by Dick Francis
Because I was never going to get another chance and did not want to miss something I might regret later, I photographed every single paper in the case. All the stockbroker’s letters and all the investment reports. All the share certificates, and also the two separate sheets under the writing board.
Although I had an ultra-bright light bulb and the exposure meter to help me to get the right setting, I took several pictures at different light values of the papers I considered the most important, in order to be sure of getting the sharpest possible result. The little camera handled beautifully, and I found I could change the films in their tiny cassettes without much difficulty. By the time I had finished I had used three whole films of twenty exposures on each. It took me a long time, as I had to put the camera down between each shot to move the next paper into my pool of light, and also had to be very careful not to alter the order in which the papers had lain in the case.
The envelope of ten pound notes kept me hoping like crazy that Howard Kraye would not lose heavily and come upstairs for replacements. It seemed to me at the time a ridiculous thing to do, but I took the two flat blocks of tenners out of the envelope, and photographed them as well. Putting them back I flipped through them: the notes were new, consecutive, fifty to a packet. One thousand pounds to a penny.
When everything was back in the case I sat looking at the contents for a minute, checking their position against my visual memory of how they looked when I first saw them. At last satisfied, I shut the case, locked it, rubbed it over to remove any finger marks I might have left, and put it back where I had found it.
After that I went downstairs to the dining-room for the brandy I had refused at dinner. I needed it. Carrying the glass, I listened briefly outside the drawing-room door to the murmurs and clicks from within and went upstairs again, to bed.
Lying in the dark I reviewed the situation. Howard Kraye, drawn by the bait of a quartz collection, had accepted an invitation to a quiet week-end in the country with a retired admiral. With him he had brought a selection of private papers. As he had no possible reason to imagine that anyone in such innocent surroundings would spy on him, the papers might be very private indeed. So private that he felt safest when they were with him? Too private to leave at home? It would be nice to think so.
At that point, imperceptibly, I fell asleep.
The nerves in my abdomen wouldn’t give up. After about five hours of fighting them unsuccessfully I decided that staying in bed all morning thinking about it was doing no good, and got up and dressed.
Drawn partly against my will, I walked along the passage to Jenny’s room, and went in. It was the small sunny room she had had as a child. She had gone back to it when she left me and it was all hers alone. I had never slept there. The single bed, the relics of childhood, girlish muslin frills on curtains and dressing-table, everything shut me out. The photographs round the room were of her father, her dead mother, her sister, brother-in-law, dogs and horses, but not of me. As far as she could, she had blotted out her marriage.
I walked slowly round touching her things, remembering how much I had loved her. Knowing, too, that there was no going back, and that if she walked through the door at that instant we would not fall into each other’s arms in tearful reconciliation.
Removing a one-eyed teddy bear I sat down for a while on her pink armchair. It’s difficult to say just where a marriage goes wrong, because the accepted reason often isn’t the real one. The rows Jenny and I had had were all ostensibly caused by the same thing: my ambition. Grown finally too heavy for flat racing, I had switched entirely to steeplechasing the season before we married, and I wanted to be champion jumping jockey. To this end I was prepared to eat little, drink less, go to bed early, and not make love if I were racing the next day. It was unfortunate that she liked late-night parties and dancing more than anything else. At first she gave them up willingly, then less willingly, and finally in fury. After that, she started going on her own.
In the end she told me to choose between her and racing. But by then I was indeed champion jockey, and had been for some time, and I couldn’t give it up. So Jenny left. It was just life’s little irony that six months later I lost the racing as well. Gradually since then I had come to realise that a marriage didn’t break up just because one half liked parties and the other didn’t. I thought now that Jenny’s insistence on a gay time was the result of my having failed her in some basic, deeply necessary way. Which did nothing whatsoever for my self-respect or my self-confidence.
I sighed, stood up, replaced the teddy bear, and went downstairs to the drawing-room. Eleven o’clock on a windy autumn morning.
Doria was alone in the big comfortable room, sitting on the window seat and reading the Sunday papers, which lay around her on the floor in a haphazard mess.
‘Hello,’ she said, looking up. ‘What hole did you crawl out of?’
I walked over to the fire and didn’t answer.
‘Poor little man, are his feelings hurt then?’
‘I do have feelings, the same as anyone else.’
‘So you actually can talk?’ she said mockingly. ‘I’d begun to wonder.’
‘Yes, I can talk.’
‘Well, now, tell me all your troubles, little man.’
‘Life is just a bowl of cherries.’
She uncurled herself from the window seat and came across to the fire, looking remarkably out of place in skin-tight leopard printed pants and a black silk shirt.
She was the same height as Jenny, the same height as me, just touching five foot six. As my smallness had always been an asset for racing, I never looked on it as a handicap for life in general, either physical or social. Neither had I ever really understood why so many people thought that height for its own sake was important. But it would have been naïve not to take note of the widespread extraordinary assumption that the mind and heart could be measured by tallness. The little man with the big emotion was a stock comic figure. It was utterly irrational. What difference did three or four inches of leg bone make to a man’s essential nature? Perhaps I had been fortunate in coming to terms early with the effect of poor nutrition in a difficult childhood; but it did not stop me understanding why other short men struck back in defensive aggression. There were the pinpricks, for instance, of girls like Doria calling one ‘little’ and intending it as an insult.
‘You’ve dug yourself into a cushy berth here, haven’t you?’ she said, taking a cigarette from the silver box on the mantelpiece.
‘I suppose so.’
‘If I were the Admiral I’d kick you out.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, neglecting to offer her a light. With a mean look she found a box of matches and struck one for herself.
‘Are you ill, or something?’
‘No. Why?’
‘You eat those faddy health foods, and you look such a sickly little creature… I just wondered.’ She blew the smoke down her nose. ‘The Admiral’s daughter must have been pretty desperate for a wedding ring.’
‘Give her her due,’ I said mildly. ‘At least she didn’t pick a rich father-figure twice her age.’
I thought for a moment she meant to go into the corny routine of smacking my face, but as it happened she was holding the cigarette in the hand she needed.
‘You little shit,’ she said instead. A charming girl, altogether.
‘I get along.’
‘Not with me, you don’t.’ Her face was tight. I had struck very deep, it seemed.
‘Where is everyone else?’ I asked, gesturing around the empty room.
‘Out with the Admiral somewhere. And you can take yourself off again too. You’re not wanted in here.’
‘I’m not going. I live here, remember?’
‘You went quick enough last night,’ she sneered. ‘When the Admiral says jump, you jump. But fast, little man. And that I like to see.’
‘The Admiral,’ I pointed out, ‘is the hand that feeds. I don’t bite it.’
‘Boot-
licking little creep.’
I grinned at her nastily and sat down in an arm-chair. I still didn’t feel too good. Pea green and clammy, to be exact. Nothing to be done though, but wait for it to clear off.
Doria tapped ash off her cigarette and looked at me down her nose, thinking up her next attack. Before she could launch it, however, the door opened and her husband came in.
‘Doria,’ he said happily, not immediately seeing me in the arm-chair, ‘where have you hidden my cigarette case? I shall punish you for it.’
She made a quick movement towards me with her hand and Howard saw me and stopped dead.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said brusquely, the fun-and-games dying abruptly out of his face and voice.
‘Passing the time.’
‘Clear out then. I want to talk to my wife.’
I shook my head and stayed put.
‘Short of picking him up and throwing him out bodily,’ said Doria, ‘you won’t get rid of him. I’ve tried.’
Kraye shrugged. ‘Roland puts up with him. I suppose we can too.’ He picked up one of the newspapers and sat down in an arm-chair facing me. Doria wandered back to the window-seat, pouting. Kraye straightened up the paper and began to read the front page. Across the back page, the racing page, facing me across the fireplace, the black, bold headlines jumped out.
‘ANOTHER HALLEY?’
Underneath, side by side, were two photographs; one of me, and the other of a boy who had won a big race the day before.
It was by then essential that Kraye should not discover how Charles had misrepresented me; it had gone much too far to be explained away as a joke. The photograph was clearly printed for once. I knew it well. It was an old one which the papers had used several times before, chiefly because it was a good likeness. Even if none of the guests read the racing column, as Doria obviously hadn’t, it might catch their eye in passing, through being in such a conspicuous place.
Kraye finished reading the front page and began to turn the paper over.
‘Mr Kraye,’ I said. ‘Do you have a very big quartz collection yourself?’
He lowered the paper a little and gave me an unenthusiastic glance.
‘Yes, I have,’ he said briefly.
‘Then could you please tell me what would be a good thing to give the Admiral to add to his collection? And where would I get it, and how much would it cost?’
The paper folded over, hiding my picture. He cleared his throat and with strained politeness started to tell me about some obscure form of crystal which the Admiral didn’t have. Press the right button, I thought… Doria spoilt it. She walked jerkily over to Kraye and said crossly, ‘Howard, for God’s sake. The little creep is buttering you up. I bet he wants something. You’re a sucker for anyone who will talk about rocks.’
‘People don’t make fools of me,’ said Kraye flatly, his eyes narrowing in irritation.
‘No. I only want to please the Admiral,’ I explained.
‘He’s a sly little beast,’ said Doria. ‘I don’t like him.’
Kraye shrugged, looked down at the newspaper and began to unfold it again.
‘It’s mutual,’ I said casually. ‘You Daddy’s doll.’
Kraye stood up slowly and the paper slid to the floor, front page up.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I didn’t think much of your wife.’
He was outraged, as well he might be. He took a single step across the rug, and there was suddenly something more in the room than three guests sparring round a Sunday morning fire.
Even though I was as far as he knew an insignificant fly to swat, a clear quality of menace flowed out of him like a radio signal. The calm social mask had disappeared, along with the wordy, phony, surface personality. The vague suspicion I had gained from reading his papers, together with the antipathy I had felt for him all along, clarified into belated recognition: this was not just a smooth speculator operating near the legal border-line, but a full-blown, powerful, dangerous big-time crook.
Trust me, I thought, to prod an anthill and find a hornets’ nest. Twist the tail of a grass snake and find a boa constrictor. What on earth would he be like, I wondered, if one did more to cross him than disparage his choice of wife.
‘He’s sweating,’ said Doria, pleased. ‘He’s afraid of you.’
‘Get up,’ he said.
As I was sure that if I stood up he would simply knock me down again, I stayed where I was.
‘I’ll apologise,’ I said.
‘Oh no,’ said Doria, ‘that’s much too easy.’
‘Something subtle,’ suggested Kraye, staring down.
‘I know!’ Doria was delighted with her idea. ‘Let’s get that hand out of his pocket.’
They both saw from my face that I would hate that more than anything. They both smiled. I thought of bolting, but it meant leaving the paper behind.
That will do very nicely,’ said Kraye. He leant down, twined one hand into the front of my jersey shirt and the other into my hair, and pulled me to my feet. The top of my head reached about to his chin. I wasn’t in much physical shape for resisting, but I took a half-hearted swipe at him as I came up. Doria caught my swinging arm and twisted it up behind my back, using both of hers and an uncomfortable amount of pressure. She was a strong healthy girl with no inhibitions about hurting people.
‘That’ll teach you to be rude to me,’ she said with satisfaction.
I thought of kicking her shins, but it would only have brought more retaliation. I also wished Charles would come back at once from wherever he was.
He didn’t.
Kraye transferred his grip from my hair to my left forearm and began to pull. That arm was no longer much good, but I did my best. I tucked my elbow tight against my side, and my hand stayed in my pocket.
‘Hold him harder,’ he said to Doria. ‘He’s stronger than he looks.’ She levered my arm up another inch and I started to roll round to get out of it. But Kraye still had his grasp on the front of my jersey, with his forearm leaning across under my throat, and between the two of them I was properly stuck. All the same, I found I couldn’t just stand still and let them do what I so much didn’t want them to.
‘He squirms, doesn’t he?’ said Doria cheerfully.
I squirmed and struggled a good deal more; until they began getting savage with frustration, and I was panting. It was my wretched stomach which finished it. I began to feel too ill to go on. With a terrific jerk Kraye dragged my hand out.
‘Now,’ he said triumphantly.
He gripped my elbow fiercely and pulled the jersey sleeve up from my wrist. Doria let go of my right arm and came to look at their prize. I was shaking with rage, pain, humiliation… heaven knows what.
‘Oh,’ said Doria blankly. ‘Oh.’
She was no longer smiling, and nor was her husband. They looked steadily at the wasted, flabby, twisted hand, and at the scars on my forearm, wrist and palm, not only the terrible jagged marks of the original injury but the several tidier ones of the operations I had had since. It was a mess, a right and proper mess.
‘So that’s why the Admiral lets him stay, the nasty little beast,’ said Doria, screwing up her face in distaste.
‘It doesn’t excuse his behaviour,’ said Kraye. ‘I’ll make sure he keeps that tongue of his still, in future.’
He stiffened his free hand and chopped the edge of it across the worst part, the inside of my wrist. I jerked in his grasp.
‘Ah…’ I said. ‘Don’t.’
‘He’ll tell tales to the Admiral,’ said Doria warningly, ‘if you hurt him too much. It’s a pity, but I should think that’s about enough.’
‘I don’t agree, but…’
There was a scrunch on the gravel outside, and Charles’ car swept past the window, coming back.
Kraye let go of my elbow with a shake. I went weakly down on my knees on the rug, and it wasn’t all pretence.
‘If you tell the Admiral about this, I’ll de
ny it,’ said Kraye, ‘and we know who he’ll believe.’
I did know who he’d believe, but I didn’t say so. The newspaper which had caused the whole rumpus lay close beside me on the rug. The car doors slammed distantly. The Krayes turned away from me towards the window, listening. I picked up the paper, got to my feet, and set off for the door. They didn’t try to stop me in any way. They didn’t mention the newspaper either. I opened the door, went through, shut it, and steered a slightly crooked course across the hall to the wardroom. Upstairs was too far. I shut the wardroom door behind me, hid the newspaper, slid into Charles’ favourite arm-chair, and waited for my various miseries, mental and physical, to subside.
Some time later Charles came in to fetch some fresh cartons of cigarettes.
‘Hullo,’ he said over his shoulder, opening the cupboard. ‘I thought you were still in bed. Mrs Cross said you weren’t very well this morning. It isn’t at all warm in here. Why don’t you come into the drawing-room?’
‘The Krayes…’ I stopped.
‘They won’t bite you.’ He turned round, cigarettes in hand. He looked at my face. ‘What’s so funny?’ and then more sharply, looking closer. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Oh, nothing. Have you seen today’s Sunday Hemisphere?’
‘No, not yet. Do you want it? I thought it was in the drawing-room with the other papers.’
‘No, it’s in the top drawer of your desk. Take a look.’
Puzzled, he opened the drawer, took out the paper, and unfolded it. He went to the racing section unerringly.
‘My God!’ he said, aghast. ‘Today of all days.’ His eyes skimmed down the page and he smiled. ‘You’ve read this, of course?’
I shook my head. ‘I just took it to hide it.’
He handed me the paper. ‘Read it then. It’ll be good for your ego. They won’t let you die! “Young Finch”, he quoted, “showed much of the judgment and miraculous precision of the great Sid”. How about that? And that’s just the start.’
‘Yeah, how about it?’ I grinned. ‘Count me out for lunch, if you don’t mind, Charles. You don’t need me there any more.’