She went to Italy and my days seemed remarkably empty even though my time was busily filled.
Nerrity's near-loss of Ordinand had caused a huge flutter in the dovecotes of owners of good-as-gold horses and I, in conjunction with our chummy insurance syndicate at Lloyds, was busy raising defences against copy-cat kidnaps.
Some owners preferred to insure the animals themselves against abduction, but many saw the point of insuring their wives and children. I found myself invited to ring the front door bell of many an imposing pile and to pass on the Chairman's considered judgements, the Chairman in some erroneous way having come to consider me an expert on racing matters.
The Lloyds syndicate did huge new business, and into every contract they wrote as usual a stipulation that in the case of 'an event,' the advice of Liberty Market should be instantly sought. You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours: both the syndicate and Liberty Market were purring.
The Jockey Club showed some interest. I was despatched to their offices in Portman Square in London to discuss the problems of extortion with the Senior Steward, who shook my hand firmly and asked whether Liberty Market considered the danger a real one.
'Yes,' I said moderately. 'There have been three kidnaps in the racing world recently: a man in Italy who owned a racecourse, Alessia Cenci, the girl jockey, whom you must know about, and John Nerrity's son.'
He frowned. 'You think they're connected?'
I told him how positively the latter two were connected and his frown deepened.
'No one can tell whether this particular man will try again now that the Nerrity venture has ended in failure,' I said, 'but the idea of forcing someone to sell a valuable horse may be seductive enough to attract imitators. So yes, we do think owners would be prudent to insure against any sort of extortion involving their horses.'
The Senior Steward watched my face unsmilingly. He was a thick-set man, maybe sixty, with the same natural assumption of authority as our Chairman, though not with the same overpowering good looks. Morgan Freemantle, Senior Steward, top authority of the huge racing industry, came across as a force of more power than charm, more intelligence than kindness, more resolution than patience. I guessed that in general people respected him rather than liked him, and also that he was probably good news for the health of the racing world.
He had said he had heard of our existence from a friend of his who was an underwriter at Lloyds, and that he had since made several enquiries.
'It seems your firm is well-regarded,' he told me austerely. 'I must say I would have seen no need for such an organisation, but I now learn there are approximately two hundred kidnaps for ransom in the world each year, not counting tribal disturbances in Africa, or political upheavals in Central and South America.'
'Er…' I said.
He swept on. 'I am told there may be many more occurrences than those actually reported. Cases where families or firms settle in private and don't inform the police.'
'Probably,' I agreed.
'Foolish,' he said shortly.
'Most often, yes.'
'I understand from the Police Commissioners that they are willing to work with your firm whenever appropriate.' He paused, and added almost grudgingly, 'They have no adverse criticisms.'
Bully for them, I thought.
'I think we can say, therefore,' Morgan Freemantle went on judiciously, 'that if anything further should happen to anyone connected with racing, you may call upon the Jockey Club for any help it is within our power to give.'
'Thank you very much,' I said, surprised.
He nodded. 'We have an excellent security service. They'll be happy to work with you also. We in the Jockey Club,' he informed me regretfully, 'spend a great deal of time confounding dishonesty, because unfortunately racing breeds fraud.'
There didn't seem to be an answer to that, so I gave none.
'Let me know, then, Mr… er… Douglas,' he said, rising, 'if your firm should be engaged by anyone in racing to deal with a future circumstance which might come within our province. Anything, that is to say, which might affect the stability of racing as a whole. As extortion by means of horses most certainly does.'
I stood also. 'My firm could only advise a client that the Jockey Club should be informed,' I said neutrally. 'We couldn't insist.'
He gave me a straight considering stare. 'We like to know what's going on in our own backyard,' he said. 'We like to know what to defend ourselves against.'
'Liberty Market will always cooperate as fully as possible,' I assured him.
He smiled briefly, almost sardonically. 'But you, like us, don't know where an enemy may strike, or in what way, and we find ourselves wishing for defences we never envisaged.'
'Mm,' I said. 'Life's like that.'
He shook my hand again firmly and came with me from his desk to the door of his office.
'Let's hope we've seen an end to the whole thing. But if not, come to see me.'
'Yes,' I said.
I telephoned to the Villa Francese one evening and my call was answered by Ilaria.
'Hello, Mr Fixit,' she said with amusement. 'How's it going?'
'Every whichway,' I said. 'And how are you?'
'Bored, wouldn't you know?'
Is Alessia there?' I asked.
'The precious girl is out visiting with Papa.'
'Oh…'
'However,' Ilaria said carefully, 'she should be back by ten. Try again later.'
'Yes. Thank you.'
'Don't thank me. She is out visiting Lorenzo Traventi, who has made a great recovery from his bullets and is now looking particularly ravishing and romantic and is kissing her hand at every opportunity.'
'Dear Ilaria,' I said. 'Always so kind.'
'Shit,' she said cheerfully, 'I might tell her you called.'
She did tell her. When I rang again, Alessia answered almost immediately.
'Sorry I was out,' she said. 'How's things?'
'How are they with you?' I asked.
'Oh… fine. Really fine. I mean it. I've ridden in several races since I've been back. Two winners. Not bad. Do you remember Brunelleschi?'
I thought back. 'The horse you didn't ride in the Derby?'
'That's right. Spot on. Well, he was one of my winners last week, and they're sending him to Washington to run in the International, and believe it or not but they've asked me to go too, to ride him.' Her voice held both triumph and apprehension in roughly equal amounts.
'Are you going?' I said.
'I… don't know.'
' Washington DC?' I asked. ' America?'
'Yes. They have an international race every year there at Laurel racecourse. They invite some really super horses from Europe to go there - pay all their expenses, and those of the trainers and jockeys. I've never been, but I've heard it's great. So what do you think?'
'Go, if you can,' I said.
There was a small silence. 'That's the whole thing, isn't it? If I can. I almost can. But I have to decide by tomorrow at the latest. Give them time to find someone else.'
'Take Ilaria with you,' I suggested.
'She wouldn't go,' she said positively, and then more doubtfully, 'Would she?'
'You can but ask.'
'Yes. Perhaps I will. I do wish, though, that you could go, yourself, I'd sail through the whole thing if I knew you were there.'
'Not a chance,' I said regretfully. 'But you will be all right.'
We talked for a while longer and disconnected, and I spent some time wondering if I could, after all, wangle a week off and blow the fare, but we were at that time very shortbanded in the office, Tony Vine having been called away urgently to Brazil and four or five partners tied up in a multiple mess in Sardinia. I was constantly taking messages from them on the switchboard in between the advisory trips to racehorse owners, and even Gerry Clayton's folded birds of paradise had given way to more orthodox paperwork.
Nothing happens the way one expects.
Morgan Freemantle, Senior Steward of the Jockey Club, went to Laurel for a week to be the guest of honour of the president of the racecourse, a courtesy between racing fraternities.
On the second day of his visit he was kidnapped.
The Chairman sent me round to the Jockey Club, where shock had produced suspended animation akin to the waxworks.
For a start there were very few people in the place and no one was quite sure who was in charge; a flock without its leader. When I asked which individual had received the first demand from the kidnappers I was steered to the office of a stiff-backed middle-aged woman in silk shirt and tweed skin who looked at me numbly and told me I had come at a bad time.
'Mrs Berkeley?' I enquired.
She nodded, her eyes vague, her thoughts elsewhere, her spine rigid.
'I've come about Mr Freemantle,' I said. It sounded rather as if I'd said 'I've come about the plumbing', and I had difficulty in stifling a laugh. Mrs Berkeley paid more attention and said, 'You're not the man from Liberty Market, are you?'
'That's right.'
'Oh.' She inspected me. 'Are you the person who saw Mr Freemantle last week?'
'Yes.'
'What are you going to do about it?'
