were no large blocks in single ownership. No one else held more than three per cent of the total: and as three per cent meant that roughly two and a half thousand pounds was lying idle and not bringing in a penny in dividends, it was easy to see why no one wanted a larger holding.
Fotherton’s name was not on the list. Although this was not conclusive, because a nominee name like ‘Mayday Investments’ could be anyone at all, I was more or less satisfied that Seabury’s Clerk was not gambling on Seabury’s death. All the big share movements during the past year had been to Kraye, and no one else.
A few of the small investors, holding two hundred or so shares each, were people I knew personally. I wrote down their names and addresses, intending to ask them to let me see Bolt’s circular letter when it arrived. Slower than via Zanna Martin, but surer.
My mind shied away from Zanna Martin. I’d had a bad night thinking about her. Her and Jenny, both.
Back in the office I found it was the tail-end of the lunch hour, with nearly all the desks still empty. Chico alone was sitting behind his, biting his nails.
‘If we’re going to be up all night,’ I suggested, ‘we’d better take the afternoon off for sleep.’
‘No need.’
‘Every need. I’m not as young as you.’
‘Poor old grandpa.’ He grinned suddenly, apologising for the morning. ‘I can’t help it. That Jones-boy gets on my wick.’
‘Jones-boy can look after himself. It’s Dolly…’
‘It’s not my bloody fault she can’t have kids.’
‘She wants kids like you want a mother.’
‘But I don’t…’ he began indignantly.
‘Your own,’ I said flatly. ‘Like you want your own mother to have kept you and loved you. Like mine did.’
‘You had every advantage, of course.’
‘That’s right.’
He laughed. ‘Funny thing is I like old Dolly, really. Except for the hen bit.’
‘Who wouldn’t?’ I said amicably. ‘You can sleep on my sofa.’
He sighed. ‘You’re going to be less easy than Dolly to work for, I can see that.’
‘Eh?’
‘Don’t kid yourself, mate. Sir, I mean.’ He was lightly ironic.
The other inmates of the office drifted back, including Dolly, with whom I fixed for Chico to have the afternoon free. She was cool to him and unforgiving, which I privately thought would do them both good.
She said, ‘The first official patrol will start on the racecourse tomorrow at six p.m. Shall I tell them to find you and report?’
‘No,’ I said definitely. ‘I don’t know where I’ll be.’
‘It had better be the usual then,’ she said. ‘They can report to the old man at his home number when they are starting the job, and again at six a.m. when they go off and the next lot take over.’
‘And they’ll ring him in between if anything happens?’ I said.
‘Yes. As usual.’
‘It’s as bad as being a doctor,’ I said smiling.
Dolly nodded, and half to herself she murmured, ‘You’ll find out.’
Chico and I walked round to my fiat, pulled the curtains, and did our best to sleep. I didn’t find it easy at two-thirty in the afternoon: it was the time for racing, not rest. It seemed to me that I had barely drifted off when the telephone rang: I looked at my watch on my way to answer it in the sitting-room and found it was only ten to five. I had asked for a call at six.
It was not the telephone exchange, however, but Dolly.
‘A message has come for you by hand, marked very urgent. I thought you might want it before you go to Seabury.’
‘Who brought it?’
‘A taxi driver.’
‘Shunt him round here, then.’
‘He’s gone, I’m afraid.’
‘Who’s the message from?’
‘I’ve no idea. It’s a plain brown envelope, the size we use for interim reports.’
‘Oh. All right, I’ll come back.’
Chico had drowsily propped himself up on one elbow on the sofa.
‘Go to sleep again,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to go and see something in the office. Won’t be long.’
When I reached the Racing Section again I found that whatever had come for me, something else had gone. The shaky lemon coloured table. I was deskless again.
‘Sammy said he was sorry,’ explained Dolly, ‘but he has a new assistant and nowhere to park him.’
‘I had things in the drawer,’ I complained. Shades of Sammy’s lunch, I thought.
‘They’re here,’ Dolly said, pointing to a corner of her desk. ‘There was only the Brinton file, a half bottle of brandy, and some pills. Also I found this on the floor.’ She held out a flat crackly celophane and paper packet.
‘The negatives of those photographs are in here,’ I said, taking it from her. ‘They were in the box, though.’
‘Until Jones-boy dropped it.’
‘Oh yes.’ I put the packet of negatives inside the Brinton file and pinched a large rubber band from Dolly to snap round the outside.
‘How about that mysterious very urgent message?’ I asked.
Dolly silently and considerately slit open the envelope in question, drew out the single sheet of paper it contained and handed it to me. I unfolded it and stared at it in disbelief.
It was a circular, headed Charing, Street and King, Stockbrokers, dated with the following day’s date, and it ran:
Dear Sir or Madam,
We have various clients wishing to purchase small parcels of shares in the following lists of minor companies. If you are considering selling your interests in any of these, we would be grateful if you would get in touch with us. We would assure you of a good fair price, based on today’s quotation.
There followed a list of about thirty companies, of which I had heard of only one. Tucked in about three- quarters of the way down was Seabury Racecourse.
I turned the page over. Zanna Martin had written on the back in a hurried hand.
This is only going to Seabury shareholders. Not to anyone owning shares in the other companies. The leaflets came from the printers this morning, and are to be posted tomorrow. I hope it is what you want. I’m sorry about last night.
Z.M.
‘What is it?’ asked Dolly.
‘A free pardon,’ I said light-heartedly, slipping the circular inside the Brinton file along with the negatives. ‘Also confirmation that Ellis Bolt is not on the side of the angels.’
‘You’re a nut,’ she said. ‘And take these things off my desk. I haven’t room for them.’
I put the pills and brandy in my pocket and picked up the Brinton file.
‘Is that better?’
‘Thank you, yes.’
‘So long, then, my love. See you Friday.’
On the walk back to the flat I decided suddenly to go and see Zanna Martin. I went straight down to the garage for my car without going up and waking Chico again, and made my way eastwards to the City for the second time that day. The rush hour traffic was so bad that I was afraid I would miss her, but in fact she was ten minutes late leaving the office and I caught her up just before she reached the underground station.
‘Miss Martin,’ I called. ‘Would you like a lift home?’
