CHAPTER XVII
THE INTER-URBAN HANDICAP
That night, instead of going to the laboratory, we walked down Broadwayuntil we came to a hotel much frequented by the sporting fraternity.
We entered the restaurant, which was one of the most brilliant in thewhite-light region, took a seat at a table, and Kennedy proceeded toingratiate himself with the waiter, and, finally, with the head waiter.At last, I saw why Kennedy was apparently wasting so much time overdinner.
"Do you happen to know that girl, Cecilie Safford, that Broadhurst'strainer, Murchie, eloped with?" he asked.
The head waiter nodded.
"I used to know her," he replied. "She used to come in here a good deal,but you won't find her in the Broadway places any more these days. She'smore likely to be over on Eighth Avenue." He mentioned the name of acabaret saloon.
Kennedy paid the check and again we started out. We finally entered aplace, down in a basement, and once more Kennedy began to quiz thewaiter.
This time he had no trouble. Across the room, the waiter pointed to agirl, seated with a young fellow at a round table. I could scarcelybelieve what I saw. The face had the same features as that of thephotograph in the oval gilt frame in Murchie's apartment, but it was notthe same face.
As I studied her, I could imagine her story without even hearing it. Themonths of waiting for Murchie to marry her and his callous refusal hadbeen her ruin. Cecilie had learned to drink, and from that had gone todrugs.
Her mirror must have told her that she was not the same girl who hadeloped with Murchie. Her figure had lost its slim, beautiful lines. Herfeatures were bloated. Her eyes were smaller, and her lips were heavy.Her fresh color had disappeared. She had a gray, pasty look. All shehad--her beauty--had vanished.
Murchie had been divorced, and was about to marry--but not Cecilie. Itwas to a young and lovely girl, with such a face of innocence as Ceciliehad when Murchie had first dictated a letter to her in the office at thehorse show, and had fascinated her with his glittering talk of wealthand ease. The news of his engagement had driven her frantic.
Curiously enough, the young fellow with her did not seem to bedissipated in the least. There was, on the contrary, an earnestnessabout him that one was rather sorry to see in such a place. In fact, hewas a clean-cut young man, evidently more of a student than a sport. Hereminded me of some one I had seen before.
I was getting rather interested in an underworld cabaret when, suddenly,Kennedy grasped my arm. At the same moment, a shot was fired.
We jumped to our feet in time to see a young tough, with a slouch likethat of the rubbers and grooms at Broadhurst's. The fellow who had beenseated with Cecilie was struggling with him for the possession of apistol, which had been discharged harmlessly. Evidently the tough hadbeen threatening him with it.
The waiters crowded around them, and the general _melee_ about Cecilie'stable was at its height when a policeman came dashing in on the run.
The arrest of the gunman and his opponent, as well as of Cecilie as awitness, seemed imminent. Kennedy moved forward slowly, working his waythrough the crowd, nearer to the table. Instead of interfering, however,he stooped down and picked up something from the floor.
"Let's get out of this as quickly as possible, Walter," he whispered,turning to me.
When we reached the street, he stopped under an arc-light, and I saw himdive down into his pocket and pull out a little glass vial. He looked atit curiously.
"I saw her take it out of her pocketbook and throw it into a corner assoon as the policeman came in," he explained.
"What do you think it is?" I asked. "Dope? That's what they all do ifthey get a chance when they are pinched--throw it away."
"Perhaps," answered Kennedy. "But it's worth studying to see what drugshe is really using."
Late as it was, Craig insisted on going directly to the laboratory toplunge into work. First, he took the little hypodermic needle with whichhe had drawn several drops of blood from the race-horse, and emptied thecontents into a test tube.
Finding that I was probably of more use at home in our apartment asleepthan bothering Kennedy in the laboratory, I said good-night. But when Iawoke in the morning, I found that Kennedy had not been in bed at all.
It was as I expected. He had worked all night, and, as I entered thelaboratory, I saw him engaged in checking up two series of tests whichhe had been making.
"Have you found anything yet?" I asked.
He pointed to a corner where he kept a couple of guinea-pigs. They weresound asleep, rolled up in little fluffy balls of down. Ordinarily, inthe morning, I found the little fellows very frisky.
"Yes," he said; "I think I have found something. I have injected just adrop of blood from Lady Lee into one of them, and I think he's good fora long sleep."
"But how about the other one?" I asked.
"That's what puzzles me," ruminated Kennedy. "Do you remember thatbottle I picked up last night? I haven't finished the analysis of theblood or of the contents of the bottle, but they seem to contain atleast some of the same substances. Among the things I find aremonopotassium phosphate and sarcolactic acid, with just a trace ofcarbon dioxide. I injected some of the liquid from the bottle into theother fellow, and you see what the effect is--the same in both cases."
The telephone bell rang excitedly.
"Is there a Mr. Kennedy there?" asked Long Distance, adding, withoutwaiting for an answer, "Hold the wire, please."
I handed the receiver to Kennedy. The conversation was short, and as hehung up the receiver, Craig turned to me.
"It was Broadhurst at the Idlewild Hotel," he said quickly. "Today isthe day of the great Interurban Handicap at Belmore Park with stakes oftwenty-five thousand dollars. Usually they take the horse over to thetrack at least a week or two before the race, but as Broadhurst's stableis so near, he didn't do it--hoping he might keep a better watch overLady Lee. But she's no better. If the horse is being tampered with, hewants to know who is doing it and how."
Kennedy paused a moment, then went over to a cabinet and took from it abottle and a very large-sized hypodermic.
We must have been among the first on the field at Belmore Park that day.Lady Lee had been sent over there after we left Northbury the daybefore, under the care of Murchie and McGee, and had been stabled in thequarters on the track which had been assigned to Broadhurst.
With Broadhurst, who was waiting for us, we lounged across the field inthe direction of the stables. There was no doubt about it, Lady Lee wasnot in prime condition. It was not that there was anything markedlywrong, but to the trained observer the famous race-horse seemed to lackjust a trifle of the _elan_ which meant a win.
While Murchie and the jockey were talking outside to Broadhurst, Kennedyslipped into the stall to look at the racer.
"Stand over by that side of the door, Walter," he muttered. "I'll bethrough in just a minute. I want you to act as a cover."
Quickly he jabbed the hypodermic into the horse and pressed down theplunger.
Lady Lee reared and snorted as she had done before when he extracted theblood, and instantly Murchie and McGee were crowding past me. But theinstant had been long enough for Kennedy. He had dropped the hypodermicinto his pocket and was endeavoring to soothe the horse.
"I guess she's not very much used to strangers," he remarked coolly. Noone thought any more of it, apparently.
A few minutes later, Broadhurst rejoined Kennedy and myself. I could seethat his face showed plainly he was greatly worried.
"I don't understand it," he kept repeating. "And what is worse, the newsseems to have leaked out that Lady Lee isn't fit. The odds are goingup."
Kennedy looked at him fixedly a moment.
"If you want to win this race, Mr. Broadhurst," he remarked in a lowtone, "I should advise you to watch Lady Lee every minute from now untilthe start."
"What do you mean?" whispered Broadhurst hoarsely.
"I can't say yet--only watch."
While Broadhu
rst and Kennedy hovered about the stall on one pretext oranother, watching both Murchie and McGee as they directed the rubbersand others who were preparing for the race, I watched the trainer andthe jockey minutely. They certainly did nothing, at least now, to excitesuspicion. But might not the harm have already been done? Was it toolate?
When the bell sounded the paddock call, McGee led the racer out of thestall and to the paddock. Presently the field, Lady Lee at the fore,walked past the grandstand and cantered slowly down the course to thestarting-post.
Meanwhile, following Broadhurst, we had already made our way over to theclub-house enclosure.
It was not like the old days when there was money everywhere, thousandsof dollars in plain sight, in the cash-boxes of the bookmakers, when menrushed wildly about with handfuls of bills of large denomination andbets were made with frequent rapidity. And yet there was still a certainmaelstrom of the betting-ring left; but the bookmakers had to carryeverything in their heads instead of setting it down on paper. I knewthe system, and knew that, in spite of the apparent ease with which itseemed possible to beat it, welshing was almost unheard of.
The grandstand was crowded, although it was quite a different crowd fromthat at race meets of former times and on other tracks. Belmore Park laywithin motoring distance of the greatest aggregation of wealth andfashion in the country. It was a wonderful throng. The gay dresses ofthe women mingled kaleidoscopically with the more somber clothing of themen.
Every eye in that sea of moving humanity seemed to be riveted on LadyLee and her rider. It was a pretty good example of how swiftly insidenews at the race-track may become public property. Ill news, on thisoccasion, seemed to have traveled apace. Field-glasses were leveled atthe horse which should have been the favorite, and one could tell, bythe buzz of conversation, that this race was the great event of theseason. As the jockeys maneuvered for position, one could almost feelthat some wonderful feats of memory were being performed by thebookmakers. The odds, during the morning, had gradually lengthenedagainst Lady Lee.
Like all thoroughbreds, Lady Lee had a most delicate organism, and thegood rider, in such a case, was the one who understood his mount. McGeehad, in the past at least, that reputation. He had reached pretty nearthe top of his profession by knowing how to deal with horses of alltypes. All this and more I had picked up from the gossip of the track.
The barrier was sprung and the flag dropped. They were off! Thegrandstand rose in a body.
For a moment, it seemed to me that McGee had lost his nerve. Alertnessat the post is an important factor. He had not got away from the barrierahead of the field. Another rider, too, had got the rail, and hence theshortest route. I wondered whether, after all, that had been the troubleall along, for nothing can win or lose a race quicker or better thanthose little failures of the jockey himself.
Lady Lee, I had heard it said, was one of those horses that do notrequire urging, but go to the front naturally. Just now, it did not seemthat she was beaten, but that she lacked just the power to lead thefield. Did McGee figure that the horses ahead of him were setting such afast clip that they would drop back to him before the race was over?
Cleverly, however, he avoided being pocketed, as those ahead of andbeside him tried to close in and make him pull up.
Around they went until the horses looked to the naked eye like toysstrung on wires. Only the tension of the crowd made one feel that thiswas no play; it was deadly serious sport. On they sped, watched in alull of deathly stillness. Surely, I felt, this was indeed a greatsight--this acid test of the nerves of men and animals pitted againstone another.
They were coming into the stretch now!
Suddenly, it seemed that, by some telepathic connection, both the horseand the rider caught the electric tension which swayed us in theclub-house enclosure.
I myself was carried away by the frenzied spirit of the race. Broadhurstwas leaning forward, oblivious of everything else in the world,straining his eyes through a field-glass. Murchie was watching the racewith a supercilious air, which I knew was clearly assumed.
On they came!
I could not help wondering whether McGee had not really planned to throwthe race. Would he, perhaps at the last moment, lose his nerve?
Lady Lee suddenly shot through the field. A mighty shout rose from theentire grandstand.
It was over in a matter of seconds. She had finished first by ahalf-length! She had won the classic and the rich stakes.
Pandemonium seemed to reign in the club-house inclosure. Broadhurstslapped Murchie over the back with a blow of congratulation that almostfelled him. As for McGee, they nearly carried him off the field on theirshoulders. Only Kennedy seemed to be calm. The race had been won--buthad the problem been solved?
Broadhurst seemed to have forgotten all about his previous appeal toKennedy in the unexpected joy of winning.
We paused awhile to watch the frantic crowd, and once, I recall, Icaught sight of a stunning, dark-haired woman grasping Murchie's bothhands in an ecstasy of joy. Instantly I recognized Amelie Guernsey.
As Kennedy and I motored back to the city alone, he was silent most ofthe way. Only once did he make a remark.
"The Belmore Inn," he said, as we passed a rather cheap road-house somedistance from the track. "That's where I heard one of the rubbers saythe former Mrs. Murchie was living."
That night, Craig plunged back again into work in the laboratory, and I,having nothing else to do, wrote a feature story of the great race forthe _Star_.
Kennedy made up for the rest he had lost and the strain of the day by along sleep; but early in the morning the telephone bell ranginsistently. Kennedy bounded out of bed to answer it.
I could gather nothing from the monosyllables which he uttered, exceptthat the matter under discussion was profoundly serious. Finally, hejammed down the receiver.
"Good God, Walter," he exclaimed, "Murchie's been murdered!"