winner.
There were fourteen runners for the mile-and-a-half race and I knew nothing about the form of any of them except for the information on the race-card. In England I knew the current scene like a magnified city map, knew the thoroughfares, the back alleys, the small turnings. Knew who people knew, who they would turn to and turn away from, who they lusted after. In Canada, I was without radar and felt blind.
The Race Train Stakes at Woodbine, turning out to be hot enough in the homestretch to delight the Ontario Jockey Club's heart, was greeted with roars and screams of encouragement from the stands. Lorrimore's scarlet- and-white favourite was beaten in the last stride by a streak in pale blue and dark green and a good many of the cheers turned to groans.
Daffodil Quentin came down and passed close by me in clouds of chinchilla, excitement and a musky scent. She preened coquettishly, receiving compliments and the trophy, and Filmer, ever at her side, gallantly kissed her hand.
A let-off murderer, I thought, kissing an unproven insurance swindler. How very nice. Television cameras whirred and flash photographers outdid the sun.
I caught sight of Bill Baudelaire scowling, and I knew what John Millington would have said.
It was enough to make you sick.
Chapter Six
On Saturday evening and early Sunday morning I packed two bags, the new suitcase from England and a softer holdall bought in Toronto.
Into the first I put the rich young owner's suit, cashmere pullover and showy shirts and into the second the new younger-looking clothes for off-duty Tommy, jeans, sweatshirts, woolly hat and trainers. I packed the Scandinavian jersey I'd worn at Woodbine into the suitcase just in case it jogged anyone's memory, and got dressed in dark trousers, open-necked shirt and a short zipped navy jacket with lighter blue bands round waist and wrists.
The rich young owner's expensive brown shoes went away. Tommy, following instructions from the uniform department, had shiny new black ones, with black socks.
Into Tommy's holdall went the binoculars-camera and the hair curler (one never knew), and I had the cigarette lighter-camera as always in my pocket. Tommy also had the rich young owner's razor and toothbrush, along with his underclothes, pyjamas and stock of fresh films. The suitcase, which held my passport, had a Merry amp; Co label on it addressed to the Vancouver Four Seasons Hotel; the holdall had no identification at all.
With everything ready, I telephoned Brigadier Catto in England and told him about Daffodil Quentin and the touching little scene in the winners' circle.
'Damn!' he said. 'Why does that sort of thing always happen? Absolutely the wrong person winning.'
The general public didn't seem to mind. The horse was third favourite, quite well backed. Daffodil Quentin seems to be acceptable to the other owners, who of course probably don't know about her three dead horses. They're bound to take to Filmer too, you know how civilized he can seem, and I don't suppose news of the trial got muchattention here since it collapsed almost before it began. Anyway, Filmer and Daffodil left the races together in what looked like her own car, with a chauffeur.'
'Pity you couldn't follow them.'
'Well, I did actually, in a hired car. They went to the hotel, where Filmer and the other owners from the train are staying, and they went into the bar for a drink. After that, Daffodil left in her Rolls and Filmer went upstairs. Nothing of note. He looked relaxed.'
The Brigadier said, 'You're sure they didn't spot you at the hotel?'
'Quite sure. The entrance hall of the hotel was a big as a railway station itself. There were dozens of people sitting around waiting for other people. It was easy.'
It had even been easy following them from the racecourse, as when I went out to where my driver had parked his car I had a clear view from a distance of Daffodil at the exit gate being spooned into a royal blue Rolls-Royce by Filmer and her chauffeur. My driver, with raised eyebrows but without spoken question, agreed to keep the Rolls in sight for as long as possible, which he did without trouble all the way back to the city. At the hotel I paid him in cash with a bonus and sent him on his way, and was in time to see Filmer's backview receding into a dark- looking bar as I walked into the big central hall lobby.
It had been an exercise without much in the way of results, but then many of my days were like that, and it was only by knowing the normal that the abnormal, when it happened, could be spotted.
'Would you mind telling me,' I said diffidently to the Brigadier, 'whether Filmer has made a positive threat to disrupt this train?'
There was a silence, then, 'Why do you ask?'
'Something Bill Baudelaire said.'
After a pause he answered, 'Filmer was seething with anger. He said the world's racing authorities could persecute him all they liked but he would find a spanner to throw in their works, and they'd regret it.'
'When did he say that?' I asked. 'And why… and who to?’
'Well… er…' He hesitated and sighed. 'Things go wrong, you know. After the acquittal, the Disciplinary Committee of the Jockey Club called Filmer to Portman Square to warn him as to his future behaviour, and Filmer said they couldn't touch him, and was generally unbearably arrogant. As a result, one of the committee lost his temper and told Filmer he was the scum of the earth and no one in racing would sleep well until he was warned off, which was the number one priority of the world's racing authorities.'
'That's a bit of an exaggeration,' I commented, sighing in my turn. 'I suppose you were there?'
'Yes. You could have cut the fury on both sides with a knife. Very vicious, all of it.'
'So,' I said regretfully, 'Filmer might indeed see the train as a target.'
'He might.'
The trouble and expense he had gone to to get himself on board looked increasingly ominous, I thought.
'There's one other thing you might care to know,' the Brigadier said. 'John saw Ivor Horfitz's son Jason hanging around outside the weighing-room at Newmarket yesterday and had a word with him.'
When Millington had a word with people they could take days to recover. In his own way, he could be as frightening as Derry Welfram or Filmer himself.
'What happened?' I asked.
'John spoke to him about the inadvisability of running errands on racecourses for his warned-off father, and said that if Jason had any information, he should pass it on to him, John Millington. And apparently Jason Horfitz then said he wouldn't be passing on the information he had to anybody else as he didn't want to end up in a ditch.'
'What?'I said.
'John Millington pounced on that but he couldn't get another word out of the wretched Jason. He turned to jelly and literally ran away, John says.'
'Does Jason really know,' I said slowly, 'what Paul Shacklebury knew? Did he tell Paul Shacklebury whatever it was he knew? Or was it just a figure of speech?'
'God knows. John's working on it.'
'Did he ask Jason what was in the briefcase?'
'Yes, he did, but Jason either didn't know or was too frightened to speak. John says he was terrified that we even knew about the briefcase. He couldn't believe we knew.'
'I wonder if he'll tell his father.'
'Not if he has any sense.'
He hadn't any sense, I thought, but he did have fear, which was almost as good a life preserver.
'If I hear anything more,' the Brigadier said, 'I'll leave a message with…' his voice still disapproved '… with Mrs Baudelaire senior. Apart from that… good luck.'
I thanked him and hung up, and with considerable contentment took my two bags in a taxi to Union Station.
