The Danger

by Dick Francis

  Her attention came back to my face with another flickering smile. “I didn’t know you betted.”

  “I didn’t. I don’t. I just looked at the bookies’ boards, out of interest.”

  She had come from Lambourn with Mike Noland, and I had driven from London. When I’d talked to her before she went to change for the race she’d been nervously expectant: eyes wide, cheeks pink, full of small movements and half smiles, wanting a miracle.

  “I felt sick in the parade ring,” she said. “I’ve never been like that before.”

  “But you didn’t actually vomit . . .”

  “Well, no.”

  “How about a drink?” I suggested. “Or a huge sandwich?”

  “Fattening,” she said automatically, and I nodded and took her arm.

  “Jockeys whose talents have vanished into thin air can eat all the sandwiches they want,” I said.

  She pulled her arm away and said in exasperation, “You . . . You always make people see things straight. All right. I’ll admit it. Not every vestige of talent is missing, but I made a rotten showing. And we’ll go and have a . . . a small sandwich, if you like.”

  Some of the blues were dispersed over the food, but not all, and I knew too little about racing to judge whether her opinion of herself was fair. She’d looked fine to me, but then so would almost anyone have done who could stand in the stirrups while half a ton of thoroughbred thundered forward at over thirty miles an hour.

  “Mike did say something on the way here about giving me a ride at Sandown next week if everything was O.K. today, and I don’t suppose he will, now.”

  “Would you mind very much?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said passionately. “Of course I’d mind.” She heard both the conviction and the commitment in her voice, and so did I. Her head grew still, her eyes became more peaceful, and her voice, when she spoke again, was lower in pitch. “Yes, I’d mind. And that means I still want to be a jockey more than anything on earth. It means that I’ve got to work harder to get back. It means that I must put these last three months behind me, and get on with living.” She finished the remains of a not very good chicken sandwich and sat back in her chair and smiled at me. “If you come to Sandown, I’ll do better.”

  We went eventually in search, Alessia said, of an honest opinion from Mike Noland; and with the forthrightness I was coming to see as normal among the racing professionals he said, “No, you were no good. Bloody bad. Sagging all over the place like a sponge. But what did you expect, first time back, after what you’ve been through? I knew you wouldn’t win. I doubt if that horse could have won today anyway, with Fred Archer incarnate in the saddle. He might have been third . . . fourth.” He shrugged. “On the form book he couldn’t have touched the winner. You’ll do better next time. Sure to. Sandown, right?”

  “Right,” Alessia said faintly.

  The big man smiled kindly from the height of his fifty years and patted her again on the shoulder. “Best girl jockey in Europe,” he said to me. “Give or take a dozen or two.”

  “Thanks so much,” Alessia said.

  I WENT TO Sandown the following week and to two more race meetings the week after, and on the third of those days Alessia won two races.

  I watched the applause and the acclaim and saw her quick bright smiles as she unsaddled her winners, saw the light in her eyes and the certainty and speed of her movements, saw the rebirth of the skills and the quality of spirit which had taken her before to the heights. The golden girl filled to new stature visibly day by day and on the morning after her winners the newspapers printed her picture with rapturous captions.

  She still seemed to want me to be there; to see me, specifically, waiting. She would search the surrounding crowds with her eyes and stop and smile when she saw me. She came and went from Lambourn every time with Mike Noland and spent her free minutes on the racecourse with me, but she no longer grasped me physically to save herself from drowning. She was afloat and skimming the waves, her mind on far horizons. She had begun to be, in the way she most needed to be, happy.

  “I’m going home,” she said one day.

  “Home?”

  “To Italy. To see Papa. I’ve been away so long.”

  I looked at the fine-boned face, so healthy now, so brown, so full of poise, so intimately known.

  “I’ll miss you,” I said.

  “Will you?” She smiled into my eyes. “I owe you a debt I can’t pay.”

  “No debt,” I said.

  “Oh, yes.” Her voice took it for granted. “Anyway, it’s not goodbye forever, or anything dramatic like that. I’ll be back. The Flat season will be finished here in a few weeks, but I’ll definitely be riding here some of the time next summer.”

  Next summer seemed a long way away.

  “Alessia,” I said.

  “No.” She shook her head. “Don’t say whatever’s in your mind. You carry on giving a brilliant imitation of a rock, because my foundations are still shaky. I’m going home to Papa . . . but I want to know you’re only a telephone call away . . . some days I wake up sweating . . .” She broke off. “I’m not making sense.”

  “You are indeed,” I assured her.

  She gave me a brief but searching inspection. “You never need telling twice, do you? Sometimes you don’t need telling once. Don’t forget me, will you?”

  “No,” I said.

  She went to Italy and my days seemed remarkably empty even though my time was busily filled.

  Nerrity’s near-loss of Ordinand had caused a huge flutter in the dovecotes of owners of good-as-gold horses, and I in conjunction with our chummy insurance syndicate at Lloyds was busy raising defenses against copycat kidnaps.

  Some owners preferred to insure the animals themselves against abduction, but many saw the point of insuring their wives and children. I found myself invited to ring the front doorbell of many an imposing pile and to pass on the chairman’s considered judgments, the chairman in some erroneous way having come to consider me an expert on racing matters.

  The Lloyds syndicate did huge new business, and into every contract they wrote as usual a stipulation that in the case of “an event,” the advice of Liberty Market should be instantly sought. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours: both the syndicate and Liberty Market were purring.

  The Jockey Club showed some interest. I was dispatched to their offices in Portman Square in London to discuss the problems of extortion with the senior steward, who shook my hand firmly and asked whether Liberty Market considered the danger a real one.

  “Yes,” I said moderately. “There have been three kidnaps in the racing world recently: a man in Italy who owned a racecourse, Alessia Cenci, the jockey, whom you must know about, and John Nerrity’s son.”

  He frowned. “You think they’re connected?”

  I told him how positively the latter two were connected and his frown deepened.

  “No one can tell whether this particular man will try again now that the Nerrity venture has ended in failure,” I said, “but the idea of forcing someone to sell a valuable horse may be seductive enough to attract imitators. So yes, we do think owners would be prudent to insure against any sort of extortion involving their horses.”

  The senior steward watched my face unsmilingly. He was a thick-set man, maybe sixty, with the same natural assumption of authority as our chairman, though not with the same overpowering good looks. Morgan Freemantle, senior steward, top authority of the huge racing industry, came across as a force of more power than charm, more intelligence than kindness, more resolution than patience. I guessed that in general people respected him rather than liked him, and also that he was probably good news for the health of the racing world.

  He had said he had heard of our existence from a friend of his who was an underwriter at Lloyds, and that he had since made several inquiries.

  “It seems your firm is well-regarded,” he told me austerely. “I must say I would have seen no need for such an organization,
but I now learn there are approximately two hundred kidnaps for ransom in the world each year, not counting tribal disturbances in Africa, or political upheavals in Central and South America.”

  “Er . . .” I said.

  He swept on. “I am told there may be many more occurrences than those actually reported. Cases where families or firms settle in private and don’t inform the police.”

  “Probably,” I agreed.

  “Foolish,” he said shortly.

  “Most often, yes.”

  “I understand from the police commissioners that they are willing to work with your firm whenever appropriate.” He paused, and added almost grudgingly, “They have no adverse criticisms.”

  Bully for them, I thought.

  “I think we can say, therefore,” Morgan Freemantle went on judiciously, “that if anything further should happen to anyone connected with racing, you may call upon the Jockey Club for any help it is within our power to give.”

  “Thank you very much,” I said, surprised.

  He nodded. “We have an excellent security service. They’ll be happy to work with you also. We in the Jockey Club,” he informed me regretfully, “spend a great deal of time confounding dishonesty, because unfortunately racing breeds fraud.”

  There didn’t seem to be an answer to that, so I gave none.

  “Let me know, then, Mr. . . . er . . . Douglas,” he said, rising, “if your firm should be engaged by anyone in racing to deal with a future circumstance which might come within our province. Anything, that is to say, which might affect the stability of racing as a whole. As extortion by means of horses most certainly does.”

  I stood also. “My firm could only advise a client that the Jockey Club should be informed,” I said neutrally. “We couldn’t insist.”

  He gave me a straight considering stare. “We like to know what’s going on in our own back yard,” he said. “We like to know what to defend ourselves against.”

  “Liberty Market will always cooperate as fully as possible,” I assured him.

  He smiled briefly, almost sardonically. “But you, like us, don’t know where an enemy may strike, or in what way, and we find ourselves wishing for defenses we never envisaged.”

  “Mm,” I said. “Life’s like that.”

  He shook my hand again firmly and came with me from his desk to the door of his office.

  “Let’s hope we’ve seen an end to the whole thing. But if not, come to see me.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  I TELEPHONED TO the Villa Francese one evening and my call was answered by Ilaria.

  “Hello, Mr. Fixit,” she said with amusement. “How’s it going?”

  “Every which way,” I said. “And how are you?”

  “Bored, wouldn’t you know?”

  “Is Alessia there?” I asked.

  “The precious girl is out visiting with Papa.”

  “Oh . . .”

  “However,” Ilaria said carefully, “she should be back by ten. Try again later.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. She is out visiting Lorenzo Traventi, who has made a great recovery from his bullets and is now looking particularly ravishing and romantic and is kissing her hand at every opportunity.”

  “Dear Ilaria,” I said. “Always so kind.”

  “Shit,” she said cheerfully. “I might tell her you called.”

  She did tell her. When I rang again, Alessia answered almost immediately.

  “Sorry I was out,” she said. “How’s things?”

  “How are they with you?” I asked.

  “Oh . . . fine. Really fine. I mean it. I’ve ridden in several races since I’ve been back. Two winners. Not bad. Do you remember Brunelleschi?”

  I thought back. “The horse you didn’t ride in the Derby?”

  “That’s right. Spot on. Well . . . he was one of my winners last week, and they’re sending him to Washington to run in the International, and believe it or not but they’ve asked me to go too, to ride him.” Her voice held both triumph and apprehension in roughly equal amounts.

  “Are you going?” I said.

  “I . . . don’t know.”

  “Washington, D.C.?” I asked. “America?”

  “Yes. They have an international race every year there at Laurel racecourse. They invite some really super horses from Europe to go there . . . pay all their expenses, and those of the trainers and jockeys. I’ve never been, but I’ve heard it’s great. So what do you think?”

  “Go, if you can,” I said.

  There was a small silence. “That’s the whole thing, isn’t it? If I can. I almost can. But I have to decide by tomorrow at the latest. Give them time to find someone else.”

  “Take Ilaria with you,” I suggested.

  “She wouldn’t go,” she said positively, and then more doubtfully, “would she?”

  “You can but ask.”

  “Yes. Perhaps I will. I do wish, though, that you could go, yourself. I’d sail through the whole thing if I knew you were there.”

  “Not a chance,” I said regretfully. “But you will be all right.”

  We talked for a while longer and disconnected, and I spent some time wondering if I could, after all, wangle a week off and blow the fare: but we were all at that time very short-handed in the office, Tony Vine having been called away urgently to Brazil and four or five partners tied up in a multiple mess in Sardinia. I was constantly taking messages from them on the switchboard in between the advisory trips to racehorse owners, and even Gerry Clayton’s folded birds of paradise had given way to more orthodox paperwork.

  Nothing happens the way one expects.

  Morgan Freemantle, senior steward of the Jockey Club, went to Laurel for a week to be the guest of honor of the president of the racecourse, a courtesy between racing fraternities.

  ON THE SECOND day of his visit he was kidnapped.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  16

  The chairman sent me round to the Jockey Club, where shock had produced suspended animation akin to the waxworks.

  For a start there were very few people in the place and no one was quite sure who was in charge; a flock without its leader. When I asked which individual had received the first demand from the kidnappers I was steered to the office of a stiff-backed middle-aged woman in silk shirt and tweed skirt who looked at me numbly and told me I had come at a bad time.

  “Mrs. Berkeley?” I inquired.

  She nodded, her eyes vague, her thoughts elsewhere, her spine rigid.

  “I’ve come about Mr. Freemantle,” I said. It sounded rather as if I’d said “I’ve come about the plumbing,” and I had difficulty in stifling a laugh. Mrs. Berkeley paid more attention and said, “You’re not the man from Liberty Market, are you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Oh.” She inspected me. “Are you the person who saw Mr. Freemantle last week?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Do you mind if I sit down?” I asked, indicating the chair nearest to me, beside her large polished desk.

  “By all means,” she said faintly, her voice civilized upper class, her manner an echo of country house hostess. “I’m afraid you find us . . . disarranged.”

  “Could you tell me what messages you have actually received?” I said.

  She looked broodingly at her telephone as if it were itself guilty of the crime. “I am taking all incoming calls to the senior steward’s private number on this telephone during his absence. I answered . . . There was an American voice, very loud, telling me to listen carefully . . . I felt disembodied, you know. It was quite unreal.”

  “The words,” I said without impatience. “Do you remember the words?”

  “Of course I do. He said the senior steward had been kidnapped. He said he would be freed on payment of ten million English pounds sterling. He said the ransom would have to be paid by the Jockey Club.” She stared at me with the shocked glaz
e still in her eyes. “It’s impossible, you know. The Jockey Club doesn’t have any money. The Jockey Club are administrators. There are no . . . assets.”

  I looked at her in silence.

  “Do you understand?” she said. “The Jockey Club are just people. Members. Of a club.”

  “Rich members?” I asked.

  Her mouth, half open, stopped moving.

  “I’m afraid,” I said neutrally, “that kidnappers usually couldn’t care less where the money comes from or who it hurts. We’ll get the demand down to far below ten million pounds, but it may still mean that contributions will be sought from racing people.” I paused. “You didn’t mention any threats. Were there any threats?”

  She nodded slowly. “If the ransom wasn’t paid, Mr. Freemantle would be killed.”

  “Straight and simple?”

  “He said . . . there would be another message later.”

  “Which you haven’t yet received?”

  She glanced at a round-faced clock on a wall where the hands pointed to four-fifty.

  “The call came through just after two,” she said. “I told Colonel Tansing. He thought it might have been a hoax, so we telephoned to Washington. Mr. Freemantle wasn’t in his hotel. We got through to the public relations people who are looking after his trip and they said he hadn’t turned up yesterday evening at a reception and they didn’t know where he’d gone. Colonel Tansing explained about the ransom demand and they said they would tell Eric Rickenbacker . . . that’s the president of the racecourse . . . and Mr. Rickenbacker would get the police onto it straight away.”

  “Was there any mention of not going to the police, on your ransom-demand call?”

  She shook her head slowly. “No.”

  She had a firm, tidy-looking face with brown wavy hair graying at the sides: the sort of face that launched a thousand pony clubs and church bazaars, worthy, well-intentioned, socially secure. Only something of the present enormity could have produced her current rudderlessness, and even that, I judged, would probably transform to brisk competence very soon.

  “Has anyone told the British police?” I asked.