by Dick Francis
I sighed deeply. A grave mistake. The cracked ribs stabbed back with unnecessary vigour. I spent what could not be called a restful, comfortable, sleep-filled night, and in the morning could hardly move. Elizabeth watched me get up and the raw anxiety twisted her face.
‘Ty!’
‘Only a bruise or two, honey. I told you, I fell over.’
‘You look … hurt.’
I shook my head. ‘I’ll get the coffee …’
I got the coffee. I also looked with longing at Elizabeth’s last pill, which I had no right to take. She still suffered sometimes from terrible cramp, and on these occasions had to have the pills in a hurry. I didn’t need any mental knots to remind me to get some more. When Mrs Woodward came, I went.
Doctor Antonio Perelli wrote the prescription without hesitation and handed it across.
‘How is she?’
‘Fine. Same as usual.’
‘It’s time I went to see her.’
‘She’d love it,’ I said truthfully. Perelli’s visits acted on her like champagne. I’d met him casually at a party three years earlier, a young Italian doctor in private practice in Welbeck Street. Too handsome, I’d thought at once. Too feminine, with those dark, sparkling, long lashed eyes. All bedside manner and huge fees, with droves of neurotic women patients paying to have their hands held.
Then just before the party broke up someone told me he specialised in chest complaints, and not to be put off by his youth and beauty, he was brilliant: and by coincidence we found ourselves outside on the pavement together, hailing the same taxi, and going the same way.
At the time I had been worried about Elizabeth. She had to return to hospital for intensive nursing every time she was ill, and with a virtual stamping out of polio, the hospitals geared to care for patients on artificial respiration were becoming fewer and fewer. We had just been told she could not expect to go back any more to the hospital that had always looked after her.
I shared the taxi with Perelli and asked him if he knew of anywhere I could send her quickly if she ever needed it. Instead of answering directly he invited me into his tiny bachelor flat for another drink, and before I left he had acquired another patient. Elizabeth’s general health had improved instantly under his care and I paid his moderate fees without a wince.
I thanked him for the prescription and put it in my pocket.
‘Ty … are the pills for Elizabeth, or for you?’
I looked at him, startled. ‘Why?’
‘My dear fellow, I have eyes. What I see in your face is … severe.’
I smiled wryly. ‘All right. I was going to ask you. Could you put a bit of strapping on a couple of ribs?’
He stuck me up firmly and handed me a small medicine glass containing, he said, disprins dissolved in nepenthe, which worked like a vanishing trick: now you feel it, now you don’t.
‘You haven’t told Elizabeth?’ he said anxiously.
‘Only that I fell and winded myself.’
He relaxed, moving his head in a gesture of approval. ‘Good.’
It had been his idea to shield her from worries which ordinary women could cope with in their stride. I had thought him unduly fussy at first, but the strict screening he had urged had worked wonders. She had become far less nervous, much happier, and had even put on some badly needed weight.
‘And the police? Have you told the police?’
I shook my head and explained about Luke-John.
‘Difficult. Um. Suppose you tell this Luke-John simply that those men threatened you? You’ll not be taking your shirt off in the office.’ He smiled in the way that made Elizabeth’s eyes shine. ‘These two men, they will not go about saying they inflicted so much damage.’
‘They might.’ I frowned, considering. ‘It could be a good idea if I turned up in perfect health at the races today and gave them the lie.’
With an assenting gesture he mixed me a small bottle full of the disprin and nepenthe. ‘Don’t eat much,’ he said, handing it over. ‘And only drink coffee.’
‘O.K.’
‘And do nothing that would get you another beating like this.’
I was silent.
He looked at me with sad understanding. ‘That is too much to give up for Elizabeth?’
‘I can’t just … crawl away,’ I protested. ‘Even for Elizabeth.’
He shook his head. ‘It would be best for her. But …’ He shrugged, and held out his hand in goodbye. ‘Stay out of trains, then.’
I stayed out of trains. For ninety-four minutes. Then I caught the race train to Plumpton and travelled down safely with two harmless strangers and a man I knew slightly from the B.B.C.
Thanks to Tonio’s mixture I walked about all day and talked and laughed much the same as usual. Once I coughed. Even that caused only an echo of a stab. For maximum effect I spent a good deal of my time walking about the bookmakers’ stalls, inspecting both their prices and their clerks. The fraternity knew something had happened. Their heads swivelled as I passed and they were talking behind my back, nudging each other. When I put ten shillings on a semi-outsider with one of them he said, ‘You feeling all right, chum?’
‘Why not?’ I said in surprise. ‘It’s a nice enough day.’
He looked perplexed for a second, and then shrugged. I walked on, looking at faces, searching for a familiar one. The trouble was I’d paid the four clerks in the compartment so little attention that I wasn’t sure I’d recognise any one of them again, and I wouldn’t have done, if he hadn’t given himself away. When he saw me looking at him, he jerked, stepped down off his stand, and bolted.
Running was outside my repertoire. I walked quietly up behind him an hour later when he had judged it safe to go back to his job.
‘A word in your ear,’ I said at his elbow.
He jumped six inches. ‘It was nothing to do with me.’
‘I know that. Just tell me who the two men were. Those two in overalls.’
‘Do me a favour. Do I want to end up in hospital?’
‘Twenty quid?’ I suggested.
‘I dunno about that … How come you’re here today?’
‘Why not?’
‘When those two’ve seen to someone … they stay seen to.’
‘Is that so? They seemed pretty harmless.’
‘No, straight up,’ he said curiously, ‘didn’t they touch you?’
‘No.’
He was puzzled.
‘A pony. Twenty-five quid,’ I said. ‘For their names, or who they work for.’
He hesitated. ‘Not here, mate. On the train.’
‘Not on the train.’ I was positive. ‘In the Press Box. And now.’
He got five minutes off from his grumbling employer and went in front of me up the stairs to the eyrie allotted to newspapers. I gave a shove-off sign to the only press man up there, and he obligingly disappeared.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Who were they?’
‘They’re Brummies,’ he said cautiously.
‘I know that. You could cut their accents.’
‘Bruisers,’ he ventured.
I stopped myself just in time from telling him I knew that too.
‘They’re Charlie Boston’s boys.’ It came out in a nervous rush.
‘That’s better. Who’s Charlie Boston?’
‘So who hasn’t heard of Charlie Boston? Got some betting shops, hasn’t he, in Birmingham and Wolverhampton and such like.’
‘And some boys on race trains?’
He looked more puzzled than ever. ‘Don’t you owe Charlie no money? So what did they want, then? It’s usually bad debts they’re after.’
‘I’ve never heard of Charlie Boston before, let alone had a bet with him.’ I took out my wallet and gave him five fivers. He took them with a practised flick and stowed them away in a pocket like Fort Knox under his left armpit. ‘Dirty thieves,’ he explained. ‘Taking precautions, aren’t I?’
He scuttled off down the stairs, and I stayed up in the press b
ox and took another swig at my useful little bottle, reflecting that when Charlie Boston unleashed his boys on me he had been very foolish indeed.
Luke-John reacted predictably with a bridling ‘They can’t do that to the Blaze’ attitude.
Wednesday morning. Not much doing in the office. Derry with his feet up on the blotter, Luke-John elbow deep in the Dailies’ sports pages, the telephone silent, and every desk in the place exhibiting the same feverish inactivity.
Into this calm I dropped the pebble of news that two men, adopting a threatening attitude, had told me not to interfere in the non-starters racket. Luke-John sat up erect like a belligerent bull frog, quivering with satisfaction that the article had produced tangible results. With a claw hand he pounced on the telephone.
‘Manchester office? Give me the Sports Desk … That you, Andy? Luke Morton. What can you tell me about a bookmaker called Charlie Boston? Has a string of betting shops around Birmingham.’
He listened to a lengthy reply with growing intensity.
‘That adds up. Yes. Yes. Fine. Ask around and let me know.’
He put down the receiver and rubbed his larynx. ‘Charlie Boston changed his spots about a year ago. Before that he was apparently an ordinary Birmingham bookmaker with about six shops and a reasonable reputation. Now, Andy says he’s expanded a lot and become a bully. He says he’s been hearing too much about Charlie Boston lately. Seems he hires two ex-boxers to collect unpaid debts from his credit customers, and as a result of all this he’s coining it.’
I thought it over. Charlie Boston of Birmingham with his betting shops and bruisers didn’t gel at all with the description Dembley had given me of a quiet gentleman in a Rolls with a chauffeur and a Greek, Dutch or Scandinavian accent. They even seemed an unlikely pair as shoulder to shoulder partners. There might of course be two separate rackets going on, and if so, what happened if they clashed? And by which of them had Bert Checkov been seduced? But if they were all one outfit, I’d settle for the Rolls gent as the brains and Charlie Boston the muscles. Setting his dogs on me had been classic muscle-bound thinking.
Luke-John’s telephone rang and he reached out a hand. As he listened his eyes narrowed and he turned his head to look straight at me.
‘What do you mean, he was pulped? He certainly was not. He’s here in the office at this moment and he went to Plumpton races yesterday. What your paper needs is a little less imagination … If you don’t believe me, talk to him yourself.’ He handed me the receiver, saying with a grimace ‘Connersley. Bloody man.’
‘I heard,’ said the precise malicious voice on the phone, ‘that some Birmingham heavies took you to pieces on the Leicester race train.’
‘A rumour,’ I said with boredom. ‘I heard it myself yesterday at Plumpton.’
‘According to my informant you couldn’t have gone to Plumpton.’
‘Your informant is unreliable. Scrap him.’
A small pause. Then he said ‘I can check if you were there.’
‘Check away.’ I put the receiver down with a brusque crash and thanked my stars I had reached Luke-John with my version first.
‘Are you planning a follow-up on Sunday?’ he was asking. Connersley had planted no suspicions: was already forgotten. ‘Hammer the point home. Urge the racing authorities to act. Agitate. You know the drill.’
I nodded. I knew the drill. My bruises gave me a protesting nudge. No more, they said urgently. Write a nice mild piece on an entirely different, totally innocuous subject.
‘Get some quotes,’ Luke-John said.
‘O.K.’
‘Give with some ideas,’ he said impatiently. ‘I’m doing all your ruddy work.’
I sighed. Shallowly and carefully. ‘How about us making sure Tiddely Pom starts in the Lamplighter? Maybe I’ll go fix it with the Ronceys …’
Luke-John interrupted, his eyes sharp. ‘The Blaze will see to it that Tiddely Pom runs. Ty, that’s genius. Start your piece with that. The Blaze will see to it … Splendid. Splendid.’
Oh God, I thought. I’m the world’s greatest bloody fool. Stay out of race trains, Tonio Perelli had said. Nothing about lying down on the tracks.
8
Nothing had changed at the Ronceys’. Dead leaves, cobwebs, still in place. No dripping meat on the kitchen table: two un-plucked pheasants sagged with limp necks there instead. The sink overflowed with unwashed dishes and the wellington smell had intensified.
I arrived unannounced at two-thirty and found Roncey himself out in the yard watching Pat and the old man saw up a large hunk of dead tree. He received me with an unenthusiastic glare but eventually took me through into the sitting room with a parting backwards instruction to his son to clean out the tackroom when he’d finished the logs.
Madge was lying on the sofa, asleep. Still no stockings, still the blue slippers, still the yellow dress, very dirty now down the front. Roncey gave her a glance of complete indifference and gestured me to one of the arm-chairs.
‘I don’t need help from the Blaze,’ he said, as he’d said outside in the yard. ‘Why should I?’
‘It depends on how much you want Tiddely Pom to run in the Lamplighter.’
‘Of course he’s going to run.’ Roncey looked aggressive and determined. ‘I told you. Anyone who tries to tell me otherwise has another think coming.’
‘In that case,’ I said mildly, ‘one of two things will happen. Either the men operating the racket will abandon the idea of preventing Tiddely Pom from running, as a result of all the publicity they’ve been getting. Or they will go ahead and stop him. If they’ve any sense they’ll abandon the idea. But I don’t see how one can count on them having any sense.’
‘They won’t stop him.’ Pugnacious jaw, stubborn eyes.
‘You can be sure they will, one way or another, if they want to.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘But would you object to taking precautions, just in case? The Blaze will foot the bills.’
He stared at me long and hard. ‘This is not just a publicity stunt to cover your sensation-hunting paper with glory?’
‘Dual purpose,’ I said. ‘Half for you and betting public. Half for us. But only one object: to get Tiddely Pom safely off in the Lamplighter.’
He thought it over.
‘What sort of precautions?’ he said at last.
I sighed inwardly with mixed feelings, a broken ribbed skier at the top of a steep and bumpy slope, with only myself to thank.
‘There are three main ones,’ I said. ‘The simplest is a letter to Weatherbys, stating your positive intention to run in the Lamplighter, and asking them to check carefully with you if they should receive any instructions to strike out the horse either before or after the four day declaration stage next Tuesday. You do realise, don’t you, that I or anyone else could send a telegram or telex striking out the horse, and you would have a bit of a job getting him put back again?’
His mouth dropped open. ‘Anyone?’
‘Anyone signing your name. Of course. Weatherbys receive hundreds of cancellations a week. They don’t check to make sure the trainer really means it. Why should they?’
‘Good God,’ he said, stunned. ‘I’ll write at once. In fact I’ll ring them up.’ He began to stand up.
‘There won’t be that much urgency,’ I said. ‘Much more likely a cancellation would be sent in at the last moment, in order to allow as much time as possible for ante-post bets to be made.’
‘Oh … quite.’ A thought struck him as he sat down again. ‘If the Blaze declares it is going to make Tiddely Pom safe and then he doesn’t run for some reason, you are going to look very silly.’
I nodded. ‘A risk. Still … We’ll do our best. But we do need your whole-hearted co-operation, not just your qualified permission.’
He made up his mind. ‘You have it. What next?’
‘Tiddely Pom will have to go to another stable.’
That rocked him. ‘Oh no.’
‘He’s muc
h too vulnerable here.’
He swallowed. ‘Where, then.’
‘To one of the top trainers. He will still be expertly prepared for the race. He can have the diet he’s used to. We’ll give you a report on him every day.’
He opened and shut his mouth several times, speechless.
‘Thirdly,’ I said, ‘Your wife and at least your three youngest sons must go away for a holiday.’
‘They can’t,’ he protested automatically.
‘They must. If one of the children were kidnapped, would you set his life against running Tiddely Pom?’
‘It isn’t possible,’ he said weakly.
‘Just the threat might be enough.’
Madge got up and opened her eyes. They were far from dreamy. ‘Where and when do we go?’ she said.
‘Tomorrow. You will know where after you get there.’
She smiled with vivid delight. Fantasy had come to life. Roncey himself was not enchanted.
‘I don’t like it,’ he said frowning.
‘Ideally, you should all go. The whole lot of you,’ I said.
Roncey shook his head. ‘There are the other horses, and the farm. I can’t leave them. And I need Pat here, and Peter.’
I agreed to that, having gained the essentials. ‘Don’t tell the children they are going.’ I said to Madge. ‘Just keep them home from school in the morning, and someone will call for you at about nine. You’ll need only country clothes. And you’ll be away until after the race on Saturday week. Also, please do not on any account write any letters straight to here, or let the children send any. If you want to write, send the letters to us at the Blaze, and we will see that Mr Roncey gets them.’
‘But Vic can write to us?’ Madge said.
‘Of course … but also via the Blaze. Because he won’t know where you are.’