Gamblers Don't Win (7 page)

He was on his knees, then his feet, swaying there for an instant. Then he jumped at the gambler, storming through the blows raining upon him, his shoulder striking the man's chest, his fingers searching for the white throat as they went over again. Confusedly he knew there were other people in the room, but he had no idea who they were, did not in the least care. He was tired, too tired to be certain of things.

T
HEN
big hands had his shoulders and were hauling him to his feet and a voice he knew said, “What the hell's going on here?” With the back of his left hand Lennox wiped the sweat from his eyes and stared at Spellman. He tried to grin, but his upper lip was puffed, swollen. “I never thought the day would come I'd be glad to see you, Copper.”

“So you're glad to see me?” Spellman's heavy voice held sarcasm, “Well, I'm kinda glad to see you. I've been looking for you for only three days.”

“Swell.” Lennox was trying to straighten his coat. “It's nice to know I've been missed. How'd you happen to blow in so opportunely, Floyd?”

The city detective shrugged. “I saw you hiding behind a post in the betting shed a few minutes ago and thought I'd tail you and see just what the idea was.”

“For once in your life,” Lennox told him, “you did right. If you'd grabbed me then, this gentleman,” he indicated the silent Custis, who was being held by a couple of barn men, “might have got rough.”

Spellman looked at Custis. “Who is he? His face is familiar.”

Lennox said: “Just a gambler. You probably saw a circular on him sometime. Besides that, he's the killer who got that rider at the hotel the other night.”

“The hell you say!” Spellman was looking at Custis with renewed interest. “Can you prove it?”

“Of course not.” Custis had regained his self-control. “The idea's absurd, Captain. I had a little personal trouble with Lennox, and this is his way of paying me back.”

Spellman looked questioningly at Lennox, who hesitated. After all, he had no proof that Custis had had Jarney killed. But Betty Donovan said, suddenly, “I can prove it. At least I can get six jockeys to swear that he threatened them, that they heard him make threats against Jarney. I can prove that he's been framing races for a year.”

Spellman looked at her. He said to Lennox, suddenly, “Is this the girl that was with you at the hotel?”

She answered before Bill had a chance. “Yes, I'm the one. I was with him when he found Frank Jarney's body.”

Spellman scratched his head. “I guess you'd all better come downtown. The D.A. will have to straighten this out.”

I
N
the police car, riding towards town, Lennox could not talk to Betty because of Spellman's presence. Custis was in a car ahead in the custody of two of Spellman's men. Bill watched her set face, thinking how pretty she was. And her gameness. The thought of it made him wince. She had played the game with one of the country's smartest gamblers, played without asking favors, and won. He wanted to tell her about it, what he thought of her carrying on for Bert, and that he was sorry he had doubted her, but Spellman's hulking shoulders beside the driver were half turned, and he knew that the detective captain would be listening.

The District Attorney heard their story and questioned them for almost an hour, then let them go with orders to report to his office in the morning. Lennox gave the address of her hotel to the cab driver and hesitated. “I'd like to come up and talk to you for a little while, if you're not too tired.”

She said, “It's you that should be tired. That wound in your side—”

He grinned. ‘Forget it, Kid. That wasn't much more than a burn, and the doc out at the track fixed it up swell.”

“Then come on.” He got in, settling himself on the seat gingerly. “What I can't understand,” he said, when the cab was in motion, “is why Custis didn't have me killed when he had me. I don't get why he kept me alive for three days.”

Betty Donovan stared at him, her expression changing. “You thought it was Custis that—that held you in that house? It wasn't, it was I.”

“You?” He stared at her and she nodded.

“Yes, I. You see, after the way you spoke to me at the track the other day, I was afraid that you'd do something to spoil my plan. I almost told you what I was doing. Then Custis came up behind us and I was afraid, so I had three of my barn men kidnap you. The house where they held you is one that I've been living in this winter. I moved to the hotel that night. But you're not going to make a charge against me—are you, Bill?”

Lennox chuckled softly. “You're swell, Kid.” Then he sobered. “I'm sorry about Bert. It's tough, and I'm afraid they won't get Custis on a murder for Jarney. They'll get him, yes, on a gambling charge of some kind, but murder—” He shook his head. “I talked to the D.A. after you were through. They haven't enough evidence. They'll probably let him make a plea of some kind.”

The girl's face set and he feared for a moment that she was going to cry, but no tears came. He said: “If I can help you, Kid—”

One of her small hands closed over his. “You can, Bill. Have dinner with me tonight. I feel so terribly alone.”

He said, “Sure,” and opened the door as the cab stopped in front of the hotel. Half an hour later, over coffee in one corner of the large dining-room, he asked, “What will you do now?”

She moved her shoulders. “Sell the stable. I'm sick of it, Bill. It killed Bert because he was too honest. I hung on, hoping for a chance to even things up. There's a boy in New York. He didn't understand why I kept on and I couldn't explain. I was afraid he'd get mixed up in things.”

Lennox nodded. He was liking her better all the time. “So what?”

She said: “I'm going to sell out and go East. I want to see if it's too late.”

“It won't be,” he told her, “not if—” He turned as a page came into the dining-room, his voice sounding clearly above the chatter:

“Calling Mr. Lennox. Calling Mr. William Lennox.”

Bill said, “Here, boy,” and raised his finger.

The page turned and came to the table. “You're wanted on the phone.”

Lennox slipped a quarter into his hand and rose. “Excuse me a moment.” He left the dining-room and walked to the row of phone booths. Spellman's voice reached him over the wire.

“Thought I'd catch you there. Saw you getting into the cab with the jane. She's not bad looking.”

Lennox said sourly, “Did you call me up to say that?”

The detective captain laughed dryly. “I called you to tell you that your boy friend isn't any more. They got him as he came out of the building, got one of the guards in the shoulder at the same time. Thought you'd like to know.”

Lennox said, “Custis?” with surprise.

“Who do you think I'm talking about? Santa Claus? You wouldn't have any idea who got him, would you?”

Lennox's voice was flat, final. “I wouldn't.”

“Now, now,” Spellman began, but Lennox hung up. Before he got back to the dining-room he heard, behind him, the bellboy calling again:

“Mr. Lennox. Paging Mr. Lennox.”

That would be Spellman, calling back, Bill knew, and paid no attention. Betty Donovan looked up inquiringly as he reached the table.

“What was it?” Her voice was nervous.

He said, softly, “Someone shot Custis as he was leaving the D.A.'s office. You can forget him, Kid. Your brother's debt is paid.”

She was silent a long time, said finally, “I wonder who got him?”

Lennox shrugged. “I wouldn't know, and I don't care. One of the boys he'd been playing with, probably, one of those he told to bet on your horse. They probably figured he'd crossed them.”

“I wish,” her voice broke, “I wish it hadn't happened that way. I wish the law had got him.”

Lennox bent forward. “Listen, Kid; don't cry, don't feel bad. It wasn't you that got Custis. It was the way he lived. If it hadn't happened now, it would have some time.” He was silent, thinking of what he had said to her earlier, “Gamblers Don't Win.”

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