Murder at the Races

by Carmen Radtke

  ‘You’re right.’

  The operator said, ‘Your three minutes are up.’

  ‘I’ll ring up tomorrow,’ Jack said.

  The phone went silent.

  Frances borrowed some of her mother’s church-going clothes for the visit and scraped back her hair in a severe bun. Uncle Sal wore his most somber outfit too.

  Frances tried to not dwell on the fact that the last occasion on which he’d worn the charcoal suit had been a funeral. He looked almost like a stranger, without the accustomed gleam in his eyes and his stage-honed presence.

  They’d practiced their arrival at the prison. So much might hang for Rob on their looking trustworthy, and respectable.

  They’d wrapped a cake and a few sausages from the German butcher in brown paper, to make it easy for the guards to check. Uncle Sal carried the foodstuff well away from the toiletries and clothes Frances took along for Rob.

  The ruddy-faced guard only gave them and their parcels a cursory glance. A young woman and a lame old man didn’t seem to pose much of a threat for him, Frances thought as she gave him her sweetest smile.

  She tried to hide her shock as she saw Rob. How could he look this gaunt already? His skin stretched over his cheekbones, and underneath his tan was an unhealthy pallor.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ he said. ‘This is not a place for you, Franny.’

  He hadn’t called her Franny since they were little. She blinked away the sudden moistness in her eyes. ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘As if I would stay away.’

  She reached out for him, separated only by a few inches. The guard had taken them to a small visiting room, with bolted-down chairs and a table that was also fastened to the floor.

  ‘How are they treating you?’ Uncle Sal asked, his voice, that could easily fill a music hall, carefully lowered.

  ‘Fair enough.’ Rob rubbed his temples. ‘But I can’t find out about the bay horse I was treating. If the stable lad made a mistake, or I gave the wrong orders …’

  He slumped in his chair.

  ‘We’ll find out,’ Frances said. ‘But first you need to tell us a few things.’ She glanced around, unsure if they were overheard and how long they would have.

  ‘I don’t know anything.’

  Frances checked her list. ‘Who hired you? And did you see that painted horse before?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But it’s not impossible. All we do is a quick health check. I couldn’t be fooled when it comes to passing off a five-year old racer as a two-year old, but apart from that, there is no reason to remember every horse unless it’s got distinctive features.” Rob’s jaw worked. ‘Poor old Brocky would check the hooves.’

  ‘And you were inexperienced as a racecourse vet,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘Another point that would’ve made it easier to fool you. Who’s your boss?’

  ‘Technically, a group of racecourse managers. At least that’s what I’ve been told. My pay envelope was handed over by Mr Lucca.’

  ‘Mr Lucca?’ Frances scribbled down that name.

  ‘He’s the assistant of Mr Dunne, the manager for Morphettville,’ Rob said.

  ‘Who would have access to your room, and to Brocky’s lodgings?’

  ‘We didn’t always lock them,’ Rob said. ‘At least I didn’t. My wallet was in my coat, and I had nothing else to steal.’

  ‘What about your bag?’

  ‘I always keep that with me.’

  Frances bit her lip. No wonder Rob was the only suspect.

  ‘Where was it exactly when you were treating the colicky horse?’ Uncle Sal gave Frances’s knee a tiny pat.

  ‘I put it by the door,’ Rob said. ‘I didn’t want the horse to roll over it, or myself to stumble. Within easy reach and yet out of the way.’

  ‘And you were alone?’

  ‘Only for a few minutes, while I sent the boy to fetch hot water and towels.’

  ‘But you would have noticed anyone else entering?’ Frances’s heart beat a painful staccato in her chest. This was the important question. There was no reason to steal from Rob’s bag, or to plant the betting slip, before Brocky had cried foul play and needed to be silenced.

  ‘No idea. Lucy always says a whole travelling circus could pass through behind my back and I wouldn’t hear them when I’m busy.’

  His voice cracked as he mentioned his wife.

  Frances reached out for Rob’s arm. ‘She’s fine. She knows you wouldn’t do anything crooked. Ever.’

  A loud bang at the door interrupted them. ‘Time’s up.’

  ‘Is there anything you need?’ Uncle Sal asked.

  Rob shook his head.

  ‘We’ll be back,’ Frances said. ‘Don’t forget to eat and to take care of yourself. Promise?’

  Rob nodded. ‘Right-oh.’

  It broke Frances’s heart to leave her brother behind. He’d tried to say calm, but she could tell he didn’t hold out much hope. They had to get him out of there, and fast, before prison crushed his spirits. She didn’t dare consider failure. Not when Rob’s life was at stake.

  Chapter Seven

  Mr Dunne and Mr Lucca. Frances circled the names in ink. They needed a list of everyone who worked at Morphettville, or had worked there, and knew his way around stables and lodgings at night. Surely there were security guards too, making their regular rounds.

  Frances buried her head in her hands. Uncle Sal handed her a steaming mug of tea and dropped two lumps of sugar in it. It was almost too sweet, but she drank it gratefully.

  ‘We’ve made some impressive progress,’ he said, to cheer her up.

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I sure do.’ Uncle Sal counted on his fingers. ‘We know our murderer was involved in racing at the racecourse where the blacksmith worked before. Remember it was only a fluke Brocky ended up in Adelaide, instead of sticking to close to home as he usually did.’

  ‘That’s true.’ A feeling of warmth spread through Frances’s body. ‘If we can find out on which racecourses Brocky worked, and who else worked there, we could narrow our list of suspects down.’

  ‘We also need a list of the bookies.’

  Frances frowned. ‘Why?’ While betting was a popular pastime, the bookies were still hoping they could set up shop on the racecourses, especially one like prestigious Morphettville, that had been honoured by a visit from the Prince of Wales in 1920 during his empire tour.

  ‘I do have a few friends left your mother wouldn’t have approved of.’ Uncle Sal twinkled at her. ‘And there’s always Captain Jack’s network. You’ve seen for yourself how close the veterans are.’

  She broke into her first real smile since Rob’s arrest. ‘He and Bluey must have friends all over the country.’ Jack’s military title, dating back to the Great Stoush, still opened doors due to the fact that he looked after his men even long after their return. Most of the staff at the Top Note had served under him, and he felt that obligation keenly. One of the first things he’d done after shifting to Adelaide was holding a charity ball for war veterans and nurses. Frances half-wished she’d been there. Her more sensible part realised it was better like this. At Christmas 1928 she’d been only nineteen, and Jack had taken long enough to ignore the difference in their age.

  Uncle Sal rose and opened the icebox they’d purchased last month. Frances had reasoned it would pay for itself, with the savings in food that normally would have spoilt in the Adelaide heat. Now she regretted the expense. Rob needed a lawyer, and he’d have one, if she had to beg for a second mortgage on their home.

  ‘We have a left-over pie,’ he said. ‘Or I can fry lamb chops. You need a proper meal inside you.’

  ‘Pie is fine,’ she said. If only Phil could yell them if there were any news, or a clue to the real murderer. Instead, he’d left them, and Jack was on the other side of the Tasman Sea.

  ‘At least I only have to make it through tomorrow at work,’ she said. ‘I wish I didn’t have to go.’

  ‘You could snoop around,’ Uncle Sal said as
he slid the pie in a frying-pan and covered it with a lid. He’d learnt all kinds of tricks and shortcuts as a Vaudeville artist.

  ‘But how?’

  ‘Chat with the other operators, if you can. See if there were other rumours about something funny at the races in the cities.’

  ‘That’s a good idea.’ It should be easy enough. All the operators overheard stuff without the people on the phone thinking about it. While it was strictly forbidden to talk about it, most of the girls knew they could chat freely among themselves. Frances preferred to stick to the rules, but not when bending them could help her brother.

  She gave Uncle Sal a peck on the cheek. ‘You’re the best.’

  He patted her back with his left hand while he flipped the pie. ‘You and I, eh?’

  ‘You and I.’

  Halfway through her shift, Frances could have screamed with disappointment. Whenever she tried to bring up the racecourse murder with a colleague in another city, they would be cut short by a new call. Where were the quiet days when so few people would spend precious money on telephone calls that Mr Gibbons had to lay off half the staff? Today it seemed like all of Australia waited in line to talk to Adelaide.

  Four hours later, and the only morsel she had was that one girl’s brother’s father-in-law, who used to end up with empty pockets, came home about a month ago from a race in Flemington flush with money.

  ‘Are you crook?’ Gussie asked as Frances took off her headset. ‘Your face is all red.’

  ‘Just a bit of a headache. I’m glad I’ll have a bit of a break.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see the show.’ Gussie’s face held a dreamy look. ‘My mum says it’ll be ever so posh.’

  ‘Not too posh for the likes of us, but yeah, it will be special.’ Frances forced her muscles into a smile. The idea of the Top Note without Jack, while Rob sat in a cell, was unbearable, but there was nothing to be done about it.

  She waved good-bye and stepped out into the street when a hand clasped her shoulder from behind.

  Frances stifled a shriek and spun around, ready to use her handbag as a weapon, when she recognized Bluey.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, with a contrite look on his broad face. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘It’s not about Jack, is it?’ What if he’d met with an accident, or maybe he couldn’t leave his sister. She fumbled for her handkerchief.

  ‘Marie said to fetch you in the car. Uncle Sal’s already waiting.’ Bluey took her by the arm.

  ‘That’s very thoughtful,’ she said. ‘Bless her.’ Bluey’s wife would help her. Marie Fitzpatrick was just as reliable and trustworthy as her husband and tackled any problem head-on. As a former nurse on a veterans’ ward she too had connections everywhere.

  Frances sank back into the upholstered seat. Her head whirled. Maybe Dolores could wheedle some information out of Phil. After all, it wouldn’t hurt anyone to let them know where the blacksmith’s trail led.

  Uncle Sal sat centre-stage, twirling on a wheeled chair. Frances’s best friend Pauline gave him a push whenever he slowed down until he held up his hand. ‘Not too fast,’ he said, miming throwing a knife. ‘We need to time this just right.’

  Frances clapped. Pauline squeaked as she spun around and almost lost her balance. Frances hadn’t seen the roller skates before, but she was glad her idea seemed to work out. At least something did.

  ‘Wasn’t that spiffing?’ Pauline asked, her dimples growing deeper every second.

  ‘Marvellous,’ Frances agreed. She gave Uncle Sal a questioning look. He shook his head the fraction of an inch. He hadn’t told Pauline. The fewer people knew about Rob, the safer was his secret for now.

  ‘I could do with a break,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘Thank you, Pauline, and give my love to Dolores. I’m sure she wants you back.’

  ‘Not for ages.’ Pauline pulled a face. ‘She’s got a dress-fitting, and she won’t let anybody see the gown until it’s perfect.’ A grin flitted over her face. ‘But Tony should be upstairs. He’s fixing something in Mr Jack’s apartment.’ She winked at Frances. ‘I hope you’ll like whatever he’s doing.’

  She pushed herself off Uncle Sal’s chair and rolled across the floor.

  Uncle Sal hopped up, his chair still in motion.

  ‘Careful,’ Frances said.

  Marie peeked through the door and motioned them over. “Tucker’s ready.’ She’d put out sandwiches with slabs of ham, and the orange pound cake Uncle Sal was partial too, in the office. ‘I thought you’d like some privacy,’ Marie said. ‘It’s a bit cramped, but better than having any joker earwig on what’s going on.’

  Tears prickled in Frances’s eyes. She really needed to get a grip on her emotions. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No worries.’ Marie opened the door as soon as she heard footfall in the hallway. Bluey, with a couple of wooden chairs.

  Uncle Sal wolfed down a sandwich. ‘I reckon Jack has told you all about our little spot of bother.’

  Marie nodded. ‘We’ll make sure it stays between us.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Frances asked.

  ‘Same as you. Somebody left your brother holding the bag.’ Bluey helped himself to a slice of cake, using a napkin as a plate. He ate leaning against the wall, although they had one free chair left.

  ‘What I don’t understand is, why kill the blacksmith?’ Uncle Sal eyed the cake. He wasn’t a particularly vain man, but Frances understood his need to cut a dapper figure on stage, especially if he had to perform seated. She handed him a slab and took one herself.

  ‘How big would the penalty be for sending a painted horse into a race? It can’t be that much if you compare it to the big drop.’

  The cake stuck in Frances’s throat. Death sentences were rare, but the existence of the gallows inside Adelaide’s prison was a stark reminder of the fate that awaited a convicted murderer. Less than two years ago, a man called Thomas Blyth had been hanged for the murder of his wife.

  The door opened again while Uncle Sal’s words still hung in the air.

  ‘Only one reason,’ a male voice said. ‘It must have been about a lot more than just one horse, and they must have felt secure they had stitched up Rob good.’

  Frances squeezed her cake so tight it crumbled into the floor as she turned her head. ‘Jack? But that’s not possible.’

  But there he stood, solid and comforting and with that lazy smile that promised everything would be alright. He pressed a kiss onto her forehead and took a sandwich. ‘I haven’t had a bite since this morning,’ he said.

  ‘But the boat takes days.’ Frances couldn’t shake her confusion. ‘You were in New Zealand only yesterday.’

  ‘I was there until dawn this morning. An old mate owns a flight service, going back and forth, and he took me over in his Fokker.’ Jack sat down and stretched his legs.

  ‘You were flying?’

  ‘I tried to talk him out of it,’ Marie said. ‘But he didn’t listen.’

  ‘A plane that’s good enough for Charles Kingsford Smith, is good enough for me.’

  ‘They all say that until they crash.’ Marie glared at him.

  ‘Would you have said that if Bluey were in prison?’ Jack’s voice held an edge of finality even Marie accepted without another word. ‘Now I’m here, what do we have to go on with?’

  ‘One of the girls in Melbourne told me about an unexpected win in Flemington. That’s all,’ Frances said, aware of how little that told them.

  ‘That’s a good start.’ Jack stroked her cheek. ‘Nobody would be crazy enough to have a painted horse start in one of the big races like the Melbourne Cup, but the race days around it would bring in a fair number of punters. Bluey, you find us someone in each city who either likes a flutter and would have paid attention to unexpectedly high wins for rank outsiders, or a bookie. A straight one, we can trust.’

  ‘I can ask around too. Lots of show people like a bit of fun when they travel around,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘The ra
ces are just what they’re looking for.’

  ‘Good-oh.’ Bluey took a notepad from the desk and a pencil. ‘If I have names, maybe Miss Frances can get their phone numbers quicker than me, if they are on the phone.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ Frances said, relieved to finally have something concrete to do. Trust Jack to lift her spirits. Although he had taken a huge risk, flying across the thousands of miles of open water between New Zealand and Australia. Too many planes never made it safely even on small distances, over land.

  ‘Frances?’ Jack’s voice snapped her back to the present situation. ‘We’ll sort this. You’ll have your brother back.’

  Chapter Eight

  Jack sent Uncle Sal and Frances home with Bluey. He’d tried to keep up a cheerful face in front of them, but Rob Palmer really was in one hell of a mess. That’s why he had dropped everything, kissed his sister good-bye and entrusted his life to a machine made out of thin metal and death rattles. The sooner they figured out what was going on at the races, the better, before all possible suspects had moved on and the trail was not only cold, but obliterated.

  He knocked on Dolores’ apartment door.

  ‘Come in,’ she sang out.

  He entered, only to have her look scared at the first. ‘I didn’t expect you for ages,’ she said. She pulled him towards the settee in front of her fireplace. The silk of her dress rustled gently. ‘Why are you here? Is it about Rachel?’

  ‘She’s fine, and she sends you her love.’

  ‘And her bloke? Did you suss him out?’ Dolores creased her brows for a moment before she remembered to smooth out the lines on her expertly made-up face.

  She took her beauty seriously, secretly convinced that half her admirers would stop listening to her sing if her looks were gone. She was wrong, Jack thought, but her bouts of insecurity were as much part of her as her indisputable talent, and her kindness.