Pattern of Murder. John Russell Fearn

Terry asked finally.

      “I don’t know about heaven: more like the horse’s mouth!”

      “It’s started something, anyway.... Let’s see....” Terry studied his race card and then moved across to the bookies’ stands. He came back presently to where the girl was standing. “Forty to one,” he confirmed. “Rank outsider.”

      He stood biting his lip and considering the dust, trying to make up his mind.

      “I’ve got a quid I might risk,” Vera said, thinking—then she became aware of Terry’s scornful glance.

      “Never mind your quid! I’m going to play this hunch. I often do that and keep my fingers crossed. That chap did say to put your shirt on it. Here—take a look!”

      Terry fumbled inside his hip pocket and brought out his wallet. The girl stared blankly at the bulge inside it. It was stuffed with treasury notes.

      “For the love of Mike, Terry, how much money have you there?”

      “Not so loud!” Terry cautioned, glancing about him. “There are all kinds of wide boys around.... There are two hundred pounds,” he told her. “I’ve made it buying and selling sub-standard movie equipment. It’s quite a racket with some projectionists. You want a fur coat, and there’s a special projector I’m itching to buy. If I put this lot on the nag’s nose and it comes off we’ll both be satisfied—and have a lot to spare.”

      “Yes, but.... It’s an awful lot of money.”

      “I’m going to risk it, anyway. Now, where’s the phone?”

      “Phone?” Vera repeated. “What about these bookies?”

      “Not for me, sweetheart. I’ve got my own bookie, as I told you. I don’t have to pay him on the nail since I run an account. With these blokes I’d have to pay on the spot. As long as I have cover for my bet I’m safe. Right! Two hundred to win on ‘Pirate’s Cutlass’. Come with me.”

      He grabbed Vera’s arm and hurried through the crowd. Within five minutes he had made his phone call to his own bookmaker. He came out of the telephone kiosk with a satisfied grin.

      “Well, it’s all done!” he announced. “Now let’s see what happens. The race is due after the next one.”

      Vera walked beside him slowly, lighting another cigarette as she went.

      “You’ve taken a frightful chance, Terry,” she said. “If it doesn’t come off you’ll—”

      “That’s my worry, isn’t it? Life’s not worth living without taking a risk!”

      The girl looked at him quickly, then away again.

      “In a way,” he said, as they moved through the throngs, “I suppose we sort of became engaged today. Funny, really! I never knew you felt that way about me—and to think I’ve wasted all that time on Helen and never been given any encouragement. You must have some sort of regard for me or you wouldn’t have altered your day off to fit in with mine. If I’ve seemed a bit—well, distant, it was only because I didn’t realize how things stood between us.”

      Vera did not say anything until they reached a position where they could clearly see the course. Then she made a remark in a low voice.

      “Don’t take too much for granted, Terry.”

      “Eh?” Quick surprise was in his eyes. “Oh, you mean about the race? Oh, you don’t have to worry. It’s in the bag.”

      “I’m not talking about the race: I’m talking about us. I don’t really feel that way about you. I just enjoy your company, that’s all. As usual, you’re trying to make the grade single handed without giving anybody else a chance to speak.”

      “You mean....” Terry stopped and gave the girl a hard, searching look—but before he could say anything further the 3:30 had commenced and his attention, along with Vera’s, was centred exclusively on the track.

      In tense silence they watched the race begin: than their excitement got the better of them and they started yelling at the top of their voices and beating the rail in front of them. But gradually the tempo of their eagerness slowed down, and it seemed to Terry that the bottom dropped out of the world when ‘Pirate’s Cutlass’ finished second by a short head.

      “That,” Vera muttered, looking under her eyes, “is that....” She flirted her cigarette end over the rail. “Maybe the nag was half starved, or something. Or the tipster could have been a liar.”

      For several moments Terry did not speak. Ha stood and stared at the track, then as the girl nudged him he came back to awareness.

      “We’d better be moving, hadn’t we?” she asked. “Or are you going to stare at the track all day?”

      Terry still said nothing, but as the girl shrugged and moved on he turned to follow her. In time they came to the grass banks near the gates. Terry sat down and gazed in front of him. Vera coiled up beside him and waited. The silence positively hurt.

      “Was I nuts, or what?” Terry demanded suddenly, thumping his forehead. “Two hundred quid to win—all gone with the wind! Why in hell didn’t I back it for a place as well?”

      “You laid the bet,” Vera sighed. “I didn’t even hear what you said to the bookie. Don’t even know who he is, or anything about him. It’s all your doing.”

      Terry gave her a look of disgust and then lay on his side with his back to her. He chewed a wisp of grass for several minutes. Then he sat up and said loudly,

      “I wouldn’t have bet at all if it hadn’t been for your damned fur coat!”

      Vera opened her mouth in blank amazement. Then her blue eyes slitted.

      “Hey now, just a minute! Don’t start blaming me! What about that substandard projector you’re itching to get? You intended to bet, for coat or otherwise, after you’d had that hot tip!”

      Terry spat the grass out of his mouth and looked at Vera moodily. When he spoke he had changed the subject.

      “Look, Vera, what did you mean about not ‘feeling that way’ about me?”

      Vera took an enamalled case out of her handbag and lighted another cigarette. She lay back on her elbows and surveyed him, the smoke drifting into her eyes.

      “I meant what I said, that’s all. I can’t help it if you jump to conclusions, can I?”

      “I’m not taking that for an answer!” Terry’s blue-grey eyes were bright and accusing. “For the last eight weeks we’ve been out together every Tuesday—and you arranged it. You fixed your day off to coincide with mine. What conclusion am I supposed to draw from that except that you wanted to be with me?”

      “I did want to be with you, but it doesn’t have to go any further than that, does it? You take too much for granted, and always have!” Vera changed suddenly to the defensive. “In our sort of job there isn’t much opportunity to make friends outside the cinema staff. I don’t want to spend my time with one of the girls who might be off on the same day I am. No darned fun in that. I can’t spend the time with Sid because when you are away he has to be in charge of the box. So what else was there for it but for me to cotton on to you?”

      “Sid?” Terry repeated, wondering. Sidney Elbridge was the second projectionist. “What’s he got to do with it? You don’t mean that you and Sid are—?”

      “Not exactly. We’re just friendly.”

      “Then why don’t you take Monday off when he does?”

      “I tried to, but the boss wouldn’t hear of it. He said it would leave us short staffed.”

      How much truth there was in this Terry did not know. The loss of two hundred pounds had, for the moment, dulled his power to think straight.

      “What