“Why the hell didn’t you say so then?”
“You didn’t ask me. I just took it for granted you knew. Everybody knows him around here.”
“I’m not a race-track cop,” snarled Roletti. He turned to the plain-clothes track lieutenant. “You knew him too, Gilroy?”
Gilroy nodded. “Yes. He owned the horse that paid off because of the foul — Rameses.”
“That’s just fine,” Roletti said, sarcastically. “You, Mr. Mills, where do you come in on this, except for throwing away a hundred-dollar ticket?”
Mills saw Quade now and brightened. “Say, you’re the chap found my ticket. Darned decent of you to return it.”
Quade looked bitterly at him. “Glad to do it again some time. Like hell,” he added under his breath.
There was a commotion at the door of the club house. “Let me in!” cried the voice of a girl. “Let me in. They say it’s my father!”
“It’s Miss Grimshaw,” said Lieutenant Gilroy.
Roletti said, “All right, boys, let her in!”
The policemen at the door stood aside and a tall, slender girl came running into the room. A tall, well-built young man followed her. The girl’s face was already wet, but when she saw the body of George Grimshaw she cried out and broke her stride. Quade reached out quickly and caught her.
“Easy, Miss Grimshaw,” he said soothingly.
Her body was shaking violently, but she made a tremendous effort to recover control of herself. After a moment she said, “Thank you,” and released herself from Quade’s grip.
The tall young fellow nodded curtly to Quade. He took the girl’s arm. “All right, Helen?” he said.
Helen Grimshaw turned to Lieutenant Roletti. “He’s been murdered!”
Roletti looked at her thoughtfully. “What makes you say that?”
“It’s apparent, isn’t it?”
“He’s been shot, but…” Roletti cleared his throat.
“No,” said Helen Grimshaw firmly, “he didn’t commit suicide.”
Roletti shrugged. “I don’t think so either. But murder — well, that’s a serious charge. Er, perhaps you have a reason for saying that?”
She bit her lower lip with sharp, white teeth. “Perhaps. Could I see if his wallet is in his inside coat pocket?”
“It is,” replied Roletti. “I looked. It wasn’t robbery. Not in a club house with several thousand people.”
“Look in the wallet,” said the girl. “See if there’s a letter in it.”
Lieutenant Roletti knelt down beside the dead man and extracted a long wallet from his inside breast pocket. He got to his feet and opened the wallet. “There’s a slip of paper here, but it isn’t a letter.”
Quade saw his nostrils flare.
“It’s a receipt,” Roletti went on grimly. “It says: ‘Received from Herbert Mills, $10,000 in full payment for original letter written by Jesse James, dated Sherman, Texas, September 8, 1876.” The captain broke off. “Say, what’s this about?”
Mills took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. “That’s right. I bought the James letter from Grimshaw this afternoon, just before the last race.”
“You paid ten G’s for a letter written by Jesse James!” snorted Captain Roletti. “You expect me to believe that?”
“It was worth more than ten thousand,” Helen Grimshaw said tightly. “I–I happen to know that Father had once been offered fifteen thousand for it.”
“Who — who’d make such an offer?” gasped Herbert Mills.
“Guy Paley,” replied Helen Grimshaw. “In fact, Father was going to sell him the letter today.”
“How about that?” snapped Roletti, looking at Mills.
The fat man shook his head. “I don’t know anything about it. Except that Grimshaw approached me about a week ago, asked me to give him a price on the Jesse James autograph. Said he needed money. We dickered for a week over the price and finally, today, I bought the letter. I paid him the money just before the last race.”
Captain Roletti bared his teeth. “Well, where is it? He hasn’t got it on him. I don’t like that. Not at all. And there’s something else I don’t like. This horse racing business. His horse comes in fourth in a race, then there’s a foul and the nag’s moved up to third place. What about that?”
The tall young man who had remained quiet up to now, said bluntly, “Why don’t you ask the horses about that?”
Captain Roletti whirled. “And who’re you, wise guy?”
“My name’s Jack Forester,” said the young man. “I run a few horses here.”
“Oh, yeah? Maybe one of those nags in the last race belonged to you?”
“That’s right. Beefboy, the horse that was disqualified.”
Captain Roletti put his tongue into his cheek. “Your horse won this race, then it was disqualified and Grimshaw’s won. And then he was killed. Tell me some more, Forester. I’m getting interested in you!”
The track policeman cut in. “Mr. Forester is one of the wealthiest men in the state.”
Captain Roletti’s eyebrows arched. He started to say something, but his words were suddenly drowned out by approximately thirty thousand throats roaring, “They’re off!”
Roletti looked toward the track and scowled. There was no use continuing his questioning until the race that had started was finished. Races are run, murder or no.
And bettors rushed to collect their winnings. Roletti found that out a minute later, when the winning horses crossed the wire and a stampede of winners, hundreds of them, charged into the room.
“Hey!” Roletti cried to his policemen. “Keep ’em out.”
As well try to stop an avalanche. The excited winners brushed aside policemen, swarmed over them and carried them along on the tide, toward the pari-mutuel room. Quade was engulfed and when he finally emerged he found himself in the pari-mutuel room.
Order came quickly now as ticket holders lined up before the cashiers’ windows. Quade took the opportunity to make his escape.
He slipped out of the club house and, just outside the door, Charlie Boston grabbed his arm. “Ollie! I been watching for you. Were you pinched?”
“Nope. But I don’t want to tempt the captain too much. Let’s get out of here.”
“Swell. I don’t like it at all. That fellow — it was Grimshaw, wasn’t it? The guy who had us deliver the letter.”
Quade nodded. “If they’d searched me, I’d have been sunk. I didn’t tear up that letter we were supposed to take to Lund.”
“Ouch!” exclaimed Boston. “Better ditch it right now.”
“I can’t. I’ve discovered that it’s worth ten thousand dollars. It’s one of the rare specimens of Jesse James’ handwriting.”
“The old-time bank robber? For Pete’s sake! Who’d want to pay that much for his autograph? Anyway, Ollie, you’ve got to get rid of it. It’s dynamite.”
“To that I agree,” said Quade. “I’m going to get rid of it right now. Over there.”
They crossed the street and Quade went into a drugstore and bought an envelope and stamp. He addressed the envelope and, outside, dropped it into a mail box.
In the bus going back to town, Boston lamented, “This is our unlucky day. I pick a winning horse and you throw the ticket away. Everything else’s been going wrong, too. I’m going to bed and stay there until tomorrow.”
“In what bed?” asked Quade. “You don’t think the Lincoln Hotel is going to let us into our rooms, do you?”
Boston’s face fell. “What’re we going to do? We’re flat broke, aren’t we?”
“Not quite. We had a dollar and forty-five left after buying our ticket. Then I got the reward.” He winced. “I spent a nickel in the drugstore and fifty cents for bus fare.”
“So it’s a flophouse tonight!”
Quade shrugged. “The day isn’t over yet. Something may turn up.”
Boston looked sharply at Quade. “You’re not going to stick your neck out on this, are you?”