Brighter Buccaneer by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online Page A

that Hill Billy was favourably handicapped in the Owners’ Plate at Gatwick on the following Saturday, and it so happened that his most serious opponent was a horse named Rickaway, owned by Mr. Vincent Lesbon.
    Simon drove down to Epsom early the next morning and saw Hill Billy at exercise. Afterwards he had a talk with Farrell.
    “Hill Billy could win the first race at Windsor next week if the going’s good,” said the trainer. “I’d like to save him for it- it’d be a nice win for you. He’s got the beating of most of the other entries.”
    “Couldn’t he win the Owners’ Handicap on Saturday?” asked the Saint; and Farrell pursed his lips.
    “It depends on what they decide to do with Rickaway, sir. I don’t like betting on a race when Mr. Lesbon has a runner-if I may say so between ourselves. Lesbon had a filly in my stable last year, and I had to tell him I couldn’t keep it. The jockey went up before the Stewards after the way it ran one day at Newmarket, and that sort of thing doesn’t do a trainer’s reputation any good. Rickaway’s been running down the course on his last three outings, but the way I work out the Owners’ Handicap is that he could win if he wanted to.”
    Simon nodded.
    “Miss Holm rather wants to run at Gatwick, though,” he said. “She’s got an aunt or something from the North coming down for the week-end, and naturally she’s keen to show off her new toy.”
    Farrell shrugged cheerfully.
    “Oh, well, sir, I suppose the ladies have got to have their way. I’ll run Hill Billy at Gatwick, if Miss Holm tells me to, but I couldn’t advise her to have much of a bet. I’m afraid Rickaway might do well if he’s a trier.”
    Simon went back to London jubilantly.
    “It’s a match between Hill Billy and Rickaway,” he said. “In other words, Pat, between Saintliness and Sin. Don’t you think the angels might do a job for us?”
    One angel did a job for them, anyway. It was Mr. Vincent Lesbon’s first experience of any such exquisite interference with his racing activities; and it may be mentioned that he was a very susceptible man.
    This happened on the Gatwick Friday. The Mackintyre-Lesbon combination was putting in no smart work that day, and Mr. Lesbon whiled away the afternoon at a betting club in Long Acre, where he would sometimes beguile the time with innocuous half-crown punting between sessions at the snooker table. He stayed there until after the result of the last race was through on the tape, and then took a taxi to his flat in Maida Vale to dress for an evening’s diversion.
    Feminine visitors of the synthetic blonde variety were never rare at his apartment; but they usually came by invitation, and when they were not invited the call generally foreboded unpleasant news. The girl who stood on Mr. Lesbon’s doorstep this evening, with the air of having waited there for a long time, was an exception. Mr. Lesbon’s sensitive conscience cleared when he saw her face.
    “May I-may I speak to you for a minute?”
    Mr. Lesbon hesitated fractionally. Then he smiled-which did not make him more beautiful.
    “Yes, of course. Come in.”
    He fitted his key in the lock, and led the way through to his sitting-room. Shedding his hat and gloves, he inspected the girl more closely. She was tall and straight as a sapling, with an easy grace of carriage that was not lost on him. Her face was one of the loveliest he had ever seen; and his practised eye told him that the cornfield gold of her hair owed nothing to artifice.
    “What is it, my dear?”
    “It’s … Oh, I don’t know how to begin! I’ve got no right to come and see you, Mr. Lesbon, but-there wasn’t any other way.”
    “Won’t you sit down?”
    One of Mr. Lesbon’s few illusions was that women loved him for himself. He was a devotee of the more glutinous productions of the cinema, and he prided himself on his polished technique.
    He offered her a cigarette, and sat on the arm of her chair.
    “Tell me