Trial Run

by Dick Francis

  ‘It is kind of him,’ I said dazedly.

  Stephen listened, and reported. ‘The Sphinx… Ian… told Mr Kropotkin that once you had found Alyosha and talked to him, you could go home. Mr Kropotkin said, “Then we will find Alyosha for him. He saved our best horse. Nothing is too much”.’

  ‘My God,’ I said again.

  ‘According to what Mr Kropotkin told everybody, the horse swung unexpectedly in front of the horse box as it approached. The driver had no time to swerve, but you rescued the horse.’

  ‘Is that what Misha thinks?’ I said.

  ‘Niet.’ Misha understood and was positive. ‘Driver go… boom.’ He smashed his fist unmistakably into his hand.

  ‘Did you know him?’ I asked.

  ‘Niet. No see.’

  It was the horse box, Misha told Stephen, in which he and the chestnut and another horse were to travel the next day to Rostov. When he had led the chestnut back to its stable, the horse box had been parked in its usual place. Mr Kropotkin had felt the engine, to make sure it was that horse box which we had seen, and yes, the engine was warm. No one could be found who had driven it. Mr K’s view of things was that the driver was ashamed of his carelessness and afraid of being disciplined.

  ‘Well,’ Stephen said, standing up, and straightening his spine, ‘thank you for telling us.’

  Misha hopped off the table and waved him back to his chair, talking earnestly.

  ‘That is not why he asked us to come here,’ Stephen relayed.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘He gave you his phone number before all this happened.’

  ‘Never miss a trick, do you?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ I said.

  ‘That figures.’

  ‘I speak to German,’ Misha said.

  ‘What?’ I looked at him with quickened interest. ‘Do you mean you spoke to Hans Kramer?’

  Misha regretfully did not. Misha told Stephen that he had become friends with the boy who had looked after Hans Kramer’s horse. He had been unable to tell us that in the morning, because of course it was forbidden to talk to the foreigners and he had disobeyed orders.

  ‘Yes,’ I said resignedly. ‘Go on.’

  It appeared that the two young men had formed a pleasant habit of retiring to a disused hay-loft to talk and smoke cigarettes. Smoking in the stables was forbidden also. Misha had enjoyed both talk and smoke, because they were forbidden.

  Misha’s blue eyes were brightly alive, full of pleasure at his own daring, and totally unsophisticated.

  ‘What did you talk about?’ I prompted.

  Horses, of course. And Hans Kramer. The German boy disliked Kramer, who was, Stephen translated succinctly, a bastard.

  ‘In what way?’

  Misha talked. Stephen translated. ‘Kramer was apparently OK with horses, but he liked to play nasty little jokes on people.’

  ‘Yes, I was told of one,’ I said, thinking of Johnny and the pink-boa girl-boy. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He was also a thief.’

  I showed disbelief. Misha nodded vigorously, not just with his head, but from halfway up his back.

  ‘Misha says,’ Stephen went on, ‘that Kramer stole a case from the veterinary surgeon’s car when he called to see the horses of the British team, before the trials began.’

  ‘A case containing drugs?’ I said.

  ‘Da,’ Misha said. ‘Drug.’

  ‘People are always stealing cases from doctors and vets,’ I said. ‘You’d think they would chain them up like bicycles, not leave them around in cars. Well… so was Kramer an addict?’

  I felt doubtful as I said it, because heavy drug addiction and international-standard riding didn’t seem to be happy bedfellows. Misha, however, didn’t know. The German boy had told him there was a fuss when the vet discovered his loss, but Kramer had hidden the case.

  ‘How did the German boy know?’

  ‘He found it somewhere in the stable, hidden in Kramer’s kit. Four days later, when Kramer died, the German boy took the case to the hay-loft, and he and Misha shared out the contents.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ I said.

  ‘It sounds to me,’ said Stephen, speaking frankly after another long tale from Misha, ‘that the German boy took the case itself and all the saleable items like barbiturates, and gave Misha the rubbish. Not surprising, really. Our Misha is a proper little innocent at large.’

  ‘What did he do with his share?’

  Stephen consulted. ‘Brought it back to Moscow with some other stuff… souvenirs of the trip, that’s all. To remind him of the happy talks in the hayloft.’

  I stared vacantly at the double-glazed window, seeing in my mind not an uncurtained black square, but an old-world cottage in England.

  Johnny Farringford, I thought, had not wanted to be thought to be connected too much with Kramer. He had not wanted me to seek or find Alyosha; had wanted the rumours forgotten, and had denied there was any scandal to hush up. Suppose, I thought bleakly, that the Alyosha business was after all unimportant, and the thing Johnny desperately did not want uncovered was nothing to do with unorthodox sex but all to do with drugs.

  ‘Has Misha still got the stuff he brought back?’ I said.

  Misha had.

  ‘Would you let me see it?’ I asked him.

  Misha was not unwilling, but said he would be going away first thing in the morning.

  ‘Is it important?’ Stephen said.

  ‘Only in a negative sort of way.’ I sighed. ‘If Kramer had the case for four days before he died, he probably took out of it what he wanted. Then the German boy took his share… whatever Misha still has, it is not what Kramer wanted… which might tell us something. Besides barbiturates, vets usually carry other things. Pethidine, for example. It’s a painkiller, but I believe it is so addictive for humans that you can get hooked by using it a few times. And Butazolidin… and steroids…’

  ‘Got you,’ Stephen said, and spoke to Misha. Between them they had a long chat which ended in evident agreement.

  ‘Misha says his souvenirs are at his mother’s flat, but he himself has a room with the other grooms, near the stable. He has to be back there soon, and tomorrow morning he goes. He can’t get to his mother’s. But he will telephone, and ask his sister, who lives at home until she moves into this place, to bring the stuff to you tomorrow morning. But she cannot come to the hotel, as it would not do to be seen talking to foreigners, so she will meet you inside the main entrance of GUM. She will wear a red woollen hat with a white pompom, which Misha gave her last week for her birthday, and a long red scarf. She speaks some English, because she learned it in school.’

  ‘Great,’ I said. ‘Could she make it fairly early? I have to meet Chulitsky outside the National Hotel at ten.’

  Misha said he thought she could get there by half-past nine, and on that we agreed.

  I thanked Misha for all his trouble and kindness in giving us this information. I enthusiastically shook his hand.

  ‘Is good,’ he said, looking pleased. ‘You save horse. Nikolai Alexandrovich say help. I help.’

  We arrived outside the Aragvi restaurant ten minutes late because of an absence of taxis in the far-flung suburb, and a scarcity of buses. The metro, we had discovered, came to an end three miles short of the flat. Misha travelled towards the city centre with us, but apart, not looking at us, not speaking. He left us on the train, when he reached his interchange station, without a flicker of farewell, his face as stolid as the others ranged about.

  ‘Don’t tell Malcolm Herrick what Misha has just told us,’ I said, as we hurried the last hundred yards on foot. ‘He’s a newspaperman. My brief is to hush up what I can, not get in printed in The Watch; and we’d get Misha into trouble.’

  ‘Silent as the sepulchre,’ Stephen promised, in a voice which spoke of teaching grandmothers something about eggs.

  The Aragvi turned out to be less than half a mile from the Intourist Hotel: up Gorky Street, and turn right at the traffic lights. M
alcolm and Ian were waiting a short distance short of it and Malcolm grumbled, quietly for him, that we had kept them waiting in the cold.

  There was a short queue outside the restaurant, shivering.

  ‘Follow me, and don’t talk until we are inside,’ Malcolm said. He by-passed the queue and opened the firmly-shut door. The by now familiar argument took place, and finally, grudgingly, we were let in.

  ‘I booked,’ Malcolm said as we peeled off our coats. ‘I come here often. You’d never think it.’

  The place was full, and somewhere there was some music. We were led to the one vacant table and a bottle of vodka materialised within five seconds.

  ‘Of the two decent restaurants in Moscow,’ Malcolm said, ‘I like this the better.’

  ‘Two?’ I said.

  ‘That’s right. What do you want to eat?’ He peered into the large menu. ‘The food is Georgian. It is a Georgian restaurant. Most of the customers are from Georgia.’

  ‘For Georgia, USSR, read Texas, USA,’ Ian said.

  The menu was written exclusively in Russian, and while the other three chose from it, I used my eyes instead on the customers. There were three men at the next table, and beyond them, sitting with their backs to the wall, two more. Very few women. The faces, I realised, were livelier, and varied. The two men over by the wall, for instance, were not Moscow types: they had sallower skins, fierce dark eyes, black curling hair. They ate with concentration, intent on their food.

  The three men at the table next to ours were on the other hand intent on their drink. Not much tablecloth showed between full bottles, empty bottles, full and empty glasses. The men, one huge, one medium, one small, were diving into vast tulip-shaped glasses of champagne.

  Malcolm looked up from the menu and followed my gaze. ‘Georgians,’ he said. ‘Born with hollow legs.’ I watched with fascination while the gold liquid disappeared like beer. The eyes of the smallest were faintly glazed. The huge one looked as sober as his grey flannel suit; and there were three empty vodka bottles on the table.

  Ian, Malcolm and Stephen all ordered expertly, and I told Stephen just to double his for me. The food when it came was strange and spicy, and light years away from the grey chunks down the road. The huge man at the next table roared at the waiter, who hurried to bring a second bottle of champagne.

  ‘Well, how’s it going, sport?’ Malcolm said, forking some chicken in bean sauce into his mouth.

  ‘The smallest one’s legs are full,’ I said.

  ‘What?’ He looked round at the three men. ‘No, I meant the Sherlock Holmes bit. What’ve you come up with so far?’

  ‘The German who died at Burghley called on Alyosha with his dying breath,’ I said. ‘And that’s about all.’

  ‘And anyway, you knew that,’ said Stephen.

  I kicked him under the table. He gave me a sharp enquiring look and then realised that except for Misha we wouldn’t have been aware that they knew. Neither Malcolm nor Ian commented, however. The four of us ate thoughtfully.

  ‘Not much in that, is there, sport?’ Malcolm said.

  ‘Alyosha must exist,’ I said. ‘Alyosha. Moscow.’ I sighed. ‘I’ll have to go on looking.’

  ‘What’ll you do next?’ Ian said.

  I took off my glasses, and squinted at them, and polished some non-existent smears with my handkerchief.

  ‘Er,’ I said.

  ‘How bad are your eyes, sport?’ Malcolm said, interrupting. ‘Let’s look through your windows.’

  Short of breaking the frames, I couldn’t have prevented him. He took the glasses firmly out of my hand and placed them on his own nose.

  To me, his face, and all the others in the place, looked a distorted blur. Colours told me roughly where hair, eyes and clothes were, but outlines had vanished.

  ‘Christ,’ Malcolm said. ‘You must have corkscrew vision.’

  ‘Astigmatism,’ I said.

  ‘And some.’

  They all had a go at looking at the world through my eyes, and then handed them back. Everything became nicely sharp again.

  ‘In both eyes?’ Ian said.

  I nodded. ‘And both different. Frightfully handy.’

  The small man at the next table was propping his head up with his champagne glass and seemed to be going to sleep. The friends kept up a steady intake and ignored him. The huge one roared at the waiter again and held up three fingers, and with my mouth open I watched three more bottles of vodka arrive at the table.

  Coffee was brought for us, but I was glued to the scene in front. The small man’s head, still balanced on the glass of champagne, sank lower and lower. The glass came to rest on the table, and the hand holding it dropped away, and the little man sat there with his head on the glass, fast asleep.

  ‘Georgians,’ said Malcolm, glancing at them, as if that explained everything.

  The huge man paid the bill and stood up, rising to a good seven feet tall. He tucked the three full bottles of vodka under one arm and the sleeping friend under the other, and made the stateliest of exits.

  ‘Bloody marvellous,’ I said.

  The waiter who had served them came and spoke to us, watching the departure with respect.

  Malcolm said, ‘The waiter says they started with a whole bottle of vodka each. Then they had two more bottles of vodka between them. Five in all. Then the two bottles of champagne. No one but Georgians could do that.’

  I said mildly, ‘I thought you didn’t speak Russian.’

  He gave me a startled glance and a short burst of the flat hard stare of the first evening.

  ‘Yeah, sport. I remember. I told you I don’t speak Russian… Well, I don’t. That doesn’t mean I don’t know it. It means I don’t let the Russkies in general cotton on. Right, sport?’

  ‘Right,’ I agreed.

  ‘It’s not in your file,’ Ian said, conversationally.

  ‘Dead right. The Russkies have my file too, don’t forget. I learned the lingo in private from twelve long-playing records and some text books, and you just forget that piece of information pronto.’

  ‘Never misses a trick,’ Stephen said.

  ‘Who doesn’t?’

  ‘Our friend Randall.’

  Ian regarded me with slightly narrowed eyes, and Malcolm called for the bill.

  The two sallow men from over by the wall had gone in the wake of the Georgians, and the place was emptying fast. We collected our coats and hats and shuddered out into the saturated air. It seemed colder to me than ever. The other three made off for the metro, and I risked a fine by crossing Gorky Street above ground instead of tunnelling under. After eleven at night there were even fewer cars than usual to mow one down, and not another pedestrian in sight, let alone a policeman.

  The Intourist Hotel lay in the distance, down the slight hill, with its large canopy stretching out over the pavement. I turned up my coat collar, wondering, for about the tenth time, why most of the centre of the canopy was an intentional rectangular hole, like a skylight without glass, open to every drop of rain or snow which care to fall. As a shelter for people arriving and departing the canopy was a non-starter. Of as much practical use as a bath with no plug.

  A mind floating along in neutral is in rotten shape for battle. A black car rolled quietly down the road beside me and came to a halt ten paces ahead. The driver got out of the car, and the front passenger door opened. The front passenger stood up on to the pavement, and as I approached, he sprang at me.

  The surprise was absolute. His hand snaked out towards my spectacles, and I hit it violently aside as one would a wasp. When it came to saving my sight, my reflexes were always instantaneous: but for the rest, I was unbalanced.

  He crowded after me across the pavement to pin me against the unyielding stone of the flanking building. His friend hustled to help. There was a fierce brutal strength in their manner, and there was also no doubt that, whatever they intended next, their first target was still my eyes.

  One wouldn’t actually choose to fig
ht while wearing a thick overcoat and a fur hat, even if the opposition were similarly handicapped. To fight, however, seemed imperative.

  I kicked the storming passenger very viciously on the knee, and when his head came forward I grabbed hold of the woolly balaclava he wore under his hat and swung him round so that his head hit the wall.

  The driver arrived like a whirlwind and grabbed my arm, his other hand again aiming at my glasses. I ducked. His fingers sank only into fur. My hat, dislodged, fell off. I let go with a kick at him which connected but not very effectively, and I also opened my mouth and started shouting.

  I shouted ‘Ya-ya-ya-ya-ya’ at the top of my voice, roaring into the empty street, which had no traffic noise to drown the decibels.

  They hadn’t expected such a racket. I felt the impetus slacken in them fractionally, and I tore myself out of their grasp and ran. Ran downhill, towards the Intourist. Ran with all the power I could bring to every muscle. Ran like the Olympics.

  I heard one of the car doors slam. Heard the car coming behind me. Went on running.

  There was life and waiting taxis and people outside the In-tourist. There were also the watchers, earning their keep. I wondered fleetingly if watchers ever went to the help of people running away from other people in black cars, and supposed not.

  Not in Moscow.

  I didn’t bother to yell for their help. I simply ran. And I made it. Just.

  The men in the car must have decided it was too near the Intourist for them to make another attack, especially as I was now running flat out and not walking along with woolly thoughts. In any case, after it had passed me, the car didn’t stop, but accelerated away past the hotel, and turned right at the end of the street, and went out of sight.

  I slowed to a fast walk for the last hundred yards, heart thumping madly and chest heaving to take in vast lungfuls of cold wet air. I was nothing like as fit, I thought grimly, as I would have been in any other autumn, when I’d been racing.

  I covered the last few yards at ordinary walking pace, and attracted no more eyes than usual when I went in through the big double air lock-type glass entrance. The warmth inside seemed suddenly cloying, stoking up the sweat of exertion: I peeled off my coat and collected my room key, and thought that nothing on earth would persuade me to go back up Gorky Street to retrieve my hat.