SV - 05 - Sergeant Verity and the Swell Mob. (30 page)

By two o'clock the
bell rang to clear the course for the novices' handicap, but there was another
hour before the race of the day, the Earl of Bristol's Plate for a prize of two
hundred guineas. The favourite had gone lame and an outside chance had been
scratched, leaving four runners: Cremorne, Prince Rupert, Rainbow and Lalla
Rookh. Betting in the ring was heavy, under the shadow of the old grandstand.
The withdrawal of the favourite left the race more open. Now it was difficult
to put money at long odds on any of the other horses. Prince Rupert was fancied
and had shortened to evens by the start. The ring was an exclusively male
preserve, crowded by the black silk hats of the wealthy and the bottle-green
velvet coats of the heavy swells. The ring was the one place where wealth and
crime associated on terms of easy familiarity, the common territory of the
aristocrat and the swell mobsman. There was betting in cash and betting 'on
the nod' from those to whom the bookmakers allowed credit. Such debts were to
be paid by the losers on settling day, the following Monday, in that other
famous ring at Tattersalls, near Hyde Park Corner.

Outside the ring at the
Brighton course, the professional tipsters drove their desperate trade. A thin,
ginger-haired man waited patiently by the gate until each race was over. Then
he would wrench off his coat, as in a fit of jubilation, throw it on the
ground, and stamp on it in his joy.' 'ere! 'ere! Got it again! Every winner
today! Never mind 'ow I gets the tip, gents, but it's straight from the stable!
Who'll say half a crown for the winner o' the next race, writ here in this envelope?
Every winner today, gents! Who'll say half a crown?'

Somewhere
beyond the stewards' enclosure a bell rang to clear the course again for the
Bristol Plate. There was an immediate hush across the broad downland, where the
afternoon sunlight sparkled on the canary yellow and ultramarine coachwork of
the trim carriages. The four runners were under starter's orders and the most
heavily-backed race of the programme was about to begin. A single voice in the
ring shouted for a last time, 'Evens the favourite!' And then there was
silence.

The stillness lasted only for
a moment. Presently there came a roar from the stand as the horses thundered
forward and the backers in the ring surged across to the rails to see them
pass. They were away in a few seconds, streaming across the turf between its
white-painted rails, curving above the sunlit waves, far across the skyline
towards Rottingdean. It was hard to make out the order of the runners from this
distance. Prince Rupert and Cremorne appeared to be in front, which was not
unexpected. Prince Rupert's jockey rode in a distinctive style, his knees tight
to the saddle on which he seemed to be propped rather than sitting. Cremorne's
rider sat straight, the reins in his left hand, the whip flourished in his
right.

The crowd lost sight of them,
only the few spectators in the top of the stand having a clear view of the
entire course. In the ring, men craned over the rails, watching the long hill
coming down from the east which formed the last stretch of the course, bringing
the riders past the stand again. As the first two horses appeared over the brow
of the hill, there was a universal roar and a waving of papers. Prince Rupert
was in the lead, though not by a great deal, with Cremorne lying back. Then, as
the slope began, it seemed that Prince Rupert began to tire. Moreover,
Cremorne's powerful shoulders told to his advantage on the hill. The shouting
rose to a crescendo as it became apparent that the leadership of the race was
about to change, and within twenty seconds Cremorne was past the post, a neck
in front of Prince Rupert.

Far away from the
tumult on the downs, the promenades and gardens stretching out to Hove were
almost deserted in the afternoon sun. Sealskin Kite mused in his Bath chair. He
needed no one to tell him the result of the Bristol Plate. That was a matter
which had been seen to long before. Of course, he was going to be much richer
regardless of the horse that won.

'But old men likes things
their own way,' he said comfortably to Mole who was pushing the chair. 'And
the world must pamper 'em up a bit, hey?'

Mole
grinned, only understanding part of the allusion. But the rider of Prince
Rupert had become the object of devotion of a statuesque young blonde who went
as Helen Jacoby. The things which she did for him would have sent any man quite
wild. And then she told him that five hundred pounds was on Cremorne at three
to one, and that as she meant to share everything with him for the future, half
of it was his. The Jockey Club forbade riders from placing bets on horses but
if the rider of Prince Rupert received a present from the beautiful backer of
Cremorne, that was beyond the Club's control.

The old man looked at the sea and clicked his tongue.

'Little bit of a bonus, Moley. Little bit of a bonus,
hey?'

And the shrewd old Sealskin
smiled fondly at the glittering tide.

Above
the plumes of the chestnut trees, the London sky was black with the threat of
summer thunder. A warm metallic smell of rain hung in the stagnant air. By four
o'clock on Monday afternoon Rotten Row and the shaded walks converging on Hyde
Park Corner were busy with the parade of horsemen and equestriennes. The
fashionable world leant on the white-painted rails and watched the passing
show. Among the last parade of the London season there were little foot-pages,
heavy swells walking three and four abreast, children playing, severe-looking
ladies of considerable age who steered younger ladies away from the wicked old
bucks who leered under the brim of every ribboned bonnet.

Among the idlers at the rails
there was a stir of attention and a raising of spyglasses every time that a
pretty horse-breaker rode past. The lenses scanned every inch of the pleasant
prospect from the girls' roguish little wide-awake hats or pertly cocked
cavalier bonnets and plumes, down to the Amazonian riding trousers strapped
under the instep of coquettish little boots with military heels.

Scandal and fashion had given
each young woman her admirers. There was something like a universal sigh as a
well-made blonde Venus rode by. With her strong hips, her hair worn in a
chignon, blue eyes in a face of doll-like innocence, she was known as Helen
Jacoby. Until the robbery of railway gold four years before and the arrest of
her keeper, she had been plain Ellen Jacoby. But fashion and a sense of
prudence dictated this change of syllable. There was the coltish figure of
Maggie Fashion, the curtains of blonde hair neatly ribboned, and behind her,
like a page or squire, her companion Tawny Jenny. This Asian beauty, Jennifer
Khan, was a curiosity even by the standards of Rotten Row. The sheen of black
hair lay in a pretty tangle between her shoulder blades. Her olive-skinned face
with its high cheekbones and disdainful almond eyes drew the idlers' glances
at once. Unlike her mistress she wore no skirt over the tight, fawn riding
trousers. The spyglasses caressed the firm thighs and hips, following wistfully
down the Row as if for a last view of the broadened spread of Jennifer Khan's
bottom moving suggestively on the saddle.

Beyond the chestnut trees, the
riders came out by the tall gates. From Hyde Park Corner, far down Grosvenor
Place, carriages of every description waited. There were mail phaetons of the
sporting aristocracy, trim cabriolets with high wheels and tall grey horses,
open carriages and pairs with parasolled ladies. Among them were a few discreet
broughams with their rose-coloured blinds drawn and a terrier or lap-dog
peeping out. At the far end there were even plain carts and chaise carts which
might almost have belonged to the costermonger trade.

The
reason for the unusual crowds in the park and the waiting carriages in
Grosvenor Place was universally known. Monday afternoon was by custom 'Settling
Day' at Tattersalls. Groups of men stood in casual conversation where White
Horse Street turned from Piccadilly. Just beyond was a little lane, busy with
men of rank and bookmakers of substance who had come to settle their accounts.
At the end of the lane, where a livery stable might have stood, there was a
cluster of little buildings and a stout railing. Within the railing a
gravelled walk circled an area of shaven grass. This simple plot was the famous
Ring of Tattersalls Subscription Rooms. The rooms themselves were entered only
by the demi-gods of gambling who were members, but any man could see for
himself the Ring where bargains were struck and payments made.

Tattersalls was not the
betting office of the working man, which was a consolation to Sealskin Kite.
The old Sealskin traded on the knowledge that aristocratic betting was done
entirely by trust and credit. When settling day came, a man of honour or his
bookmaker who laid off money through Tattersalls must either pay or else raise
money on the 'accommodation market' at high interest. In consequence, the value
of transactions at Tattersalls on such a day as this, when all England put its
accounts in order, might have been the envy of the Stock Exchange or the Bank.
Notes of hand, backed by the finest names in the country, changed possession
by the hundreds. Tattersalls was the guarantor of integrity in betting as much
as the Jockey Club was in the rules of racing.

From
the crowded little lane, men came and went, sometimes into the grassy ring,
sometimes into the subscription rooms beyond their elegant varnished door. A
few yards away the Turf Tavern, where members and non-members congregated to do
business, was buzzing with activity.

Bookmakers
who had hedged bets with one another to the value of a duke's income, shook
hands, drank their ale and came out all square.

There were enough ladies of
fashion among the crowd to make the arrival of Helen Jacoby pass unnoticed. She
spoke to a man in a silk waistcoast and fawn suiting who touched his white top
hat and ran her errand for her. Ten minutes later, she was driven away with a
Bank of England bill for £5,000 in her hand. A little of that would go to Prince
Rupert's jockey, whose lover she had been by necessity. A little more would go
to the girl herself. Most of it would go to the man who kept her and the men
who employed him. Who they were she did not know. The name of Sealskin Kite had
never been pronounced in her hearing.

Among the others there were
perhaps a dozen bookmakers, men who had won and lost in their usual proportions.
The proportions were large but they had no cause to complain of that. Those
notes which they now exchanged were signed by men known in the House of Lords
or the Commons, the army or the city, as figures of probity and trust. They
endorsed these banker's draughts and went away secure in the knowledge that
payment was safe and trust absolute. Had anyone told them that their businesses
and all they possessed belonged, far along a chain of humanity, to an old
broker named Sealskin Kite, they would not have understood. Had they taken the
trouble to investigate, they would have discovered little more than that Kite
was a trader on the exchange in cotton and sugar options.

Where the afternoon sun had
moved round to create a pool of shadow by the railings of the Ring, Old Mole
stood quietly and watched. He was the man of elegance again in his blue suiting
and silk hat, only the hanging yellowed mouth betraying him. Mole had no wish
to annoy the old Sealskin by probing the mechanics of the swindle too
obviously. But he understood enough. A man who had spent £100,000 backing the
four horses equally in the Bristol Plate must have lost. The winner would have
brought him £72,000 and the others would have lost him £75,000. A fool's wager,
Mole thought. But suppose the money was not his, that it was stolen banker's
draughts to be passed untraceably through the processes of bookmaking and settling,
wagered in false names and paid to false names? Why then, thought Mole, a man
must make his £72,000 clear for nothing.

And
suppose, he thought, that a man like the old Sealskin had cause to know that
Cremorne might win. And suppose he backed him with a bill which cost nothing
should the horse lose, over and above the rest. Why then, he would be £20,000
more to the good. True, he thought, Mr Kite was not quite as good as his word.
£92,000 was short of £100,000. But Old Mole was not disposed to quarrel. Even
the short money would allow a man to buy Buckingham Palace or Windsor Castle,
he supposed, and still have enough to stiff a doxy or two.

With this latter thought in
his mind, Old Mole shrugged himself off the railings and prepared to leave. His
attention was drawn at that moment by the arrival of two equestriennes, Maggie
with her blonde veil and the young Moslem Venus who attended her. Mole grinned.
He was particularly intrigued by Jennifer Khan, the slight heaviness of the
Asian girl's hips in the suggestively tight riding trousers. As the blonde girl
went to give her commission to one of the runners, Old Mole sauntered past. His
hand came down with audible appreciation on the cheek of Jennifer Khan's seat.
She swung round, indignation brightening the dark eyes with their slight
upward slant at the outer corners. Old Mole grinned delightedly at the
response.

'Better than a
kiss in the dark, missy!' he said cheerfully.