The Garden Murder Case Page 5

  “Aren’t you two on speaking terms yet—or is this feud to be permanent?… Why don’t you kiss and make up and let the gaiety of the party be unanimous?”

  Miss Graem had proceeded as if nothing had happened, and Swift had merely given his cousin a quick, indignant glance. Garden had then smiled sourly, shrugged his shoulders, and turned back to the ledger.

  Hammle maintained his complacent, jovial manner throughout the afternoon; but even he seemed ill at ease at times, and his gaze drifted repeatedly to Kroon and Miss Weatherby. Once when Zalia Graem was at their table, he strolled over and boisterously slapped Kroon on the back. Their conversation ceased abruptly, and Hammle filled in the sudden silence with a pointless anecdote about Salvator’s race against time at Monmouth Park in 1890.

  Garden did not leave his seat at the telephones, and, with the exception of an occasional furtive scrutiny of his cousin, he paid little attention to his guests…

  The Second race at Rivermont Park, which went off at eight minutes after three, brought the group better results than the first. Only Kroon lost—he had played the odds-on favorite, Invulnerable, heavily to win; and Invulnerable, though in the lead coming into the stretch, quit badly. However, the next race—which took place a few minutes after half-past three—was a disappointment to everyone. The even-money favorite was bumped at the stretch turn and barely managed to finish third, and an outsider, Ogowan, won the race and paid $86.50. Luckily, no large amount had been placed on the race by any of those present. Swift, incidentally, made no wagers on any of the first three races.

  The following race, the Fourth—the post time of which was announced as 4:10—was the Rivermont Handicap; and Garden had no more than cut out the amplifier after the third race, then I felt a curiously subdued and electrified atmosphere in the room.

  Notes

  * On the “cards” for New York State, however, the numbers do not correspond to the post positions, as here these positions are drawn shortly before the races begin, except in stake races.

  * Alexis Flint was the service announcer at the central news station.

  * Vance was referring to Nash’s famous couplet: “Philo Vance Needs a kick in the pance.”

  * Hannix was Floyd Garden’s book-maker.

  * The pari-mutuel prices.

  † David Alexander, the entertaining turf chronicler, wrote an item about these two horses recently. “Morestone,” said Mr. Alexander, “could run plenty fast—up to six furlongs. But after six furlongs he flagged the horse ambulance. Morestone could quit in track record time. Nothing like it had been seen since they tried to make Nevada Queen go more than a half-mile a few years ago. There were two mysteries about Morestone. One was how he could run so fast, and the other was how he could quit so fast.”

  * Mutuel prices are figured on the basis of a two-dollar bet made at the track, and already paid in there. Therefore, away from the track, where the money wagered has not actually been passed over, the two dollars is subtracted from the mutuel price and the remainder is then divided by two to ascertain the exact odds which the horse paid on one dollar. In this particular race, Vance’s horse paid $3.90 to come in second, or place. Two dollars subtracted from this leaves $1.90, and this amount divided by two gives ninety-five cents—that is, in the position in which Vance played him, Black Revel paid ninety-five cents on the dollar. Hence, Vance, having wagered $100 on the horse to place, won $95. In Hammle’s case, the horse paid $5.80 in third place, so that the net odds were $1.90 to the dollar in that position. And, since he bet $25 on the horse to come in third, he won $47.50. But, from this must be deducted the $25 he played on the horse to win, and the $25 he put on the same horse to come in second—both of which bets he lost. This left him minus $2.50.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The First Tragedy

  (Saturday, April 14; 3:45 p. m.)

  “THE GREAT MOMENT approaches!” Garden announced, and though he spoke with sententious gaiety, I could detect signs of strain in his manner. “Hannix’s phone is going to be pretty busy during the last ten minutes of this momentous intermission, and I’d advise all of you to get your bets in before the post line comes across. There won’t be any material changes, anyway; so speed the hopeful wagers.”

  There was silence for several moments, and then Swift, looking up from his card, said in a peculiarly flat voice:

  “Get the latest run-down, Floyd. We haven’t had one since the opening line, and there may be some shifts in the odds or a late scratch.”

  “Anything you say, dear cousin,” Garden acceded in a cynical, yet troubled, tone, as he drew down the switch to cut in the amplifier and picked up the black receiver. He waited for a pause in the announcements from Texas and Cold Springs, and then spoke into the transmitter:

  “Hello, Lex. Give me the run-down on the big one at Rivermont.”

  From the amplifier came the now familiar voice:

  “I just gave the latest line there. Where’ve YOU been?… All right, here it is, but listen this time—6, 12, 12, 5, 20, 20, 10, 6, 10, 6, 4, scratch, 20, 2. Post, 4:10…”

  Garden cut out the amplifier and looked down at the new row of figures he had hastily scribbled beside the earlier odds.

  “Not very different from the morning line,” he commented. “Heat Lightning, down two; Train Time, down three; Azure Star, up two; Roving Flirt, down one; Grand Score up from six to ten—what a picnic for the mater if he comes in! Risky Lad, up one—and that helps me. Head Start, down two; Sarah Dee, up one; and the rest as they were. Except Equanimity.” He shot a quick look at his cousin. “Equanimity has gone from two-and-a-half to two, and I doubt if he’ll pay even that much. Too many hopeful but misguided enthusiasts shoveling coarse money into the tote*.”

  Garden got up, mixed himself a highball, and carried it back to the table. Having disposed of it, he turned about in his chair.

  “Well, aren’t any of the master minds present made up?” He was a little impatient now.

  Kroon rose, finished the drink which stood on the table before him, and dabbing his mouth with a neatly folded handkerchief which he took from his breast pocket, he moved toward the archway.

  “My mind was made up yesterday.” He spoke across the room, as if including everyone. “Put me down in your fateful little book for one hundred on Hyjinx to win and two hundred on the same filly to place. And you can add two hundred on Head Start to show. Making it, all told, half a grand. That’s my contribution to the afternoon’s festivities.”

  “Head Start’s a bad actor at the post,” advised Garden, as he entered the bets in the ledger.

  “Oh, well,” sighed Kroon, “maybe he’ll be a smart little boy and beat the barrier today.” And he turned into the hall.

  “Not deserting us, are you, Cecil?” Garden called after him.

  “Frightfully sorry,” Kroon answered, looking back. “I’d love to stay for the race, but a legal conference at a maiden aunt’s is scheduled for four-thirty, and I’ve got to be there. Papers to sign, and such rubbish. I’ll try to get back, though, if I don’t have to read the bally documents.” He waved his hand and, with a “Cheerio,” continued down the hall.

  Madge Weatherby immediately picked up her cards and moved to Zalia Graem’s table, where the two women began a low, whispered conversation.

  Garden’s inquiring glance moved from one to another of the party.

  “Is that the only bet I’m to give Hannix?” he asked impatiently. “I’m warning you not to wait too long.”

  “Put me down for Train Time,” Hammle rumbled ponderously. “I’ve always liked that bay colt. He’s a grand stretch runner—but I don’t think he’ll win today. Therefore, I’m playing him place and show. Make it a hundred each.”

  “It’s in the book,” said Garden, nodding to him. “Who’s next?”

  At this moment a young woman of unusual attractiveness appeared in the archway and stood there hesitantly, looking shyly at Garden. She wore a nurse’s uniform of immaculate white, with white
shoes and stockings, and a starched white cap set at a grotesque angle on the back of her head. She could not have been over thirty; yet there was a maturity in her calm, brown eyes, and evidence of great capability in the reserve of her expression and in the firm contour of her chin. She wore no makeup, and her chestnut hair was parted in the middle and brushed back simply over her ears. She presented a striking contrast to the two other women in the room.

  “Hello, Miss Beeton,” Garden greeted her pleasantly. “I thought you’d be having the afternoon off, since the mater’s well enough to go shopping… What can I do for you? Care to join the madhouse and hear the races?”

  “Oh, no. I’ve too many things to do.” She moved her head slightly to indicate the rear of the house. “But if you don’t mind, Mr. Garden,” she added timidly, “I would like to bet two dollars on Azure Star to win, and to come in second, and to come in third.”

  Everyone smiled covertly, and Garden chuckled.

  “For Heaven’s sake, Miss Beeton,” he chided her, “whatever put Azure Star in your mind?”

  “Oh, nothing, really,” she answered with a diffident smile. But I was reading about the race in the paper this morning, and I thought that Azure Star was such a beautiful name. It—it appealed to me.”

  “Well, that’s one way of picking ’em.” Garden smiled indulgently. “Probably as good as any other. But I think you’d be better off if you forgot the beautiful name. The horse hasn’t a chance. And besides, my book-maker doesn’t take any bet less than five dollars.”

  Vance, who had been watching the girl with more interest than he usually showed in a woman, leaned forward.

  “I say, Garden, just a moment.” He spoke incisively. “I think Miss Beeton’s choice is an excellent one—however she may have arrived at it.” Then he nodded to the nurse. “Miss Beeton, I’ll be very happy to see that your bet on Azure Star is placed.” He turned again to Garden. “Will your book-maker take two hundred dollars across the board on Azure Star?”

  “Will he? He’ll grab it with both hands,” Garden replied. “But why—?”

  “Then it’s settled,” said Vance quickly. “That’s my bet. And two dollars of it in each position belongs to Miss Beeton.”

  “That’s perfect with me, Vance.” And Garden jotted down the wager in his ledger.

  I noticed that during the brief moments that Vance was speaking to the nurse and placing his wager on Azure Star, Swift was glowering at him through half-closed eyes. It was not until later that I understood the significance of that look.

  The nurse cast a quick glance at Swift, and then spoke with simple directness.

  “You are very kind, Mr. Vance.” Then she added: “I will not pretend I don’t know who you are, even if Mr. Garden had not called you by name.” She stood looking straight at Vance with calm appraisal; then she turned and went back down the hall.

  “Oh, my dear!” exclaimed Zalia Graem in exaggerated rapture. “The birth of Romance! Two hearts with but a single horse. How positively stunning!”

  “Never mind the jealous persiflage,” Garden rebuked the girl impatiently. “Choose your horse, and say how much.”

  “Oh, well, I can be practical, if subpœnaed,” the girl returned. “I’m taking Roving Flirt to win… Let’s see—say, two hundred. And there goes my new spring suit!… And I might as well lose my sport coat too; so put another two hundred on him to place… And now I think I’ll have a bit of liquid sustenance.” And she went to the bar.

  “How about you, Madge?” Garden asked, turning to Miss Weatherby. “Are you in on this classic?”

  “Yes, I’m in on it,” the woman answered with affected concern. “I want Sublimate, fifty across.”

  “Any more customers?” Garden asked, entering the bet. “I myself, if anyone is interested, am pinning my youthful hopes on Risky Lad—one, two, and three hundred.” He looked across the room apprehensively to his cousin. “What about you, Woody?”

  Swift sat hunched in his chair, studying the card before him and smoking vigorously.

  “Give Hannix the bets you’ve got,” he said without raising his head. “Don’t worry about me—I won’t miss the race. It’s only four o’clock.”

  Garden looked at him a moment and scowled. “Why not get it off your chest now?” As there was no response, he drew the gray telephone toward him and dialed a number. A moment later he was relaying to the book-maker the various bets entered in his ledger.

  Swift stood up and walked to the cabinet with its array of bottles. He filled a whiskey glass with Bourbon and drank it down. Then he walked slowly to the table where his cousin sat. Garden had just finished the call to Hannix.

  “I’ll give you my bet now, Floyd,” Swift said hoarsely. He pressed one finger on the table, as if for emphasis. “I want ten thousand dollars on Equanimity to win.”

  Garden’s eyes moved anxiously to the other.

  “I was afraid of that, Woody,” he said in a troubled tone. “But if I were you—”

  “I’m not asking you for advice,” Swift interrupted in a cold steady voice; “I’m asking you to place a bet.”

  Garden did not take his eyes from the man’s face. He said merely:

  “I think you’re a damned fool.”

  “Your opinion of me doesn’t interest me either.” Swift’s eyelids drooped menacingly, and a hard look came into his set face. “All I’m interested in just now is whether you’re going to place that bet. If not, say so; and I’ll place it myself.”

  Garden capitulated.

  “It’s your funeral,” he said, and turning his back on his cousin, he took up the gray hand set again and spun the dial with determination.

  Swift walked back to the bar and poured himself another generous drink of Bourbon.

  “Hello, Hannix,” Garden said into the transmitter. “I’m back again, with an additional bet. Hold on to your chair or you’ll lose your balance. I want ten grand on Equanimity to win… Yes, that’s what I said: ten G-strings—ten thousand iron men. Can you handle it? Odds probably won’t be over two to one… Right-o.”

  He replaced the receiver and tilted back in his chair just as Swift, headed for the hall, was passing him.

  “And now, I suppose,” Garden remarked, without any indication of raillery, “you’re going upstairs so you can be alone when the tidings come through.”

  “If it won’t break your heart—yes.” There was a resentful note in Swift’s words. “And I’d appreciate it if I was not disturbed.” His eyes swept a little threateningly over the others in the room, all of whom were watching him with serious intentness. Slowly he turned and went toward the archway.

  Garden, apparently deeply perturbed, kept his eyes on the retreating figure. Then, as if on sudden impulse, he stood up quickly and called out: “Just a minute, Woody. I want to say a word to you.” And he stepped after him.

  I saw Garden put his arm around Swift’s shoulder as the two disappeared down the hall.

  Garden was gone from the room for perhaps five minutes, and in his absence very little was said, aside from a few constrained conventional remarks. A tension seemed to have taken possession of everyone present: there was a general feeling that some unexpected tragedy was impending—or, at least, that some momentous human factor was in the balance. We all knew that Swift could not afford his extravagant bet—that, in fact, it probably represented all he had. And we knew, too, or certainly suspected, that a serious issue depended upon the outcome of his wager. There was no gaiety now, none of the former light-hearted atmosphere. The mood of the gathering had suddenly changed to one of sombre misgiving.

  When Garden returned to the room his face was a trifle pale, and his eyes were downcast. As he approached our table, he shook his head dejectedly.

  “I tried to argue with him,” he remarked to Vance. “But it was no use; he wouldn’t listen to reason. He turned nasty… Poor devil! If Equanimity doesn’t come in he’s done for.” He looked directly at Vance. “I wonder if I did the right thing in p
lacing that bet for him. But, after all, he’s of age.”

  Vance nodded in agreement.

  “Yes, quite,” he murmured dryly, “—as you say. Really, y’know, you had no alternative.”

  Garden took a deep breath and, sitting down at his own table, picked up the black receiver and held it to his ear.

  A bell rang somewhere in the apartment, and a few moments later Sneed appeared in the archway.

  “Pardon me, sir,” he said to Garden, “but Miss Graem is wanted on the other telephone.”

  Zalia Graem stood up quickly and raised one hand to her forehead in a gesture of dismay,

  “Who on earth or in the waters under the earth can that be?” Her face cleared. “Oh, I know.” Then she stepped up to Sneed. “I’ll take the call in the den.” And she hurried from the room.

  Garden had paid little attention to this interruption: he was almost oblivious to everything but his telephone, waiting for the time to switch on the amplifier. A few moments later he turned in his chair and announced:

  “They’re coming out at Rivermont. Say your prayers, children… Oh, I say, Zalia,” he called out in a loud voice, “tell the fascinating gentleman on the phone to call you back later. The big race is about to start.”

  There was no response, although the den was but a few steps down the hall.

  Vance rose and, crossing the room, looked down the hallway, but returned immediately to his table.

  “Thought I’d inform the lady,” he murmured, “but the den door is closed.”

  “She’ll probably be out—she knows what time it is,” commented Garden casually, reaching forward to throw on the amplifier.

  “Floyd darling,” spoke up Miss Weatherby, “why not get this race on the radio? It’s being broadcast by WXZ. Don’t you think it’ll be more exciting that way? Gil McElroy is announcing it.”