Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (141 page)

But
at
eight
o'clock
in
the
evening,
Whitcomb
Street
is
not
a crowded
thoroughfare,
and
there
was
no
one
near
them
when
the old
man
spoke
to
him.
He
was
standing
in
a
passage
near
the
Pall Mall
end,
and
Knocker
could
not
see
him
clearly.

"Hullo,
Knocker!"
he
said.

Thompson
swung
round.

In
the
darkness
he
made
out
the
dim
figure,
the
most
conspicuous feature
of
which
was
a
long,
white
beard.

"Hullo!"
returned
Thompson,
suspiciously,
for
as
far
as
he
knew he
did
not
number
among
his
acquaintances
an
old
man
with
a
white beard.

"It's
cold
.
.
."
said
the
old
man.

"What
d'you
want?"
asked
Thompson
curtly.
"Who
are
you?" "I
am
an
old
man,
Knocker."

"Look
here,
what's
the
game?
I
don't
know
you
.
.
." "No.
But
I
know
you."

"If
that's
all
you've
got
to
say
.
.
."
said
Knocker
uneasily.

"It
is
nearly
all.
Will
you
buy
a
paper?
It
is
not
an
ordinary
paper, I
assure
you."

"How
do
you
mean
.
.
.
not
an
ordinary
paper?"

"It
is
to-morrow
night's
Echo,"
said
the
old
man
calmly.

"You're
loopy,
old
chap,
that's
what's
wrong
with
you.
Look
here, things
aren't
too
brisk,
but
here's
half
a
dollar
.
.
.
and
better
luck!" For
all
his
lack
of
principle,
Knocker
had
the
crude
generosity
of those
who
live
precariously.

"Luck!"
The
old
man
laughed
with
a
quietness
that
jarred
on Knocker's
nerves.
In
some
queer
way
it
seemed
to
run
up
and
down his
spine.

"Look
here!"
he
said
again,
conscious
of
some
strange,
unreal quality
in
the
old,
dimly-seen
figure
in
the
passage.
"What's
the blinking
game?"

"It
is the oldest game in the world, Knocker." "Not so free with my name
...
if you don't mind." "Are you
ashamed of it?"

"No," said Knocker stoutly.
"What do you want? I've got no time to waste with the likes of you."
"Then go . . . Knocker."

"What
do you want?" Knocker insisted, strangely uneasy.

"Nothing.
Won't you take the paper? There is no other like it in the world. Nor will
there be—for twenty-four hours."

"I
don't suppose there are many of to-morrow's papers on sale . . . yet,"
said Knocker with a grin.

"It
contains to-morrow's winners," said the old man, in the same casual
manner.

"I
don't think!" retorted Knocker.

"There
it is; you may read for yourself."

From
the darkness a paper was thrust at Knocker, whose unwilling fingers closed on
it. A laugh came from somewhere in the recesses in the passage, and Knocker was
alone.

He
was suddenly and uncomfortably aware of his beating heart, but gripped himself
and walked on until he came to a lighted shop front where he glanced at the
paper.

"Thursday,
July
29, 1926
. .
."
he read.

He
thought a moment.

It
was Wednesday
...
he was positive it
was Wednesday. He took out his diary. It was Wednesday, the twenty-eighth day
of July —the last day of the Kempton Park meeting. He had no doubt on the
point, none whatever.

With a strange feeling he glanced at the
paper again. July
29,
1926.
He turned to the back
page almost instinctively—the page with the racing results.

Gatwick.
. . .

That day's meeting was at Kempton Park.
To-morrow was the first day of the Gatwick meeting, and there, staring at him,
were the five winners. He passed his hand across his forehead; it was damp with
cold perspiration.

"There's a trick somewhere," he
muttered to himself, and carefully re-examined the date of the paper. It was
printed on each page

.
.
.
clear
and
unaltered.
He
scrutinized
the
unit
figure
of
the
year, but
the
"six"
had
not
been
tampered
with.

He
glanced
hurriedly
at
the
front
page.
There
was
a
flaring
headline
about
the
Coal
Strike
.
.
.
that
wasn't
twenty-five.
With
professional
care
he
examined
the
racing
results.
Inkerman
had
won
the first
race
.
.
.
Inkerman—and
Knocker
had
made
up
his
mind
to back
Paper
Clip
with
more
money
than
he
could
afford
to
lose.
Paper Clip
was
merely
an
also-ran.
He
noticed
that
people
who
passed
were glancing
at
him
curiously.
Hurriedly
he
pushed
the
paper
into
an
inner
pocket
and
walked
on.

Never
had
Knocker
so
needed
a
drink.
He
entered
a
snug
little "pub"
near
Charing
Cross
and
was
thankful
to
find
the
saloon
bar nearly
deserted.
Fortified
with
his
drink
he
turned
again
to
the
paper. Inkerman
had
come
home
at
6
to
1.
He
made
certain
hurried
but satisfactory
calculations.
Salmon
House
had
won
the
second;
he
had expected
that,
but
not
at
such
a
price
.
.
.
7
to
4
on.
Shallot—Shallot of
all
horses!—had
romped
away
with
the
third,
the
big
race.
Seven lengths
...
at
100
to
8!
Knocker
licked
his
dry
lips.
There
was
no fake
about
the
paper
in
his
hand.
He
knew
the
horses
that
were
running
at
Gatwick
the
following
day
and
the
results
were
there
before him.
The
fourth
and
fifth
winners
were
at
short
prices;
but
Inkerman and
Shallot
were
enough
.
.
.

It
was
too
late
to
get
into
touch
with
any
of
the
bookmakers
that evening,
and
in
any
case
it
would
not
be
advisable
to
put
money
on before
the
day
of
the
race.
The
better
way
would
be
to
go
to
Gatwick in
the
morning
and
wire
the
bets
from
the
course.

He
had
another
drink
.
.
.
and
another.

Gradually,
in
the
genial
atmosphere
of
the
saloon
bar,
his
uneasiness
left
him.
The
affair
ceased
to
appear
uncanny
and
grotesque, and
became
a
part
of
the
casual
happenings
of
the
day.
Into
Knocker's
slightly
fuddled
brain
came
the
memory
of
a
film
he
had
once seen
which
had
made
a
big
impression
on
him
at
the
time.
There was
an
Eastern
magician
in
the
film,
with
a
white
beard,
a
long,
white beard
just
like
the
one
belonging
to
the
old
man.
The
magician
had done
the
most
extraordinary
things
...
on
the
screen.