XI
To one approaching casually Adèle Gertstein might have seemed asleep. She reclined with a sort of feline luxuriousness in a deck chair on one of the wide terraces of “Maid’s Retreat,” and beneath her the green sweep of the park, and the rolling woodlands and cornfields of Hampshire, smiled lazily back at the sun.
But her eyes were wide open, fixed unseeingly on the splendours of the country. She was trying to think, a process somewhat difficult to one whose actions were habitually guided by impulse. The effort always exasperated her, and only the most formidable and immediate necessity drove her to it.
She roused herself and crumpled the sheet of paper that had lain in her lap with a venomous hand. “Five thousand pounds,” she murmured. “How the devil am I to find five thousand pounds?”
To the wife of a millionaire such a sum perhaps ought not to seem impossible. But there were reasons why Adèle Gertstein dare not appeal to her husband. There were limits to his devotion, and he might well inquire why £12,000 a year was not sufficient for her needs.
Yet five thousand pounds she had to have. Of course she could get it on Bonnie Chevalier for the Stewards Cup, if those idiot bookmakers had not restricted her credit. Just as if she didn’t mean to pay. Anyway, there were other bookmakers.
She tapped a gold pencil between her teeth as she strolled back to the house and seated herself at her desk. There was only one thing for it. Why should the woman always suffer? She drew a sheet of notepaper towards her and began to write:
“My dear Larry—Things are driving me to distraction. This man—you know whom—now wants me to find five thousand for him within the next week, or he will go to Solly. He has drained me dry and I simply do not know where to turn. For the sake of old times you might let me have this money. It means very little to you, and I will most certainly pay it back very soon. I simply must have it, or I am ruined. Perhaps I have been a fool, but I am sure this man means business, and it would be awkward for you, too, if things became public. So please do, like a dear man, lend me this money. Bring it if you can—‘Maid’s Retreat’ is only three hours out of London by road.
“I am practically all alone here. You, of course, have seen by the newspapers what has happened at Streetly House. I have not been back because there is nothing I can do. Solly calls me up twice a day and wails, and, although I am very fond of Solly, I don’t believe my nerves at present could stand being all day in the same house with him.
“Penelope has disappeared. She went up to town for me the morning after the robbery and has dropped out without a word. You would think that at least she would have written to me. Solly says that some clumsy policeman suspected her of being the burglar, and that she has been frightened into running away. It does seem ridiculous. Really, if I weren’t so concerned with my own tragedies I should be worried to death about her. But I expect that she is all right.
“Now for Heaven’s sake don’t disappoint me. Bring or send that money. I am desperate.—A.”
She read the letter over twice, and added fresh underlines to many that she had already made. Then she sealed and stamped it, and carried it herself to the post bag in the hall.
That was over and done with. To the fluffy mind of Adèle Gertstein the situation was met. There were other and more special immediate interests to engage her. There was, for instance, her toilet for Goodwood. An hour before she had cancelled all her arrangements for the race meeting. Who could be thrilled by such an event with black tragedy lurking in the imminent background? She had done with all the foibles and vanities of this life. Her maid, with the suspicion of a wink, had conveyed her decision to those concerned, and preparations had gone forward without a hitch, for her servants knew Mrs. Gertstein.
So she conferred with her maid with the deliberation and hesitancy that the momentous decision of what to wear demanded. In something less than an hour she was adorned with a gossamer creation of cream with delicate touches of pale blue, that, as the maid assured her, set off her beauty to perfection.
For her closest feminine friend could not have denied Adèle Gertstein’s beauty. Still something under thirty, she was tall and supple as a boy. A complexion of roses and cream called for little in the way of artificial preservation, although that little she saw was supplied. Melting blue eyes, a mouth that was inclined to waver a little uncertainly, or a little plaintively or a little piquantly—it depended which way you regarded it—and a delicate chin that she could tilt with charming defiance on occasion, made her a picture on which a man’s eye’s might dwell restfully.
“You think it will do, Rena?” she asked, as she studied herself from a series of angles in the tall mirror.
The maid threw up her hands in an eloquent gesture of admiration. “It is simply perfect, madam,” she declared.
“Then I will go.”
It was a run of a mere twenty miles from “Maid’s Retreat” to Goodwood, and, although Mrs. Gertstein was half-an-hour behind the time she had fixed for her departure her car, in the skilled hands of an immaculate chauffeur, easily made the distance in time for her to join the group of acquaintances with whom she had arranged to lunch.
There is no more beautiful racecourse in the world than this arena set in the wooded Sussex hills. On a perfect July day, with its sense of spaciousness, of movement, and colour it may woo the most gloomy of mortals to a sense of rapturous delight in life. The more particularly will it affect a woman, if she is conscious that all the gay and elaborate display of summer “creations” worn by others of her sex only emphasise the triumph of her own dressmaker. Adèle Gertstein felt that both in herself and her frock she held her own among the fairest of the aristocracy and plutocracy of Britain.
She strolled in the paddock sunning herself and exchanging greetings with her friends. She half-hoped that Larry Hughes might be there, although there were none of his horses running. It might be easier to deal with him face to face. It was possible that her letter had not been emphatic enough. Larry could be a hard man. She shook off a tremor of apprehension, and waved a hand lightly to an earl who was a director of one of Solly Gertstein’s companies.
The serious business of the day demanded attention, and she moved over towards the bookmakers. “Dickie” puckered his face as he saw her approach and whispered something under his breath to his clerk. But she passed him by with her head tilted in the air. She smiled winningly on another of the princes of the ring, who hesitated for the fraction of a second and then accepted her bet.
So she made her rounds. There were men, perhaps not so blunt as “Dickie,” who would have told her that their books were full on the horses she fancied. She did not risk these snubs. There were others who were quite willing to have the wealthy Mrs. Gertstein as a client, the more so as on the first race she was content with tens and twenties, instead of the hundreds with which she had plunged before those other men had become shy.
She lost on the first race. The second, a selling plate, she increased her stakes with the idea of still showing a profit if Laburnham won. But Laburnham, a short-priced favourite, came in fourth and she was so far three hundred pounds down on the day. That hurt, but, after all, three hundred pounds was a trifle. There was no question but that Bonnie Chevalier would win the Stewards’ Cup. The three-year-old, carrying but eight stone, was one of the biggest certainties of the day. There was nothing that could touch it.
Curiously enough she was almost alone in her opinion among her friends. Those who had any pretensions to knowledge of racing shrugged their shoulders when she mentioned the horse’s name. But she held doggedly to her opinion. True he was an outsider at twenty to one, but then outsiders did sometimes win in face of all the experts. She did a mental calculation. At twenty to one she would stand to win six thousand with an outlay of three hundred pounds. If she could get five hundred pounds on it would be ten thousand. She need not have written to Larry Hughes after all. Why, she would be several thousands in hand. She had that optimistic confidence which delights the soul of the bookmaker, when he beholds it in a rich punter.
The price had shortened to fifteens before she had laid out her full five hundred, but she felt satisfied. She had by her own wit and shrewdness got out of her financial dilemma. It only wanted the formality of running the race.
Someone touched her on the shoulder. She looked round quickly. A beefy man in a morning coat, that did not fit so exquisitely as others round about, raised his hat.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
She bowed and passed on. Detective sergeant Malone lifted his eyebrows interrogatively to the man by his side. “Is that the woman who passed the stumer cheque?” he asked.
The other shook his head dubiously. “I couldn’t swear to it. She’s like her but I wouldn’t care to be certain.”
All unaware that she had been under the scrutiny of a cashier of the Midland Bank, Mrs. Gertstein made her way back to the grand stand. In a few minutes the race would start and the runners were already taking their places at the gate. She focused her glasses and tried to make out Bonnie Chevalier. The draw for places was likely to have an important bearing on the race.
Her heart moved a beat quicker as she picked out the blue, white and gold that marked Bonnie Chevalier’s rider. The starters danced round in a colourful welter as they were coaxed to their order. But she had only eyes for one. She gave a sigh of relief as she noted that he had drawn an inside place.
The score or so of colours shifted again with a sudden plunge. They were off. A muffled roar came to her ears, growing in intensity as the race drew towards her. Bonnie Chevalier had shot to the front with a cloud of rivals pressing him hard. Her hands tightened on the glasses. The field began to space out. She lowered her glasses, which she found difficulty in keeping steady, and leaned forward in tense eagerness. One of the leaders stumbled and went down, with lashing hoofs and writhing body. There was a little confusion, and she uttered an exclamation of dismay, as the favourite stealing out of the tangle began to draw alongside Bonnie Chevalier.
Her breath was coming fast. Inch by inch the favourite drew level and there were others at his shoulder. They must have done three furlongs when the favourite got his head in front. Another furlong and Bonnie Chevalier was half a length behind the first three, and still losing ground. Her face grew hard and stony, but she refused to realise defeat. There was still a hope. But in the next few seconds it was dissipated. Bonnie Chevalier’s jockey knew when he was beaten and eased up his mount. The race was over for him.
Through her ashen lips Mrs. Gertstein ripped out an unfeminine oath. Someone spoke to her and she snarled fiercely in reply. The man, an inoffensive acquaintance who had been among the party with whom she had lunched, opened his eyes in well-bred surprise, and with an effort she composed herself.
“I really beg your pardon,” she said.
“Not at all,” he replied with mechanical politeness. “I hope that you haven’t been hard hit.”
“Oh, it’s nothing—nothing at all,” she said with an attempt at lightness. “The money doesn’t matter, but I hate to feel I’ve been a fool.”
She rose to go and refusing an offer of escort, made her way back to her car. There were two more races, but she felt no longer in the mood to tempt fortune. With one of those quick revulsions to which she was prone she had given way to a blackness of spirit, in which she saw herself the stricken plaything of an unjust fate. It was hopeless, she told herself, to hope that her luck would change. Still there was Larry Hughes. She would wire to him to emphasise her letter. And if that failed she would go to see him.