by John Holt
Ben shook his head. “No, not completely, but just long enough for the Chantry Stakes to be held at Hyland, and the Drake Stables disqualified. And that would result in a rival stable winning the prize money.”
“Go on I’m listening,” I said, although I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because I had thought that it was Terry all along.
“Blue Boy’s death was Terry’s fault,” Ben continued. “He gave the horse something to make it sick in the first place.” He paused and shook his head, “I don’t know what.”
“So what happened?” I coaxed.
“He never gave the medication that Mr. Probert had provided, and the horse died,” Ben replied. “I don’t think he meant that to happen though, things just went wrong.”
Things went wrong alright, I thought. “What about the fire in the tack room?”
“Terry started that to destroy evidence,” Ben explained.
“Evidence? What evidence.”
“Well there were boxes of unused tablets,” Ben explained.
“I’m still listening,” I said.
“Mr. Drake had said that I could go out on the gallops,” Ben continued. “No one else knew, not even Terry.” He paused for a moment. “I guess Mr. Purcell knew, and Mr. Chambers, but that was all. So I went to the tack room early, it must have been about four thirty, to get ready. I was surprised to see Terry there. I asked him what he was doing, but he never said anything. Then I noticed that he was doing something with Kansas Lad’s medication.”
“Doing something?” I repeated. “Like what?”
“I’m not entirely sure, but he had the box in his hand,” Ben continued. “I asked him what he was doing once again. He told me to mind my own business and he pushed me aside. There was a struggle, and I grabbed for the box. I think the label was torn off. He seemed to trip and fell hitting his head. I bent down to take a look. He was unconscious. Then I realized that he wasn’t breathing.”
I suddenly thought of the piece of paper that I saw that Terry was holding. I now knew that it had come from a label on the medication.
“He was dead, right,” I said. “So why did you run away. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Ben shook his head. “Mr. Daniels I’ve got a record.”
“I know about that,” I said. “So what?”
“I panicked I guess. Then I heard somebody say that it was probably a robbery that had gone wrong. I had to get away.”
“So why did you come back?”
Ben shook his head. Then he looked up at me. “Mr. Drake has been very kind to me, Mr. Daniels,” he said, as he raised a hand brushing away a tear. “I would never want to hurt him.” He paused for a moment. “I never killed Terry. It was an accident, a terrible accident.”
“Were there any witnesses to this, er struggle?” I asked, knowing full well that there weren’t.
Ben just shook his head.
“So no one else saw what happened,” I said. “So you’ve no proof have you, it’s just your word.”
He looked up and took a deep breath. He reached inside his jacket and took out a small notebook. “That belonged to Terry,” he said as he handed it to me. “I found it a couple of days ago.”
I took hold of the book, and opened it. It was clear from the first page that it was indeed Terry’s notepad. His name and signature was everywhere. There followed a list of dates and amounts of payments received. Clearly Terry had been receiving regular payments from a rival stable.
I closed the notepad and placed it inside my pocket.
“Come on Ben,” I said, helping him stand up. “We need to speak with Detective Johnson. I expect he will want a full statement from you.”
* * *
Chapter Fifteen
The Winning Post
“So Mr. Drake that’s that and here we are at the Winning Post at last,” I said. “My odds on favorite finally came through, after a lot of false starts and detours.”
“Terry you mean?”
“Yes Terry.” I said. I handed him the notepad. “It’s all in there. All the proof you’ll need. There’s dates, times, and amounts that he was paid.”
Drake shook his head. “I can’t understand it though,” he said. “A nice guy like that. Why?”
“Money,” I replied. “It’s amazing what some people will do for money. Terry was getting paid regular amounts to cause you as much trouble as he could.”
“But to deliberately kill an animal like that,” said Drake. “I can’t understand that. He loved horses.”
“Blue Boy, you mean,” I said. “You know I doubt that Terry ever thought that the horse would die. He probably expected that it would be ill for a while, and then recover. He just carried out instructions.”
“You may be right,” said Drake. “But we’ll never know will we, not now.”
I nodded in agreement. “How’s Kansas Lad by the way?”
Drake started to smile. “Fully recovered I’m glad to say,” he said. “He will be at Belmont and we expect great things from him.”
“Well that’s good news anyway.”
“Thank you for everything Mr. Daniels, I really do appreciate everything you’ve done.”
“I’m pleased I was able to help,” I said.
“I still have a few questions though,” Drake said.
“Go on, I’ll see if I can answer them.”
Drake nodded. “Firstly, about the fire in the tack room, why did Terry start it?”
“That’s an easy one,” I replied. “It wasn’t meant to be a major event. It was only intended to destroy evidence, but the fire was seen and put out very quickly.”
“I see,” said Drake. He thought for a few moments. “One thing I don’t understand is the accident that Terry himself was involved.”
“The ladder you mean?” I said.
“Correct,” agreed Drake.
“You know that accident with the ladder always seemed odd to me,” I said. “A little bit out of place.”
“What do you mean?” asked Drake.
I knew what I meant but I wasn’t sure how to put it. “It just seemed so petty to me, so trivial.” I paused for a moment. Drake still looked puzzled. “First we have a race horse escape, could have done a lot of damage.”
Drake nodded.
“Then the death of Blue Blue, a major event.”
Once again Drake nodded.
“Then Kansas Lad falls sick, and may not be able to race, and then the fire,” I continued. “It just seems to me that the ladder accident wasn’t that significant.”
Drake shook his head. “I don’t agree,” he replied. “He could have been killed.”
I shook my head. “Not a chance,” I replied. “Terry rigged the whole thing. He knew exactly how the ladder would break and when. Don’t forget it was Graham who offered to go up the ladder originally, but Terry insisted that he would do it. Why would he do that?”
Drake looked puzzled. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Because he had to have the accident. It was as simple as that.” I replied. “It was essential, to take any attention away from himself.”
Drake was still puzzled. “I’m not sure that I understand.”
“If he was the victim of an accident that was shown to be a deliberate act, then that would put him in the clear,” I explained. “At least that’s what he thought.”
Drake heaved a sigh. “Well I’m glad that it’s all over.”
“Not quite,” I said. “Jason, there’s two things that you should do. Firstly you should note the name of the person making those payments and secondly you better tell Detective Johnson everything and give him that notepad.”
Drake nodded his agreement. “I will certainly do that,” he replied. “Johnson will probably want to see you as well though.”
He was right. Johnson would certainly want my side of the story. “Maybe,” I replied. “But he didn’t seem to need my help when I offered it before.”
Drake smiled. “No he didn’t, but peo
ple change.”
I agreed, but it was also circumstances that changed people. I’d get in touch with Johnson when I felt like it. In the meantime he knew where I would be.
* * *
So my little holiday upstate is over and I’m back here in the office. There’s still those bills to pay, but I’ve a nice fat check from Jason Drake, so that should take care of a lot of them. On the wall are two new photographs, one of the Drake Stables, and one of Kansas Lad. He will definitely be running in the Kingsland Stakes at Belmont. The current odds were eight to one. Drake said that I should put a couple of hundred on now, because those odds would certainly go way down. He was sure to win.
Maybe I will, but on the other hand. As I said I’m not a gambling man. I only like dead certainties. Ah, maybe I’ll risk ten bucks. I mean what’s ten bucks?
It’s getting late, and I’ll probably go down to Mama Dells, or I might have a Chinese. Chang at least will be glad to see me. In the meantime I ‘m just sitting here, with a large scotch in my hand, and I’ve got a Lightnin’ Hopkins CD playing. Who is Lightnin’ Hopkins did I hear. Only one of the greatest blues singers of all time, that’s all.
The current track, “Once Was A Gambler”, seems kind of appropriate somehow.
“Yeah, you know I once was a gambler
But I lost my money roll
Yeah, you know I once was a gambler
Boy, but I lost my money roll
That's the reason I don't have no sweet woman
Now I done lost my happy home”
As I said, it’s a mugs game. Take my word for it ….
* * *
Trouble In Mind
John Holt
Phoenix Publishing – Essex - UK
© John Holt – April 2015
Chapter One
Trouble In Mind
I guess you’re the same as me. Most people are I think. Do you get anxious for no apparent reason? Stressed? Worried? Do you sometimes get the feeling that things aren’t going to go right, you know, not the way you planned. Or the way you had hoped. Maybe you panic a little. You took a wrong turn somewhere along the way. Things are going decidedly badly. And you don’t know why. You can’t actually put your finger on anything in particular. Or maybe you do know why, but maybe there’s nothing you can do about it anyway.
Do you ever feel like that? I know I do, quite often. Something to do with insecurity I guess. Sure it’s just a feeling I know that, you know that, but you can’t shift it, can you? No matter what you do, it just won’t go away. It hangs around, and just nags at you. Twisting and turning it just eats into you, with no let up. It gets into you and takes over. Nothing else seems to matter. Logically you know it’s wrong, but logic has got nothing to say about it.
As Sam Lightnin’ Hopkins would say “You’ve got trouble in mind.”
Trouble in mind, I'm blue
I've almost lost my mind
Sometimes I feel like livin', and again I feel like dyin'
Well I got that feeling again just today. Only it wasn’t just a feeling, and it wasn’t for no apparent reason. There were plenty of reasons, good ones, believe me.
By the way the name’s Daniels, Jack Daniels, and I’m a private detective. And who is Lightnin’ Hopkins, I hear you ask. Well he came from a small town, Centerville, Texas, and he is only one of the greatest blues singers of all times, and that’s not just my opinion. Trust me.
* * *
Some weeks back I finished a job I was working on. A surveillance job, you know the kind of thing, butting my nose into someone’s private affairs. Snooping if you like, alright have it your way, it was spying. Okay so it’s not very nice, I grant you, but neither is cheating on your wife. Yeah, that’s what I said, cheating on your wife. That’s what the guy was doing. What do you think now? Changed your mind have you? Anyways, we can’t all have nice jobs, where we never get our hands dirty can we? Don’t forget it’s a wicked world out there you know, with a lot of nasty people, and someone has to do the dirty work.
Okay so I’d got my photographs, and I’ve got the necessary statements. Proof enough of the guy’s cheating. I’d made copies and delivered them to my client, a certain Mrs. Amanda Walker, the mistreated wife, together with my bill. And you know what? I’m still waiting on the check. So it’s only been a few weeks, well four to be exact, so why am I worrying so much you might think. Maybe she’s away somewhere, maybe taking a little holiday. Mexico maybe, Acapulco is supposed to be good this time of year. Or perhaps a cruise around the Bahamas is more her thing. As for me I’ll pick Mexico every time, over the cruise. If only, I hear you say, yeah, you and me both.
Or perhaps she was in a traffic accident and is now lying in a hospital somewhere, heavily strapped up, and not able to speak, her legs in traction. She’s rigged up to all of those wires and dials, and they take her blood pressure every five seconds. She’s suffering, the painkillers aren’t helping, and she’s facing a whole string of operations. Do I care? I mean, she’s in agony, and what am I doing? I’m worrying about a few lousy dollars, that’s what.
Well its twenty-five thousand lousy dollars to be exact.
But I have to tell you I don’t think she’s in a hospital, and I don’t think she’s on a holiday anywhere. In fact I know so. I’m not a betting man, but I’d lay odds. You see, I gave her a call.
“That number has not been recognized,” a mechanical voice announced smugly. “Please check and dial again.” Sometimes I wonder if it really is a recorded message, or a real person, with an odd voice, taking great delight that you are having trouble. Whatever, I checked the number and tried again, it was the same result. I checked a third time. Guess what? Yeah, you’re right, same result.
I’ve just been for a little drive, just a few blocks you know, not too far. I went to the address that she had given me, One-one-four Sycamore. Do you know it? I’m telling you if you’ve never been there, don’t bother. Oh sure, there was an apartment block right where she said it would be. The only problem is that it was vacant. It was also derelict, and scheduled for demolition in a few days time.
Then here’s comes the clincher. You know that final piece of information that tells you that there is something wrong and you were right to be worried all the time. For me it came in the form of a three inch banner headline in the morning edition of the Herald.
Five little words - “BODY FOUND IN THE BOWERY”.
The news item went on to say that the body of a woman had been discovered at Battery Park, in the early hours of the morning. The woman, who has been identified as Susan Brady, had been stabbed twice, once in the back of the neck, the other into her right lung. I’m guessing she died instantly. Next to the item was a photograph of the dead woman. It wasn’t the greatest picture I have to say. It didn’t do her justice.
I pushed the paper to one side and with it went my twenty-five big ones. I had to admit that Susan Brady was, or I should say, certainly had been a good looking woman. A class act you could say and no mistake. I shook my head, and gave a sigh.
By the way, Susan Brady wasn’t the name that I knew her by though. Oh no. To me, she had been my client, Mrs. Amanda Walker, wife of shipping magnate Denis Walker.
No, I’d never heard of him either.
* * *
It was about two months ago that I had first seen her. It was late one Tuesday afternoon. I was looking forward to an evening at the 51 Club. Buddy, he’s the owner, had told me that there was to be a new blues combo playing that night. Gordon King, a young white guy, playing twelve string guitar; Leroy Henderson, a black guy from Centerville, Texas, on harp; and Billy Boy Floyd on piano. I had heard a lot of good things about them, but had never seen them. It promised to be a good evening.
You know it’s a funny thing about promises. Have you ever noticed? I mean, sometimes, quite often in fact, they aren’t kept, and you get let down. Then sometimes they are kept, but they don’t live up to expectations, and you’re disappointed. In this present case, I n
ever knew whether they were any good or not. I never did get to hear the band that night.
* * *
It was late, about a quarter after five. I’d finished for the day and was thinking about locking up. The plan was a Chinese takeaway from Chang, and then off to the 51 Club. In the meantime I’m just sitting there listening to a new Little Walter CD that I’d just bought, when there’s a knock on the door.
“Mr. Daniels,” a voice called out.
I looked up, as the office door opened and in she came.
Talk about good looking, this lady had class, real class, and all in spades. I stood up and moved quickly to the door.
* * *
Chapter Two
My Name Is Amanda Walker
“I’m Daniels, Jack Daniels” I replied. “Please come in.” I quickly removed a pile of files from the one visitor’s chair, and dusted it down with my handkerchief. “Have a seat.” I continued, as I pointed to the chair. “Can I help you?”
Why I said that I’ll never know. Of course I could help her. I mean why else would she have come? To sell me insurance maybe, or double glazing, or perhaps she had just taken one of the rooms down the hall, and was a new neighbor and wanted a cup of sugar.
She sat down, and opened her handbag. “My name is Amanda Walker,” she said. She took out a photograph and placed it on the desk in front of me. “That’s Denis James Walker, my husband I’m sorry to say.”
I picked up the picture. The guy was pretty good looking, I supposed in a rugged sort of a way. I guessed aged around forty, forty-five, one hundred and eighty pounds, with thick black wavy hair. Took care of himself I thought. Should I care? I guessed not.
I placed the photograph back down on to the desk and slid it towards her. “So he’s your husband, and you’re not happy,” I said. “What about it?”
“Denis James Walker,” she repeated. “You know the shipping magnate.”
I was none the wiser. “So, he’s a shipping magnate, and he’s your husband. I repeat what about it?”