'Dammit, that's not what I meant.'
'No,' I said. 'Well… the Breeders' Cup races are three weeks tomorrow at Santa Anita. Why don't we phone Ramsey Osborn? Why don't we phone Blue Clancy's trainer? Why don't you fly to Los Angeles tomorrow and have a fine old time at the races for three weeks? They have racing every day on the same track. If I know you, you'll be cronies with the racetrack committee immediately. Ramsey Osborn will send introductions. You can stay where the Breeders' Cup organisers do, at the Beverly Wilshire hotel which I've heard is right at the end of Rodeo Drive where there's a man's shop so expensive you have to make an appointment to be let in. Buy a few shirts there, it'll make a nice dent in your bankroll. Forget Quantum. Forget the bloody family. They won't know where you are and they'll never find you.'
I stopped only a fraction for breath, not long enough for him to raise objections. 'On the Tuesday after the Breeders' Cup, they're running the Melbourne Cup in Melbourne, Australia. That's their biggest race. The whole country stops for it. A lot of the people from the Breeders' Cup will go on to Australia. You'll have made cronies among them by the dozen. I've heard it's all marvellous. I've never been, and I'd love to. I'll join you as soon as my passport's renewed and I'll go on minding your back – if you still want me to.'
He had listened at first with apathy, but by the end he was smiling. I'd proposed the sort of impulsive behaviour that had greatly appealed to him in the past, and it still did, I was grateful to see. 'A damn sight better than rotting at the Ritz,' he announced.
'Great,' I said. 'Get out your diary for the numbers.'
It was soon settled. Blue Clancy would go over for the Breeders' Cup as long as he was fit. Ramsey Osborn, booming away in Stamford, Connecticut, promised introductions galore to a score of very dear friends he'd met a couple of times out West. Why didn't Malcolm stop off at Lexington on the way and feast his eyes on some real blood stock Ramsey had some very good friends in Lexington who would be delighted to have Malcolm stay with them. Ramsey would call them and fix it. Stay by the phone, you guys, he said. He would fix it and call back. It was breakfast time in Connecticut, he said. It would be an hour earlier in Lexington. He would see if the lazy so and so's were out of bed. Whether they were or they weren't, Ramsey phoned back within twenty minutes. As before, Malcolm talked on the sitting-room telephone, I on the extension in my bedroom.
'All set, 'Ramsey said. 'They're expecting you, Malcolm, tomorrow. And I'm flying down Sunday. They're real sweet guys, you'll love them. Dave and Sally Cander. Dogwood Drift Farm, outside of Lexington.' He read out the telephone number. 'You got that?' Malcolm had got it. Ramsey asked where Malcolm was planning to stay for the Breeders' Cup. 'Beverly Wilshire? Couldn't be better. Centre of the universe. I'll make reservations right away.' Malcolm explained he needed a two-bedroom suite for himself and Me. Sure thing, Ramsey agreed. No problem. See you, he said. We had made his day, he said, and to have a good one. The sitting-room seemed smaller and quieter when he'd gone off the line, but Malcolm had revitalised remarkably. We went at once by taxi to Australia House where Malcolm got his visa without delay, and on the way back stopped first at his bank for more travellers' cheques and then in Piccadilly a little short of the Ritz to shop in Simpson's for replacement clothes from the skin up, not forgetting suitcases to pack them in. Malcolm paid for all of mine with his credit card, which was a relief. I hardly liked to ask him outright for my fare to California, but he'd thought of my other finances himself already and that evening gave me a bumper cheque to cover several additional destinations.
'Your fare and so on. Pay Arthur Bellbrook. Pay Norman West. Pay the contractors for weatherproofing Quantum. Pay for the hired car. Pay your own expenses. Anything else?'
'Tickets to Australia?'
'We'll get those in the morning. I'll pay for them here, with mine to Lexington. If we can get you a Los Angeles ticket without a date on, I can pay for that, too.'
We made plans about telephone calls. He was not to phone me, I would phone him.
We dined in good spirits, the dreadful morning at least overlaid. He raised his glass: 'To Blue Clancy' and 'To racing' and 'To life.'
'To life,' I said.
I drove him to Heathrow in the morning safely as promised, and saw him on his way to Lexington via New York and Cincinnati. He was fizzing at least at half strength and gave me a long blue look before he departed.
'Don't think I don't know what I owe you,' he said.
'You owe me nothing.'
'Bloody Moira,' he said unexpectedly, and looked back and waved as he went.
Feeling good about him, I telephoned from the airport to Superintendent Yale but got one of his assistants: his chief was out at Quantum and had left a message that if I phoned I was to be asked if I could join him. Yes, I could, I agreed, and arrived in the village about forty minutes later.
The road to the house wasn't as congested as the day before, but fresh waves of sightseers still came and went continuously. I drove up to the gate and after radio consultation the constable there let me pass. Another policeman was at my side the moment I stopped in front of the house. Different men, both of them, from the day before.
Superintendent Yale appeared from the direction of the kitchen, having been alerted by the gate man I surmised.
'How is Mr Pembroke?'he asked, shaking hands with every sign of having adopted humanity as a policy.
'Shaken,' I said.
He nodded understandingly. He was wearing an overcoat and looked cold in the face, as if he'd been out of doors for some time. Thee mild wind of yesterday had intensified rawly and the clouds looked more threatening, as if it would rain. Yale glanced with anxiety at the heavens and asked me to go round with him to the back garden.
The front of the house looked sad and blind, with light brown plywood hammered over all the windows and a heavy black tarpaulin hanging from under the roof to hide the hole in the centre. At the rear, the windows were shuttered and the bare roof rafters were covered but the devastated centre was still open to the elements. Several men in hard hats and overalls were working there, slowly picking up pieces from the huge jumble and carrying them to throw them into a rubbish skip which stood a short distance away across the lawn.
'Do they Propose to move all that by hand?' I asked.
'As much as is necessary,' Yale said. 'We've got a surprise for you.' He waved to a man in beige overalls with a blue hard hat who came over to us and asked me my name.
'Ian Pembroke,' I said obligingly.
He unzipped the front of his overalls, put a hand inside and drew out a battered navy-blue object which he held out to me with a small satisfied smile. 'You may need this,' he said.
Never a truer word. It was my passport.
'Where on earth did you find it?' I said, delighted.
He shrugged and pointed to the mess. 'We always come across a few things unharmed. We're making a pile of them for you, but don't get your hopes up.'
I zipped the passport into my new Simpson's Barbour and thought gratefully that I wouldn't have to trail around getting a new one. 'Have you found any gold-and-silver-backed brushes?' I asked.
'Not so far.'
'They're my father's favourite things.' 'We'll look out for them,' he said. 'Now, we'd like you to help us in return.'
'Anything I can.'
He was a lean, highly professional sort of man, late forties I guessed, giving an impression of army. He said his name was Smith. He was an explosives expert.
'When you first came here yesterday morning,' he said, 'did you smell anything?' I was surprised. I thought back. 'Brick dust,' I said. 'The wind was stirring it up. It was in my throat.'
He grunted. 'This looks like a gas explosion, but you're quite certain, aren't you, that there was no gas in the house?'
'Absolutely certain.'
'Do you know what cordite smells like?' he asked.
'Cordite? Like after a gun's been fired, do you mean?'
'That's right.'
'Well, yes, I know what it smells like.'
