by Dick Francis
‘He said it couldn’t be the person who introduced him to the club. She was a prostitute… he’d never told her his real name.’
‘But she understood his needs.’
He sighed. ‘It would seem so.’
‘Some of those girls make more money out of whipping men than sleeping with them.’
‘How on earth do you know?’
‘I had digs once in the next room to one. She told me.’
‘Good Lord.’ He looked as if he’d turned over a stone and found creepy-crawlies underneath. He had plainly no inkling of what it was like to be a creepy-crawly. His loss.
‘Anyway,’ he said slowly, ‘You will understand why he accepted that package at its face value.’
‘And why he chose Lord Plimborne and Andy Tring.’
Lord Ferth nodded. ‘At the end, when he’d recovered a little, he understood that he’d chosen them for the reasons you said, but he believed at the time that they were impulsive choices. And he is now, as you would expect, a very worried and troubled man.’
‘Was he,’ I asked, ‘Responsible for this?’
I held out to him the letter Tony had received from the Stewards’ Secretaries. He stood up, came to take it, and read its brief contents with exasperation.
‘I don’t know,’ he said explosively. ‘I really don’t know. When did this arrive?’
‘Tuesday. Post-marked noon on Monday.’
‘Before I saw him… He didn’t mention it.’
‘Could you find out if it was his doing?’
‘Do you mean… it will be all the more impossible to forgive him?’
‘No. Nothing like that. I was just wondering if it was our little framer-blackmailer at work again. See those words “It has been brought to our attention”…? What I’d like to know is who brought it.’
‘I’ll find out,’ he agreed positively. ‘That shouldn’t be difficult. And of course, disregard the letter. There won’t be any question now of your having to move.’
‘How are you going to work it? Giving our licences back. How are you going to explain it?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘We never have to give reasons for our decisions.’
I smothered a laugh. The system had its uses.
Lord Ferth sat down in the chair again and put the letter in his briefcase. Then he packed up the tape recorder and tucked that away too. Then with an air of delicately choosing his words he said, ‘A scandal of this sort would do racing a great deal of harm.’
‘So you want me to take my licence back and shut up?’
‘Er… yes.’
‘And not chase after the blackmailer, in case he blows the gaffe?’
‘Exactly.’ He was relieved that I understood.
‘No.’ I said.
‘Why not?’ Persuasion in his voice.
‘Because he tried to kill me.’
‘What?’
I showed him the chunk of exhaust manifold, and explained. ‘Someone at the dance,’ I said. ‘That means that our blackmailer is one of about six hundred people, and from there it shouldn’t be too hard. You can more or less rule out the women, because few of them would drill through cast iron wearing an evening dress. Much too conspicuous, if anyone saw them. That leaves three hundred men.’
‘Someone who knew your car,’ he said. ‘Surely that would narrow it down considerably.’
‘It might not. Anyone could have seen me getting out of it at the races. It was a noticeable car, I’m afraid. But I arrived late at the dance. The car was parked right at the back.’
‘Have you…’ he cleared his throat. ‘Are the police involved in this?’
‘If you mean are they at present investigating an attempted murder, then no, they are not. If you mean, am I going to ask them to investigate, etc. then I haven’t decided.’
‘Once you start the police on something, you can’t stop them.’
‘On the other hand if I don’t start them the blackmailer might have another go at me, with just a fraction of an inch more success. Which would be quite enough.’
‘Um.’ He thought it over. ‘But if you made it clear to everyone now that you are not any longer trying to find out who framed you… he might not try again.’
I said curiously, ‘Do you really think it would be best for racing if we just leave this blackmailing murderer romping around free?’
‘Better than a full-blown scandal.’
The voice of Establishment diplomacy.
‘And if he doesn’t follow your line of reasoning… and he does kill me… how would that do for a scandal?’
He didn’t answer. Just looked at me levelly with the hot eyes.
‘All right, then,’ I said. ‘No police.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Us, though. We’ll have to do it ourselves. Find him and deal with him.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I’ll find him. You deal with him.’
‘To your satisfaction, I suppose,’ he said ironically.
‘Absolutely.’
‘And Lord Gowery?’
‘He’s yours entirely. I shan’t tell Dexter Cranfield anything at all.’
‘Very well.’ He stood up, and I struggled off the bed on to the crutches.
‘Just one thing,’ I said. ‘Could you arrange to have that package of Lord Gowery’s sent to me here?’
‘I have it with me.’ Without hesitation he took a large Manila envelope out of the briefcase and put it on the bed. ‘You’ll understand how he fell on it with relief.’
‘Things being as they were,’ I agreed. He walked across the sitting-room to the way out, stopping by the chest to put on his coat.
‘Can Cranfield tell his owners to shovel their horses back?’ I said. ‘The sooner the better, you see, if they’re to come back in time for Cheltenham.’
‘Give me until tomorrow morning. There are several other people who must know first.’
‘All right’
He held out his hand. I transferred the right crutch to the left, and shook it.
He said, ‘Perhaps one day soon… when this is over… you will dine with me?’
‘I’d like to,’ I said.
‘Good.’ He picked up his bowler and his briefcase, swept a last considering glance round my flat, nodded to me as if finalising a decision, and quietly went away.
I telephoned to the orthopod who regularly patched me up after falls.
‘I want this plaster off.’
He went into a long spiel of which the gist was two or three more weeks.
‘Monday,’ I said.
‘I’ll give you up.’
‘Tuesday I start getting it off with a chisel.’
I always slept in shirt-and-shorts pyjamas, which had come in very handy in the present circs. Bedtime that day I struggled into a lime green and white checked lot I had bought in an off moment at Liverpool the year before with my mind more on the imminent Grand National than on what they would do to my yellow complexion at six on a winter’s morning.
Tony had gloomily brought me some casseroled beef and had stayed to celebrate when I told him I wouldn’t have to leave. I was out of whisky again in consequence.
When he’d gone I went to bed and read the pages which had sent me to limbo. And they were, indeed, convincing. Neatly typed, well set out, written in authoritative language. Not at first, second, or even third sight the product of malevolence. Emotionless. Cool. Damaging.
‘Charles Richard West is prepared to testify that during the course of the race, and in particular at a spot six furlongs from the winning post on the second circuit, he heard Hughes say that he (Hughes) was about to ease his horse so that it should be in no subsequent position to win. Hughes’ precise words were, “O.K. Brakes on, chaps”.’
The four other sheets were equally brief, equally to the point. One said that through an intermediary Dexter Cranfield had backed Cherry Pie with Newtonnards. The second pointed out that an investigation of past form would show
that on several other occasions Cranfield’s second string had beaten his favourite. The third suggested watching the discrepancies in Hughes’ riding in the Lemonfizz and in the last race at Reading… and there it was in black and white, ‘the last race at Reading.’ Gowery hadn’t questioned it or checked; had simply sent for the last race at Reading. If he had shown it privately to Plimborne and Tring only, and not to me as well, no one might ever have realised it was the wrong race. This deliberate piece of misleading had in fact gone astray, but only just. And the rest hadn’t. Page four stated categorically that Cranfield had bribed Hughes not to win, and photographic evidence to prove it was hereby attached.
There was also a short covering note of explanation.
‘These few facts have come to my notice. They should clearly be laid before the appropriate authorities, and I am therefore sending them to you, sir, as Steward in command of the forthcoming Enquiry.’
The typewriting itself was unremarkable, the paper medium quality quarto. The paper clip holding the sheets together was sold by the hundred million, and the buff envelope in which they’d been sent cost a penny or two in any stationer’s in the country.
There were two copies only of the photograph. On the back, no identifications.
I slid them all back into the envelope, and put it in the drawer of the table beside my bed. Switched out the light. Lay thinking of riding races again with a swelling feeling of relief and excitement. Wondered how poor old Gowery was making out, going fifteen rounds with his conscience. Thought of Archie and his mortgage… Kessel having to admit he’d been wrong… Roberta stepping off her dignity… the blackmailer biting his nails in apprehension… sweet dreams every one… slid into the first easy sleep since the Enquiry.
I woke with a jolt, knowing I’d heard a sound which had no business to be there.
A pen-sized flashlight was flickering round the inside of one of the top drawers of the dressing-chest. A dark shape blocked off half of its beam as an arm went into the drawer to feel around. Cautious. Very quiet, now.
I lay watching through slit-shut eyes, wondering how close I was this time to the pearly gates. Inconveniently my pulse started bashing against my eardrums as fear stirred up the adrenals, and inside the plaster all the hairs on my leg fought to stand on end.
Trying to keep my breathing even and make no rustle with the sheets I very cautiously slid one arm over the side of the bed and reached down to the floor for a crutch. Any weapon handy was better than none.
No crutches.
I felt around, knowing exactly where I’d laid them beside me, feeling nothing but carpet under my fingers.
The flashlight moved out of the drawer and swung in a small arc while the second top drawer was opened, making the same tiny crack as it loosened which had woken me with the other. The scrap of light shone fractionally on my two crutches propped up against the wall by the door.
I drew the arm very slowly back into bed and lay still. If he’d meant just to kill me, he would have done it by now: and whatever he intended I had little chance of avoiding. The plaster felt like a ton, chaining me immobile.
A clammy crawling feeling all over my skin. Jaw tight clenched with tension. Dryness in the mouth. Head feeling as if it were swelling. I lay and tried to beat the physical sensations, tried to will them away.
No noticeable success.
He finished with the drawers. The flashlight swung over the khaki chair and steadied on the polished oak chest behind it, against the wall. He moved over there soundlessly and lifted the lid. I almost cried out to him not to, it would wake me. The lid always creaked loudly. I really didn’t want him to wake me, it was much too dangerous.
The lid creaked sharply. He stopped dead with it six inches up. Lowered it back into place. It creaked even louder.
He stood there, considering. Then there were quick soft steps on the carpet, a hand fastening in my hair and yanking my head back, and the flashlight beam full in my eyes.
‘Right, mate. You’re awake. So you’ll answer some questions.’
I knew the voice. I shut my eyes against the light and spoke in as bored a drawl as I could manage.
‘Mr Oakley, I presume?’
‘Clever Mr Hughes.’
He let go of my hair and stripped the bedclothes off with one flick. The flashlight swung away and fell on top of them. I felt his grip on my neck and the front of my shirt as he wrenched me off the bed and on to the floor. I fell with a crash.
‘That’s for starters,’ he said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
He was fast, to give him his due. Also strong and ruthless and used to this sort of thing.
‘Where is it?’ he said.
‘What?’
‘A chunk of metal with a hole in it.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
He swung his arm and hit me with something hard and knobbly. When it followed through to the tiny light I could see what it was. One of my own crutches. Delightful.
I tried to disentangle my legs and roll over and stand up. He shone the light on me to watch. When I was half up he knocked me down again.
‘Where is it?’
‘I told you…’
‘We both know, chum, that you have this chunk of metal. I want it. I have a customer for it. And you’re going to hand it over like a good little warned off crook.’
‘Go scratch yourself.’
I rolled fast and almost missed the next swipe. It landed on the plaster. Some flakes came off. Less work for Tuesday.
‘You haven’t a hope,’ he said. ‘Face facts.’
The facts were that if I yelled for help only the horses would hear.
Pity.
I considered giving him the chunk of metal with the hole in it. Correction, half a hole. He didn’t know it was only half a hole. I wondered whether I should tell him. Perhaps he’d be only half as savage.
‘Who wants it?’ I said.
‘Be your age.’ He swung the crutch.
Contact.
I cursed.
‘Save yourself, chum. Don’t be stupid.’
‘What is this chunk of metal?’
‘Just hand it over.’
‘I don’t know what you’re looking for?’
‘Chunk of metal with a hole in it.’
‘What chunk of metal?’
‘Look, chum, what does it matter what chunk of metal? The one you’ve got.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘Stop playing games.’ He swung the crutch. I grunted. ‘Hand it over.’
‘I haven’t… got… any chunk of metal.’
‘Look chum, my instructions are as clear as glass. You’ve got some lump of metal and I’ve come to fetch it. Understand? Simple. So save yourself, you stupid crumb.’
‘What is he paying for it?’
‘You still offering more?’
‘Worth a try.’
‘So you said before. But nothing doing.’
‘Pity.’
‘Where’s the chunk…?’
I didn’t answer, heard the crutch coming, rolled at the right instant, and heard it thud on the carpet, roughly where my nose had been.
The little flashlight sought me out. He didn’t miss the second time, but it was only my arm, not my face.
‘Didn’t you ask what it was?’ I said.
‘None of your bloody business. You just tell me…’ bash…‘where’… bash…‘it is.’
I’d had about enough. Too much, in fact. And I’d found out all I was likely to, except how far he was prepared to go, which was information I could do without.
I’d been trying to roll towards the door. Finally made it near enough. Stretched backwards over my head and felt my fingers curl round the bottom of the other crutch still propped against the wall.
The rubber knob came into my hand, and with one scything movement I swept the business end round viciously at knee level.
It caught him square and unexpected on the back of the
legs just as he himself was in mid swing, and he overbalanced and crashed down half on top of me. I reached out and caught something, part of his coat, and gripped and pulled, and tried to swing my plaster leg over his body to hold him down.
He wasn’t having any. We scrambled around on the floor, him trying to get up and me trying to stop him, both of us scratching and punching and gouging in a thoroughly unsportsmanlike manner. The flashlight had fallen away across the far side of the room and shone only on the wall. Not enough light to be much good. Too much for total evasion of his efficient fists.
The bedside table fell over with a crash and the lamp smashed. Oakley somehow reached into the ruins and picked up a piece of glass, and I just saw the light shimmer on it as he slashed it towards my eyes. I dodged it by a millimetre in the last half second.
‘You bugger,’ I said bitterly.
We were both gasping for breath. I loosed the grip I had on his coat in order to have both hands free to deal with the glass, and as soon as he felt me leave go he was heaving himself back on to his feet.
‘Now,’ he said, panting heavily, ‘Where bloody is it?’
I didn’t answer. He’d got hold of a crutch again. Back to square one. On the thigh, that time,
I was lying on the other crutch. The elbow supports were digging into my back. I twisted my arm underneath me and pulled out the crutch, hand swung it at him just as he was having a second go. The crutches met and crashed together in the air. I held on to mine for dear life and rolled towards the bed.
‘Give… up…’ he said.
‘Get… stuffed.’
I made it to the bed and lay in the angle between it and the floor. He couldn’t get a good swing at me there. I turned the crutch round, and held it by the elbow and hand grips with both of my own. To hit me where I was lying he had to come nearer.
He came. His dark shadow was above me, exaggerated by the dim torchlight. He leant over, swinging. I shoved the stick end of the crutch hard upwards. It went into him solidly and he screeched sharply. The crutch he had been swinging dropped harmlessly on top of me as he reeled away, clutching at his groin.
‘I’ll… kill you… for that…’ His voice was high with pain. He groaned, hugging himself.
‘Serves… you… right’ I said breathlessly.