Puzzle of the Red Stallion (23 page)

Latigo frowned with consternation. Finally he shook his head. “’Fraid not, ma’am.”

“Nonsense!” Miss Withers snapped as the distant figure of Abe Thomas vanished. “Didn’t he come to the stable after Violet Feverel left last Sunday morning and try to rent a saddle horse?”

Latigo grinned widely. “Not on your life, ma’am. It was a different guy altogether.”

“You’d swear it wasn’t he?”

“On a stack of Bibles. You see, I know who that guy was—the one who wanted to ride horseback without the usual outfit of boots and breeches.”

“Well for heaven’s sake who?”

“I don’t exactly know his name,” Latigo explained. “But I’ve seen his picture.”

“In the papers?”

Latigo shook his head. “In the bottom of the birdcage in Miss Barbara’s apartment,” he concluded. Then he got back into line. Miss Withers watched as he exchanged seven hundred dollars for a tiny slip of paper and shook her head as the girl led him away toward the track, still singing of how Santa Claus couldn’t fail them.

“Your turn, Hildegarde,” the inspector was saying. But she pushed him forward.

“I—I want to think for a moment,” she said. The inspector made his own modest bet on the favorite, Head Wind, and looked around. “You’d better play safe, Hildegarde—”

He saw that he was alone.

Mr. Don Gregg, making his lonely way from the paddock to the front of the grandstand, was somewhat surprised to be seized upon from the rear by an excited schoolteacher.

“Young man!” she demanded as soon as she got her breath. “Why were you following Violet Feverel last Sunday morning?”

Don Gregg didn’t change expression. “Abe Thomas told you that,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t believe everything he says if I were you.”

Miss Withers stared at him, not unkindly. “You’re tearing up your ticket,” she informed him.

Hastily, a little ruefully, he rejoined the torn halves. It was a scrap of paper which represented a bet of fifty dollars on Good News to show.

“I still wouldn’t believe everything you hear,” Gregg told her. He put the torn ticket carefully away in his pocket. “I’m going to need that when Good News comes home four lengths ahead of those other goats,” he said. “It’s about time I had some good news from somewhere….”

Miss Withers stared after him, shaking her head. Then she hurried to the nearest bookie and put down two dollars—two more—

The frog-faced bookmaker gaped at her. “Listen, lady, is this a system?” But he took her money. Then he leaned closer, pointing at his slate. “What’s the matter with this one?” he wanted to know. “I’ll give you nice long odds on him, because nobody around here knows the horse and they’re not betting on him. Give you fifty to one….”

Miss Withers had exactly eight dollars in her purse.

“Like Babs Foley, I’ll sink or swim,” she said softly. “Eight dollars on the—er—the nose of the poor little horse that nobody has bet on.”

She took the ticket and hid it hastily in her purse as the inspector beckoned to her.

“Come along—if you want to see any of this race!”

“I’m coming along,” she told him. “Yes indeed, I’m coming along amazingly.” And she followed him meekly through the doors and out onto the terrace and into the bright sunshine.

Unfortunately they had come too late to get grandstand seats. “Nothing for it but a shove to the fence,” the inspector decided. By much use of his shoulder and an occasional flash of his badge they finally worked their way to a vantage point exactly at the finish line, in the very shadow of the judges’ stand.

Across the far track, beyond the rooftops and the rising green of the trees, Miss Withers could see a flash of sunlight reflected from the turret of the distant Gingerbread House and she wondered idly if old man Gregg was watching through his telescope. She had a very good idea that he was, for if her suspicions were correct the outcome of this race would be very important to him.

Far to the left she could see a line of slowly moving horses, with here and there the bright flash of a jockey’s colors. Then a stentorian voice roared from a dozen loudspeakers, “
The horses are nearing the starting gate
!”

Beside her a man with a cap over his eyes was praying devoutly. Miss Withers was not at all surprised to find that it was Highpockets, the colored boy from the Thwaite stable. She was no longer surprised at anything.

He had no eyes or ears for her. “You lucky seven!” he muttered. “Oh, you lucky number seven. Come on, Prince Penguin … win this race and I promotes you to a king…. The man pays me one hundred dollars does you win, lucky seven….”

“He’s betting the post position,” Piper said. “Well, Hildegarde, you may as well break down and tell me which nag you’re betting on. Did you take my advice and bet the favorite?”

She nodded, realizing that her hands were trembling. “They seem an awfully long time about it!”

The loud-speakers roared again: “
There’s a little trouble up at the starting gate
—
Head Wind is delaying the start
!”

The inspector offered his binoculars, but Miss Withers trembled so that she could hardly focus them. Then she got a glimpse of the gate, a high contraption which was no gate at all, but only a means of dividing the horses. The horse on the extreme outside was standing on his hind legs and kicking methodically at an assistant starter who nimbly dodged for his life.

The crowd was swept by a great groan from the thousands who had put their money on the favorite.

“
Just a minute
!” came the announcement. “
Ladies and gentlemen, Head Wind is having a fit of temperament and will be started from outside the gate
!”

“They’re taking him out in the weeds!” moaned Piper. “Hildegarde, we’re done for!”

Miss Withers only sniffed. Piper took the glasses. “They’ve lined him up outside and they’re going to hit him with a strap to make him start with the others,” he announced.

Suddenly there was a great gasp from the crowd. After a split second there came the faint sound of the starting bell….

“
They’re off
!”

“And Head Wind is ahead!” cried Miss Withers happily. It was true. The big sorrel was coming down past the grandstand at least two lengths ahead of the field. “Come on, Head Wind!” cried the schoolteacher. “Come on….” She noticed men turned to look at her.

“Quiet, Hildegarde!” ordered the inspector. He spoke to her politely, wearily. “It doesn’t count, even if Head Wind stays ahead all the way around. Because he forgot to bring his jockey along.”

Miss Withers peered along the fence toward the starting gate, where a small man in bright maroon silks was sadly picking himself up from the track. At the sound of the starting bell the favorite had taken a notion into his head to begin the race on two legs instead of the usual four.

The announcer’s voice rang out in the loud-speakers: “
A mishap, ladies and gentlemen…. Head Wind has unseated his rider and is disqualified…. Now the horses are at the quarter and it’s Good News, Santa Claus and Tom-Tom….
”

From somewhere in the mob behind her Miss Withers heard a shrill “Yippeeeeeee!” that could have come only from the throat of Latigo Wells.

“Come on, Good News! Come on, Santa Claus!” screamed the schoolteacher, fumbling for the binoculars. The horses flowed in one smooth stream on the far track….

“
On the back-stretch it’s Good News, Santa Claus and Prince Penguin … with Easter Bunny closing ground fast along the rail…. Now it’s Good News, Santa Claus and Easter Bunny….
”

“Come on, Easter Bunny!” Miss Withers shrieked.

“
They’re at the half
!” cried the announcer. “
It’s Good News, Easter Bunny and Santa
—
No! It’s Verminator in third place, by a neck….
”

“Come on, Verminator!” Miss Withers cried. The inspector looked at her. “Hildegarde! Make up your mind!”

The announcer’s voice was higher now, tense and breathless. “
At the far turn it’s Easter Bunny and Verminator, then Good News, Toy Wagon, Wallaby and Tom-Tom … the rest trailing…. Wallaby and Toy Wagon are fighting it out at the rail position
—”

“Come on, Wallaby! Come on, you lovely horse!” Miss Withers had almost no voice left. Beside her she could hear the monotonous praying of Highpockets as he called over and over for “lucky seven come home for yo’ papa….”

“
Wallaby’s coming through on the rail
!” the announcer said. “
He’s coming up fast…. Now it’s Easter Bunny and Verminator with Wallaby forcing out Good News for third
—
Good News is dropping back
—
Toy Wagon is making his bid….
”

Miss Withers impolitely snatched the glasses from the inspector. She could see one horse far out in front, a brave beautiful horse who thought he was winning the race. That would be Head Wind, running wild.

Then, in a little clump along the rail, she saw four horses so close together that their riders could have shaken hands.

“
At the three-quarters it’s Easter Bunny, Verminator and Wallaby, with Toy Wagon close behind…. Verminator’s rider is calling on him….
”

The little jockey had ridden Verminator to triumph in six major handicaps and loved him like a brother. “This is it!” he sobbed into the ears of his plunging mount. “This is the big race, boy. Try … anyway!”

Verminator plunged forward, wobbled, and closed half a length. “
It’s Easter Bunny, Verminator and Toy Wagon
—
No! Wallaby is coming through on the outside….
”

The roar from the crowd was one great wordless gasp. Miss Withers tried to call out “Come on, Wallaby!” but her voice was only a dismal croak.

Thundering down the homestretch, jockeys humped on the withers and swinging their bats, hoofs thudding in unison….

Wallaby came on. He passed Verminator. He passed Easter Bunny, whose jockey called on her for one last grand effort and who was already giving everything she had.

“
Wallaby
!” thundered the announcer. “
Wallaby wins! Then Easter Bunny and Toy Wagon…. This is not official until you see the red flag….
”

The horses galloped on around the first turn, wheeled and came back. Wallaby wore a flowered horseshoe wreath. The riderless Head Wind trotted to the judges’ circle and wondered where was his wreath. Verminator limped off the track, his jockey walking beside him crying unashamed. “He ran the last furlong on his fetlocks!” the boy sobbed. “I couldn’t use the whip!” Wallaby’s rider dismounted and did a little Irish jig on the track.

Miss Withers sank back against her escort. “What a thrill!” she gasped.

The inspector glared at her. “Hildegarde, what horse were you rooting for?”

“Why—the one in front!”

“But which one did you bet on? Didn’t you want your horse to win?”

She nodded weakly. “Oscar—Oscar, I got so many good tips on this race that I—I couldn’t resist….” She opened her hand bag and showed him. “I bought a ticket on each horse—to win!”

For a moment Miss Withers thought that her old friend was going to faint. “Hildegarde,” he exploded as soon as his powers of speech returned, “you ought to be in a museum, under glass. You ought to be framed….”

“Framed for the murder of Violet Feverel, Oscar? Like some of the suspects in this murder investigation?”

The inspector said he didn’t mean it that way.

“G
REAT SPORT,” SAID THE
inspector dryly. “But Hildegarde, are we getting any
foradder
? With the murder, I mean?”

“Murder?” echoed Miss Withers. “Oh, you mean Violet Feverel! Do you know, Oscar, I’ve had the feeling all along that there was something wrong with that murder. Something accidental, haphazard, even a bit insincere.”

“Huh? Well, the commissioner thinks it’s a murder. It’ll do until one comes along.”

“Which may be any moment,” Miss Withers pointed out. “Anyway, I haven’t wasted my afternoon. At least I picked the winning horse!”

“And
how
you picked it!” the inspector jeered. “You’ll never get rich that way.” Then he remembered something. “Say, that Wallaby horse was a long-shot, wasn’t he? What odds did you get?”

She produced the ticket. “The man said fifty to one,” she explained. “Does that mean I get my money back?”

The inspector shook his head wearily. “I bet the favorite on form and he doesn’t even get in the money—and you bet every horse in the race and a fifty-to-one shot comes in! Hildegarde, you can collect four hundred dollars for your eight-dollar ticket!”

She nodded brightly. “Even with the other cheaper tickets I bought I’m more than three hundred and sixty dollars ahead, Oscar. You know, this beats teaching school!”

She led the way toward the bookmaker’s station. “Really, my conscience bothers me about this,” she said as she accepted the fat roll of bills, noting that the frog-faced bookmaker eyed her with a new respect. “Gambling is against my principles—and besides, think of all the people we know who wanted and needed to win so badly! Why should I guess right and they so wrongly?”

“None of ’em bet on Wallaby, then?” Piper asked.

She shook her head. “Only one person concerned in this investigation had a hunch on Wallaby,” she said. “That was Violet Feverel, and she couldn’t be here to play her hunch.”

The inspector digested this. “Say, how did Violet get the tip?”

Miss Withers frowned. “I wish I knew,” she said softly. Her elbow jammed into the inspector’s ribs and he stopped short. His companion was pointing just ahead, where young Don Gregg was moodily scattering the fragments of his ticket.

“Bad luck?” Miss Withers called out as they drew closer.

Gregg nodded. “Good News was bad news for me. You know, I counted on that name. I thought it was about time I had some good news.” He flipped away the scraps of paper carelessly.

“I always knew,” he continued with a faint smile, “that horses can sleep standing up. But I never knew until today that a horse can sleep while he’s running.”

The young man withdrew. “Not a bad loser, at that.” Miss Withers gave him credit.

She waited while Piper cashed in the ticket he had bought in behalf of his fellow-officer, Captain Joel Tinker. “Tinker’s kids like Easter bunnies,” the inspector said cheerily. “He can buy ’em a lot of chocolate rabbits with this fourteen dollars his horse paid for a show bet.”