Bolt

by Dick Francis

  I collected a few things to take with me; clean clothes, the cash, some writing paper, a pocket-sized tape recorder, spare cassettes and a few photographs sorted from a disorganised drawerful.

  I also loaded into the car the video-recorder I’d used to make parts of the film indicting Maynard, and some spare tapes and batteries for that, but more on an ‘in case’ basis than with any clear plans for their use: and I picked up from the kitchen, where I kept it, a small gadget I’d bought in New York that started cars from a distance. It worked by radio, transmitting to a receiver in the car which then switched on the ignition and activated the starter-motor. I liked gadgets, and that one was most useful in freezing weather, since one could start one’s car from indoors and warm up the engine before plunging out into snowstorms oneself.

  I checked my answering machine for messages and dealt with those, repacked my sock with new ice cubes and finally set off again to Bradbury, arriving in the small country town with ten minutes in hand.

  The King’s Head, I found, was a square smallish brick building, relatively modern and dedicated to beer. No old world charm, no warming pans, oak beams, red lampshades, pewter mugs: no car park either. The Bradbury Arms, across the road, looked plentifully supplied with everything.

  I parked in the street and went into the King’s Head public bar, trying that first, and finding a darts board, several benches, low tables, sisal matting and an understocked bar.

  No customers.

  I tried the saloon bar, genteelly furnished with glass-topped tables and moderately comfortable wooden armchairs, in one of which I sat while I waited.

  A man appeared behind the bar there and asked what I’d like.

  ‘Half of mild,’ I said.

  He pulled it, and I paid.

  I laid on the glass-topped table in front of me the large brown envelope which contained Lord Vaughnley’s file photograph of Nanterre. The envelope currently bulged also with the tape recorder, four more photographs, two bundles of banknotes in small separate envelopes and some plain writing paper. All that I needed for John Smith was ready, but there was no sign of John Smith.

  A few local people well known to the innkeeper came into the bar, ordering ‘the usual’ and eying me, the stranger. None of them carried a newspaper. None of them, I noticed with surprise, was a woman.

  I could hear the thud … thud … thud of someone playing darts in the public bar, so I picked up my envelope and beer and walked back there to look.

  There were three customers by that time; two playing darts and one sitting on the edge of a bench glancing at his watch.

  Beside him on the bench lay Saturday’s Sporting Life, the bold-printed advertisement uppermost.

  With a great sigh of relief I went over and sat down on the bench, leaving the newspaper between him and me.

  ‘Mr Smith?’ I said.

  He jumped nervously, even though he’d watched me walk across to join him.

  He was perhaps in his fifties, wore a zip-fronted fawn jacket and had an air of habitual defeat. His hair, still black, was brushed in careful lines across a balding scalp, and the tip of his nose pointed straight downwards, as if someone had punched it that way long ago.

  ‘My name’s Christmas,’ I said.

  He looked at me carefully and frowned. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘I brought your money … Would you like a drink?’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ he said. He stood up with alacrity to go over to the bar, and from that distance studied me doubtfully. I put a hand into the big envelope, switched on the tape recorder, and drew out the first of the packets of money, laying it on the table beside my glass.

  He came back at length with a pint and drank a third of it thirstily.

  ‘Why are you limping?’ he said, putting the glass down watchfully.

  ‘Twisted my ankle.’

  ‘You’re that jockey,’ he said. ‘Kit Fielding.’

  I could feel alarm vibrating in him at the identification and pushed the money towards him, to anchor him, to prevent flight.

  ‘A hundred,’ I said, ‘up front.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he said in a rush, half aggressively, on the defensive.

  ‘No, I know that. Take the money.’

  He stretched out a big-knuckled hand, picked up the booty, checked it, and slotted it into an internal pocket.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ I said.

  He wasn’t ready, however. The unease, cause and effect, had to be dealt with first.

  ‘Look, I don’t want this going any further,’ he said nervously. ‘I’ve been in two minds … I saw this advertisement Friday … but, look, see, by rights I shouldn’t have been at the races. I’m telling you I was there, but I don’t want it going no further.’

  ‘Mm,’ I said non-committally.

  ‘But, see, I could do with some untaxed dosh, who couldn’t? So I thought, maybe if it was worth two hundred to you, I’d tell you.’

  ‘The rest’s in here,’ I said, pointing to the brown envelope. ‘Just … tell me what happened.’

  ‘Look, I was supposed to be at work. I made out I’d got flu. I wouldn’t get fired if the bosses found out, just a dressing down, but I don’t want the wife knowing, see what I mean? She thought I was at work. I went home my regular time. She’d bellyache something chronic if she knew. She’s dead set against gambling, see what I mean?’

  ‘And you,’ I said, ‘like your little flutter.’

  ‘Nothing wrong in that, is there?’ he demanded.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘The wife doesn’t know I’m here,’ he said. ‘This isn’t my local. I told her I had to come into Bradbury for a part for my motor. I’m draining the sump and I need a new filter. I’ll have to keep quiet about meeting you, see? I had to ring you up this morning while I was out with the dog. So, see what I mean, I don’t want this getting about.’

  I thought without guilt of my sharp-eared little recorder, but reflected that Mr Smith’s gusher would dry in a microsecond if he found it was there. He seemed, however, not the sort of man who would ever suspect its existence.

  ‘I’m sure it won’t get about, Mr Smith,’ I said.

  He jumped again slightly at the name.

  ‘See, the name’s not Smith, I expect you guessed. But well, if you don’t know, I’m that much safer, see what I mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  He drank most of the beer and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief; white with brown lines and checks round the edge. The two men playing darts finished their game and went out to the saloon bar, leaving us alone in our spartan surroundings.

  ‘I’d been looking at the horses in the paddock,’ he said, ‘and I was going off towards the bookies when this character came up to me and offered me a fiver to deliver a message.’

  ‘A fiver,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah … well, see what I mean, I said, “Ten, and you’re on.”’ He sniffed. ‘He wasn’t best pleased. He gave me a right filthy look, but in the end he coughed up. Ten smackers. It meant I’d be betting free on that race, see what I mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘So he says, this character, that all I’d got to do was walk over to a man he would point out, and tell him that Danielle wanted him to go up to the balcony to see the view.’

  ‘He said that precisely?’

  ‘He made me repeat it twice. Then he gave me two fivers and pointed at a big man in a dark overcoat, very distinguished looking, and when I turned round, he’d gone. Anyway, he paid me to pass on the message, so I did. I didn’t think anything of it, see what I mean? I mean, there didn’t seem any harm in it. I knew the balcony wasn’t open, but if he wanted to go up there, so what, see what I mean?’

  ‘I can see that,’ I said.

  ‘I passed on the message, and the distinguished looking gent thanked me, and I went on out to the bookies and put two fivers on Applejack.’

  Mr Smith was a loser, I thought. I’d be
aten Applejack into second place, on Pinkeye.

  ‘You’re not drinking,’ he observed, eying my still full glass.

  Beer was fattening … ‘You can have it,’ I said, ‘if you like.’

  He took the glass without ado and started on the contents.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘You’d better tell me … was it the man I gave the message to, who fell off the balcony?’ His eyes were worried, almost pleading for any answer but the one he feared.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ I said.

  ‘I thought it would be. I didn’t see him fall, I was out front with the bookies, see what I mean? But later on, here and there, I heard people talking about coats and such … I didn’t know what they were on about, though, until the next day, when it was all in the paper.’ He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t say anything, though, could I, on account of being at the races when I’d said I wasn’t.’

  ‘Difficult,’ I agreed.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault he fell off the balcony,’ he said aggrievedly. ‘So I thought, what was the point of telling anyone about the message. I’d keep my mouth shut. Maybe this Danielle pushed him, I thought. Maybe he was her husband and her lover got me to send him up there, so she could push him off. See what I mean?’

  I stifled a smile and saw what he meant.

  ‘I didn’t want to be mixed up with the police, see? I mean, he wasn’t killed, thanks to you, so no harm done, was there?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘And he wasn’t pushed. He overbalanced on some loose planks the builders had left there. He told me about it, explaining how he’d fallen.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mr Anonymous Smith seemed both relieved and disappointed that he hadn’t been involved in an attempted crime of passion. ‘I see.’

  ‘But,’ I said, ‘he was curious about the message. He thought he’d like to know who asked you to give it to him, so we decided to put that advertisement in the paper.’

  ‘Do you know him then?’ he said, perplexed.

  ‘I do now,’ I said.

  ‘Ah.’ He nodded.

  ‘The man who gave you the message,’ I said, casually, ‘do you remember what he looked like?’

  I tried not to hold my breath. Mr Smith, however, sensed that this was a crucial question and looked meaningfully at the envelope, his mind on the second instalment.

  ‘The second hundred’s yours,’ I said, ‘if you can describe him.’

  ‘He wasn’t English,’ he said, taking the plunge. ‘Strong sort of character, hard voice, big nose.’

  ‘Do you remember him clearly?’ I asked, relaxing greatly inside. ‘Would you know him again?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about him since Thursday,’ he said simply. ‘I reckon I would.’

  Without making a big thing of it I pulled the five photographs out of the envelope: all eight by ten black and white glossy pictures of people receiving trophies after races. In four of the groups the winning jockey was Fielding, but I’d had my back to the camera in two of them: the pictures were as fair a test as I’d been able to devise at short notice.

  ‘Would you look at these photographs,’ I said, ‘and see if he’s there?’

  He brought out a pair of glasses and sat them on the flattened nose: an ineffectual man, not unhappy.

  He took the photographs, and looked at them carefully, one by one. I’d put Nanterre’s picture in fourth place of the five; and he glanced at it and passed on. He looked at the fifth and put them all down on the table, and I hoped he wouldn’t guess at the extent of my disappointment.

  ‘Well,’ he said judiciously, ‘yes, he’s there.’

  I watched him breathlessly and waited. If he could truly recognise Nanterre, I would play any game he had in mind.

  ‘Look,’ he said, as if scared by his own boldness. ‘You’re Kit Fielding, right? You’re not short of a bob or two. And that man who fell, he looked pretty well heeled. See what I mean? Make it two fifty, and I’ll tell you which one he is.’

  I breathed deeply and pretended to be considering it with reluctance.

  ‘All right,’ I said eventually. ‘Two fifty.’

  He flicked through the photographs and pointed unerringly to Nanterre.

  ‘Him,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve got your two fifty,’ I said. I gave him the second of the small envelopes. ‘There’s a hundred in there.’ I fished out my wallet and sorted out fifty more. ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  He nodded and put the money away carefully, as before.

  ‘Mr Smith,’ I said easily. ‘What would you do for another hundred?’

  He stared at me through the glasses. ‘What do you mean?’ Hopefully, on the whole.

  I said, ‘If I write a sentence on a sheet of paper, will you sign your name to it? The name John Smith will do very well.’

  ‘What sentence?’ he said, looking worried again.

  ‘I’ll write it,’ I said. ‘Then see if you will sign.’

  ‘For a hundred?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  I pulled a sheet of plain writing paper from the envelope, undipped my pen and wrote:

  ‘At Bradbury races (I put the date) I gave a man a message to the effect that Danielle wanted him to go up to the viewing balcony. I identify the man who gave me that message as the man I have indicated in the photograph.’

  I handed it to Mr Smith. He read it. He was unsure of the consequences of signing, but he was thinking of a hundred pounds.

  ‘Sign it John Smith?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. With a flourish, like a proper signature.’

  I handed him my pen. With almost no further hesitation he did as I’d asked.

  ‘Great,’ I said, taking the page and slipping it, with the photographs, back into the envelope. I took out my wallet again and gave him another hundred pounds, and saw him looking almost hungrily at the money he could see I still had.

  ‘There’s another hundred and fifty in there,’ I said, showing him. ‘It would round you up to five hundred altogether.’

  He liked the game increasingly. He said, ‘For that, what would you want?’

  ‘To save me following you home,’ I said pleasantly, ‘I’d like you to write your real name and address down for me, on a separate sheet of paper.’

  I produced a clean sheet from the envelope. ‘You still have my pen,’ I reminded him. ‘Be a good fellow and write.’

  He looked as if I’d punched him in the brain.

  ‘I came in on the bus,’ he said faintly.

  ‘I can follow buses,’ I said.

  He looked sick.

  ‘I won’t tell your wife you were at the races,’ I said. ‘Not if you’ll write down your name so I won’t have to follow you.’

  ‘For a hundred and fifty?’ he said weakly.

  ‘Yes.’

  He wrote a name and address in capital letters:

  A. V. HODGES,

  44, CARLETON AVENUE,

  WIDDERLAWN, NR BRADBURY.

  ‘What does the A. V. stand for?’ I asked.

  ‘Arnold Vincent,’ he said without guile.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Here’s the rest of the money.’ I counted it out for him. ‘Don’t lose it all at once.’

  He looked startled and then shamefacedly raised a laugh. ‘I can’t go racing often, see what I mean? My wife knows how much money I’ve got.’

  ‘She doesn’t now,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Smith.’

  EIGHTEEN

  I had plenty of time and thought I might as well make sure. I dawdled invisibly around while John Smith bought his oil filter at a garage and caught his bus, and I followed the bus unobtrusively to Widderlawn.

  John Smith descended and walked to Carleton Avenue where at number 44, a well-tended council semi-detached, he let himself in with a latchkey.

  Satisfied on all counts, I drove back to London and found Litsi coming out of the library as I entered the hall.

  ‘I saw you coming,’ he said lazily. The library windows looked out to the street. ‘I’
m delighted you’re back.’ He had been watching for me, I thought.

  ‘It wasn’t a trap,’ I said.

  ‘So I see.’

  I smiled suddenly and he said, ‘A purring cat, if ever I saw one.’

  I nodded towards the library. ‘Let’s go in there, and I’ll tell you.’

  I carried the bag with clothes in and the big envelope into the long panelled room with its grille-fronted bookshelves, its persian rugs, its net and red velvet curtains. A nobly proportioned room, it was chiefly used for entertaining callers not intimate enough to be invited upstairs, and to me had the lifeless air of expensive waiting-rooms.

  Litsi looked down at my feet. ‘Are you squelching?’ he asked disbelievingly.

  ‘Mm.’ I put down the bag and the envelope and peeled off my left shoe, into which one of the icepacks had leaked.

  To his discriminating horror, I pulled the one intact bag out of my sock and emptied the contents onto a convenient potted plant. The second bag, having emptied itself, followed the first into the waste paper basket. I pulled off my drenched sock, left it folded on top of my bag, and replaced my wet shoe.

  ‘I suppose,’ Litsi said, ‘all that started out as mobile refrigeration.’

  ‘Quite right.’

  ‘I’d have kept a sprain warm,’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘Cold is quicker.’

  I took the envelope over to where a pair of armchairs stood, one on each side of a table with a lamp on it: switched on the lamp, sat in a chair. Litsi, following, took the other armchair. The library itself was perpetually dark, needing lights almost always, the grey afternoon on that day giving up the contest in the folds of cream net at the street end of the room.

  ‘Mr Smith,’ I said, ‘can speak for himself.’

  I put the small recorder on the table, rewound the cassette, and started it going. Litsi, the distinguished looking gent, listened with wry fascination to the way he’d been set up, and towards the end his eyebrows started climbing, a sign with him which meant a degree of not understanding.

  I showed him the paper John Smith had signed, and while he watched drew a circle with my pen round the head of Nanterre in the photograph.

  ‘Mr Smith did live where he wrote,’ I said. ‘I did follow him home, to make sure.’