The Singular Adventure of

THE SPORTING GENT

 

THE man who had come to consult my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes seemed a breezy fellow, not yet forty, well dressed but with a touch or two of the flashy about his garb.

      “Take a seat, Mr Humphrey Porritt, this is my colleague Dr Watson, he is privy to all my affairs.  What have you come to tell us?” asked Holmes benignly.

      “I have come to tell you that I am the most stupid, cretinous and brainless person who ever walked on God’s earth,” said our caller with a wry smile and a shrug of his shoulders.

      “Perhaps I may be the judge of that when you have told me your story,” said Holmes.

      “Oh, there is no doubt of it.  I have given away my entire life savings, freely and voluntary, to a perfect stranger.”

      “I do not think such charity is a sign of stupidity.  Somewhat cavalier perhaps, but - ” said Holmes.

      “Oh I didn’t do it for charity,” interrupted Porritt. “I did it to try and make more money.”

      “Ah!” said Holmes and waited.

      “I will tell you all from the beginning but I must say I do not see how you or anyone else can help me.  I come in desperation as I have heard that you can do amazing things, though I doubt you can reclaim my £3000 from the Lord knows where.”

      “Again I think I will be a better judge of whether I can help you if you explain your business coherently,” said Holmes sternly.

      “Indeed.  Well it’s this way.  I am a bit of a sporting gent.  I do not mean I play any, but I take a great interest in all sports - horse racing, football, rugger, athletics, boxing, cricket, whatever.  I also like to have a financial interest in a variety of them.”

      “You mean you are a betting man and you do not confine your activities solely to the turf?” interrupted Holmes.

      “You read me exactly, sir.  Now don’t get the wrong idea, I’m not a heavy gambler and I don’t gamble on the turn of a card or anything like that, it’s just that I think spice is added to a sporting event if I have a little flutter on the outcome.  I am not a wealthy man by any means, but I am not married and have no family, so there is no danger of my dragging my nearest and dearest into degradation through my habits.”

      “Do you have an occupation, a private income, or do you subsist on your gambling?” asked Holmes.

      “I have several part-time occupations - I am a proof reader for one publisher; I am a reader for another, I read unsolicited manuscripts and recommend whether they are worth pursuing; I write for two or three sporting papers and I am the theatre critic for the Globe.  I am also a stringer for several provincial newspapers and send pieces to them from time to time - gossip about London society and so on.”

      “You must have a remarkably busy life.”

      “It is very varied and I am always out and about.”

      “Perhaps you will come to the point of your story?”

      “About a year ago I received a note through the post.  Unfortunately I threw it away as I did not think it of importance but I remember exactly what it said.  It read: Oxford will win the boat race.  Put your money on it.  Nemo.”

      “That’s all it said?”

      “Yes.  Just that, no address or anything.”

      “And presumably you had no idea who sent it or who this Nemo person was?”

      “No idea.  But in my various activities I meet many people and, to be honest, people often send me bits of information, tittle-tattle mostly, thinking I might be able to use it and thus pay them a few coppers for the info.”

      “But this wasn’t like that?” asked Holmes.

      “Not at all.  This was obviously from somebody who knew I was a betting man.”

      “Why do you say that?”

      “Because a few weeks later I received another note.  That said: Jem Smith will win the big fight.  Put your money on it.  Nemo.”

      I could see the interest leap into Holmes’ eyes and he leaned forward.

      “Before you proceed - did you put money on Oxford to win the boat race?”

      “No, I backed Cambridge as I fancied it was about their turn, but Oxford won yet again.”

      “And this fight?  Did you bet on Jem Smith?”

      “I did.”

      “And did he win?”

      The depths of Holmes’ ignorance never ceased to amaze me.  The fight between Smith and Pritchard for the heavyweight championship had exercised the public prints for weeks.  The jubilation when Jem Smith felled Pritchard in the second round had not been seen in London since Her Majesty’s Golden Jubilee and here was Holmes, the most astute detective in the country, totally ignorant about it.

      “Yes, he won and I had placed ten guineas on him to do so.”

      “You were tempted to back him because this Nemo person had tipped him and his previous tip about the Boat Race had been correct?”

      “That is so, Mr Holmes.  After all, when the two men are equally matched it is only fancy that makes you decide on your favourite.”

      “Please continue.”

      “Well a few more weeks went by and, sure enough, a third tip arrived.  Just the same.  I kept that one.  Here it is.”

      Porritt passed over an envelope that Sherlock Holmes perused carefully with his lens, he then studied the contents, handed it back and said “Typed on a Remington machine.  Very new, probably bought especially for the purpose of sending these cryptic messages.  Posted in central London.  Business stationery, manila envelope.  It tells us nothing, which is the intention.”

      “How do you know the typewriting machine was newly bought?” I felt urged to interrupt.

      “Come, Watson, look at the clarity of the type and the blackness of the ink.”

      “But surely that only indicates a new ribbon has been used?” I protested.

      “Any machine that has been used soon develops characteristics unique to that machine.  One of the keys perhaps develops a weak tension in its spring and the letter on that key is thus always stamped slightly fainter.  Letters become misaligned or slightly askew through use.  Deposits build up on the letters, especially on the e and the a and, even with a new ribbon, these letters get the spaces filled in with ink, and so on.  I have written a monograph identifying the differences between all the current models of typewriting machines listing over fifty points where differences occur both initially and with use.  However, in this instance the message is the matter: The Old Etonians will win.  Put your money on it.  Nemo.  I assume this is another sporting event?”

      “The annual cricket match between the Old Harrovians and the Old Etonians.”

      “Surely a match like that doesn’t attract the bookies?” I cried.

      “Not all bets are with book-makers.  There are many sporting gents like myself who will bet against each other.  I’ve known some men, who have nothing else to gamble on, bet which fly will leave a window first.  To be sure, Doctor, you can get somebody to take a bet on practically anything.”

      “So did you place a bet on the Old Etonians?” asked Holmes.

      “Indeed I did.  I put the money I had won on Jem Smith plus another ten on to it and again this Nemo person was right and I was quids in again.”

      Holmes rubbed his hands in glee.

      “Have you the next note?”

      “Yes, this one concerns the final of the Wimbledon Lawn Tennis Championship.”

      Holmes took the paper, glanced briefly at it and read aloud: “Baddeley for the Championship.  Put your money on it.  And?”

      “I put a hundred guineas on Wilf Baddeley and as you will know after a close fought game he won in the final set.”

      “I am fascinated by your story.  What happened next?”

      “I had a visitor.  One day there was a knock at my door and I opened it to admit a man who said his name was Nemo.”

      “Excellent!” cried Holmes. “Can you describe him?”

      “Well, he was above average height, well built, clean shaven with a ruddy face and pendulous cheeks.  He had a serene air of benevolence about him.  The impression he gave me was that he might be a clerical man although he wasn’t wearing a dog-collar or anything, but his entire manner of speech and bearing reminded me of a clergyman.  Not that I am acquainted with many of those.”

      “Did you look at his ears?”

      “His ears?  Not especially, I presume he had two, one on each side of his head and I think I would have noticed if he hadn’t.  Are his ears important?”

      “The left could be vital.  But please to proceed.”

      “He asked very politely if I had received his letters, which I affirmed, then he asked if I had acted upon them and I said that after the first one I had indeed placed a bet according to all his suggestions.  He then, still very politely, suggested that through his good offices I had increased my wealth by whatever modest amount I could afford and thus was, in a small way, somewhat in his debt.  However, he went on to say that as his letters were unsolicited, he did not expect payment for them in any way.”

      “So what suggestion did this kind beneficent gentlemen then make?” asked Holmes with a hint of sarcasm.

      “He said he knew the winner of the FA Cup Final.”

      “I note that none of these sporting events were horse races.  One might think the Derby and Grand National would be of interest to Nemo.  Neither were there any athletic events, bicycle races and so on.”

      “Perhaps he would have got round to those in due course.  Anyway he was prepared to tell me the winner of the FA Cup Final but he would be infinitely obliged if I would give him 10% of my winnings.  Well, this seemed a reasonable suggestion to me, the man had given me four winners free of charge, and if this was to be a fifth winner, then I could well afford to pass on 10% of my winnings.”

      “Did you ask him what the conditions were if you lost the bet?” asked Holmes.

      “Of course; he would not entertain the possibility of losing the bet.  He actually said ‘I know the winner, you cannot lose’ but I pressed him and he replied that if I lost, then, of course, he would not expect any payment whatsoever.  He merely requested 10% of my winnings, and whether I placed a stake of £5000, £500 or £50 he only required 10%.  What is more, he pointed out that he could not compel me to give him anything, but he trusted a gentleman like myself would deal justly with him.”

      “I cannot see the catch in all this,” I remarked. “He seems to be a very astute tipster and could make much more than he has been doing.”

      “Oh, Watson,” said Holmes, shaking his head, “too much of your army pension is wasted on galloping horses as it is.  I assume Mr Porritt is now about to reveal the catch, as you call it.”

      “Well I was a bit taken aback by the sums mentioned.  As I told you, I am a fairly small wager man.  Prior to all this, the biggest single bet I had ever placed was £100; generally I bet in tens, twenty-fives, that sort of thing.  I tried to convey to Nemo that my stakes were not usually very high and he, again very politely, said that the stake was entirely my affair and that I would be foolish to gamble more than I could afford.  Naturally for his part, he hoped that I would place a larger amount rather than a smaller, as his 10% would also be larger, but I was to feel under no duress whatsoever.”

      “So did he give you the tip?” asked Holmes.

      “Yes, he said the winner would be Aston Villa.”

      “Why - ” cried I.

      “Patience, Watson, let us hear the end of the story.”

      “He said Villa for the cup and I believed him, although I did point out they were the underdogs.  In fact West Bromwich Albion, the favourites, were 5 to 4 on and Villa were 3 to 1.  Nemo then looked slightly alarmed and said that, whilst Villa had been at 3 to 1, the odds had shortened to 2 to 1 which, of course, indicated that further money was being placed on Aston Villa. He then said that he knew a book-maker who was actually a gentlemen who dealt in financial matters, the stock market and so on, and he was often a bit behind in quoting the latest odds because he was not really of the book-making fraternity, it being merely a hobby with him.  Nemo thought it likely that I could still get 3 to 1 with him if I moved quickly.”

      “Have you spotted the catch yet, Watson?” asked Holmes sarcastically. “So, Mr Porritt, you agreed to place your wager with this financial gentlemen who was a little behind the times?”

      “Yes.  Looking back, I must have been incredibly naive but it all seemed so straightforward at the time.  Nemo appeared so genuine.”

      “I agreed to meet Nemo and we took a cab to a house in Golders Green.  It was a very imposing residence in its own grounds.  Nemo pressed the bell and the door was opened by a gentleman of Hebraic aspect who Nemo introduced as Mr Goldstein.  He ushered me into a room somewhat like a library with a large desk.  Nemo said he would wait for me in the hallway as the business did not concern him.  He did not even know the actual money I wagered, we had said three thousand but I could have been betting five and then only give him 10% of three.  So he was really trusting me.”

      “I am sure that was the effect he wished to create.  Go on,” commanded Holmes.

      “Mr Goldstein accepted my drafts.”

      “How did you hand the money over?”

      “I had three cheques, my own for two thousand and two more of £500 each from friends at my club.”

      “How were they made out?”

      “To cash.”

      “I must warn you, Mr Porritt, my patience is wearing very thin at your folly.  Did your friends come in on the bet?”

      “Oh no, I just borrowed the money temporarily, I did not say why, but I promised to repay them within four days.”

      Holmes groaned.  I felt sorry for Porritt.  When he had arrived he had been quite chirpy and tried to shrug his misfortune off with a laugh, but as he told his story he could now hear his own mouth relating how foolish he had been.  Obviously he had not told his tale to anyone and it was only when he heard his words spoken out loud he became aware that the whole tale was a flimsy tissue of trickery from beginning to end.  Porritt pressed on.

      “As Goldstein was writing out my receipt, the telephone rang and he begged to be excused while he answered it.  Of course I could only hear Goldstein speak, but the way he looked at me as he was conversing made me fear that something was untoward with my wager.  After he had hung up the telephone on its cradle he said that he had just been speaking to a colleague who informed him that the odds on Aston Villa were now 2 to 1.  However, he said that he was halfway through writing my slip and he had already taken my bet and had actually written 3 to 1 on the slip so that as he was a gentleman he would abide by it.”

      Holmes threw his head back and laughed, clapping his hands.

      “Excellent!  We are dealing with a pair of rogues with infinite finesse!  Carry on.”

      “Well there’s little more to tell. I was welcome to come on Monday at any time between 10am and 4.30 to collect my winnings.  I was ushered out and Nemo was waiting in the hall.  We shared the cab back to the West End and Nemo asked diffidently if it would be convenient for me to meet him at noon on Monday at Goldstein’s house so that I could pass the 10% on to him from my winnings.  I agreed to that and we parted company.”

      “Did you go to the match?”

      “I did, Saturday afternoon I was in the crowd and suddenly I went numb.  It may be hard for you gentlemen to realise, but everything I have related seemed so natural and logical as it was happening, and it was only when I saw the pitch that I realised I had £3000 dependent on whether a little leather ball passed more often between one pair of poles rather than the other.  I think I went into a kind of coma.  The crowd was cheering all around me and I was totally unaware what was happening.  All I could think was that I could lose my life savings and owe a thousand pounds.  I did not even know if a goal was scored, much less which side had scored it.  At last it was all over and the crowds surged out of the ground with much noise and banter.  I was obliged to ask a fellow who had won.  He must have thought me barmy!  Aston Villa had won by one goal to nil.  My money was safe!  Not only safe - I had won nine thousand pounds!   I had done it!  I had won nine thousand pounds because of one single goal.  You can imagine how restlessly I spent Sunday.  On Sunday night I could not sleep again for excitement.”

      “And on Monday, promptly at noon, you went to Mr Goldstein’s house expecting to meet Nemo.”

      “Yes.”

      “And Nemo wasn’t there.”

      “No.”

      “And neither was Mr Goldstein.”

      “No.  The door was answered by a manservant.  I asked for Mr Goldstein and he said nobody of that name resided at the house.”

 

 

Will Sherlock Holmes find the miscreants?  Will he be able to get Porritt’s money back?

How can Nemo always know the winner in advance?

The Singular Adventure

 of

 The Sporting Gent

 continues in . . . . . .