'No, he's a gift. From Bill to you, if you like.'
And on those terms I gave in, and thanked her as best I could.
The following morning, early, I drove to Pete Gregory's stables in Sussex to jump my green young Forlorn Hope over the schooling hurdles. A drizzling rain was falling as I arrived, and only because I had come so far did we bother to take the horses out. It was not a very satisfactory session, with Forlorn Hope slipping on the wet grass as we approached the first hurdle and not taking on the others with any spirit after that.
We gave it up and went down to Pete's house. I told him Admiral was to be mine and that I would be riding him.
He said, 'He's in the Foxhunters' at Liverpool, did you know?'
'So he is!' I exclaimed delightedly. I had not yet ridden round the Grand National course, and the sudden prospect of doing it a fortnight later was exciting.
'You want to have a go?'
'Yes, indeed,' I said.
We talked over the plans for my other horses, Pete telling me Palindrome was in fine fettle after his Cheltenham race and a certainty for the following day at Bristol. We went out to look at him and the others, and I inspected the splint which Heavens Above was throwing out. His leg was tender, but it would right itself in time.
When I left Pete's I went back to Brighton, parking the Lotus and taking a train as before. I walked out of Brighton station with a brief glance at the three taxis standing there (no yellow shields) and walked briskly in the direction of the headquarters of the Marconicars as listed in the telephone directory.
I had no particular plan, but I was sure the core of the mystery was in Brighton, and if I wanted to discover it, I would have to dig around on the spot. My feelers on the racecourse had still brought me nothing but a husky warning on the telephone.
The Marconicars offices were on the ground floor of a converted Regency terrace house. I went straight into the narrow hall.
The stairs rose on the right, and on the left were two doors, with a third, marked Private, facing me at the far end of the passage. A neat board on the door nearest the entrance said 'Enquiries'. I went in.
It had once been an elegant room and even the office equipment could not entirely spoil its proportions. There were two girls sitting at desks with typewriters in front of them, and through the half-open folded dividing doors I could see into an inner office where a third sat in front of a switchboard. She was speaking into a microphone.
'Yes, madam, a taxi will call for you in three minutes,' she said. 'Thank you.' She had a pleasant high voice of excellent carrying quality.
The two girls in the outer office looked at me expectantly. They wore tight sweaters and large quantities of mascara. I spoke to the one nearest the door.
'Er- I'm enquiring about booking some taxis- for a wedding. My sister's,' I added, improvising and inventing the sister I never had. 'Is that possible?'
'Oh, yes, I think so,' she said. 'I'll ask the manager. He usually deals with big bookings.'
I said, 'I'm only asking for an estimate- on behalf of my sister. She has asked me to try all the firms, to find out which will be most – er – reasonable. I can't give you a definite booking until I've consulted her again.'
'I see,' she said. 'Well, I'll ask Mr Fielder to see you.' She went out, down the passage, and through the door marked Private.
While I waited I grinned at the other girl, who patted her hair, and I listened to the girl at the switchboard.
'Just a minute, sir. I'll see if there's a taxi in your area,' she was saying. She flipped a switch and said, 'Come in, any car in Hove two. Come in, any car in Hove two.'
There was a silence and then a man's voice said out of the radio receiving set, 'It looks as though there's no one in Hove two, Marigold. I could get there in five minutes. I've just dropped a fare in Langbury Place.'
'Right, Jim.' She gave him the address, flipped the switch again, and spoke into the telephone. 'A taxi will be with you in five minutes, sir. I am sorry for the delay, we have no cars available who can reach you faster than that. Thank you, sir.' As soon as she had finished speaking the telephone rang again. She said, 'Marconicars. Can I help you?'
Down the hall came the clip clop of high heels on linoleum, and the girl came back from Mr Fielder. She said, 'The manager can see you now, sir.'
'Thank you,' I said. I went down the hall and through the open door at the end.
The man who rose to greet me and shake hands was a heavy, well-tailored, urbane man in his middle forties. He wore spectacles with heavy black frames, had smooth black hair and hard blue eyes. He seemed a man of too strong a personality to be sitting in the back office of a taxi firm, too high-powered an executive for the range of his job.
I felt my heart jump absurdly, and I had a moment's panic in which I feared he knew who I was and what I was trying to do. But his gaze was calm and businesslike, and he said only, 'I understand you wish to make a block booking for a wedding.'
'Yes,' I said, and launched into fictitious details. He made notes, added up some figures, wrote out an estimate, and held it out to me. I took it. His writing was strong and black. It fitted him.
'Thank you,' I said. 'I'll give this to my sister, and let you know.'
As I went out of his door and shut it behind me, I looked back at him. He was sitting behind his desk staring at me through his glasses with unwinking blue eyes. I could read nothing in his face.
I went back into the front office and said, 'I've got the estimate I wanted. Thank you for your help.' I turned to go, and had a second thought. 'By the way, do you know where I can find Mr Clifford Tudor?' I asked.
The girls, showing no surprise at my enquiry, said they did not know.
'Marigold might find out for you,' said one of them. 'I'll ask her.'
Marigold, finishing her call, agreed to help. She pressed the switch. 'All cars. Did anyone pick up Mr Tudor today? Come in please.'
A man's voice said, 'I took him to the station this morning, Marigold. He caught the London train.'
'Thanks, Mike,' said Marigold.
'She knows all their voices,' said one of the girls, admiringly. 'They never have to tell her the number of their car.'
'Do you all know Mr Tudor well?' I asked.
'Never seen him,' said one girl, and the others shook their heads in agreement.
'He's one of our regulars. He takes a car whenever he wants one, and we book it here. The driver tells Marigold where he's taking him. Mr Tudor has a monthly account, and we make it up and send it to him.'
'Suppose the driver takes Mr Tudor from place to place and fails to report it to Marigold?' I asked conversationally.
'He wouldn't be so silly. The drivers get commission on regulars. Instead of tips, do you see? We put ten per cent on the bills to save the regulars having to tip the drivers every five minutes.'
'A good idea,' I said. 'Do you have many regulars?'
'Dozens,' said one of the girls. 'But Mr Tudor is about our best client.'
'And how many taxis are there?' I asked.
'Thirty-one. Some of them will be in the garage for servicing, of course, and sometimes in the winter we only have half of them on the road. There's a lot of competition from the other firms.'
'Who actually owns the Marconicars?' I asked casually.
They said they didn't know and couldn't care less.
'Not Mr Fielder?' I asked.
'Oh, no,' said Marigold. 'I don't think so. There's a Chairman, I believe, but we've never seen him. Mr Fielder can't be all that high up, because he sometimes takes over from me in the evenings and at week-ends. Though another girl comes in to relieve me on my days off, of course.'
They suddenly all seemed to realize that this had nothing to do with my sister's wedding. It was time to go, and I went.
I stood outside on the pavement wondering what to do next. There was a caf‚ opposite, across the broad street, and it was nearly lunch-time. I went over and into the caf‚, which smelled of cabbage, and because I had
