‘The whole situation is infuriating,’ he nodded. ‘Such a good course basically, and nothing to be done.’
‘It could be saved,’ I said.
‘How?’
‘A new attitude of mind…’ I tailed off.
‘Go on,’ he said. But I couldn’t find the words to tell him politely that he ought to chuck out all the people in power at Seabury; too many of them were probably his ex-school chums or personal friends.
‘Suppose,’ he said after a few minutes, ‘that you had a free hand, what would you do?’
‘One would never get a free hand. That’s half the trouble. Someone makes a good suggestion, and someone else squashes it. They end up, often as not, by doing nothing.’
‘No, Sid, I mean you personally. What would you do?’
‘I?’ I grinned. ‘What I’d do would have the National Hunt Committee swooning like Victorian maidens.’
‘I’d like to know.’
‘Seriously?’
He nodded. As if he could ever be anything else but serious.
I sighed. ‘Very well then. I’d pinch every good crowd-pulling idea that any other course has thought of, and put them all into operation on the same day.’
‘What, for instance?’
‘I’d take the whole of the reserve fund and offer it as a prize for a big race. I’d make sure the race was framed to attract the really top chasers. Then I’d go round to their trainers personally and explain the situation, and beg for their support. I’d go to some of the people who sponsor Gold Cup races and cajole them into giving five hundred pound prizes for all the other races on that day. I’d make the whole thing into a campaign. I’d get Save Seabury discussed on television, and in the sports columns of newspapers. I’d get people interested and involved. I’d make helping Seabury the smart thing to do. I’d get someone like the Beatles to come and present the trophies. I’d advertise free car-parking and free race cards, and on the day I’d have the whole place bright with flags and bunting and tubs of flowers to hide the lack of paint. I’d make sure everyone on the staff understood that a friendly welcome must be given to the customers. And I’d insist that the catering firm used its imagination. I’d fix the meeting for the beginning of April, and pray for a sunny Spring day. That,’ I said, running down, ‘would do for a start.’
‘And afterwards?’ He was non-committal.
‘A loan, I suppose. Either from a bank or from private individuals. But the executive would have to show first that Seabury could be a success again, like it used to be. No one falls over himself to lend to a dying business. The revival has to come before the money, if you see what I mean.’
‘I do see,’ he agreed slowly, ‘but…’
‘Yes. But. It always comes to But. But no one at Seabury is going to bother.’
We were silent for a long way.
Finally I said, ‘This meeting on Friday and Saturday… it would be a pity to risk another last-minute disaster. Hunt Radnor Associates could arrange for some sort of guard on the course. Security patrols, that kind of thing.’
‘Too expensive,’ he said promptly. ‘And you’ve not yet proved that it is really needed. Seabury’s troubles still look like plain bad luck to me.’
‘Well… a security patrol might prevent any more of it.’
‘I don’t know. I’ll have to see.’ He changed the subject then, and talked firmly about other races on other courses all the way back to London.
TEN
Dolly lent me her telephone with resignation on Tuesday morning, and I buzzed the switchboard for an internal call to Missing Persons.
‘Sammy?’ I said. ‘Sid Halley, down in Racing. Are you busy?’
‘The last teenager has just been retrieved from Gretna. Fire away. Who’s lost?’
‘A man called Smith.’
Some mild blasphemy sped three storeys down the wire.
I laughed. ‘I think his name really is Smith. He’s a driver by trade. He’s been driving a tanker for Intersouth Chemicals for the last year. He left his job and his digs last Wednesday; no forwarding address.’ I told him about the crash, the suspect concussion and the revelry by night.
‘You don’t think he was planted on purpose on the job a year ago? His name likely wouldn’t be Smith in that case… make it harder.’
‘I don’t know. But I think it’s more likely he was a bona fide Intersouth driver who was offered a cash payment for exceptional services rendered.’
‘O.K., I’ll try that first. He might give Intersouth as a reference, in which case they’ll know if he applies for another job somewhere, or I might trace him through his union. The wife might have worked, too. I’ll let you know.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t forget, when the old man buys you a gold-plated executive desk I want my table back.’
‘You’ll want for ever,’ I said, smiling. It had been Sammy’s lunch.
On the table in question lay the slim file on the Andrews case that Jones-boy had unearthed from the basement. I looked round the room.
‘Where’s Chico?’ I asked.
Dolly answered. ‘Helping a bookmaker to move house.’
‘He’s doing
‘That’s right. Long-standing date. The bookmaker is taking his safe with him and wants Chico to sit on it in the furniture van. It had to be Chico, he said. No one else would do. The paying customer is always right, so Chico’s gone.’
‘Damn.’
She reached into a drawer. ‘He left you a tape,’ she said.
‘Undamn, then.’
She grinned and handed it to me, and I took it over to the recorder, fed it through on to the spare reel, and listened to it in the routine office way, through the earphones.
‘After wearing my plates down to the ankles,’ said Chico’s cheerful voice, ‘I found out that the worst things your Clerk of the Course did at Dunstable were to frame a lot of races that did the opposite of attract any decent runners, and be stinking rude to all and sundry. He was quite well liked up to the year before he killed himself. Then everyone says he gradually got more and more crazy. He was so rude to people who worked at the course that half of them wouldn’t put up with it and left. And the local tradesmen practically spat when I mentioned his name. I’ll fill you in when I see you, but there wasn’t anything like Seabury — no accidents or damage or anything like that.’
Sighing, I wiped the tape clean and gave it back to Dolly. Then I opened the file on my table and studied its contents.
A Mr Mervyn Brinton of Reading, Berks., had applied to the agency for personal protection, having had reason to believe that he was in danger of being attacked. He had been unwilling to say why he might be attacked, and refused to have the agency make enquiries. All he wanted was a bodyguard. There was a strong possibility, said the report, that Brinton had tried a little amateurish blackmail, which had backfired. He had at length revealed that he possessed a certain letter, and was afraid of being attacked and having it stolen. After much persuasion by Chico Barnes, who pointed out that Brinton could hardly be guarded for the rest of his life, Brinton had agreed to inform a certain party that the letter in question was lodged in a particular desk drawer in the Racing Section of Hunt Radnor Associates. In fact it was not; and had not at any time been seen by anyone working for the agency. However, Thomas Andrews came, or was sent, to remove the letter, was interrupted by J. S. Halley (whom he wounded by shooting), and subsequently made his escape. Two days later Brinton telephoned to say he no longer required a bodyguard, and as far as the agency was concerned the case was then closed.
