The Great Melbourne Cup Mystery Page 8

  ‘I hate to do it, Roy,’ his father said regretfully.

  Roy had travelled half-way to the city where he rented his flat when he remembered that he had left his overcoat at his father’s house. The coat contained papers he would want early the next morning, and, because the evening was warm, he turned the car on St Kilda Road and went back.

  At the corner of the avenue in which was his father’s house there was a solitary electric standard, and as he neared the standard so were three men walking towards it from the opposite direction. The light fell on their faces.

  The middle man was Old Masters. On his left was Joyce, and on his right a tall man wearing a bowler hat and black overcoat.

  Never had Roy known his father leave the house after dinner for any reason whatever. What was the valet doing with him? And was the third man the mysterious Mr. Leader?

  14

  A Good Trainer

  About the time Roy Masters saw his father walking in the company of his valet, and a man he assumed to be a certain Mr. Leader, Tom Pink strolled across to the stable building, housing Olary Boy and several other horses.

  His one hour’s absence from the stables when darkness had set in was dictated by the trainer, emphatically not approved by the jockey-stable boy. Sparks, despite the dastardly attack on Olary Boy, found no logical reason why his horses should be especially guarded, and his reasoning was based on the assumption that Olary Boy had been doped in mistake for the favourite in the Heatherlie Handicap.

  Since the transfer of Nat Sparks’ race entrants from Bacchus Marsh to Flemington had been effected, Pink never left Olary Boy, save to eat his meals with the other employees and when supper time came round, he persuaded one of the boys to stay with Olary Boy during his absence.

  At 10 o’clock this night, on the eve of the Mentone Handicap, September 24, Nat Sparks made his usual night inspection of his horses, and at the end of the inspection, the head stableman padlocked the main door before retiring with Sparks to their respective quarters, leaving Tom Pink to occupy a Coolgardie stretcher in a vacant stall next to Olary Boy.

  That doping attack on Olary Boy was certainly a most peculiar affair. If it was deliberate, then what was the motive? Tom knew that, other than himself, no one considered Olary Boy fit to gain a place. Doping him, therefore, could not have been to assist some betting racket, and although the horse’s form certainly had improved at the time of the attack, it was not so wonderfully improved that outside people would consider him seriously in their search for winners.

  Why, he had only won two races the year before!

  Anyway, it was time some of those horse dopers were brought to book. Look at the way they got at Kambull here at Moonee Valley and Gunroom at Caulfield, to say nothing of Cevantes at Kyneton. What kind of low swine must they be to poison horses? In the human scale, as low as the specimen who tosses poisoned baits over garden fences to poison people’s dogs.

  Lying there in the dark, undisturbed by jaws methodically munching fodder and the occasional stamp of a hoof on straw, Tom Pink’s mind lazily pondered over several matters. He had been presented to Diana Ross, and was convinced that she was ‘the finest tart’ he had ever met. It appeared that Mr. Masters wanted to marry her and that she had promised to marry him if he won the Melbourne Cup with Olary Boy.

  Very well—then Olary Boy would have to win, and that was all there was to it. One thing, he, Tom, had the proper sort of clay to make something worth while.

  Old Nat Sparks was all right. He was a good trainer, but he had other horses to prepare for important races, and, therefore, couldn’t devote to all those horses the time and study he could have devoted to any one of them. And because of him, Tom Pink, Olary Boy was going to be built up, and given an extra special chance to show what he could do.

  A soft, and yet harsh sound awoke him at, his luminous watch revealed, ten minutes after two o’clock. The sound came from the main door, padlocked on the outside, all other doors being bolted on the inside. For perhaps five seconds Tom remained motionless on his bunk, his body half-raised, and supported by an elbow.

  There was no mistaking that low, sinister sound. A well-oiled hacksaw was eating into the soft iron bar of the padlock fastening the door, and the hand working the hacksaw most decidedly was not the hand of Nat Sparks, or Mr. Masters, or Mr. Master’s ‘tart’.

  While pulling on an old pair of elastic-sided boots, Tom Pink was as pleased as though he were about to welcome a rich and kindly uncle; for, in these most favourable of circumstances, he was placed in the position of the welcoming nephew.

  Silently arrived before the door in his left hand—he always maintained his left arm was the strongest and most accurate—a mulga shillelagh, to gain possession of which nine out of every ten Irishmen would have picked a quarrel. It had knobs and spikes at the end of it which even the Molly Macguires would have banned.

  ‘How’s she going?’ a whispered voice asked beyond the door.

  ‘All right. I think I’m nearly through,’ answered a second man. ‘Step along, and see if One of Four is keeping proper watch.’

  One of Four! So this was the gang who had ordered the gate-sitter to bribe him. Three of Four it had been who wrote the letter now in Mr. Masters’s possession. Tom wondered if there were more than three men in league outside. Of course, the shillelagh would even things up a bit—especially the knobs and spikes on the end of it.

  Yes, there was a lot to be paid back—quite a lot. Seven bad griping fits poor Olary Boy had. Fits which had forced agonised grunts out of him which had clamped his innards as though with red hot wire twitches. And more than seven hours of chills and sweats and faintness.

  Tom Pink now had no doubt that the attack on Olary Boy was a mistake made by a man intending to get at. another horse. And, too, he had now no doubt that the dopers were connected with the bird signing himself Three of Four, for outside somewhere on guard was another of that gang numbered so peculiarly One of Four.

  ‘Ain’t you through yet?’ whispered a voice.

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Can you see what you’re doing?’

  ‘Of course not, you fool. But I can feel, can’t I? Is One of Four all right?’

  ‘Yes, ’e’s seen nothink.’

  For a short space the rasp of the hacksaw continued, finally to cease simultaneously with a sigh vented by the labourer.

  ‘D’you know which stall Olary Boy’s in?’

  ‘No. We’ll ’ave to use the flash.’

  ‘All right. Fetch One of Four. He must stay here whilst we’re both inside. You are sure there is none of the lads sleeping here?’

  ‘Too right.’

  Tom heard the severed bar of the lock raised and slipped out of the U-bolt. He heard the heavy cross latch slowly and gently lifted and as gently allowed to settle at the bottom of the guide, whilst the door was pushed inward; and then, in the oblong of stark night, Tom saw the tall figure of a man wearing a felt hat, a new felt hat, for its outlines were clear, showing brim turned evenly upward and the crown neatly dented.

  ‘Cum inside—just a cuppler feet,’ Tom Pink mentally urged. ‘Cum on, now, afore them other two get back.’

  There is something in mental telepathy after all, because at this heart-felt invitation the man stepped inside the stable.

  It is possible he might have seen Tom Pink standing against the wall on the latch side of the door had he not switched on his electric torch, the beam of which was carefully subdued by one thickness of a white handkerchief. Although sure he had made no movement, nor even breathed, Tom suddenly knew that the intruder had sensed his presence. He saw the man’s body stiffen—but the man’s sub-conscious instinct of self-preservation was not quick enough in muscular obedience to beat the shillelagh.

  The sigh which issued from his lips was much less in sound volume than the impact of mulga against a skull. For a fraction of a second he swayed on his feet—to fall forward with stiffened knees and to be quickly dragged into the empty s
tall where was Tom’s bunk.

  Once again beside the door, the jockey waited for the next fly, or flies, to enter his web, confident that the first fly would remain stuck for quite a while.

  Then there reached his ears the soft slithering of rubber protected boots and two seconds later, into the oblong of light fashioned by the door frame, entered the figures of a little man and a second man, who was neither so little nor so slim.

  ‘I’m first,’ Tom decided, referring mentally to the figure of wide and powerful aspect.

  ‘Are you there, Two of Four?’ demanded the powerful one.

  ‘Cum inside—just a cuppler feet,’ Tom mentally implored for the second time. Two of Four was sleeping the sleep of evil men, so which of these was One of Four, and what was the numbering of the other?

  Receiving no answer from Two of Four, and neither of these men possessing flash lamp evidently, the sweating Tom Pink exerted his will-power without avail. It was useless repeatedly to dispatch the mental wireless invitation to ‘Cum inside—just a cuppler feet’, for now the shy guests were becoming suspicious.

  ‘Where in hell is Two of Four?’ demanded the stocky one. ‘Sure he didn’t tell you he was going skating?’

  ‘Course not. Said he’d wait ’ere. Seems funny to me,’ announces the other.

  ‘Blast! And he’s got the torch. Give me a match or two.’

  “You can’t strike a match ’ere,’ countered the slim man. ‘They’d see it from the quarters.’

  ‘All right! Then you go inside and strike a light and see what you can see.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. It’s not going to be me. I don’t like the look of things.’

  ‘Oh, cum inside—cum inside a cuppler foot,’ silently urged Tom Pink, his body balanced on his toes, his mouth drawn back into a wide leer.

  ‘What shall we do? We gotta do something. Hey—you there. Two of Four?’ the slim one called softly.

  ‘Oh—give me those matches,’ the other ordered sharply, and Tom heard the soft rattle of the box when it exchanged hands. Abruptly the powerful one stepped inside the doorway, striking a match at the same time.

  Although he had never heard it, Tom Pink closely followed Admiral Lord Fisher’s advice to naval gunners—Hit first, hit hard and keep on hitting.

  15

  They’re Off!

  The shillelagh did grievous work and Tom Pink was told by a police sergeant that he was lucky a serious charge had not to be laid against him. However, instead of accepting this admonition with the seriousness with which it was given, Tom screeched and stuttered in his best manner when giving to the police his private opinion about people who doped inoffensive horses. One of the men was well known to the police and wanted on another charge, whilst the other two duly served light sentences, because the heroin and hypodermic found on one of them had not been used.

  But who employed them was not discovered.

  Roy sat with Diana and Mr. Tindale in the Members’ Stand watching Black Tulip win the brush steeplechase at Mentone the day after Tom Pink had dealt so harshly with three men. The girl was keyed to concert pitch because, against her guardian’s advice, she had backed Black Tulip to win, and home he came in with a four lengths lead.

  ‘I am going along to draw my money,’ she said gaily to Roy, who, although he had lost his stake on a grey gelding who had crashed at one of the jumps, was as pleased almost as was Diana at Black Tulip's performance.

  ‘I will escort you, Diana—that is, if I may,’ Mr. Tindale offered, his eyes twinkling.

  ‘You may, guardie. Roy is aching to dash away to see Olary Boy off in the Mentone Handicap. Roy, I shall be in this same place waiting for you in twenty minutes. I want you to be with me so that you can describe the race. You will be here?’

  ‘Your Majesty has but to command,’ Roy assented with assumed gravity.

  Down in the saddling paddock he found Olary Boy being walked around by Tom Pink, the race being devoted to apprentice riders, and a lad named Hurley being appointed to carry Roy’s colours.

  ‘I suppose, Tom, you are a little disappointed that you can’t take out Olary Boy today?’ Roy said, when looking up at Pink and walking beside the horse. Pink nodded, before whispering confidentially:

  ‘If young Hurley remembers to ride ’im as I’ve told’m ’ow to ride ’im, Olary Boy won't disgrace us. Any’ow, seven four ain’t much for ’im to carry, an’ I would have ’ad to sweat a lot to get down to that. Wot do you think of ’im, sir?’

  ‘Who, Hurley?’

  ‘No—the ole feller,’ Pink replied, affectionately, patting the horse’s shoulder. ‘’E’s cum on well after the doping. G-good job we seen the horse when we did.’

  ‘I am beginning to think, Tom, that you know a lot about a horse,’ Roy said quietly. ‘Just between ourselves, if you win the Melbourne Cup on him, I am going to make you a present of two thousand pounds.’

  ‘You’ll be doing no such thing, Mr. Masters,’ Pink said earnestly. ‘If me and ole Snozzler gets the Cup then you and me are quits over Red Crick. I’m then free of our contract about the booze. By that time I’ll ’ave saved a decent cheque, and as ole Jack—you remember the bloke ’oo pulled us both out of Red Crick—as ole Jack Barnett is coming down, me and ’im is gonna ’ave a drink for ole time’s sake.’

  ‘By that time, Tom, I hope you will have realised the stupidity of doing anything of the sort. You keep sober and make your mark as a trainer.’

  The warning bell for horses engaged in the Tullamarine Handicap sounded and Nat Sparks hurried up to them.

  ‘Come on, Tom. Time. You. coming to the mounting yard, Mr. Masters?’

  ‘No, Nat I am due in the Members’ Stand. Good luck, old boy,’ Roy added when he patted the horse before it was led away.

  ‘I was hoping to be here before you,’ he told Diana upon joining her.

  ‘I slipped away from guardie when a friend engaged him in conversation, Roy. I wanted to have a little tete a tete with you.’

  ‘Oh!’

  She noted his brown eyes searching her face.

  ‘Yes, I saw Dick yesterday. He made a rush trip to town about his wool. Met him quite by accident in Collins Street. So I made him take me to tea. Why didn’t you tell me about Senor Alverey listening on the verandah whilst you and Dick discussed my silly wee chance?’

  ‘Did Dick tell you about that?’

  ‘I got it out of him with difficulty. Why did you keep it from me?’

  ‘I did not think it of sufficient importance to bother you with it,’ he said. ‘Dick closed the matter with an upper cut.’

  ‘Did—did he strike him?’

  ‘Something like that. Look! There goes Olary Boy. And there’s Tom Pink down near the judges’ box wringing his hands with anxiety.’

  ‘And because Senor Alverey learned of the wee chance I gave Dick and you, he bought a champion with which to block either of you winning the Cup. Am I not right?’

  ‘Looks like it Diana.’

  ‘And it looks, too, as though he is trying to make certain sure that Olary Boy will be no danger to King’s Lee.’

  ‘Diana, you must not say that,’ Roy said seriously.

  ‘Well, I think it. Who else would have any reason to—to, well, you know.’

  ‘Funny Dick never dug me up, Diana.’

  ‘Not at all. He arrived in town yesterday morning and left again last night. I actually think he was annoyed with me because I made him take me to afternoon tea.’

  ‘They’re a long time getting away,’ complained Roy, examining the horses at the barrier through his glasses. He felt a little hurt that Dick had not wired him the fact of his visit; and, too, that absurd suspicion would intrude. After all was said and done, Alverey had nothing to fear from Olary Boy.

  ‘They’re off,’ he cried, and promptly forgot everything but the race in progress.

  ‘Olary Boy got away well,’ he went on. ‘He’s in the middle of the field, right behind Master Vorst. He’
s losing ground a bit. That’s right Hurley, lad! Save him—save him. They’re at the mile—Radiant in the lead, followed by Gadfly, then Captain and Earl’s Daughter neck and neck. Then Master Vorst—There’s a horse right on his tail—looks like Nazi. Yes, it’s Nazi. He’s creeping up beside Olary Boy—. He’s coming along well. Olary Boy—Plenty of time, Hurley. Don’t push him yet. They’re nearing the home turn. One - two - three - four - six - Olary Boy is seventh and keeping the pace well. Here they come along the straight.’

  The gathering excitement of the crowd broke into a hum, rising quickly with a roar, unintelligible because it voiced the names of several horses and was filled with encomium for those several horses.

  It was a good race, well run, the leaders almost abreast. Nazi won by a head, placing Captain second. And in the final burst, Olary Boy drew away from Radiant and gained third place.

  ‘Oh Roy! Roy! How splendid!’ Diana cried, on her feet her face flushed into loveliness, her hands clapping.

  ‘My word, he ran well, didn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, he did—he did! Did you expect it?’

  ‘I did not, but I hoped it. Come along! Let’s hurry down and welcome him in.’

  A girl called out to Diana, but she did not hear her, so eager was she to reach the incoming horses. The course stewards were waiting in their huntsmen’s scarlet to bring in the placed horses. Diana’s eyes were shining, her mouth slightly parted, and her beauty made Roy catch his breath. It was the greatest minute ever he had lived.

  Up went the numbers - two - eleven - fourteen. There was no mistake. His Roman nosed Olary Boy was placed third. Young Hurley smiled proudly at Nat Sparks, who held the horse whilst the lad dismounted, then to unsaddle and make his way to the weighing-in room.

  Diana, Roy, and Tom Pink all met Olary Boy as Nat led him into the saddling paddock.

  ‘He ran well, didn’t he?’ the gratified trainer called out whilst yet there was distance between them.

  They crowded round the horse.