THE FIVE BASKETS
There was the usual roar from the ring which began to die down as the
horses were seen fidgeting at the post. Then a murmur arose from the
spectators, and the dancing kaleidoscope of colours broke into a thin
stream as the field got away to a capital start. They came along all in
a cluster round the bend of the course till, presently, there was a
hoarse shout from the onlookers and the name of the Blenheim colt was on
every lip. The horse hung for a moment or two coming up the straight,
then seemed to recover himself and, moving along with a beautifully free
and easy stride, caught the leaders a dozen lengths from home and
slipped past the post a winner by a short head.
"What did I tell you?" Raffle chuckled. "Well, they can't blame me. I
was told by Sir George to do the best I could with the horse and I
carried out my instructions to the letter. No, sir, I didn't back him
myself. I wasn't quite sure. Besides, Sir George wouldn't have liked it.
Between you and me, sir, I don't think he'll be altogether pleased."
Fielden asked no questions. Whatever suspicions Raffle had he kept to
himself. Fielden glanced at his watch and saw he would just have time to
catch a train to town and join Phillips at the rendezvous in Covent
Garden. He hurried away from the course and caught his train by sheer
good luck.
He wasn't at all easy in his mind. He was inclined to agree with Raffle
that there was more than met the eye in this affair and that Sir George
had little consideration for the public when he decided to run the colt
at Mirst Park. On the face of it, it was a mad thing to do and the fact
that the horse had won rendered Sir George's policy all the more
inexplicable. There was something sinister, too, in the close friendship
which had sprung up between Haredale and Copley. That Copley was an
unscrupulous blackguard Fielden knew very well. Possibly this knowledge
was not shared by Sir George, but there was no getting over the fact
that Haredale's money matters were in a critical state. Better men than
Sir George had yielded to temptation.
Fielden was still debating the matter when he reached town. He turned up
at the hotel in Covent Garden where Phillips was awaiting him, it
wanting then just ten minutes to three. Phillips was relieved when
Fielden came in.
"I thought you were going to fail me," he said. "I began to think that
you had missed your train."
"I very nearly lost it," Fielden laughed. "But why do you want me?"
"We shall see that in good time, sir," Phillips said. "In about ten
minutes from now we shall begin operations. There is just time to smoke
a cigarette before we start. What is the best news from Mirst Park? I
haven't seen a paper yet. Was the Blenheim colt beaten very
disgracefully?"
"He wasn't beaten at all," Fielden said. "In fact, he won with
considerable ease. There was very little trace of staleness about him.
But it is early to talk about that. We must wait and see what old Raffle
says to-morrow. I should not be surprised if the colt has done himself
some serious injury to-day."
Phillips burst into a hearty laugh.
"What a joke!" he cried. "And what a sell it will be for Sir George! Oh,
I know a thing or two, Mr. Fielden. I haven't been moving about with my
eyes shut lately. It is very good of your old friend to pull out his
horse in public, for the benefit of backers generally, but the man who
will be most surprised and most disappointed at the result of to-day's
race will be Sir George himself. If there is another man madder than Sir
George it will be that scoundrel Copley."
"What do you mean?" Fielden asked.
"Never mind, sir. The least said soonest mended. But if I had ten
thousand pounds I'd cheerfully back my opinion to the last penny that
Sir George never hoped for and never expected a victory for the colt.
I'll explain all in very good time. Now the sooner we are off the
better. We are going to meet a gentleman named Chaffey whom I expect to
see in a few minutes not very far from the Post Club on the other side
of the street. You remember telling me how Chaffey turned up at Seton
Manor, and what he said when he was drunk. I am glad you overheard that,
because it solved a point that has been puzzling me for some time. I
couldn't for the life of me make out how it was that Jolly & Co. managed
to signal the result of the three o'clock race at Mirst Park into the
smoking-room of the Post Club. I doubt if I ever should have found out
had not Chaffey gone down to Seton Manor and hinted that if he couldn't
get what he wanted somebody else might have his job of playing with the
fruit baskets in Covent Garden. I saw at once that this was connected
with the swindle, but for the life of me I couldn't place it. After
thinking over it for the best part of a week, I took a stroll through
Covent Garden market and finally stood in front of the Post Club trying
to piece the puzzle together in my mind. There were a good many men
about loading and unloading baskets, and I saw that most of them carried
them on their heads. Why, some of these porters can carry as many as
eight or nine bushel baskets on their heads. While I stood watching
them an idea flashed into my mind. Look at this copy of to-day's
_Sportsman_. Turn to the probable starters in the three o'clock race,
and you will see for yourself that there is a number by the side of
every horse. Now most racing men carry a _Sportsman_. There would be
nothing suspicious in a backer pulling the _Sportsman_ out of his pocket
and consulting it at any moment. He might do it in a railway carriage,
or on the course, or in a smoking-room, and it wouldn't attract any
attention. Unless I am greatly mistaken, I have found the clue to the
means by which Copley & Co.'s confederate has the result of a race at
Mirst Park conveyed to him into the smoking-room of the Post Club
practically before the horses are past the post. Then, of course, he can
make what bets he likes. He is perfectly safe, because he can't lose.
But, come along, it is past three and I don't want to lose this chance
of verifying my conclusions. Only we must be careful. We must not rouse
Chaffey's suspicions. He must not know that we are even watching him.
Close to the Post Club there is a shop where we can procure some cigars
and cigarettes and keep our eye upon what is going on. Are you ready?"
Fielden was ready and willing, for his curiosity was aflame. When he and
his companion reached Covent Garden, they turned into a cigar shop in
the same block of buildings in which the Post Club was situated. A good
many customers had to be attended to, so that it was excusable to stand
inside the door way and watch what was taking place on the other side of
the road.
The market was practically empty. Business had been finished for the
day, and there were only two or three casual porters loafing about
waiting on the off-chance for an hour's work. One of them standing by a
pile of baskets with hands plunged deeply in his pockets and a pipe in
his mouth was Chaffey.
"No mistake about him?" Phillips asked.
"That's the man," Fielden whispered. "I could swear to that expression
of his anywhere. But what is he doing there? He doesn't seem to be
particularly busy."
"He is getting well paid for his job, anyway," Phillips chuckled. "As it
is not likely to last long he'll be gone in a few moments. Have you the
right time about you? What do you make it? Five minutes past three by
post office time? The result ought to be here at any moment. Ah, I
thought so. Just keep your eye closely upon Chaffey."
In his excitement Phillips bent over and grasped his companion's arm.
Fielden saw Chaffey suddenly pull himself up and moisten his hands. He
touched his ragged cap as if in response to a distant call, then he
proceeded to fling five baskets one on the top of the other and balance
them on his head. With this pyramid thus arranged he walked slowly
across the market and disappeared down one of the corridors, where he
was lost to sight.
"What on earth does it mean?" Fielden asked.
"Oh, that's the signal," Phillips explained. "The result has just come
into the office of Jolly & Co. on the private telephone wire from The
Nook at Mirst Park. The supposed Mr. Jolly stands near the window with
the telephone receiver to his ear ready to flash the signal across the
street. Now you understand why the flex of the telephone is so long.
Before the horse is past the post the man on the top of the house at
Mirst Park sends the number, and Jolly & Co. signal it to Chaffey. Then
Chaffey simply puts five or other number of baskets on his head, and the
confederate in the Post Club has the result. Mind you, this could be
done within five seconds of the race being settled. Now take this
_Sportsman_ and I'll eat my hat if the winner of the three o'clock race
at Mirst Park isn't number five on the programme."
When the result was published Phillips proved to be correct.