Hard Pressed

CHAPTER XIII
"AN OFFICER AND A GENTLEMAN"

AS most people are aware, the camp-followers of the turf are a large body whose ways of earning a living are, to say the least of it, peculiar. This noble army numbers folk of all kinds, from the member of a swagger West End club to the humble seller of cards on the various courses. Amongst these, in his place, came Aaron Phillips. If he had been asked, he would probably have said that he was a professional backer of horses, a description which covers a wide field and embraces many methods of getting a living – more or less honestly.

In all likelihood Phillips would have resented the imputation that he was not a sportsman, and have declared emphatically that he was nothing else. He had been connected with racing ever since he could recollect, but had never been across a horse in his life, and would have found it impossible to pick out the good points of an animal. But he was fond of horses in his way. He had heard them talked about for years, and most of the frequenters of his father's public-house were either followers of racing or indirectly mixed up with the "sport of kings." He had been born, too, in the vicinity of a classic course and had always taken the greatest interest in the dramatic side of the turf. There was not an ingenious swindle but he had the details of it by heart.

For some years before his departure for South Africa he had followed racing from one course to another. Though he had never done anything deliberately dishonest, he was up to every dodge, always seemed to have money in his pocket, and was invariably well dressed. The fact that his mother had belonged to one of the leading Romany tribes Phillips found greatly to his advantage. He was never above passing the time of day with such nomads as he encountered, and more than once had benefited by this politeness. Had he ever wanted a useful and faithful tool, something uncommonly smart in the way of a human ferret, he knew where to put his hand on such a person. Strange as it may seem, there was never a great fraud connected with the turf that was not freely whispered amongst its humble followers long before it reached the ears of the authorities. More than once Phillips had listened to the outline of a story which would have astonished the magnates of the Jockey Club if they could have heard it. And it was by such means that he had managed to pick up the threads of a plot which, before long, seemed likely to promise sensational disclosures. It was an additional satisfaction to Phillips to know that the main persons in this plot were his old enemies Raymond Copley and Foster. He had followed up the clues in his patient way, and at last had something really definite to go upon.

It might be inferred that Phillips already had these two in the hollow of his hand. But he had learnt patience in the hard school of adversity, and had no intention of throwing away the chance of making money for the mere sake of revenge. At any moment he might have pricked the glittering bubble which Copley had blown, and laid both scoundrels by the heels in gaol, but that would have entailed loss of time and a considerable sojourn in South Africa, without any material return beyond that of triumph over his enemies. Now he was beginning to see a way to crush both Copley and Foster, and fill his own pockets at the same time.

He was not without his peculiar code of honour. Harry Fielden had defended him at one time and he was not going to forget it. Fielden would have been astonished to learn how much Phillips knew about his affairs. He knew, for instance, all about May Haredale. He knew that Copley was infatuated with the girl and was prepared to go any lengths to make her his wife. He knew too, pretty well what was in old Raffle's mind, and chuckled as he thought of it. And now the time had come to fire the first shot.

He turned out of his lodgings on a sunny Friday in February, and made his way to Russell Square. He was more carefully dressed than usual and wore a dark, quiet-looking suit, with a grey overcoat and felt hat. His gloves were neat, his boots well polished, and, save the horseshoe pin in his white cravat, there was no suggestion of the racing man about him. He turned presently into Kelly Street, and, knocking at the door of a certain house, asked for Major Carden. The Major, he was informed, was just finishing breakfast, but would see Mr. Phillips.

It was the usual room in a lodging-house – shabby Axminster carpet, dingy horsehair furniture, with the inevitable lustres on the mantelpiece. The tablecloth was none too clean, though on it was a vase or two of flowers, tastefully arranged. At one end of the table sat a stout pink-faced person with a carefully-trimmed grey moustache. He was a typical specimen of the retired military man, bluff and hearty in manner, with a pair of faded grey eyes faintly tinged with pink. Evidently, too, he had been accustomed to mix with the best people, as he would have phrased it himself. Probably, he still belonged to a good club, and no doubt found it exceedingly difficult to make both ends meet.

The second person at the breakfast table was an exceedingly pretty girl, who looked none the less refined and attractive because her black dress was of the plainest. She was chattering gaily as Phillips came in. She appeared to have a proper respect and affection for her father, whose words she seemed to hang upon. The Major looked up from the table and nodded genially.

"You are punctual, Phillips," he said. "I am afraid I am a little late this morning. Alice, my dear, this is Mr. Phillips. He is the distinguished journalist I was telling you about last night. We are both connected with the same papers."

As the Major spoke, he winked swiftly at Phillips, and the latter smiled. What the Major was driving at he hadn't the remotest idea.

"Oh, yes," he murmured. "The Major and I are old friends."

The girl smiled pleasantly. She appeared a trifle shy, and gave Phillips the impression that she had no friends, and that her young life was, for the most part, a constant sacrifice for her selfish and dissipated father. She rose presently, and with an excuse left the two men together. Immediately she was gone the Major crossed the room and produced a bottle of brandy, from which he helped himself liberally. Phillips curtly refused.

"I met some old friends last night," the Major said. "I am afraid I was just a little – well, you know how it is."

"I do," Phillips said shortly. "But what did you tell that lie for? What have we got to do with journalism?"

"My dear sir, there are times when one must dissemble. I know I am a bit of an old scamp, but, you see, my daughter doesn't know it. I wouldn't for worlds like her to know the life I am leading. She is a good girl and believes in me, and I have managed to give her a fine education. She is the only thing I have in the world to care for. She is the only thing that has kept me from going headlong to the dogs. I daresay when I am done with, some of my relations will look after her. Meanwhile, they take precious good care to keep me at arm's length. I don't blame them, either. I hit upon the journalistic dodge to account for my late hours. I was afraid you might give me away. I am bound to tell you this, and I hope you will respect my confidence. Well, now, what do you want me for? Sit down a minute."

"I have come to put a little money in your way," Phillips replied. "I gave you a hint of what I was after the night before last. They tell me you are a member of the Post Club."

"Oh, yes," Carden replied. "I have managed, somehow or other, to keep myself on the club books. Not that I go to the Post very much, because I can't afford it. If I meet a young friend occasionally who is anxious to see life, I take him there to lunch, on the strict understanding, of course, that he repays me."

"Then I want you to take me there. I would like to lunch there to-day, and I wish you to introduce me to Mr. Rickerby, the commission agent. It is a very simple matter. If you can bring this about and get me half an hour's conversation with Rickerby after lunch, I'll give you a tenner and pay for the lunch besides. There's no risk and no responsibility as far as you are concerned."

The Major pondered the matter.

"What are you up to?" he asked presently.

"That," Phillips said, "is no business of yours. But I assure you that I am up to nothing wrong. Nothing I can say or do will get you into trouble. I don't mind telling you there is a big swindle on foot to rob the leading bookmakers and commission agents and I am trying to expose it. If I do, there will be a good round sum of money for me, and if I fail, I shall be none the worse off. Now, are you game?"

The Major smiled. At that moment ten-pound notes were scarce, and Phillips' offer came in the nature of a windfall. But it was not part of his diplomacy to accept the suggestion too eagerly.

"I think so," he said. "I don't see why I shouldn't accommodate you. Perhaps, later, you might have something else to put in my way."

"Very well, then," Phillips replied. "I need not detain you now. I'll meet you at the club at half-past one."

CHAPTER XIV
THE POST CLUB

THERE are several smart betting clubs in London, but none smarter or more up-to-date than the Post Club. Like most institutions of the kind, it is somewhat mixed and largely devoted to the purposes of gambling. All sorts and conditions of men can be met there, from the magnates of the turf down to small bookmakers. At the same time the subscription is a heavy one and the entrance fee large. It is so large, indeed, that the police have never been bold enough to raid the club, which is conducted on the best principles. Betting on the tape goes on to an enormous extent, and there on most afternoons of the racing season nearly all the chief commission agents can be found. The club premises consist of a billiard-room, dining-room, and smoking-room, the last fitted with several tape machines, which bring the result of the day's racing directly from the course. Great wagers are constantly being made and sometimes enormous bets effected even after the horses have been dispatched by the starter.

Till after lunch the club is very quiet as a rule. On the first day of the Mirst Park Meeting not more than half a dozen racing men were in the dining-room. At a little table near the door sat the Major and his guest, discussing a dainty luncheon to the accompaniment of a choice brand of champagne. The Major was beaming. This was a pastime after his own heart, and seeing that the luncheon was costing him nothing he was doing the thing very lavishly indeed. There was something almost regal in the way he spoke to the waiters. His manner was bland and florid, and, beyond all was the consciousness of the five-pound note in his pocket which Phillips had given him to pay for the repast. They sat for some little time, when the door was flung violently open and a large man in an impossible waistcoat came into the dining-room.

Full-bodied and scarlet, he had an air of prosperity and in an aggressive way suggested money. Most persons in the sporting world were familiar with that huge personage in the striking waistcoat, for it was none other than Mr. Rickerby, of a firm of turf accountants, who advertised that they recognized no limit. In early life Mr. Rickerby, or Rick, as his friends styled him, had been a butcher. He had failed at that principally because he spent most of his time backing horses or arranging prize-fights. After he had passed through the Bankruptcy Court he began with a small silver book and, having a real genius for figures, together with a striking presence, an enormous voice and amazing audacity which amounted almost to simplicity, he soon made headway in his new profession. In a short time he took a partner who had been a smart accountant, and now had a suite of palatial offices in the Strand, where he kept a large staff of clerks, and where telephone messages were pouring in almost day and night. Rickerby was a leviathan, and though he by no means despised the small fish that came into his net, revelled in big bets and dramatic wagers.

He nodded to the Major with a mixture of insolent familiarity and fawning politeness. Occasionally the Major was of use to him. Besides, Carden was well connected and Mr. Rickerby had a profound admiration for the aristocracy. He would have passed on only, at a sign from Phillips, Carden detained him.

"Come and lunch with us, Rickerby," he said. "Try this new brand of champagne. Waiter, lay a place for Mr. Rickerby. Bring another bottle. No, on second thoughts, you had better bring a magnum. Rickerby, let me introduce my friend Mr. Phillips. He is just home from the Cape."

Rickerby touched an imaginary forelock.

"Proud to make your acquaintance, sir," he said. "Do you do anything in our line?"

"Well, I have," Phillips said. "I used to follow racing closely enough before I left England. Out yonder, from my point of view, I found something better. Still, there is nothing so fascinating as the great game. I daresay I shall make a wager or two before the season is over. I suppose one can't make bets here?"

"Not unless you are a member," the Major explained. "The committee are most particular about that kind of thing. They must think of the police. But I've no doubt Rickerby will be glad to accommodate you."

"Certainly, sir," Rickerby said. "Up to any amount you like. The Major's introduction is good enough for me, and a telegram or letter will always receive attention."

Gradually the conversation became more general. Luncheon was a thing of the past, and cigars and coffee had been set out in the smoking-room. Phillips seemed to find Rickerby a mine of interesting information, for he plied him with diplomatic questions. Under the influence of the champagne and brandy Rickerby expanded.

"Swindles, my dear sir!" he exclaimed. "There is no end to them. We drop on a dozen dodges every year of which the public know nothing. Why don't we prosecute? Because it isn't worth while, and the police are not sympathetic. Moreover, why should we let the public know of ways and means by which they might rob us? Ah, I could tell you of one or two men, and big men, too, in some of the West End clubs who would find themselves in a pretty tight place if some of us only liked to open our mouths. But what's the use? Why throw good money after bad?"

"But don't you get done?" Phillips asked.

"Well, very rarely," Rickerby responded, "but there are others in the club, who seem to me to lay themselves out for that sort of thing. There's a chap here called Selwyn, a rich young Australian fool, who thinks he knows everything. He's just the type of mark that the broken-down racing man prays for. He's in the hands of one or two here who are robbing him of thousands. He's soft enough to make bets five minutes after a race has been run. I've tipped him a hint once or twice, but bless you, it's no use. It is waste of breath to tell Selwyn that the men in whose hands he is are manipulating the telephone or wire and always betting on a dead certainty. One or two of the bets have been offered to me, but I am not taking any. I daresay you may think I ought to expose these people, but I've got something better to do."

"I should like to ask you one question," Phillips said. "Have you noticed by any chance if the people you are speaking about are particularly lucky in their bets on races run at Mirst Park?"

Rickerby looked admiringly at the speaker.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "you know more than I gave you credit for, but perhaps you are in the habit of studying this kind of thing. Now I come to think of it, I do recollect hearing it said that Selwyn had dropped a lot of money to these men last Mirst Park Meeting. If you really know anything, Mr. Phillips, I think you ought to say so."

"Oh, I won't go quite so far as that," Phillips said modestly; "it's only an idea that occurred to me which I was reminded of by something I read when I was in South Africa. But mightn't this be a coincidence?"

"I think not," Rickerby replied, "you could hardly say that of a series of bets in which Selwyn always loses and which are never made till after the race is run."

"Extraordinary," Phillips said. "But I can't see how it can be anything more than a mere coincidence. I suppose you do a tremendous lot of late betting."

"My dear sir, that is exactly what the club is for. Some of us wouldn't be able to live without it. But, all the same, we don't bet a second after the official time of starting."

By this time the smoking-room was filling up rapidly. Two or three score of men had come mainly to hear the result of the afternoon's racing and to make their bets up to the very last moment that wagers were accepted. Phillips, apparently perfectly satisfied with what he had heard, lounged in one corner smoking a cigar, watching the crowd of sportsmen keenly out of the corner of his eye. He seemed to have one glance, too, for the weather outside, which had changed somewhat, for the sky was overcast and flakes of snow were falling. A little later the room was almost in darkness and the whole world seemed to be lost in a white drift. The clock over the mantelpiece pointed to nearly twenty minutes past three. The result of the three o'clock race had been announced, and, so far as Phillips could tell, there had not been one sensational incident in the way of a bet.

"Your friend Selwyn is evidently not present to-day," Phillips observed, as Rickerby dropped into a seat by his side.

"Oh, yes, he is," the bookmaker retorted.

"That's very interesting," Phillips said. "I wish you would introduce me to Mr. Selwyn. I think a little later I shall be able to show him a way of saving money."

CHAPTER XV
JOLLY & CO

PHILLIPS slipped out of the club by and by, and for a while walked up and down opposite, studying the building in which the Post Club was situated. It was a large block of offices on five or six floors, mostly given over to merchants and dealers whose business was in connexion with Covent Garden Market. Moving up and down as if waiting for a friend, Phillips was making an exceedingly careful scrutiny of the building.

"It isn't as easy as I thought it was at first," he said. "I've got a pretty shrewd idea, for which I have in the main to thank that snowstorm. It is evident that Rickerby is perfectly right, and that there is some cunning plot afoot to rob this Selwyn. I wonder whether Rickerby was alluding to Raymond Copley. It can't be anybody else. Now it is clear the gang cannot make late bets during a snowstorm or thick mist or anything of that kind. I should like to know how they manage to get the name of the winner into the club before the horse is past the post. But that I must leave for the present. The point I have to find out now is how the man upstairs who comes to do the betting gets his information. If there was another block of buildings opposite the club I could understand it, because it would be easy to signal from one window to another. But there's nothing opposite except the Market with a lot of porters hanging about, and I don't suppose they have anything to do with it. The puzzle beats me for the moment. Still, having got so far, it is hard if I can't get to the bottom of it. The signal must come from somewhere in the block of buildings where the club is situated. Well, that gives me something to go on with anyhow, and I haven't much time to spare, especially as I must meet Fielden to-morrow at Mirst Park. I suppose there is only one thing to do, and that is to find out the name and occupation of every firm which has an office under the roof. The first thing I need is a Post Office Directory."

With the aid of this book he managed to winnow down the doubtful firms to five or six. The rest he found were established houses engaged in legitimate trade, the others being more or less new-comers whose callings were rather nondescript. By a stroke of good fortune, just before five o'clock Phillips obtained the assistance of a clerk in a fruit concern, whose firm was in the block of buildings in which the club was housed, and the doubtful firms were reduced to two. Standing outside looking up at the club, the windows of which were now in darkness, Phillips saw that next door were a couple of windows bearing on their wire blinds the legend, Jolly & Co. There was a light behind the blinds, so that the lettering stood out clear and distinct.

"I think I am getting on," Phillips commented. "Now, how am I going to find out about Jolly & Co.? It is a bit too dangerous to ask casually for Mr. Jolly. But, stop. Most of the people have left, and it is any odds the light has been used by the charwoman who is cleaning out the offices. It won't do any harm to go up and see."

Phillips put his plan into execution. He came at length to the second floor, and stopped at a door at the end of the passage which led to the rooms occupied by the Post Club. On the door the name of Jolly & Co. was painted in white letters. From behind it came the sound of scrubbing. Phillips entered boldly. The room was furnished as an office. There were a table and a chair or two, and in a corner an American roll-top desk. Beside the desk was a telephone which, from its glittering newness, had not been long erected. Attached to the receiver in the place of the usual short flex was a cord at least eight or nine feet long. It was a small matter in itself, but it did not escape Phillips' keen glance. He wondered what it was for. It was certain that it was not attached to the receiver by accident.

In one part of the room an old woman was kneeling down scrubbing the floorcloth.

"Is Mr. Jolly here?" Phillips asked.

"No, sir," was the reply. "He went away early. I saw the key of the office hanging up soon after half-past three."

Phillips smiled. He was beginning to understand now. There had been snowstorms most of the afternoon at intervals, and this, no doubt, had interfered with the campaign against the bookmakers.

"That is very annoying," Phillips said. "I particularly want to see Mr. Jolly. I have some very important business with him. Can you tell me where he lives?"

The old woman shook her head emphatically.

"No, I can't, sir," she said. "I haven't any idea where he lives. And, besides, he is mostly a stranger to me."

"He hasn't been here long, then?"

"No, sir. He came last autumn and, of course, I does for him like I do for the other gentlemen. He stayed till about the end of November, then he told me he had to go abroad for the winter. He has only been back about a week."

Phillips thought his time was not being wasted. Everything appeared to be going his way.

"I am very sorry," he said, "but, really, I must find him. It is most awkward, seeing that he is a stranger to me. Would you mind telling me what he is like? If you can give me a description of him I might make inquiries in the neighbourhood. It is possible he may be in one of the hotels close by playing billiards or something of that sort."

"Well, that's possible," the old woman said. "I know Mr. Jolly is fond of a game of billiards, because my little boy has had to fetch him once or twice. He is young and clean-shaven, looks like a boy almost till you get close to him, and then you can see what a lot of wrinkles he has round his eyes. He might easily be mistaken for an actor. Dresses very well, he does, except he wears a steel watch-chain."

Phillips gave the old woman a shilling and departed. He had found out all he was likely to discover. He had already moved towards the door when a sudden thought struck him.

"Oh, by the way," he said, "I wish you would let me have the number of your telephone. If I can't come here again I shall telephone Mr. Jolly in the morning."

The old woman intimated that the number was on the top of the telephone, and Phillips made a note of it. Then he went away, on the whole very well satisfied with his afternoon's work. He had yet, however, to verify a certain suspicion, and this he could not accomplish till late in the evening. It was eight o'clock or more before he turned into a public telephone call-office and rang up the number which he had copied in Jolly's office. He was not surprised to find that he received no reply, but it was not a reply he was after. What he really wanted was to get in connexion with the Exchange. He managed this presently. It was growing late, and there was no great pressure upon the office.

"I am sorry to trouble you," he said, "but I can't get anything from this number. Can you tell me if Mr. Jolly has a wire between the office and his house?"

The assistant amiably replied she would ascertain. In a few moments she spoke again.

"No wonder you couldn't get a reply," she said. "Jolly & Co. are not connected with the Exchange at all. We switch them on by arrangement for business purposes, but their wire is a private one. It has only been recently erected."

Phillips drew a sharp breath. He was expecting sensational developments, but this information fairly staggered him.

"I am much obliged to you," he said. "But I am very anxious to get on to Mr. Jolly. You say the wire is a private one. I suppose it goes from the office to Mr. Jolly's own house. Where is that?"

"His place is called The Nook, Mirst Park."

Once more Phillips was taken aback. The whole plot was opening up before his eyes. Many important matters remained to be cleared up, but he felt he was getting on with a vengeance.

"I didn't know where he lived," he said, "but many thanks for this information and all the trouble you have taken. Would you mind putting me in connexion with the Nook?"

The assistant was still obliging. For the best part of five minutes Phillips stood there with the receiver at his ear, and the longer he had to wait the more satisfied he appeared to be. Then, presently, the thin voice at the other end of the wire began to speak to him again.

"I am very sorry," she said. "But I have rung half a dozen times and can't make anybody hear. Probably they have left the receiver off the instrument. I can try again presently."

"A thousand thanks," Phillips said. "But I won't trouble you. I'll call round at the office in the morning. What a stroke of luck! Now for Mirst Park."