The adventures of Heine
book and opened it. He ran his finger down page after page and at last
he stopped.
“This must be the one, Mr. Speddings,” he said. “I am afraid, sir,” he
said, addressing me, “this gentleman has made a mistake. Curiously
enough, the number of this note is missing but it is not in this
series. Bank-notes, as you know,” he explained, “have a number and a
series letter, and the stolen note fortunately is not yours.”
I bowed my head. Had I spoken my shaking voice would have betrayed me.
I shook hands with this benevolent-looking Englishman, left the note
in the shopkeeper’s hands and, hailing a cab, I drove back to my
hotel.
The shock quite upset me, and I lay on the bed all that afternoon
thinking of some way whereby not only I could get a quicker departure
of the money but a method which enabled me to do so in safety. They
brought me up the afternoon newspapers and I turned the pages idly. I
have explained before, though the fact needs no explanation, that we
Germans leap to an idea as air to a vacuum. It was something in the
little smudged space reserved for the latest news which attracted my
attention. I rang the bell and the porter came to me.
I pretty shrewdly guessed that this man was interested in the subject
which I broached. All these porters and common people of England are
sport-hunters and race-horse punting men, as they call them. I assumed
the air of a bookmaker as he came in, and said with a good imitation
of a bettor:
“What’s the odds for the three o’clock race!”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“What’s the odds for the three o’clock race, my boy?” I said jovially.
“Six to four the field or ten to one bar one?” You see I had got the
jargon of the race-course by heart, though I loathed and detested the
races.
A light dawned in his eyes.
“Oh, you want to know the prices of the three o’clock winner. It’s
four to one, sir.”
“Good,” I replied jovially, and putting my hand in my pocket I gave
him a £5 note to his great astonishment.
“Where is the horse-racing to-morrow?” I asked.
“Same place, sir,” said the man when he had recovered from his
dumbfoundedness.
“Where?” I asked.
“Why, at Newmarket, sir.”
“And is there racing on the following day?” I asked.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, “it is a three-day meeting. This is the first
day.”
“Find me the best train for Newmarket, my good fellow,” I said; “for I
am going down to back the field.”
He was mystified by my knowledge of sporting terms. That was easy to
see. He went away and came back in about an hour, and told me that the
best thing I could do was to go to London on the night train, and take
another train from there to Newmarket, and though I did not wish to
appear in London, those were the steps I took, arriving at London at
seven o’clock in the morning and leaving Liverpool Street Station at
half-past eight.
I found on my arrival at that historic centre of gambling and vice,
that I was three hours too soon. My pockets were filled with money,
and I carried the remainder in my portmanteau. I had some difficulty
in finding a room at the hotel, but eventually I was given a small
apartment on the second floor of a gloomy inn.
I left my bag under the bed and strode out into the town,
congratulating myself upon the genius which had inspired me to
discover the most rapid way of putting money into circulation.
It was a bright spring morning and the streets were crowded with men
who were strolling up and down, and who had evidently spent the night
in the town.
I took a brisk walk to what is known as the “Severalls,” and then,
coming back, turned into the most respectable bar I could find and
ordered myself a whisky and soda. I made a great display of my
money--(Do you see Heine’s plan?)--and several sharp-looking men, who
were watching me closely, exchanged glances which I did not fail to
see, though I proceeded innocently to swallow my drink as though I
were oblivious of their presence. By-and-by one of them came over to
me and asked me if I had seen the morning paper.
“I think I have met you before,” he said, “at Ascot.”
“It is very likely,” I replied politely. “I usually go to Ascot three
or four times a year.”
“Not for the racing?” he said, taken aback.
“Yes,” I smiled.
“But,” he said, “there’s only one meeting at Ascot. A four-day meeting
in the summer.”
“Exactly,” I said, never at a loss for a reply. “I go every day.”
“Oh, I see what you mean,” he said. Then, after a pause, “Do you think
Barleycorn will do it to-day?”
“Do what?” I asked, a little puzzled.
“Do you think Barleycorn will win?”
“Oh, of course,” I said hastily. “Is it running?”
He looked at me queerly.
“Running? Is Barleycorn running for the Babraham handicap? Why, of
course it’s running. It will start a hot favourite, too.”
“In that case,” said I with a simulation of racing intelligence, “in
that case it will win. I must have a thousand or so on,” I said with
careless indifference.
He swallowed hard.
“I know a very good thing for the first race,” he said. “It’s a
pinch.”
“What a curious name for a horse,” I said, with a gay laugh.
“You’re a comical chap,” said the man. “What I mean is, this horse is
a certainty.”
“Oh, I see what you mean,” said I. “Forgive me if I am not used to the
patois, but you see I am a Chilian planter and I do not speak very
well.”
He nodded, and the puzzled look on his face disappeared, and instead
there settled that beautiful look of peace and contentment which a man
assumes when he has found an unsuspected gold mine.
“I used to live in Chile myself,” he said, “at least my brother did.
He is always talking about the Chilians--that’s where the chillies
come from, isn’t it?”
I nodded. I do not know where they come from, and I have only been in
Chili once in my life.
“Well, anything I can do for a stranger I am always willing to do,” he
said.
He was a stoutish man with a large gold watch-chain. His face was
clean-shaven and very red, and he wore a grey Derby hat on the back of
his head and three diamond rings on his right hand. He asked me if I
admired the rings and I told him I did. He said they were diamonds and
I did not tell him he was a liar, for I know plate-glass when I see
it.
The end of it was that we all went out to the course together. On the
way up he told me he knew a bookmaker who gave much better odds than
anybody else, and that if I cared to let him do my commissions for me
he would be happy to put me in the way of making money.
It transpired that the pinch was a horse called Implex, and I handed
over £150 with a coolness which took his breath away. Implex did not
win, and if he had won I should not have got the money, because my new
friend, whose name was Mike, did not, so far as I could see, go near a
bookmaker. He came back full of apologies, expecting to find me
wrathful, but I was smiling and urbane. He told me he had another
pinch and that he could get ten to one to a lot of money.
I handed him ten notes of £50, the most difficult notes of all to put
into circulation, and he went into the ring and came back and said
that I stood to win £5,000. The horse was called Molum. I saw that
horse going down. I don’t know much about race-horses, but I know a
horse when I see one. I watched the race from the stand, but I did not
see Molum till after the race was over.
For some time Mike did not come near me, but just before the third
race he put in an appearance, full of sorrow and unhappiness and
expressed the wish that he would be deprived of his sight if he was
not the most disappointed man on the course.
“But you can get all your money back on Barleycorn,” he said. “It’s a
pinch.”
I gave the poor fellow £500 and then strolled into the ring. I
thought I might as well get rid of the money myself. It was a very
simple process. I had merely to go to a bookmaker and say
“Barleycorn,” and he shouted a lot of figures in my face, whereupon I
would hand him money, his assistant writing something in a book and
giving me a ticket.
In this way I distributed over £2,000 and Barleycorn was fourth, or
he may have been tenth. When you realize that the value of the money I
had to distribute was nearly £50,000--I did not count it, but made a
rough calculation--you can appreciate the fact that it went all too
slowly. I could not give the bookmakers too much money for fear I
excited comment. There was only about a quarter of an hour during
which they would accept money. Some of them refused to take it.
On the fifth race Mike told me that a horse named Hippo was a stone
certainty, and when I went to a bookmaker and said “Hippo” and handed
him a lot of money he shook his head and said:
“My book’s full.”
“Get another book,” I said pleasantly.
“I can’t take your money. I don’t want to lay Hippo.”
“What will you lay?” I said.
“I’ll lay you six to one Jiggling Boy,” he said.
“Then make it Jiggling Boy by all means.”
I handed him my money and took his ticket. I know that in story-books
it would happen that I could not get rid of my money and that the
money I put on the horses would be returned to me as winnings, but I
found no difficulty in discovering horses that could not win.
To my annoyance, however, I found that I had achieved the result which
I was most anxious to avoid. I had attracted attention, and when the
last race was over I found myself the cynosure of all eyes. Men nudged
one another as I passed through the wicket-gate to the long road which
leads to the town and I heard them say:
“That’s ’im. That’s the mug!” and use other admiring phrases.
I, Heine, who hated and despised the so-called sport, was already
famous as a gambling plunger in this home of rascality. Now, my plan
was a two-fold one and all was going well. Why should I travel the
country distributing forged money when I could find somebody who would
do it for me? I did not know the rascals of England who received and
distributed stolen notes, but I knew that they existed, as they do in
all countries.
I knew that once a bank is robbed, that, with almost lightning speed,
the bank-notes stolen are circulated and all traces of the thief are
hidden. Here, then, was the machinery for a rapid distribution before
the notes began to drivel back from the Bank of England stamped
“forgery” upon their faces.
I was joined on the way back to the town by Mike and one of his
friends.
“You had bad luck, Mister,” said Mike. “But, never mind, I can make
your fortune to-morrow.”
I smiled, inwardly.
I could make his fortune that night.
“I don’t intend staying for to-morrow’s horse-racing,” I answered him.
“I ought to go back to town. I don’t think it is safe for me to carry
so much money about with me.”
He looked at me.
“It’s very dangerous to carry a lot of money about,” he said. “But,
bless you, this is a very law-abiding country, ain’t it, Alf?”
addressing his companion.
“Too law-abiding,” said the other, a tall, dismal man, with a drooping
moustache.
“I can speak to you as a friend,” I said to Mike, “of course I
wouldn’t tell anybody else.”
“You can trust me,” said Mike, “with your life.”
“Well, I want to ask your advice,” I said. “There is a notice in my
bedroom saying that the landlord of the inn will not be responsible
for any money stolen unless it is deposited with him. Now, do you
think that I am safe in trusting the proprietor of the Beacon Inn with
£30,000?”
There was a long silence. Mike tried to speak once or twice, and when
he did, his voice was husky.
“Thirty thousand pounds,” he said in a far-away voice; “no, I don’t
think I would trust the landlord with that. It isn’t fair to him. So
far as you’ve got it in a safe place, under your bed or somewhere----”
“Exactly,” I said, “it is under my bed, speaking as a friend.”