Gamblers Don't Win (6 page)

They were alone in the enormous house, alone, two men, one with a gun. Lennox eyed the gun. He wished that he could get close enough to grab it, to have a chance to fight it out; still, he wasn't sure that he'd make it, even then. The man was powerful, with wide shoulders and a heavy frame. He did not look like a gangster, a gunman. His face was tanned, and the knuckles of his long-fingered hands were knobbed as if from work.

Lennox decided that he must have been a track roustabout whom Custis had picked up somewhere. He said, “Shame we can't see the horses run today.”

The man yawned. “I'd rather sleep. You got it easy, Sport. All you have to do is lie down and snooze. I've got to keep my eyes open.”

Lennox grinned sourly. “It would be okey with me if you closed them. What's Custis paying you for this job?”

The man shrugged, his leather-like face not changing. Bill said: “I might be able to dig up ten grand. That would be pretty nice for you, all alone, no cuts, and no danger. If you're caught, there's a kidnaping rap against you, and it's tough for kidnapers in this state. They catch them.”

The man said, “No sale. Forget it, Sport.”

Lennox walked restlessly about the room. The clock above the mantle struck, twelve times. He said finally, “How about a little two-handed stud? I've got to do something or go nuts.”

The guard hesitated for a moment. “Okey. You can deal them on the low table. Bring it over, but not too close,”

Lennox obeyed. He got a deck of cards from the shelves beside the mantel and carried the table across to a spot a couple of feet in front of the guard's chair.

“What'll we play for? Let's make it a dollar a card with five on the last if you want to draw.”

The man shook his head. “That's too steep for me. Better make it a quarter with a dollar on the last.”

Lennox peered at him, then shrugged. “What difference,” he thought, “did it make what they played for if he were going to die that night. His captor would never have to pay off; still, the man might have funny ideas.” He said, “Okey,” and dealt.

The man looked at his hole card and kicked in a match in place of a chip. Lennox stayed and was beaten by a pair of fours, back to back. He played on, steadily, the matches drifting across the table one by one. He thought, grimly, “It's lucky we aren't playing for dollars. I never could pay off.” From time to time he glanced at the clock, saw the hand creep to two, to three, to quarter after, then to half-past. Once he threw down the cards in disgust and, looking up, saw the guard grinning at him.

The man was not so careful now. His gun rested on his knees, his eyes dropped to the cards, stayed there. Lennox lost again, had a pair of kings beaten by three deuces. Cursing, he gathered up the deck, started to shuffle it, and suddenly scaled the loose cards into the man's face. They struck him directly in the eyes. Instinctively his hands went up, but Lennox jumped forward across the low table, his shoulder striking the man's chest, carrying him and the chair over backwards, the gun flying half across the room, the man's head thudding heavily on the floor.

The guard groaned once and lay still, his head rolling sidewise, his big body tangled in the wreckage of the chair.

For an instant Lennox thought that the man was dead as he rolled over and got slowly to his feet; then he saw the guard was breathing, that he was merely out.

Bill shot a glance at the dock. It was almost twenty minutes of four. The race would go to post about four-thirty. He looked at the man again, then dived towards the hall, raced along it and out the rear door. A black coupe stood in the graveled parking place. He hesitated for an instant, then leaped towards it. The keys were in the lock and, jerking the door open, he slid beneath the wheel.

The motor was cold and he wasted seconds getting it started. Then he swung about the driveway and out into the street. He smiled grimly. It seemed such a simple getaway, but he knew it had been built on three days of careful acting that had dulled the guard's alert watchfulness and finally given him his chance.

THE
coupé, a '31 Ford, had evidently had excellent care. Lennox drove it across town, using the side streets to avoid traffic, hit Beverly just west of Vermont, and went over to Silver Lake. It was four twenty-seven as he turned into the parking place at the track, drove down the long lane, and stopped almost at the gate. An attendant came running. “You can't park here,” he growled, but Lennox did not hear him. He was already out of the car and sprinting for the gate.

The horses were already at the post when he reached the lawn before the grandstand. He paused, hesitated for a moment. He didn't know what to do, how to proceed. He'd intended to reach the track, to get hold of the girl, and force her to withdraw the horse from the race, but it was too late for that now. He could go to the judges, of course, but could he prove anything, could he—? He stiffened as he saw Custis across the lawn, near the fence.

Betty Donovan was not in sight, anywhere that he could see. The crowd was milling forward and he went with it, forcing his way until he was within twenty feet of the gambler. Then there was a cry, “They're off!”

Lennox did not have his glasses. Without them, he saw the horses break from the gate and come up the back stretch in a bunch. It was hard to pick out the black colt without glasses, hard; then Lennox saw him, third on the rail, running easily. His hands tightened as he watched. The boy was riding a canny race, holding his position. No. He was pulling out farther towards the middle of the track. Lennox stared. Was he trying to go round the leaders? He didn't seem to be. The horse was still under wraps, and two others had passed it on the inside.

Bill stole a glance at Custis. The gambler was leaning forward, his eyes glued to his glasses. Something about his shoulders spoke of anger as the field hit the far turn. The black colt was sixth now, still coming wide, on the outside. It was evident to Lennox that he couldn't get up, that he hadn't a chance. The race thundered into the stretch, the black colt still on the outside. Then the boy went to bat. The horse was creeping up, running over slower horses, but the two leaders had him by twenty lengths. He hadn't a chance, and barely got up to beat a staggering horse for third.

Lennox's mouth was a thin line as he stared at the numbers. What had happened? Had there been a change of plans? This was the day the horse was supposed to win. Then he looked towards Custis. The gambler was also staring at the track, his face dead white, his long fingers nervously twitching at the strap which held his glasses. He turned and passed within three feet of Lennox without seeing him, and went towards the betting shed.

Lennox turned and followed. It was evident from Custis's face that whatever had happened had not been part of the original plan. Lennox tried to think it out as he threaded his way through the crowd. That the horse could have won with a better ride was obvious. He had had much more speed at the finish than the leaders. They had both been ridden out with just enough left to come down under the wire. The black colt had lost plenty of ground by that swerve in the back stretch, and more by coming wide at the turn. It might have been an accident, of course, but it looked deliberate to Lennox.

He followed Custis across the betting shed, saw the man grab a hurrying stable boy by the arm, and pressed close in an effort to hear what the gambler said. Custis's voice was low, contained, yet with a strident note which reached Lennox's ears.

“Have you seen Miss Donovan?”

The boy grinned. He was freckle-faced, fifteen or sixteen; then, as he saw the gambler's face, his smile vanished. “She was out at the barn a little while ago.”

Custis nodded and turned away. He went across the shed with Lennox following, and walked rapidly towards the distant barns. Lennox saw a plain-clothesman in the crowd and ducked behind a post. The man might not recognize him, but with every cop in town looking for him, there was a chance; and he did not want to be stopped now. He waited until the man moved on, then hurried after Custis.

The gambler had disappeared when Bill reached the barns and he stopped a hurrying swipe. “Where's the Donovan barn?”

The man turned and pointed, white teeth flashing in his dark face.

Lennox slid a quarter into the man's palm and went on. He reached the corner of the barn, got close to an open door, when he heard voices, Custis's, level, cold with suppressed anger. “Did you see the race?”

Then the girl's answer. It held a flat note, a note of finality which Lennox had not heard there before. “I saw it.”

“Wait until I get my hands on Gentry. I thought that kid knew how to ride. He let the colt go out in the back stretch and then took him wide. If I thought he'd done it on purpose—”

“He did.” The girl's words seemed to hang in the silence like some suspended thing.

“What?”

“I said,” her voice was measured now, slow, “that Gentry did it on purpose. He rode to orders, to my orders. I told him to lose the race.”

“You told him?”
It seemed that Custis's collar was suddenlv too tight. “You told him. Why?”

She said: “Because you had money bet on that horse, Custis. Because I knew you had flooded every handbook in the country, that you had swamped the bookie clearing-houses in Syracuse and Akron. Because I knew all your friends had bet on him, bet on him at your say-so. They'll be looking for you, Custis, the boys you play with, the wise boys, the gamblers. They'll think you crossed them, lied to them, that you didn't bet your own money. You know what that means, don't you?”

Custis knew what it meant. Lennox could tell by his very silence that he knew. The man sounded strangled when he said, “You did that? You ruined me, took every nickel I had, put me on the spot? Why?”

“Because,” her voice was very clear, very steady, “you killed my brother. You didn't know that I knew, that I suspected, did you? I couldn't prove it. I hadn't a chance to do anything, but the man that loosened that steering gear the night Bert was killed, told me when he was dying. I hadn't anything but his word. I had no proof that you paid him for the job. I couldn't even prove that you wanted Bert out of the way because he wouldn't play your game, because he was protecting the riders from you. All I could do was to take over the stable, to wait, to throw in with you when I got the chance and play your game, waiting for a time when you had all your money bet, when you had tipped your friends.

“I was set to do it once last summer in the East; then something happened and I had to wait. The boys helped me, the riders that had been loyal to Bert, the ones that were riding to your orders. I didn't expect you to kill Jarney. I might have gone to the police then, but I couldn't prove anything, and you had too much money, too much power. You haven't got it now. I've stripped it from you, and your own friends, your own kind, will be yapping—no, don't move.” Her voice had sharpened, and Lennox stepped quickly forward to the open door.

Custis stood with his back to the door, facing the girl. He was leaning forward, his shoulders hunched. Something in her hand glittered. “Keep back!” It was a small gun.

Even as Lennox reached the door, he saw Custis spring forward, saw the little gun speak once, the bullet just missing his ear as Custis, with the litheness of a cat, sprang in, caught her wrist, twisted it until the gun dropped to the floor of the “tack” room, his other hand closing over her mouth.

“So you framed me.” Something in the man seemed to have snapped his power of control. Lennox sensed it as he leaped in, sensed that in another instant the girl might be dead. His arm locked about Custis's neck, pulling his head back sharply, breaking his grip on the girl.

The gambler twisted with the swift movement of a snake, drove his elbow into the stomach, just above Lennox's belt, broke Bill's grip and backed away, his jade-like eyes flaming, his right hand, concealed for a moment in his coat. Then it appeared, holding a short, squat gun.

Lennox leaped at him, felt something burn his side, heard an explosion almost in his ear; then his arms were locked about Custis and they went over onto the floor together. The gambler was trying to bring up his gun, Lennox, his fingers locked about the man's wrist, attempting to keep it down. His breath was short and Custis's shoulder against his nose made it harder. His lungs seemed to be bursting, yet he knew that if he once released his grip it meant death, death not only for himself, but also for the girl.

Tiny black spots danced before his eyes. Custis was strong, surprisingly so. His arm was like a coiled band of steel, coming up, slowly, ever so slowly, despite all Lennox could do. Inch by inch the gun moved. Lennox sank his teeth in his lower lip as he hung on, then he suddenly released his grip with his left hand on the man's back and rolled over, feeling Custis's arm, the gun beneath him. He lashed out with his left fist, heard the man's muffled curse, rolled clear, and kicked hard at the wrist. His shoe hit the gun instead, sending it spinning half across the room to strike the girl's side, but Lennox never saw it.