Gamblers Don't Win Read Free

but he wondered—
    The voice said, hurriedly, “Please, Mr. Lennox. This is Frank Jarney. Will you do me a favor? Will you ask Mr. Spurck to get another boy?”
    Lennox swore with surprise. “Will I—Say, what is this? You aren’t under contract to Spurck. You don’t have to accept mounts from him unless you want to, do you? Refuse to ride for him if you don’t want to; but I’m warning you. If you do ride, ride to win.”
    â€œBut I’m afraid to refuse, I—” Suddenly there was a click at the other end of the wire. For a moment Lennox stared at the silent phone, then with a shrug he hung up. He turned away and pulled off his coat, wondering what the boy was afraid of. Maybe it was a gag, an out, an excuse for pulling Spurck’s horses. His mouth set as he went into the bathroom and put a fresh blade into his razor. If the kid thought he could pull another horse and get away with it, he’d better think again.
3
    I T was almost twelve-thirty that night when Lennox returned to his apartment hotel, entered the lobby and started across towards the elevator. The night clerk’s voice stopped him as he passed the desk. “Oh, Mr. Lennox!”
    Bill stopped, turned. “What is it, Tom?”
    The clerk said: “Some girl’s been calling you every half hour since nine o’clock. She left a number, wants you to call as soon as you came in.”
    Lennox glanced at the clock behind the desk. “It’s pretty late.”
    The clerk said: “She wanted you to call no matter how late it was. I think it’s important. She sounded very worried. The number is Rochester 50845.”
    â€œDidn’t she leave a name?”

    The clerk shook his head. “She didn’t, but she seemed terribly anxious to reach you.”
    Lennox hesitated, still looking at the clock. “Okey! Ring it for me, will you? I’ll take it in the booth.” He turned and, crossing the lobby, entered the telephone booth.
    A woman’s voice said, “Yes?” inquiringly.
    â€œThis is Bill Lennox,” he told her. “Someone from this number left a call for me.”
    â€œOh, Mr. Lennox,” relief flooded the voice. “This is Betty Donovan. I don’t suppose you remember me?”
    He said, “Donovan, Donovan?” over to himself. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
    â€œI’m Bert’s sister.”
    â€œOh.” He remembered her then, a fourteen-year-old kid with long black curls and a pretty Irish face. “How are you?”
    She said: “I hate to bother you, but I’ve got to see you at once. It’s frightfully important.”
    â€œCan’t it wait until morning?”
    â€œI’m afraid to wait. Won’t you please meet me tonight?”
    He said: “Okey. Where are you?” He was tired, very tired, and he had a hard day coming up, but he couldn’t refuse Bert Donovan’s sister.
    She said: “I don’t want you to come here. I’ll meet you any place you say. A public restaurant would be best, I think.”
    He hesitated for a moment, then named one on the Boulevard. “Know where that is?”
    She said: “I’ll take a cab. I’ll meet you there in half an hour,” and hung up.
    Lennox left the booth, lighted a cigarette, and stood for a moment, thinking it over. He hadn’t seen Bert Donovan for six years, hadn’t heard of him for three. He wondered what the girl was doing in Hollywood, hoped that she hadn’t come out here with an idea of getting into pictures. Too many did that, too many with pretty faces and no ability.
    â€œBetter call me a cab, Tom,” he said finally, and went out to meet it. The cab took him across to the Boulevard and turned west. It was cold, with a chilling wind blowing directly from the ocean. It would probably rain before morning, he thought, as he stepped from the cab before the restaurant, paid the