THE OLD MAN

Auckland Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 263, 5 November 1932, Page 12 (Supplement)

THE OLD MAN

I! [(By HOLLOWAY/ HORN.)

[SHOBT STOBX]

Martin Thompson "was not a desirable character. He possessed a clever plau- ®' eible tongue, and for years past had lived, with no little success, on his wits. 3 He had promoted doubtful boxing competition and etill more doubtful sweep-, stakes. He bad been a professional !", jbacker, in which capacity he had defrauded the bookies; again, a bookmaker who had swindled his "clients. There was more cunning than imagina- | tion in his outlook, but, within his limits, he possessed a certain distorted ability. He was known to lis intimates as ® Knocker Thompson, and as such had a surprisingly wide reputation. In outward appearance be was a gentleman, for long experience had taught him to avoid the r.: flashy and distinctive in dress. Indeed, his quiet taste had often proved a valu- & able business asset. Naturally, his fortunes varied, but he was usually more or less in funds. As Knocker sometimes said in his more genial moments: "For every mug that dies there's ten others born." Funds were rather low, however, on the evening when be met the old man. HjL Knocker-had spent.the.carly part of-the

evening with two- acquaintances in an hotel near Leicester Square. It was a business meeting, and relations had been a little strained; opinions had been freely expressed which, indicated a complete lack of confidence in Knocker, and an unmistakable atmosphere had resulted. Not that he resented the opinions in- the least, but at that juncture he needed the unquestioned trust of the two men. He was not in the best of humours, therefore, as be turned into "Whitcomb Street on his way to Charing Cross. The normal plainness of his features was deepened by a scowl, and the general result startled the few people who glanced at him. But at eight o'clock in the evening Whitcomb Street is not • a crowdcd thoroughfare, and there, was. no one near them when the old man spoke to him. He was standing in a passage near the Pal? Mall etid, and Knocker could not 6ee him clearly. "Hullo, Knocker!" he said. Thompson swung round. In the darkness he made out the dim figure, the most conspicuous feature of which, was a long, white beard. "Hullo!" returned Thompson, suspiciously, for as far as he knew he did not number among his acquaintances an old man with a white beard. "It's cold,".said the old man. "What d'you want?" asked Thompson curtly. "Who are you?" "I am an old man, Knocker." "Look here, what's the game? I don't know you." "No. But I know you." "If that's all you've got to say," said .Knocker uneasily. ■

"It is neatly all. Will you buy a paper? It is not an ordinary paper, ,1 assure you." "How do you mean . . . not an ordinary paper ?"• "It is to-morrow night's 'Echo,'" said the old man calmly. "You're loopy, old chap, that's what's wrong with you. Look here, things aren't too brisk, but here's half a dollar . . and better luck!" For all his lack of principle, Knocker had the crude generosity of those who live precariously. "Luck!" The old man laughed with a quietness that jarred on Knocker's nerves. In some queer way it seemed to run up and down his spine. "Look here!" he said again, conscious of some strange, unreal quality in the old, dimly-seen figure in the passage. "What's the blinking game?" "It is, the oldest game in the world, Knocker." "Not so free with my name ... if you don't mind," "Are you ashamed of it?" "No," said Knocker, stoutly. "What do you want? I've no time to waste with the likes of you." v "Then go . . Knocker." "What do you want?" Knocker insisted, strangely uneasy. "Nothing. Won't you take the paper? There is no other like it in the world. Nor will there be—for twenty-four hours." "I don't suppose there are many of to-morrow's papers on sale . -. yet,", said Knocker, with a grin. "It contains to-morrow's winners," said the old man, in the same casual manner. "I don't. think!" retorted ■ Knocker. ,

"There it is; you may read for yourself." From the darkness a paper was thrust at Knocker, whose unwilling fingers closed on it. A laugh came from somewhere in the recesses in the passage, and Knocker was alone. He was suddenly and uncomfortably aware of his beating heart, but,gripped himself and walked on until he came to a lighted shop front where he glanced at the paper. "Thursday, July 20, 1020 . . . ." he read. He thought a moment. It was Wednesday . . . he was positive- it was Wednesday. He took out his diary. It was the twenty-eighth day of July—the last day of the Kempton Park meeting. He had no doubt ou the point, none whatever. With a strange feeling he glanced at the paper again. July 29, 1926. He turned to the back page almost instinctively—the page with the racing results. Gatwick. That day's meeting was at Kempton Park. To-morrow was the first day of the Gatwick meeting, and there, staring at him, were the five winners. He passed his hand across his forehead; it was damp with cold perspiration. "There's a trick somewhere," he muttered to himself, and carefully reexamined the date of the paper. It was printed on each page . . . clear and unaltered. He scrutinised the unit figure of' the year, but the "six" had not been tampered with. He- glanced hurriedly at the front page. There was a flaring headline about the Coal Strike ; t . that wasn't,

twenty-live. With professional care lie examined the racing results. Inkerman had won the first race . . .Inkerman — and Knocker had made up his mind to back Paper Clip with more money than he could afford to lose. Paper Clip was merely an also-ran. He noticed that people who passed were glancing at him curiously. Hurriedly he pushed the paper into an inner pocket and walked on. Never had Knocker eo needed a drink. He entered a snug little "pub". near Charing Cross, and was thankful to find the saloon bar nearly deserted. Fortified with his drink, lie turned again to the paper. Inkerman had. come home at 6 to 1. He made certain hurried but satisfactory calculations. Salmon House had won the second; he had expected. that, but not at such a price . . . 7 to 4 on. Shallot —Shallot of all horses!—had romped away with the third, the big race. Seven lengths ... at 100 to 8! Knocker licked his lips dry. There was no fake about the paper in his hand. He knew the horses that were running at Gatwick the following day, and tlfte results were there before him. The fourth and fifth winners were there at short prices, but Inkerhan and Shallot were -enough . . . It was too late to get in touch with any of the bookmakers that evening, and in any case it would not bp advisable to put money on before the day of the race. The better way would be to go to Gatwick in the morning and wire the bets from the course. He had another drink . . . and another. Gradually, in the genial atmosphere of the saloon bar, his uneasiness left him.' He thought pleasantly of what he would do in the ring at Gatwick the •s.

following day. He was in rather low water, but he could put his hands ou just about enough to make the bookies sit up. And with a second winner at 100 to 8! He had still another drink, and stood the barman one too. "D'you know anything for to-mor-row?" The man behind the bar knew Thompson quite well by sight and reputation. Knocker hesitated. "Yes," he said. "Sure thing. Salmon House in the second race. Priee'll be a bit short, but it's a snip." • "Thanks very much; I'll have a bit on meself." ' ' Ultimately he left the saloon bar. He was a little shaky. His doctor had warned him not to drink, but surely on such a night ... The following morning he went to Gatwick. It was a meeting he liked, and usually he was very lucky there. In the big race most of the punters left Shall-ot alone. The horse had little form, and there was no racing reason why anyone should back him. He was among what the bookies call "the rags." But Knocker cared nothing for "form" that day. He spread hid money judiciously. Twenty here, twenty there. Not until ten minutes before the race did he wire any monfy to the West End offices, but some of the biggest men in the game opened their eyes when his wires came through. He was, out to win a' fortune. And he won. As the horses entered' the straight, one of them was lengths ahead of the field. It carried the flashing yellow and blue of Shallot's owner. The groan that

went up from the punters around him was satisfactory, but there was no thrill in the race for him; he had been certain that Shallot would win. There was no objection . . . and he proceeded to collect. . His pockets were bulging with notes, but his winnings were as nothing compared with the harvest he would reap from the big men in-the West End. He ordered a bottle of champagne, and with a silent grin drank the health of the old man with the beard before lie sent for the taxi that would take him back to the station. 1 There was no train for half an hour, and, when at last it started, his carriage had filled with racing men, among whom were several' he knew, " The wise race-goers rarely wait until the end of a meeting. Knocker was usually very expansive after a good day, but that afternoon lie took no part in the conversation, with the exception of an occasional grunt when a remark was made to him. Try as he would, he could not keep jhis thoughts away from the old man. It wa:s the memory of the laugh that remained with him most vividly. He could still feel that queer sensation down his spine. . . . On a, sudden impulse he took out the paper, which was still in his pocket. He had no real interast in news, as such, for racing absorbed the whole of his very limited imagination. As far as he could tell from a casual inspection it was a very Ordinary sort of paper. He made up his mind to get another in town and compare the two in order to see if the old man had spoken the ttvuth. Not that it mattered very much, he assured himself.

Suddenly his incurious glance was || held. A paragraph in the stop-p® l | column had caught his eye. -An j clamation burst from him. "Death in race train," the paragr&Pjj j was headed. Knocker's heart was pu®P ; ing, but he read on mechanically l - ' | Martin Thompson, a well-known i& CI ° J man, died this afternoon as lie w J returning from Gatwick." He got no further; the paper f®'' ■ from his limp fingers on to the h° j of the carriage. 1 "Look at Knocker," someone i>ai j| "He's ill ..." I He was breathing heavily and w | difficulty. | "Stop—stop the train," he g& 9 P e ; J and strove to rise and lurch j the communication cord. __ 1 "Steady on, Knocker," one of titf® j said, and grasped his arm. " ,? U f v a > i down, old chap .. . mustn't pull ' darned thing ..." He sat down, or rather collapsed ill the seat. His head fell forward. They forced whisky between his kp-> but it was of no avail. j "He's dead," came the awestruck of the man who held him. No one noticed the paper on the In the general upset it had been . under the seat, and it is not p 0331 to say what became of it. Perhaps . was swept up by the cleaners Waterloo. - , i Perhaps . . . No one knows. THE END.