Dick Francis - Dead Heat

BY THE TIME I got back to the Hyatt Hotel, my arm was hurting like hell. I pulled up at the valet parking booth and received some very strange looks from the staff. I ignored them, picked up the polo mallet from the backseat and went into the lobby. I tossed the car keys to the concierge and explained to him that some of the glass had got damaged and would he deal with it with the rental company.

“Certainly, sir,” he said. He looked briefly at the polo mallet. “Right away, sir.” Absolutely nothing fazes a good concierge.

I went up in the elevator and lay on Caroline’s bed. The bedside clock showed me that it was three o’clock. The orchestra were just starting their second rehearsal. I realized that I wasn’t very comfortable, so I removed everything from my pockets and put it all on the bedside table: wallet, money, room key, handkerchief and a shiny metal ball about the size of a golf ball and made in two halves that was somehow crucial to the bombing of Newmarket racetrack some four thousand miles away.

Mrs. Schumann hadn’t been at all pleased to hear that I had already lost the ball that she had been so insistent that I should keep safe. However, I eventually managed to coax her into handing over another ball, but only after I had convinced her that it would be decisive in finding out why her Rolf had been so injured.

Maybe I had been convincing myself too.

C aroline returned between the final rehearsal and the evening performance to find me still lying on her bed, and in a bad way. In spite of me swallowing copious painkillers, my arm was so sore that every movement caused me to wince.

“You need a doctor,” Caroline said. She was very concerned, and not a little frightened.

“I know, but I don’t want to use my credit card to pay for it,” I said.

“Do you really think someone can trace you from your credit card?” she said.

“I’m not taking the chance,” I said. “Especially after today. Who knows what Komarov is capable of? I think he’s somehow responsible for killing nineteen people at the Newmarket races. He won’t worry about killing one more.” Or two, I thought, and I didn’t like it. “How long have you got before the performance?”

“About an hour before I have to go,” she said.

“It will have to be enough,” I said. “Come on, let’s go, and bring your credit card with you.”

“How do you know they can’t trace mine as well?” she asked, suddenly alarmed.

“I don’t,” I said. “But I think it’s less likely that they will search for Miss Aston when trying to find Max Moreton.”

We went by taxi to the Northwestern Memorial Hospital emergency room on Erie Street, with me biting back a scream with every bump, with every pothole.

As at any accident-and-emergency department in England, there were endless forms to fill out and lots of waiting time. Here, though, as well as the appointments with the medical staff there was also the all-important one with the hospital cashier.

“Do you have insurance, Mr. Moreton?” asked the casually dressed young woman behind the counter.

“I believe I do have some travel insurance, but I can’t find the details,” I said.

“Then I’ll put ‘no’ down on the form,” she said, and check-marked it accordingly. “Do you therefore intend to self-pay for your treatment?”

“Yes,” I said. “At least for the time being.”

She worked away for a while. “As you are a non-U.S. citizen, I will need full prepayment of this estimate before you can be treated,” she said.

“How much is it?” I asked her. She pushed a piece of paper towards me with her final figure at the bottom. “I only want my arm seen to,” I said, reading it. “I don’t want to buy the whole damn hospital.”

She wasn’t amused. “Full prepayment of this estimate will be needed before any treatment is given,” she repeated.

“What would happen if I couldn’t pay it?” I asked.

“Then you would be asked to go someplace else,” she said.

“How about if I was dying?” I said.

“You’re not dying,” she replied. But I got the impression that if I had been and couldn’t have paid, I might still be expected to go and die someplace else, preferably another hospital.

Caroline gave the woman her credit card and flinched only slightly when she saw the amount on the slip she was asked to sign. We went back and sat down in the waiting area, with an assurance that I would be called soon. I kissed her gently, and promised to repay her as soon as I got home.

“What if someone kills you first?” she whispered. “Then what would I do?” She grinned. It made me feel better.

“I’ll leave it to you in my will,” I said, grinning back. Laugh in the face of adversity, for laughter is the best medicine.

We sat for a while together. The clock on the wall crept around to six-forty.

“I hate to say it,” she said, “but I’ve got to go now or I’ll miss the performance, and then I really will get fired. Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”

“They won’t keep you in here all night, will they?” she asked.

“Not without more money,” I said with a hollow laugh. “No, I don’t think so. I’ll see you later at the hotel.” She was reluctant to go. “Go on, go,” I said, “or you’ll be late.”

She waved as she went through the automatic doors. I didn’t really want her to go. I needed her here, mopping my brow and easing my pain, not caressing that damn Viola.

“Mr. Moreton,” shouted a nurse, bringing me back to my reality.

I BEAT Caroline back to the hotel room, but only by about ten minutes. As before, she was high on the applause-induced adrenaline rush, while I was high on a mix of nitrous oxide and painkillers. And I was sporting a fiberglass cast on my wrist that stretched from the palm of my hand, around the thumb, to the elbow.

An X-ray had clearly shown that I had a broken wrist, my ulna having been well and truly cracked right through, about an inch above the joint. Fortunately, it hadn’t been displaced much, and the fracture had been reduced by a doctor simply pulling on my hand until the ends of the bone had returned to their rightful positions. I hadn’t enjoyed the experience, in spite of the partial anesthetic effects of the nitrous oxide. Laughing gas it may be, but the procedure had not been a laughing matter.

The cast was designed to immobilize the joint, and the doctor had told me it would have to stay on for at least six weeks. I remembered the stories my father used to tell about his injuries when he was a jump jockey. He always claimed that he was a quick healer, and he often told of how he would start trying to remove a plaster with scissors only about a week after breaking a bone. But jump jockeys are mad, everyone knows that.

As instructed, I kept my right arm raised on a pillow throughout the night to reduce swelling under the cast. It wasn’t great for romance, but it did keep the pain to a minimum.

SATURDAY CAME and went, with me spending most of the time horizontal on the bed in Caroline’s hotel room. I watched some televised baseball, which was not very exciting, and then some motor racing that was more so.

I ordered some room-service Caesar salad, for a midafternoon, left-handed lunch, and then called Carl using the hotel phone.

“Where are you?” he said. “I’ve had three phone calls from people saying they need to contact you urgently.”

“Who are they?” I asked.

“One was your mother,” he said. “One said they were from the Inland Revenue, and the third wouldn’t say.”

“Did you get their numbers?” I asked.

“You must know your mother’s number, surely,” he said. “The others didn’t leave one. They said they would call back. Where shall I tell them you are?”