CHAPTER XVI
THE SLEEPMAKER
"Perhaps race-horses may be a little out of your line, Mr. Kennedy, butI think you will find the case sufficiently interesting to warrant youin taking it up."
Our visitor was a young man, one of the most carefully groomed andcorrectly dressed I have ever met. His card told us that we were honoredby a visit from Montague Broadhurst, a noted society whip, who hadlavished many thousands of dollars on his racing-stable out on LongIsland.
"You see," he went on hurriedly, "there have been a good many strangethings that have happened to my horses lately." He paused a moment, thencontinued: "They have been losing consistently. Take my favorite, LadyLee, for instance."
"Do you think they have been doped?" asked Kennedy quickly, eager to getdown to the point at issue, for I had never known Craig to be interestedin racing.
"I don't know," replied the young millionaire, drawing his eyelidstogether reflectively. "I've had the best veterinary in the country tolook my stable over, and even he can't seem to find a thing that'swrong."
"Perhaps a visit out there might show us something," cut in Kennedy, asthough he were rather favorably impressed, after all, by the novelty ofthe case.
Broadhurst's face brightened.
"Then you will take it up--you are interested?" he queried, adding, "Mycar is outside."
"I'm interested in anything that promises a new experience," returnedCraig, "and I think this affair may be of that sort."
Broadhurst's stable was out on central Long Island, not far from thepretty and fashionable town of Northbury. As we passed down the mainstreet, I could see that Broadhurst was easily the most popular of thewealthy residents of the neighborhood. In fact, the Broadhurst racingstables were a sort of local industry, one of the show-places ofNorthbury.
As we swung out again into the country, we could see ahead of us somestable-boys working out several fine thoroughbreds on Broadhurst'sprivate track, while a group of grooms and rubbers watched them.
The stable itself was a circular affair of frame, painted dark red,which contrasted sharply with the green of the early summer trees.Broadhurst's car pulled up before a large office and lounging-room atone end, above which Murchie, his manager and trainer, had his suite ofrooms.
The office into which Broadhurst led us was decidedly "horsey." Aboutthe place were handsomely mounted saddles, bridles, and whips, more forexhibition than for use. In velvet-lined cases were scores of glitteringbits. All the appointments were brass-mounted. Sporting prints,trophies, and Mission easy chairs made the room most attractive.
Before a desk sat Murchie. As I looked at him, I thought that he had acruel expression about his eyes, a predatory mouth and chin. He rosequickly at the sight of Broadhurst.
"Murchie, I would like to have you meet my friends, Mr. Kennedy and Mr.Jameson," introduced Broadhurst. "They are very much interested inhorses, and I want you to show them about the place and let them seeeverything."
We chatted a moment, and then went out to look at the horses.
In the center of the circular group of stalls was a lawn. The stalls ofthe racers in training were large box stalls.
"You have certainly trained a great horse in Lady Lee," remarked Kennedycasually, as we made our way around the ring of stalls.
Murchie looked up at him quickly.
"Until the last few races, I thought so," he replied, stopping beforethe stall of the famous racer and opening the door.
Lady Lee was a splendid three-year-old bay, a quivering, sensitive,high-strung animal. Murchie looked at her a moment, then at us.
"A horse, you know," he said reflectively, "is just as ambitious to wina race as you are to win success, but must have hard training. I keephorses in training eight or nine months out of the year. I get them intoshape in the early spring and am very careful what they eat. If they geta vacation, they may eat green foods, carrots, and grass in open field;but when we prepare them for the ring or a race, they must have grain,bran, and soft foods. They must have careful grooming to put the coatsin first-class condition, must be kept exquisitely clean, with the bestventilation."
"How about exercise?" asked Kennedy.
"Well," replied Murchie, "I work out horses according to age, with thedistance for fast work gradually increased."
Our trip through the wonderful stable over, we returned to the office,Murchie walking ahead with Broadhurst. As we reached the door,Broadhurst turned to us.
"I hope you will pardon me," he said, "but there is some business up atthe house that I must attend to."
"Oh, Mr. Broadhurst," interjected Murchie, "before you go back to town,I want to talk over with you some of the changes that ought to be madeabout the boys here, as well as their food and quarters."
"All right," returned Broadhurst; "jump into the car and ride with me.We can talk on the way, and you can come right back. I'll pick yougentlemen up later."
Kennedy nodded, quick to perceive the cue that Broadhurst had given himto watch the stables without Murchie watching us.
We sat down in the office, and I looked about at the superb fittings.
"Do you think it is possible for an owner to make a financial success ofracing without betting?" I asked Kennedy.
"Possible, but highly improbable," returned Craig. "I believe theyconsider that they have an excellent year whenever they clear expenses.I don't know about Broadhurst, but I believe that a good many ownersdon't bet on their horses. They have seen the glaring crookedness of thething, especially if they have happened to be officers of jockey clubsor stewards of various race-meets. Personally, I should think a man ofBroadhurst's stamp would not permit himself to be made a victim of theleeches of the turf--although he may wager a bit, just to give zest tothe race. American racing has often been called a purely gamblingaffair, and I think, before we get through, that we shall see the reasonfor much of the public opposition to it."
Just then a small man entered the office, and, seeing us, asked for Mr.Murchie. His face was pinched and thin. He wore the latest cut ofclothes, but was so very slight that his garments hung loosely on him.One could well imagine that he had tried all sorts of schemes to keephimself down toward the hundred-and-ten-or-twelve-pound mark. He was thevery type of jockey. He introduced himself to us as Danny McGee, and Irecognized at once the famous twenty-five-thousand-dollar-a-year rider,who had so often successfully defended the Broadhurst colors.
"Mr. Murchie has gone up to the house," replied Kennedy to his inquiry.
McGee looked us over a minute.
"Friends of his?" he asked, in a confidential tone. Kennedy smiled.
"Of Mr. Broadhurst's," he said quietly.
There was a noticeable change in McGee's manner.
"Just out here to look the stable over," went on Kennedy; "a wonderfulplace."
"Yes; we think so," assented McGee.
"It seems strange," ventured Kennedy, "that, with all this care, LadyLee should not be keeping up to her record."
McGee glanced at us keenly.
"I don't understand it myself," he said. "I suppose lots of people mustthink it is the fault of the jockey, but I have certainly earned mysalary lately with that filly. I don't know what's the matter. I've donethe best I can, but in spite of it there's something wrong."
He spoke with an air of genuine worry, and, although I tried hard, Imust confess that I found it impossible to fathom him.
"The filly," he added, "has her regular work-out and the regular feed,and yet she seems to be all tired out most of the time. Even theveterinaries can't seem to find out what's the matter."
An awkward silence followed, during which both Kennedy and myselfendeavored to conceal our ignorance of horses by saying nothing aboutthem. Finally McGee rose and excused himself, saying that he would beback soon.
There were still a few minutes before Murchie would be likely to return.Without saying a word, Kennedy rose and opened the door which led intothe stable. Across the lawn in the center we could see a man's
figurerapidly retreating through the main entrance, and, somehow or other, Ifelt that at the sound of the opening of our door he hastened his pace.
Kennedy walked quickly around the circle of box stalls until he cameagain to Lady Lee. He entered the stall and looked the famous racer overcarefully. I was wondering what, if anything, he expected to find, when,almost before I knew it, I saw him jab a little hypodermic needle intoher neck and withdraw a few drops of blood.
Lady Lee reared and snorted, but Kennedy managed to quiet her. Hereturned the hypodermic, with these few drops of blood, carefully intoits case again, and we made our way back to the office.
A few minutes later, the drone of Broadhurst's car told us that Murchiehad returned. We resumed the talk about horses, upstairs in Murchie'sown apartment, which consisted of living-rooms, a library, and bath. Itwas a luxuriously appointed place, in keeping with the tastes of itsoccupant. We sat down in the library.
I was quite interested in looking about me. For one thing, Murchie'sidea of art seemed to be a curious blending of horse and woman. Therewere pictures of all the string of Broadhurst winners, interspersed withVenuses and actresses.
On a little table I noticed, at length, a colored photograph in an ovalgilt frame. It was of a very beautiful girl. She was something overmedium height, with a fine figure, golden hair, and deep-blue eyes.Somehow, I recalled that I had seen that face before, and when I caughtKennedy looking at it from time to time, I was certain of it.
Suddenly it flashed over me that the picture had been published in the_Star_. It was Cecilie Safford. I remembered having read of Murchie'sescapades, one of which was his elopement with a pretty youngstenographer whom he had met at the horse show a couple of years before.
The talk ran along about horses still, but I noticed that Kennedy waseven more interested in Murchie's pictures, now, than in hisconversation. In the place of honor, over the mantel, hung a portrait,in an artistic panel, of a slender girl with dark hair and hazel eyes,with a soft, swanlike throat and neck, and a somewhat imperious mannerof carrying her head.
I followed Craig's glance across the room. There, in a frame upon thewall in a corner, hung an enlargement of a group photograph. It was of amiddle-aged woman, a little boy, and a little girl. Then I rememberedthe whole story.
At the time of his elopement, Murchie had a wife living. Since then hehad been divorced. Although he had promised to marry Cecilie when thedivorce was obtained, he was now engaged to marry a wealthy girl, AmelieGuernsey.
Broadhurst returned shortly for us, and we made another tour of thestable, on the outside, including the quarters of the innumerableemployees. Finally, at a hint from Kennedy that we had seen enough forthe present, Broadhurst motored back to the city with us.