Free Gamblers Don't Win by W. T. Ballard Page B

new sport with enthusiasm. Spurck was not the only producer to buy horses, and any number of actors had followed suit.
    They left the clubhouse and threaded their way through the thronged betting shed. A tall, well-dressed man with black hair and a hawk’s nose stopped Lennox. “Hello, Bill.”
    Lennox let his surprise show. “Hello, Claude. Long time, no see.”
    The man’s white teeth flashed. “I heard you were out here. How’s every little thing?”
    â€œNot bad. What do you think of the plant?
    â€œAs nice as any I’ve seen.” The crowd carried them apart and the girl asked, with interest, “Who was that?”
    Lennox gave her a twisted smile. “That was one of the boys I’ve just been talking about. That’s Claude Custis. He used to be a big-shot New York bookie. He’s a bigger shot gambler now, and bad.”
    She said: “He doesn’t look bad. He looks like a gentleman.”
    â€œClaude’s a gentleman.” Lennox’s grin was sour. “I doubt if he ever said ain’t in his life, but he’s bad, any way you take him. I wonder what he’s doing out here.”
    â€œProbably came out for the climate.”
    â€œMore likely the easy money. Claude doesn’t know there is a climate. There’s no percentage in climate, and Claude plays percentages. Well, it’s not my lookout.” He pushed on through the crowd to be stopped a few minutes later by a heavy, red-faced figure. “Hello, Floyd! Looks like old-home week.”
    Detective Captain Floyd Spellman grinned. “Hello, Nancy! You’re in bad company.”
    â€œShe is since you came,” Lennox told him. “What are you doing out this way?”
    Spellman moved heavy shoulders. “Looking around. It’s a swell joint.”
    â€œI’ll guess it burns you up to see them betting legally,” Lennox suggested.
    â€œYeah.” Spellman grinned. “Well, I gotta be getting back to town. I just came out to give it the once-over.”
    Nancy asked: “Could I bum a ride? I’ve got a story to finish, and Bill can’t leave until after Spurck’s horse runs.”
    Spellman said: “Sure. I’ll take good care of her, Bill.”
    â€œYou can’t take good care of yourself,” Lennox told him, “but Nance can take care of both of you. See you tonight, Kid.”
    He watched them move away through the crowd, then turned and walked slowly back towards the clubhouse.
2
    S PURCK’S horse was in the fifth race, a gelding with powerful shoulders and beautiful stride, a distance horse. Lennox watched him through glasses as they paraded to the post. The horse had a good record at Chicago and Detroit, no Derby winner, but certainly not a plater; he should win from this field without much trouble. The field was small, only seven, and they were at post hardly a minute.
    Lennox watched as they broke from the gate, picked them up with his glasses as they hit the first turn and followed Spurck’s entry, his brows drawing into a scowl. The boy had taken the horse wide going into the back stretch and had dropped from third to fifth, holding him there, the four leaders drawing away ever so slightly.
    There was nothing in the ride that the judges could call, but Lennox knew that the kid wasn’t trying, that he was holding the horse out of it until too late. They came around the far turn; the field strung along the fence, and thundered into the stretch, with Spurck’s horse on the extreme outside. He had no chance, and the boy was driving him now to finish a badly beaten fifth.
    Lennox slid his glasses into the case and, turning, stared towards Spurck’s box. He saw the producer slumped in his chair, disappointment showing on his heavy features. The boys were weighing in, the official sign went up, and the horses were being led towards the barns. Lennox glanced at his program. Spurck had another horse