4. The Owners' Handicap
"The art of crime," said Simon Templar, carefully mayonnaising a section of truite à la gelée, "is to be versatile. Repetition breeds contempt — and promotion for flat-footed oafs from Scotland Yard. I assure you, Pat, I have never felt the slightest urge to be the means of helping any detective on his upward climb. Therefore we soak bucket-shops one week and bootleggers the next, the poor old Chief Inspector Teal never knows where he is."
Patricia Holm fingered the stem of her wineglass with a faraway smile. Perhaps the smile was a trifle wistful. Perhaps it wasn't. You never know. But she had been the Saint's partner in outlawry long enough to know what any such oratorical opening as that portended; and she smiled.
"It dawns upon me," said the Saint, "that our talents have not yet been applied to the crooked angles of the Sport of Kings."
"I don't know," said Patricia mildly. "After picking the winner of the Derby with a pin, and the winner of the Oaks with a pack of cards —"
Simon waved away the argument.
"You may think," he remarked, "that we came here to celebrate. But we didn't. Not exactly. We came here to feast our eyes on the celebrations of a brace of lads of the village who always tap the champagne here when they've brought off a coup. Let me introduce you. They're sitting at the corner table behind me on your right."
The girl glanced casually across the restaurant in the direction indicated. She located the two men at once — there were three magnums on the table in front of them, and their appearance was definitely hilarious.
Simon finished his plate and ordered strawberries and cream.
"The fat one with the face like an egg and the diamond tie-pin is Mr. Joseph Mackintyre. He wasn't always Mackintyre, but what the hell? He's a very successful bookmaker; and, believe it or not, Pat, I've got an account with him."