Brighter Buccaneer by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online

lads of the village who always tap the champagne here when they’ve brought off a coup. Let me introduce you. They’re sitting at the corner table behind me on your right.”
    The girl glanced casually across the restaurant in the direction indicated. She located the two men at once-there were three magnums on the table in front of them, and their appearance was definitely hilarious.
    Simon finished his plate and ordered strawberries and cream.
    “The fat one with the face like an egg and the diamond tiepin is Mr. Joseph Mackintyre. He wasn’t always Mackintyre, but what the hell? He’s a very successful bookmaker; and, believe it or not, Pat, I’ve got an account with him.”
    “I suppose he doesn’t know who you are?”
    “That’s where you’re wrong. He does know-and the idea simply tickles him to death. It’s the funniest thing he has to talk about. He lets me run an account, pays me when I win, and gets a cheque on the nail when I lose. And all the time he’s splitting his sides, telling all his friends about it, and watching everything I do with an eagle eye-just waiting to catch me trying to put something across him.”
    “Who’s the thin one?”
    “That’s Vincent Lesbon. Origin believed to be Levantine. He owns the horses, and the way those horses run is nobody’s business. Lesbon wins with ‘em when he feels like it, and Mackintyre fields against ‘em so generously that the starting price usually goes out to the hundred-to-eight mark. It’s an old racket, but they work it well.”
    Patricia nodded. She was still waiting for the sequel that was bound to come-the reckless light in the Saint’s eyes presaged it like a red sky at sunset. But he annihilated his strawberries with innocent deliberation before he leaned back in his chair and grinned at her.
    “Let’s go racing tomorrow,” he said, “I want to buy a horse.”
    They went down to Kempton Park, and arrived when the runners for the second race were going up. The race was a Selling Plate; with the aid of his faithful pin, Simon selected an outsider that finished third; but the favourite won easily by two lengths. They went to the ring after the numbers were posted, and the Saint had to bid up to four hundred guineas before he became the proud owner of Hill Billy.
    As the circle of buyers and bystanders broke up, Simon felt a hand on his arm. He looked around, and saw a small thick-set man in check breeches and a bowler hat who had the unmistakable air of an ex-jockey.
    “Excuse me, sir-have you arranged with a trainer to take care of your horse? My name’s Mart Farrell. If I could do anything for you —”
    Simon gazed thoughtfully at his new acquisition, which was being held by an expectant groom.
    “Why, yes,” he murmured. “I suppose I can’t put the thing in my pocket and take it home. Let’s go and have a drink.”
    They strolled over to the bar. Simon knew Farrell’s name as that of one of the straightest trainers on the turf, and he was glad that one of his problems had been solved so easily.
    “Think we’ll win some more races?” he murmured, as the drinks were set up.
    “Hill Billy’s a good horse,” said the trainer judiciously. “I used to have him in my stable when he was a two-year-old. I think he’ll beat most things in his class if the handicaps give him a run. By the way, sir, I don’t know your name.”
    It occurred to the Saint that his baptismal title was perhaps too notorious for him to be able to hide the nucleus of his racing stud under a bushel, and for once he had no desire to
“Hill Billy belongs to the lady,” he said. “Miss Patricia Holm. I’m just helping her watch it.”
    As far as Simon Templar was concerned, Hill Billy’s career had only one object, and that was to run a race in which one of the Mackintyre-Lesbon stud was also a competitor. The suitability of the fixture was rather more important and more difficult to be sure of, but his luck was in. Early the next week he learned