THE SLEEPMAKER
"Perhaps race-horses may be a little out of your line, Mr. Kennedy, but
I think you will find the case sufficiently interesting to warrant you
in taking it up."
Our visitor was a young man, one of the most carefully groomed and
correctly dressed I have ever met. His card told us that we were honored
by a visit from Montague Broadhurst, a noted society whip, who had
lavished many thousands of dollars on his racing-stable out on Long
Island.
"You see," he went on hurriedly, "there have been a good many strange
things that have happened to my horses lately." He paused a moment, then
continued: "They have been losing consistently. Take my favorite, Lady
Lee, for instance."
"Do you think they have been doped?" asked Kennedy quickly, eager to get
down to the point at issue, for I had never known Craig to be interested
in racing.
"I don't know," replied the young millionaire, drawing his eyelids
together reflectively. "I've had the best veterinary in the country to
look my stable over, and even he can't seem to find a thing that's
wrong."
"Perhaps a visit out there might show us something," cut in Kennedy, as
though he were rather favorably impressed, after all, by the novelty of
the case.
Broadhurst's face brightened.
"Then you will take it up--you are interested?" he queried, adding, "My
car is outside."
"I'm interested in anything that promises a new experience," returned
Craig, "and I think this affair may be of that sort."
Broadhurst's stable was out on central Long Island, not far from the
pretty and fashionable town of Northbury. As we passed down the main
street, I could see that Broadhurst was easily the most popular of the
wealthy residents of the neighborhood. In fact, the Broadhurst racing
stables were a sort of local industry, one of the show-places of
Northbury.
As we swung out again into the country, we could see ahead of us some
stable-boys working out several fine thoroughbreds on Broadhurst's
private track, while a group of grooms and rubbers watched them.
The stable itself was a circular affair of frame, painted dark red,
which contrasted sharply with the green of the early summer trees.
Broadhurst's car pulled up before a large office and lounging-room at
one end, above which Murchie, his manager and trainer, had his suite of
rooms.
The office into which Broadhurst led us was decidedly "horsey." About
the place were handsomely mounted saddles, bridles, and whips, more for
exhibition than for use. In velvet-lined cases were scores of glittering
bits. All the appointments were brass-mounted. Sporting prints,
trophies, and Mission easy chairs made the room most attractive.
Before a desk sat Murchie. As I looked at him, I thought that he had a
cruel expression about his eyes, a predatory mouth and chin. He rose
quickly at the sight of Broadhurst.
"Murchie, I would like to have you meet my friends, Mr. Kennedy and Mr.
Jameson," introduced Broadhurst. "They are very much interested in
horses, and I want you to show them about the place and let them see
everything."
We chatted a moment, and then went out to look at the horses.
In the center of the circular group of stalls was a lawn. The stalls of
the racers in training were large box stalls.
"You have certainly trained a great horse in Lady Lee," remarked Kennedy
casually, as we made our way around the ring of stalls.
Murchie looked up at him quickly.
"Until the last few races, I thought so," he replied, stopping before
the stall of the famous racer and opening the door.
Lady Lee was a splendid three-year-old bay, a quivering, sensitive,
high-strung animal. Murchie looked at her a moment, then at us.
"A horse, you know," he said reflectively, "is just as ambitious to win
a race as you are to win success, but must have hard training. I keep
horses in training eight or nine months out of the year. I get them into
shape in the early spring and am very careful what they eat. If they get
a vacation, they may eat green foods, carrots, and grass in open field;
but when we prepare them for the ring or a race, they must have grain,
bran, and soft foods. They must have careful grooming to put the coats
in first-class condition, must be kept exquisitely clean, with the best
ventilation."
"How about exercise?" asked Kennedy.
"Well," replied Murchie, "I work out horses according to age, with the
distance for fast work gradually increased."
Our trip through the wonderful stable over, we returned to the office,
Murchie walking ahead with Broadhurst. As we reached the door,
Broadhurst turned to us.
"I hope you will pardon me," he said, "but there is some business up at
the house that I must attend to."
"Oh, Mr. Broadhurst," interjected Murchie, "before you go back to town,
I want to talk over with you some of the changes that ought to be made
about the boys here, as well as their food and quarters."
"All right," returned Broadhurst; "jump into the car and ride with me.
We can talk on the way, and you can come right back. I'll pick you
gentlemen up later."
Kennedy nodded, quick to perceive the cue that Broadhurst had given him
to watch the stables without Murchie watching us.
We sat down in the office, and I looked about at the superb fittings.
"Do you think it is possible for an owner to make a financial success of
racing without betting?" I asked Kennedy.
"Possible, but highly improbable," returned Craig. "I believe they
consider that they have an excellent year whenever they clear expenses.
I don't know about Broadhurst, but I believe that a good many owners
don't bet on their horses. They have seen the glaring crookedness of the
thing, especially if they have happened to be officers of jockey clubs
or stewards of various race-meets. Personally, I should think a man of
Broadhurst's stamp would not permit himself to be made a victim of the
leeches of the turf--although he may wager a bit, just to give zest to
the race. American racing has often been called a purely gambling
affair, and I think, before we get through, that we shall see the reason
for much of the public opposition to it."
Just then a small man entered the office, and, seeing us, asked for Mr.
Murchie. His face was pinched and thin. He wore the latest cut of
clothes, but was so very slight that his garments hung loosely on him.
One could well imagine that he had tried all sorts of schemes to keep
himself down toward the hundred-and-ten-or-twelve-pound mark. He was the
very type of jockey. He introduced himself to us as Danny McGee, and I
recognized at once the famous twenty-five-thousand-dollar-a-year rider,
who had so often successfully defended the Broadhurst colors.
"Mr. Murchie has gone up to the house," replied Kennedy to his inquiry.
McGee looked us over a minute.
"Friends of his?" he asked, in a confidential tone. Kennedy smiled.
"Of Mr. Broadhurst's," he said quietly.
There was a noticeable change in McGee's manner.
"Just out here to look the stable over," went on Kennedy; "a wonderful
place."
"Yes; we think so," assented McGee.
"It seems strange," ventured Kennedy, "that, with all this care, Lady
Lee should not be keeping up to her record."
McGee glanced at us keenly.
"I don't understand it myself," he said. "I suppose lots of people must
think it is the fault of the jockey, but I have certainly earned my
salary lately with that filly. I don't know what's the matter. I've done
the best I can, but in spite of it there's something wrong."
He spoke with an air of genuine worry, and, although I tried hard, I
must confess that I found it impossible to fathom him.
"The filly," he added, "has her regular work-out and the regular feed,
and yet she seems to be all tired out most of the time. Even the
veterinaries can't seem to find out what's the matter."
An awkward silence followed, during which both Kennedy and myself
endeavored to conceal our ignorance of horses by saying nothing about
them. Finally McGee rose and excused himself, saying that he would be
back soon.
There were still a few minutes before Murchie would be likely to return.
Without saying a word, Kennedy rose and opened the door which led into
the stable. Across the lawn in the center we could see a man's figure
rapidly retreating through the main entrance, and, somehow or other, I
felt that at the sound of the opening of our door he hastened his pace.
Kennedy walked quickly around the circle of box stalls until he came
again to Lady Lee. He entered the stall and looked the famous racer over
carefully. I was wondering what, if anything, he expected to find, when,
almost before I knew it, I saw him jab a little hypodermic needle into
her neck and withdraw a few drops of blood.
Lady Lee reared and snorted, but Kennedy managed to quiet her. He
returned the hypodermic, with these few drops of blood, carefully into
its case again, and we made our way back to the office.
A few minutes later, the drone of Broadhurst's car told us that Murchie
had returned. We resumed the talk about horses, upstairs in Murchie's
own apartment, which consisted of living-rooms, a library, and bath. It
was a luxuriously appointed place, in keeping with the tastes of its
occupant. We sat down in the library.
I was quite interested in looking about me. For one thing, Murchie's
idea of art seemed to be a curious blending of horse and woman. There
were pictures of all the string of Broadhurst winners, interspersed with
Venuses and actresses.
On a little table I noticed, at length, a colored photograph in an oval
gilt frame. It was of a very beautiful girl. She was something over
medium height, with a fine figure, golden hair, and deep-blue eyes.
Somehow, I recalled that I had seen that face before, and when I caught
Kennedy looking at it from time to time, I was certain of it.
Suddenly it flashed over me that the picture had been published in the
_Star_. It was Cecilie Safford. I remembered having read of Murchie's
escapades, one of which was his elopement with a pretty young
stenographer whom he had met at the horse show a couple of years before.
The talk ran along about horses still, but I noticed that Kennedy was
even more interested in Murchie's pictures, now, than in his
conversation. In the place of honor, over the mantel, hung a portrait,
in an artistic panel, of a slender girl with dark hair and hazel eyes,
with a soft, swanlike throat and neck, and a somewhat imperious manner
of carrying her head.
I followed Craig's glance across the room. There, in a frame upon the
wall in a corner, hung an enlargement of a group photograph. It was of a
middle-aged woman, a little boy, and a little girl. Then I remembered
the whole story.
At the time of his elopement, Murchie had a wife living. Since then he
had been divorced. Although he had promised to marry Cecilie when the
divorce was obtained, he was now engaged to marry a wealthy girl, Amelie
Guernsey.
Broadhurst returned shortly for us, and we made another tour of the
stable, on the outside, including the quarters of the innumerable
employees. Finally, at a hint from Kennedy that we had seen enough for
the present, Broadhurst motored back to the city with us.