Lesbon thickly. “I will present your courage with the reward that it deserves. Of course,” he added, “if you feel very grateful-after Rickaway has lost-and if you would like to come to a little supper party -I should be delighted. I should feel honoured. Now, if you weren’t doing anything after the races on Saturday —”
The girl looked up into his face.
“I should love to come,” she said huskily. “I think you’re the kindest man I’ve ever known. I’ll be on the course tomorrow, and if you still think you’d like to see me again-“
“My dear, nothing in the world could please me more.” Lesbon put a hand on her shoulder and pressed her towards the door. “Now you run along home and forget all about it. I’m only too happy to be able to help such a charming lady.”
Patricia Holm walked round the block in which Mr. Lesbon’s flat was situated, and found Simon Templar waiting patiently at the wheel of his car. She stepped in beside him, and they whirled down into the line of traffic that was crawling towards Marble Arch.
“How d’you like Vincent?” asked the Saint, and Patricia shivered.
“If I’d known what he was like at close quarters, I’d never have gone,” she said. “He’s got hot slimy hands, and the way he looks at you … But I think I did the job well.”
Simon smiled a little, and flicked the car through a gap between two taxis that gave him half an inch to spare on either wing.
“So that for once we can give the pin a rest,” he said.
Saturday morning dawned clear and fine, which was very nearly a record for the season. What was more, it stayed fine; and Mart Farrell was optimistic.
“The going’s just right for Hill Billy,” he said. “If he’s ever going to beat Rickaway he’ll have to do it today. Perhaps your aunt might have five shillings on him after all, Miss Holm.”
Patricia’s eyebrows lifted vaguely.
“My-er-“
“Miss Holm’s aunt got up this morning with a bilious attack,” said the Saint glibly. “It’s all very annoying, after we’ve put on this race for her benefit, but since Hill Billy’s here he’d better have the run.”
The Owners’ Handicap stood fourth on the card. They lunched on the course, and afterwards the Saint made an excuse to leave Patricia in the Silver Ring and went into Tatter-sail’s with Farrell. Mr. Lesbon favoured the more expensive enclosure, and the Saint was not inclined to give him the chance to acquire any premature doubts.
The runners for the three-thirty were being put in the frame, and Farrell went off to give his blessing to a charge of his that was booked to go to the post. Simon strolled down to the rails and faced the expansive smile of Mr. Mackintyre.
“You having anything on this one, Mr. Templar?” asked the bookie juicily.
“I don’t think so,” said the Saint. “But there’s a fast one coming to you in the next race. Look out!”
As he wandered away, he heard Mr. Mackintyre chortling over the unparalleled humour of the situation in the ear of his next-door neighbour.
Simon watched the finish of the three-thirty, and went to find Farrell.
“I’ve got a first-class jockey to ride Hill Billy,” the trainer told him. “He came to my place this morning and tried him out, and he thinks we’ve a good chance. Lesbon is putting Penterham up-he’s a funny rider. Does a lot of Lesbon’s work, so it doesn’t tell us anything.”
“We’ll soon see what happens,” said the Saint calmly.
He stayed to see Hill Billy saddled, and then went back to where the opening odds were being shouted. With his hands in his pockets, he sauntered leisurely up and down the line of bawling bookmakers, listening to the fluctuation of the prices. Hill Billy opened favourite at two to one, with Rickaway a close second at threes-in spite of its owner’s dubious reputation. Another horse named Tilbury, which had originally been quoted at eight to one, suddenly came in demand at nine to two. Simon
The girl looked up into his face.
“I should love to come,” she said huskily. “I think you’re the kindest man I’ve ever known. I’ll be on the course tomorrow, and if you still think you’d like to see me again-“
“My dear, nothing in the world could please me more.” Lesbon put a hand on her shoulder and pressed her towards the door. “Now you run along home and forget all about it. I’m only too happy to be able to help such a charming lady.”
Patricia Holm walked round the block in which Mr. Lesbon’s flat was situated, and found Simon Templar waiting patiently at the wheel of his car. She stepped in beside him, and they whirled down into the line of traffic that was crawling towards Marble Arch.
“How d’you like Vincent?” asked the Saint, and Patricia shivered.
“If I’d known what he was like at close quarters, I’d never have gone,” she said. “He’s got hot slimy hands, and the way he looks at you … But I think I did the job well.”
Simon smiled a little, and flicked the car through a gap between two taxis that gave him half an inch to spare on either wing.
“So that for once we can give the pin a rest,” he said.
Saturday morning dawned clear and fine, which was very nearly a record for the season. What was more, it stayed fine; and Mart Farrell was optimistic.
“The going’s just right for Hill Billy,” he said. “If he’s ever going to beat Rickaway he’ll have to do it today. Perhaps your aunt might have five shillings on him after all, Miss Holm.”
Patricia’s eyebrows lifted vaguely.
“My-er-“
“Miss Holm’s aunt got up this morning with a bilious attack,” said the Saint glibly. “It’s all very annoying, after we’ve put on this race for her benefit, but since Hill Billy’s here he’d better have the run.”
The Owners’ Handicap stood fourth on the card. They lunched on the course, and afterwards the Saint made an excuse to leave Patricia in the Silver Ring and went into Tatter-sail’s with Farrell. Mr. Lesbon favoured the more expensive enclosure, and the Saint was not inclined to give him the chance to acquire any premature doubts.
The runners for the three-thirty were being put in the frame, and Farrell went off to give his blessing to a charge of his that was booked to go to the post. Simon strolled down to the rails and faced the expansive smile of Mr. Mackintyre.
“You having anything on this one, Mr. Templar?” asked the bookie juicily.
“I don’t think so,” said the Saint. “But there’s a fast one coming to you in the next race. Look out!”
As he wandered away, he heard Mr. Mackintyre chortling over the unparalleled humour of the situation in the ear of his next-door neighbour.
Simon watched the finish of the three-thirty, and went to find Farrell.
“I’ve got a first-class jockey to ride Hill Billy,” the trainer told him. “He came to my place this morning and tried him out, and he thinks we’ve a good chance. Lesbon is putting Penterham up-he’s a funny rider. Does a lot of Lesbon’s work, so it doesn’t tell us anything.”
“We’ll soon see what happens,” said the Saint calmly.
He stayed to see Hill Billy saddled, and then went back to where the opening odds were being shouted. With his hands in his pockets, he sauntered leisurely up and down the line of bawling bookmakers, listening to the fluctuation of the prices. Hill Billy opened favourite at two to one, with Rickaway a close second at threes-in spite of its owner’s dubious reputation. Another horse named Tilbury, which had originally been quoted at eight to one, suddenly came in demand at nine to two. Simon
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