy! Don’t you make the pace for Captain. ’E thinks ’e’s doing fine work, an’ we’ll let ’im think it,’ was Tom Pink’s mental injunction.

  Coming on to the course proper Captain led by a full length from Pieface, who was travelling remarkably well. Black Tulip was half a neck behind Pieface, whilst King’s Lee, Nazi, Dingo Lad and Olary Boy held even honours. The rest of the field pressed close.

  At the Members’ Stand Captain still led by a length—a big horse of stamina and grit Maid of the Moon was slipping back, and Tom edged in nearer the rails.

  There was the judge’s box rushing towards them; now was gone by. Too late to spurt and try to edge on to the rails ahead of Queen Kate, before the first turn was reached, the turn to the long stretch beside the river. Clots of damp turf rose high from the leaders to fall among the ruck.

  To the right the Maribyrnong River; on the left the frozen sea of human faces on the Flat. The fight for position began in earnest, Pieface was dropping back. King’s Lee was battling with Captain for the lead. Black Tulip was edging in front of Olary Boy. A bright bay filly, her nostrils scarlet, was slipping up alongside Olary Boy. Auburn Girl, carrying a light weight, hugged the rails behind Dingo Lad.

  A mile and a quarter to go! What the devil was young Hurley doing to let out Pieface like that? The fool! Did he want to bust the horse with a mile and a quarter yet to go? Look up, Hurley! What in hell—Keep - him - up!

  Pieface had lurched outwards. He staggered. He—no, he wasn’t down. Gee—what a recovery! Hold him, Hurley, hold him! Gawd!

  During two full seconds Pieface made the field appear as though it stood still. Then lightning seemed to strike him. All his strength vanished and he collapsed in a ball which rolled and slithered over the grass with terrific momentum! A short streak of brilliant red shot forward and outward from the brown mass.

  Good! Hurley hadn’t been nipped beneath his horse. Fallen horse and inert jockey were swept behind on the unrolling ribbon of the course.

  ‘Heart failure!’ a jockey screamed.

  Heart failure, be jiggered! Cup runners didn’t drop dead with heart failure. What ruddy rot!

  Blast! He mustn’t let that sort of thing distract this peculiarly floating mind, which was him, Tom Pink, from the one idea, the one purpose. Here was a race when the pace was on all the way, victory resting with the best stayer lying stretched out over two full miles.

  Position was desirable, most desirable, especially before reaching the seven furlongs, but it was pace which would tell, for the horse guided by a rider having miles-deep knowledge of his mount, knowing to the last ounce what his mount had in him.

  King’s Lee was running nose to nose with Captain, but the wonderful New Zealand stallion revealed the effects of a rain-soaked course. Black Tulip was disputing place on the rails with Nazi, Olary Boy coming on a little on the outside of the black mare. The heads of Auburn Girl, Wayside Belle and Dingo Lad all were in the range of Tom’s vision. The rhythmic drumming of eighty hoofs imperceptibly quickened.

  At the seven Nazi moved out from the rails, and for the first time Tom relaxed the slight pressure on the reins. Olary Boy instantly spurted into the opening given, like a destroyer manoeuvring among battle cruisers. And then when Olary Boy’s head was level with Nazi’s rump, the latter’s rider sharply swung his mount on to the rails again.

  Catastrophe clutched at Olary Boy, and to prevent a bad jam preceding an ugly accident, Tom was compelled to pull his horse. For three to four seconds Olary Boy became like an anchored lightship.

  Nine or ten horses slid on by Olary Boy during that unfortunate check. A horse immediately behind almost cannoned in a supreme effort to avoid collision, and when Olary Boy again ran into his stride it was seen that he had dropped back to 15th place.

  ‘The dirty dog! Musta seen Olary Boy’s nose on his left. You wait, you water-drinking owl.’

  Three-quarters of a mile to go, King’s Lee leading the field with Black Tulip hanging to him like a limpet The mighty Captain was tiring, being passed by the flying Auburn Girl. Just ahead Dingo Lad, Black Princess and Sir Newton, all running in a bunch. Well, here’s so long you, Red Rose. See you after. And the same to you, whatever’s your name. Hullo, Sir Newton—gettin’ blow’d out? Well, what are you doing in a two-mile amble like this? Now—now! It’s no good, Dingo Lad. Better give up now as later. That’s right, Snozzler—just stop dreaming until we get in ahead of this funny thing they calls Wayside Belle.

  Gleaming eyes in a mask—the brain which was Tom Pink, the brain which knew just what Olary Boy had left in him when four more furlongs remained to be covered.

  Now against the rail, Olary Boy was among the first six, racing neck to neck with Nazi. To Nazi’s rider, as though it were the voice of Doom, Tom Pink screamed words:

  ‘You balloon-faced devil’s pimp! You jam me, you crayfish! I’m gonna chew yer nose off, bime by. Now, Snozzler, eat ’em alive oh!’

  The leaders were sweeping into the straight, Black Tulip and King’s Lee fighting it out on the rail, and at the end of the long, long turn, Tom steered Olary Boy off the rail to get a clear run.

  Ahead rumbled thunder.

  Captain was edging up on Olary Boy. His jockey was using his whip. The thunder burst out in volume like the thunder of water from a great dam. Nazi was going back—was gone. Auburn Girl was coming back. And so was King’s Lee.

  ‘Snozzler! Snozzler! You an’ me’s for it!’

  They were into the sound storm. It was like stepping from a great stonebuilt house into the raging elements. The ethereal sound waves beat against their ears, sound clubs battering at them, battering them back.

  ‘Ba—tip! Ba—tip! Ba—tip! Ak—tip! Ak—tip! Black—lip! Black Tulip! Black Tulip! Black Tulip!’

  Vast cacophony resolving into two intelligible words.

  And amidst this roaring tumult, to Tom the crackling of machine guns. The whips were going.

  ‘Snozzler! Snozzler! No whip fer you, Snozzler!’

  A furlong and a half...

  ‘Snozzler—Snozzler—we’re gonna do it—do it—do it!’

  Slipping back—slipping back! Auburn Girl was slipping back, was level, was behind. Coming back—coming back! King’s Lee was coming back, swaying his head. Green as grass—green as grass. The champ—green as grass—green as grass. Lookin’ at the scenery—at the scenery. Ah—got you rotten—rotten—rotten. Come back, Tulip—Tulip—Tulip. Got you rotten—rotten—rotten.

  One furlong...

  Sound waves beat and clashed—beat and clashed—beat and clashed! O’ree—oi! A’ree—oil Olary oi! Olary Boy—Boy—Boy! Olary Boy—Boy—Boy! Olary Boy!

  On me own—on me own—on me own! They’re all behind! They’re all behind!

  ‘Olary Boy! Olary Boy!’ roared the crowd. ‘Come on—Come on! Come on—come on!’

  ‘We’re gonna be there—we’re gonna be there,’ screamed a voice in Tom’s ears, a voice he knew was his own. A heaving sea on either side rolled and tossed and roared:

  ‘Olary Boy—Olary Boy!’

  ‘I’m ridin’ a winner—I’m ridin’
a winner—I’m ridin’ a winner! I knew it, knew it, knew it! Now—now—now, Snozzler—now—now—now!’

  Then suddenly lightning stuck—a dark green bolt! The earth split open—accepted Tom into its black cavern of mouth.

  The thunderous words ‘Olary-Boy’ became changed to an echo, vibrantly dying away into cosmic stillness...

  ‘Black Tulip! Black Tulip! Black Tulip! Bah—ip! Bak—ip! Ak—ip! Ak—Ip! Ip! Ip Ip’

  19

  Met Trouble

  At the head of the dining table sat Old Masters; on his right, his son; to the left, Dick Cusack. Joyce hovered about them.

  ‘The only satisfactory point in the whole disgraceful business is that Alverey’s horse didn’t win the Cup,’ Old Masters was saying with his usual downrightness. ‘I suppose your horses were poisoned? They didn’t just drop dead?’

  ‘I would be inclined to think that Olary Boy suddenly collapsed beneath the strain, almost at the winning post, if Pieface hadn’t collapsed after having run only seven furlongs,’ Roy replied steadily. ‘I might have thought it about Olary Boy, despite the fact that horses having run in many races and being in constant training would most improbably not drop dead.’

  ‘Hug-hum! Question is how were they poisoned; then, when was the poison administered? And then, what was the poison?’

  ‘We’ll know tomorrow how they were poisoned—and with what poison, and we might then be able to guess when they were poisoned,’ Dick said, calm now that anti-climax had come.

  ‘Was Hurley’s life insured?’

  ‘No personal insurance. His mother will receive compensation under the Act, and I shall see that she is properly provided for,’ Dick averred; then to burst out: ‘My God—those swine want hanging if they’re ever caught.’

  ‘We’ll leave that to Leader,’ growled Old Masters; to add in grim after thought: ‘Catching them, I mean, not hanging them.’

  ‘Who’s Leader?’ demanded Dick.

  Roy remembered putting the same question.

  ‘He’ll be here presently,’ prevaricated Old Masters. ‘Joyce, Mr. Cusack’s glass.’

  For a little while silence. Then:

  ‘Your man seems to have got off lightly, Roy.’

  ‘Yes, Dad. He was fortunate in escaping with no broken limbs. But the concussion he received might yet prove fatal. He was still comatose when I visited the private hospital just before coming in here.’

  ‘By Heck, he rode well, Mr. Masters!’ Dick put in. ‘After getting in that jam with Nazi which put Olary Boy almost last, it was nothing less than marvellous the way he rode him into first place one furlong from home. He was easily a length ahead of Black Tulip when he went down.’

  ‘Did the horse stagger much before he collapsed?’

  ‘No. He simply dropped, and his speed sent him sliding along the turf for yards. How Pink escaped serious injury, I don’t know.’

  ‘Hug-hum! It is a terrible affair.’

  ‘Diana is frightfully upset about it. The shock, just when Olary Boy was on the point of winning, was great. I’ll ring up Tindale again after dinner.’

  ‘Yes, Roy, do,’ urged Old Masters. ‘Confound it, Leader is late. Joyce, what time did he say he would be here?’

  ‘Eight o’clock, sir. It is now—’

  ‘I know the time. Hug-hum! Why cannot people be punctual? If I say I will be at a place at a certain time, at that place at that time I will be. Only, an accident would make me late.’

  ‘An accident, Sir! Mr. Leader—’

  ‘Who the devil asked you talk, Joyce,’ the old man roared. ‘Why mention Leader and an accident in the same breath? Don’t answer me, Joyce. I won’t have it.’

  Dick regarded the butler curiously. He was a slight silver-haired man of sixty or thereabouts. His eyes were pale blue, but clear and steady. Now on his usually serene face agitation was very evident.

  ‘I suppose you backed Olary Boy,’ Old Masters said, with less vocal volume.

  ‘I lost five hundred pounds on him,’ Roy sighed.

  ‘And I lost a thousand on him,’ Dick added.

  ‘What! Hug-hum! You wagered a thousand on him, Dick. I didn’t know the price of wool was that much up and all taxes down.’

  ‘And Diana, lost fifty on him, too,’ Dick vouchsafed gloomily.

  ‘You must have thought he was going to win.’

  ‘He’d have won all right, Mr. Masters—if he hadn’t been killed.’

  ‘Still, a thousand is a lot of money. Hug-hum! Yes, Joyce, you may leave us. When Mr. Leader arrives show him in here.’ And then when the door had softly closed behind the butler: ‘I intend taking you two boys into my confidence. I will tell you a few interesting facts while we wait for Leader. Try those Havanas.’

  The further the mystery of this man, Leader, deepened, the more Roy feel the strain. Memory of three faces revealed by an electric standard was vivid, but never had he dared ask his father how he came to be walking at night with his valet and that other man.

  ‘Twelve years ago I was involved in an ugly blackmailing gang,’ Old Masters proceeded. ‘A very dear friend of mine had committed an indiscretion, a breath of which would have ruined him in his public life. He was not well off and far too poor to pay the blackmail; which was why he came to me.

  ‘Not daring to take the matter to the police, I enlisted the services of Joyce, and, later on, the services of Leader, Joyce’s brother-in-law. Leader then was a detective-sergeant, and he acted with us in a private capacity. Later, I took him out of the police force and engaged him as my own private detective.

  ‘The head of the blackmailing gang was one Hellburg. We never saw him. The members of his gang were many and his four lieutenants were known by a peculiar arrangement of numbers—One of Four up to Four of Four.’

  ‘It was one of them who signed the letter which Tom Pink found on the race pimp. He heard another addressed—’

  ‘Yes, Roy. The same gang evidently are behind the attacks on Olary Boy and Pieface,’ Old Masters went on, impatient of the interruptions. ‘They are about the nastiest combination of black-guards you can imagine. We bested Hellburg on that occasion, but he hasn’t forgotten or forgiven. Ah—has Leader arrived, Joyce?’

  ‘No sir. There is a caller on the telephone.’

  ‘Very well—switch him through.’

  Old Masters leaned sideways in his chair and lifted the receiver from a desk instrument on its small table beside him. Here in the dining-room, he could be switched through to the world by the house exchange in the hall.

  ‘Ah—is that Mr. Masters?’ inquired a soft voice, containing just the ghost of an accent.

  ‘It is,’ grunted the old man.

  ‘This is Hellburg speaking from a public call-box,’ went on the voice. ‘I am sorry your Mr. Leader is late. I desire to say that he will be unable to call on you for some time. If you are anxious to see him you will find him right in the angle of Ryrie Place, off Queen Street. Make haste, I think he is very unwell and in need of attention. Oh—by the way, Mr. Masters, kindly refrain from poking your nose into my business in the future. Good-bye, I hope it will not be mere au revoir for your sake...’

  ‘D’you know Ryrie Place, off Queen Street?’ Old Masters demanded with thin lips barely parted.

  ‘Yes, I think I do, Dad.’

  ‘Good! We’ll go right away. We’ll take your car, Roy. Leader has met trouble.’

  ‘Who was that on the ’phone?’

  ‘Hellburg.’

  ‘What, the gang leader?’

  ‘The same. Joyce,’ to the butler who had answered the bell, ‘my hat and coat, quick!’

  ‘Is anything wrong, sir?’ asked Joyce whilst helping his master into a heavy overcoat

  ‘Dunno. It’s Leader in trouble.’

  ‘Then may I accompany you, sir?’ Joyce said, entreaty in his voice, alarm in his eyes.

  Old Masters’ optical glare softened, but his voice remained brittle.

  ‘No. You will stay here. As
you see, I have an excellent guard.’

  ‘Very well, sir. Shall I get you your pistol?’

  ‘No, not now. I think you had better clean and oil it, though. And if you still have your own, oil and clean that, too.’

  ‘They are both ready for instant use, sir.’

  ‘Hug-hum! The devil they are.’

  ‘Yes, sir. If you will pardon me, sir, I have been anticipating trouble.’

  ‘So have I, Joyce. Well—come along, you boys.’

  Roy drove to Ryrie Place without experiencing difficulty. From the street its first right angle turn could be seen faintly, a distance of perhaps fifty yards. Midway between the Queen Street entrance and the right angle was one electric light, and, round the angle at some distance, another.

  ‘Hellburg said Leader would be in the angle. Can you see him?’ asked Old Masters.

  ‘Not from here. Let’s investigate,’ Dick urged.

  Side by side they marched into the dimly lit place, a canyon between tall business blocks. At the corner they stopped.

  ‘You see him, do you?’ asked the old man.

  ‘What is that over there in the opposite angle?’

  ‘Where? Yes, that looks like a standing man, lounging into the wall angle.’

  They walked across the unevenly paved road. They then saw a man muffled in a dark overcoat and wearing a felt hat low over his eyes. There was something a little strange about this figure. His arms were not in the coat sleeves, although the coat was buttoned across his chest.

  ‘Good evening,’ Roy said shortly.

  The man gave no reply.

  Old Masters struck a match to assist the distant lights. They saw the man’s sagged jaw. Dick lifted the felt hat, and they saw the wide, staring and glassy eyes.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Roy whispered.

  ‘And it’s not Leader,’ Old Masters gasped.

  ‘Now, what’s all this?’ demanded a gruff, metallic voice from behind them.

  20