To-morrow's Paper, Sir?-SHORT STORY

Auckland Star, Volume LXXI, Issue 15, 18 January 1940, Page 19

To-morrow's Paper, Sir?-SHORT STORY

By H. HORN

THOMPSON was not a desirA'l able character. He possessed a clever plausible, tongue, and for years past had lived, with no little succela, on his wits.

He had promoted doubtful boxino- competitions, and still more doubtful sweepstakes. He had been a professional backer, in which capacity he had defrauded the bookies; again, a bookmaker who had swindled his clients. . There was more cunning than imagination in his outlook, but within his limits, he possessed a certain disordered ability.

He was known to his intimates as Battler Thompson, and as such had a surprisingly wide reputation. In outward he was a gentleman, for long experience had taught him to avoid the flashy and distinctive in dress Indeed, his quiet taste had often proved a valuable business asset.

Naturally, his fortune* varied, but he was usually more or less in funds. As Battler sometimes said in hi* more genial moments, "For every mug that dies there's ten others born." I'linds were rather low, however, on the evening when he met the old man. Battler had spent the early 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 Battler and an unmistakable atmosphere had resulted.

Not that he resented the opinions in the least, but at that juncture he needed tho unquestioned trust of the two men. He was not in the best of humours, therefore, as he turned into Whitcomb Street on his way to Charing Cross. The normal plainness of his features was deepened by a scowl, and the gene-ral result startled the few people who glanced at him. But at eight o'clock in the evening Whitcomb Street is not a crowded thoroughfare and there was no one near them when the old man spoke to him. He was standing in a passage near the Pall Mall end and Battler could not see him clearly. "Hullo, Battler I" 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, Battler." "Look here, what's the game T I don't know you . . "No. But I know you." "If that's all you've got to say . . ." said Battler uneasily. "It is nearly all. Will you buy a paper? It is not an ordinary paperr I assure you." - "How do you moan ... not an ordinary paper!" "It is to-morrow night'* '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, Battler had the crude generosity of those who live precariously. "Luck!" The ola man iaughed with a quietness that jarred on Battler'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, Battler." "Not so free with my name ... if you don't mind." "Are you ashamed of it?" "No," said Battler stoutly. "What do you want? I've got no time to waste with the likes of you." "Thon go . . . Battler." "What do you want?" Battler insisted, strnngely uneasy.' "Nothing. Won't you take the paper? There is no other like it in the world. Nor will there be —for 24 hours." "I don't suppose there are many of to-morrow's papers on sale . . . yet," said Battler with a grin. "It contains to-morrow's winners," said the old man, in the same casual manner. "I don't think!" retorted Battler. "There it is; you may read for yourself." From the darkness a paper was thrust at Battler, whose unwilling fingers closed on it. A laugh came from somewhere in the recesses in the passage, and Battler 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 29, 1926 ..." he read. He thought a moment. It was Wednesday ... he was positive it was Wednesday. He took out his diary.

It was Wednesday, the twenty-eighth day of July— the last day of the Kempton Park meeting. He had no doubt on 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 aeross his forehead.; it was damp with cold perspiration. "1 here's a trick somewhere," he muttered to himself, and carefully reexamined the dhte 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.

The following morning he went to Gatwick. It was a meeting he liked, and usui.lly he was very lucky there. But that day it was not merely a question of^luck.

There was a streak of caution in his. on the first race, hut he flunjr caution to the wind after Inkernian had come in a comfortable winner—and at «to 1. The horse and the price! He had no doubts left. Salmon House won the second, a hot favourite at 7 to 4 on. In the big race most of the punters left Shallot alone. The horse had little form, and there was no racing season why anyone should back him. He was among what the bookies call "the Rags." But Battler cared nothing for "form" that day.

He spread his money judiciously. Twenty here, twenty there. Not until ten minutes before the race did he wire any money 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 co'lect. His pocketb 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 he sent for the taxi that would take him back to the station. There was no train for naif an hour, and when at last it started his carriage had filled with racing men, among whom were several h« knew. The wiser racegoers rarely wait until the end of a meeting. Battler was usually very expansive after a good day, but that afternoon he 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 his thoughts away from the old man. It was 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 interest 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 vgry 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 truth. Not that it mattered very much, lie assured himself. Suddenly his incurious glance was held. A paragraph in the stop press column had caught his eye. An exclamation burst from him. "Death in Race Train," the paragraph was headed. Battler's heart was pumping, but he read on mechanically: "Mr. Martin Thompson, a well-known racing man, died this afternoon as he was returning from Gatwick." He got no further; the paper fell from his limp fingers on to the floor of the carriage. "Look at Battler," someone said. "He's ill. . . He was breathing heavily and with difficulty. "Stop . . . stop the train," he gasped, and strove to rise and lurch towards the communication cord. "Steady on, Battler," one of them said, and grasped his arm. "You sit down, old chap . . . mustn't pull that darned thing. . . ." He sat down ... or rather collapsed into the seat. His head fell forward. They forced whisky between his lips, but it was of no avail. "He's dead," came the awe-struck voice of the roan who held him. No one noticed the paper on the floor. In the general upset it had been kicked under the seat, and it is not possible to say what became of it. Perhaps it was swept up by the cleaners at Waterloo. Perhaps. . . . No one knows.