Murder at the Races

by Carmen Radtke

  ‘Her train’s due in an hour, and I said we’d phone her, so the expense won’t fall on your Uncle Fred,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Jack. I’ll pay you back, of course.’

  The sun had barely set, but preparations for the night’s revel were already under way. Soft sounds filtered through the rooms, with the band warming up for their performance. Snowy cloth covered the tables, and the thick carpet showed spotless in the light of the chandeliers.

  No matter how often she’d seen it, Frances still marvelled at the change from the smoke-filled, alcohol-soaked dancehall the club became in the early hours to sweet-smelling, pristine freshness. The two faces of the Top Note, she thought. ‘It’s like day and night, isn’t it?’

  ‘Eh?’ Uncle Sal gazed around with narrow eyes, obviously lost in his own world. ‘You two go ahead,’ he said, ‘and don’t mind me. I’ve got an idea or two I’d like to play around with.’ Without waiting for a reply, he made for the stage which for now was bare except for a drum-set and a baby grand piano.

  Frances smiled. Like the club, Uncle Sal also had different sides to him. It took a lot of imagination to reconcile the dapper vaudeville artist with the slight man in a patched cardigan and an apron, doing the dishes with her or peeling vegetables for Mum.

  ‘Are you coming?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Sorry, I was wool-gathering.’ She smiled at him. How many faces had Jack, she wondered? He could be tough, ruthless, but he was also the most caring man she’d ever known, as evidenced by the assembled staff of his club, all of which had bonds together going back to the Great War.

  He winked at her, and her smile widened. He was also the most attractive man she’d ever known.

  ‘You look very pensive,’ he said as he opened the door to his apartment on the second floor.

  ‘I’ve just been wondering if I really know you,’ she said, following him inside. ‘Or rather, how many of your faces I know. ‘

  ‘And?’

  ‘I can’t say. I can’t even say how many of Uncle Sal’s faces I know.’

  ‘What about yourself?’

  ‘Me? That’s easy. I’m just plain old Frances Palmer, that’s all there is to me.’ She couldn’t help but feel a pang of frustration.

  Jack opened the door to his fridge and took out a pitcher of iced water. He filled two glasses and handed her one.

  ‘That’s what you say,’ he said, curling a lock of her hair around his finger. ‘What about the girl who supports her family and friends every which way, who flaunts convention by asking for lemonade in a night-club and going out with a sly-grogger? And what about Signorina Francesca, who is as fearless as she is beautiful, offering herself to have knives flung at her?’

  The breath caught in her throat. ‘Beautiful?’

  ‘To me you are, sweetheart. Always.’

  ‘You never said that before.’

  ‘No.’

  There was a question in his eyes, and an invitation. He put down his glass and took her face in both hands. ‘Frances, I know this is probably bad timing, but …’

  Three rapid raps on the door interrupted them.

  Frances could have howled with frustration as Jack released her to open the door to Bluey.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Jack,’ he said, as normally placid face screwed up. ‘The man in the valley’s tried to pull one on us again. Half his delivery is watered down so much you could bottle-feed it to a baby. The rest of the wine seems fine.’ He shook his head. ‘Can’t trust anyone these days.’

  Jack raked his fingers through his hair. ‘Sorry, sweetheart, I need to sort this out. This might take a bit. Will I see you downstairs when I’m done, or would you like to see Dolores, if you still don’t mind waiting?’

  ‘I’d love to see her, if she’s not too busy.’

  She tapped on the door to the second apartment.

  ‘Coming,’ Dolores’ mellow voice rang out. She flung the door open and enveloped Frances in a cloud of silk kimono and Chanel No 5. ‘I was hoping you’d drop in, darling. Do sit down, will you, while I get changed? Oh, and if you’d like a drink, you know where everything is.’

  Frances sank into a black leather armchair, Dolores’ latest acquisition. The whole sitting room looked like in the glossy magazines the singer adored, she thought, with its black and chrome furniture and the glass table. The only spots of colour drawing the eye came in the form of a mass of red roses that adorned the mantel.

  Dolores wafted out of her bedroom, dressed in a clinging black frock that accentuated the whiteness of her skin. She curled up on the settee opposite Frances and sighed. ‘Hard to believe he’ll be gone in the morning. It’s silly, but things simply won’t feel the same.’

  ‘No,’ Frances said. A lump formed in her throat. ‘Still, it won’t be for too long.’

  ‘Unless he doesn’t like Rachel’s new beau and has to prise her from him.’ Dolores’ dark eyes grew troubled. ‘Do they have crooks on New Zealand sheep stations? She wouldn’t fall for another bad lot, would she?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Frances, more to reassure Dolores than from conviction. After all, she’d never met Jack’s younger sister whom he’d rescued from the clutches of a cocaine dealer. ‘Isn’t she living with family anyway? They’re bound to take a good look at any man in her life.’

  ‘Like Uncle Sal did with Jack?’ Dolores’ angled for the water glass sitting on the side table and took a deep sip. ‘No need to blush, darling. I think it’s sweet, the way he watches over you.’

  ‘Well, I mean …’

  ‘Funny should Rachel get married first.’ Dolores gave her an impish smile. ‘Has he proposed yet, or is he still doing his strong restrained act?’

  Frances shook her head. Honestly, Dolores could be impossible, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel vexed about this intrusion into her private life. Especially not since this was what she’d wanted to hear all along, that Jack cared as much for her as she did for him. Still, no need to show it too obviously. ‘He hasn’t said anything, but why should he?’

  ‘Men.’ Dolores’ rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘There all the same, brave as what have you in the war, and too scared in real life to utter a few words. Unless – you wouldn’t reject him, would you? I don’t think he could go through that again.’

  Frances’s mouth fell open.

  Dolores said, ‘Hasn’t he told you? He was as good as engaged once, when he had his pockets full of money from his mining days, but then the trouble with Rachel broke, and little dearie figured that Jack came with a lot of baggage and more than a few mouths to feed, so she split and hooked herself up with a wallet on legs.’ She snorted. ‘Everyone but Jack knew she was nothing but a common gold-digger, but he fell for it.’

  ‘That must have been bad.’

  ‘Yes, especially on top of everything else. You won’t tell him that I told you, though, darling? I don’t want to hurt his feelings.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Good-oh.’ She glanced at the clock on the mantel. ‘Heavens, Pauline should be here any minute to do my hair. You’re staying for my set, aren’t you? And where’s Uncle Sal, by the way? I’ve got a fabulous idea for our show that I can’t wait to run past my new artistic director.’

  ‘He’s downstairs, probably examining the stage from every angle. I’d better join him, after I’ve rung up Mum in Melbourne.’

  ‘Feel free to use my telephone, darling, and give Maggie my love.’ Dolores blew her a kiss as she opened the door for Pauline.

  Frances fished the paper with Uncle Fred’s phone number out of her skirt pocket. It felt strange to give an operator the number she wanted, instead of sitting at the switchboard herself.

  Mum must have waited by the telephone, because she was on the line without delay. ‘How are you, love?’ she said.

  ‘Fine,’ Frances said. ‘And you? Did you have a good journey?’

  ‘Marvellous, but I wish I could have had more time with Rob.’

  ‘Never mind
,’ said Frances. ‘Don’t forget he’s got two days between racecourses when you’re back.’

  ‘That’s true. And it is nice to see Fred und Millie, after all this time. They’re taking me out to dinner tomorrow.’ Mum spoke faster, obviously mindful of the expense. ‘And Frances, tell Uncle Sal to keep an eye on Rob, will you?’

  ‘He’ll be fine, Mum. Now, you take care of you, and I’ll ring you up again next weekend. Oh, and Dolores and Jack send their love. Bye.’

  She strolled downstairs, deep in thought. A broken engagement – she should have guessed that long ago. How anyone could dump Jack because he would always be there for the people he cared about, was beyond her. She must have been very pretty, that girl, for a sophisticated man like Jack to fall in love with her.

  She mentally slapped herself. This was all in the past, and hadn’t he called her beautiful only today? She’d be stupid to let old stories bother her, and if Dolores believed that Jack was in love with Frances Palmer, well … A warm feeling crept up in her stomach.

  Three hours later, after Dolores’ performance and a relaxed dinner with her and Uncle Sal, now and then interrupted by Jack who only managed to drop by for a few minutes at a time, she found herself alone with Jack for the last time before his trip.

  He hugged her close.

  She clung to the lapels of his dinner jacket.

  ‘Take care, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t have time to talk to you today, but we’ll make up for that when I’ll come home, sweetheart.’

  ‘As long as you do return.’ She inhaled the mixture of spicy toilet water and sun-warmed skin that for her was the essence of Jack.

  ‘I’ll always come back to you.’ He bent to kiss her. She melted into his arms.

  She was still short of breath, five minutes later, when Bluey ushered her and Uncle Sal into the car to drive them home.

  The kitchen seemed empty without Mum. Normally on a Sunday morning, especially when Frances had a day off, the smell of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon would greet her. Today, it was the sight of used dishes in the sink and a drooping geranium on the window sill.

  She frowned. Usually Phil could be relied upon to clean up after himself. But these days he seemed to be always in a rush, which could only mean that his police department investigated a serious case. She put the kettle on. Only a quarter to eight, but she had been unable to sleep longer. By now Jack’s boat would be out in the open sea.

  Hurried steps on the staircase, followed by more measured alerted her to the present. She took butter and bacon out of the refrigerator and reached for Mum’s apron.

  ‘Morning, Frances, Uncle Sal.’ Phil’s eyes were bloodshot, and a trickle of blood oozed from a tiny shaving cut on his left cheek. ‘Sorry about the mess. How’s Maggie?’

  ‘Everything’s good with us,’ she said, putting the frying pan on. ‘But what’s the matter with you? You look terrible?’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you,’ he said, rubbing his eyes.

  Uncle Sal peered at him. ‘When did you last have a proper meal, mate?’

  ‘Wednesday. I think.’

  Frances shook her head and cracked six eggs into the pan. They’d have a proper Sunday breakfast, even without Mum, and then she and Uncle Sal would practice their juggling act in the garden.

  ‘We missed you last night,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘Or did you drop in at the Top Note after we’d left?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry I missed Jack, but lately it’s been one thing after another. I hoped I’d catch you in the afternoon, but you were gone.’

  Frances slid bacon into the pan. ‘Jack took us to the races.’ She grinned. ‘I’m not asking Uncle Sal to tell you his secret, but you won’t believe how much fun it is. I picked three winners!’

  ‘Beginners’ luck,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘Don’t get too excited. A little flutter is all very well, but it doesn’t do to get too keen on playing the ponies.’

  ‘As if I would.’

  Frances waited patiently until the bacon was nice and crispy before she distributed eggs and bacon evenly on the plates. They ate in silence, only interrupted by the ticking of the wall clock and the scraping of cutlery on china.

  Phil had just emptied his third cup of coffee when Uncle Sal said, ‘There was a bit of a to-do yesterday, after the novices’ race. Probably nothing to it, but still, I thought you might like to know.’

  ‘The blacksmith, right? We heard about it already. I’m going out there before the meeting starts this afternoon, to have a quiet word with the fellow, and with the racecourse manager and his assistant. Poor fellows, having to deal with this.’

  ‘You’re not going to talk to Rob, are you?’ Frances said.

  ‘There’s no reason why I should. There won’t be anything in it at all, believe me. You can forget about it.’

  The day grew as hot as the day before. At lunch time they decided to stop juggling oranges, balls and, in Uncle Sal’s case, three jewel-hilted daggers, and go to Elder park with its shady trees and lake for swimming.

  They came home to an empty house in the evening, sandy and tired.

  ‘Thank you for a spiffing day, Uncle Sal,’ Frances said as they parted for the night.

  He ruffled her hair. ‘Anytime, love. Anytime. You’re on an early shift tomorrow, right? Then I’ll meet you after work at the club.’

  Frances was busy at work when her colleague Clara tiptoed into the telephone exchange and whispered into her ear. ‘I think you’d better go at once. Your Uncle Sal’s waiting outside, and he’s all horrible and grey in his face.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Frances tore off her headset. ‘Thanks, Clara.’ She rushed out the door. Apart from the damaged ankle as the result of being hit by a drunken driver, Uncle Sal was as fit as a fiddle. Her throat constricted.

  ‘Frances?’ He really looked ashen, and his breathing was shallow.

  Tears welled up in her eyes. ‘What are you doing here? You’re ill. You should be at the doctor’s.’ She clasped his sleeve. ‘Come on, we’ll get a taxi.’

  ‘Wait, love. I’ve got bad news.’

  Black spots appeared in front of her eyes. ‘It’s Jack, isn’t it? The boat sank, right, just like the Titanic? But there are no ice-bergs on the way to New Zealand.’ She was babbling now. Sweat formed on her forehead.

  Uncle Sal hugged her. ‘Calm down, Frances. Jack’s alright. It’s Rob. Phil called me. The blacksmith has been murdered, and the police have arrested your brother.’

  Chapter Four

  Rob sat hunched at the back of the holding cell. His head should be bursting with unanswered question, but it wasn’t. His brain was numb. His whole body was, except for his left arm that one of the policemen had twisted on his back to handcuff him. The cell stank of stale tobacco smoke and fear. How many men had sat here before him, drenched in sweat, dreading what was to come? A wave of nausea washed over him. He forced it down; wasn’t any sign of weakness considered to be a sign of guilt?

  In the cell next to his, a man shouted obscenities.

  ‘Hold it, mate,’ the guard yelled as he walked past Rob. ‘You keep your ugly gob shut, you hear me? Lor’, why do you jokers always end up with me instead of in the drunk-tank where you belong.’ He came back and peered at Rob. ‘You all right there? Want me to get you some water?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ How long had been sitting here? Hours? He couldn’t tell. All he knew that they had come for him in the morning, while he attended to a colicky gelding. He’d been called out shortly past midnight. The horse, a promising three-year-old, rolled around in his box, foam flecking his mouth and running down his neck. The heartbeat was erratic and the body temperature climbing.

  An eternity later, Rob dimly remembered shouting outside the box, something about Brocky, but he hadn’t paid attention. Nothing mattered apart from the horse. He’d called for more helpers, to force the horse up onto his legs before he ruptured his bowel, and to lead him into the arena.

  Two stable hands – God, he couldn’t even
remember their names, let alone their faces - held the trembling horse, while he fished around in his medical bag for the big syringe. He couldn’t find it, or the vial with tranquiliser, so he used a smaller syringe instead. Gradually the horse’s spasm had eased, and his breath grew stronger.

  He’d dismissed one of the stable hands, relying on the other man to help him rub the gelding dry while walking him around, always waiting for the first steaming load of manure which surely must come now any minute.

  The commotion outside had grown worse, as a number of men trampled through, regardless of disturbing the horses with their clanging boots and raised voices. The gelding had just relieved himself with a groan, when three men entered, telling him he was under arrest. He barely had time to give the stable hand further instructions for the horse’s treatment before he found himself handcuffed and bundled off into a van.

  ‘Here’s your water, mate.’ The guard pushed a cup into Rob’s hand, looking at him in the detached manner of someone who’s seen it all before without anything leaving its mark.

  Not overly bright, Rob thought, but also not hostile. He managed a weak smile. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No worries.’ The guard turned on his heel.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Rob said. ‘What’s going to happen now?’

  ‘Not been here before, have you? You just wait and sit tight until someone comes for you.’ The guard guffawed at his joke.

  Rob drained his cup in three gulps. Lucy! What would they tell her? He banged his cup against the concrete wall. ‘Excuse me, officer?’

  A chair scraped across the floor. The guard shuffled close. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘My wife,’ Rob said, ‘it’s only – should anyone call my wife, please break it to her gently. She’s – she’s expecting.’

  A kind gleam shone in the officer’s eyes. ‘Right-ho.’ He gave Rob an encouraging nod.