Агата Кристи: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. No. 75, April 1959, British Edition

Mr. Halliday worked the left side of his jaw thoughtfully. “You know, Mr. Queen, something happened to me when Mr. Scott struck me. For an instant I felt a strange — er — passion. I really believe if I’d had a revolver — and if I knew how to handle one — I might easily have committed murder then. I saw — I believe that’s the phrase — red.”

“Hank!” exclaimed Katie.

Hank sighed, the homicidal light dying out of his faded blue eyes.

“Old John,” explained Paula, winking at Ellery, “found these two cuddling again in the stable, and I suppose he thought it was setting a bad example for Danger, whose mind should be on the race tomorrow; so he fired Hank, and Katie blew up and told John off, and she’s left his home forever.”

“To discharge me is his privilege,” said Mr. Halliday coldly, “but now I owe him no loyalty whatever. I shall not bet on Danger to win the Handicap!”

“I hope the big brute loses,” sobbed Katie.

“Now Kate,” said Paula firmly, “I’ve heard enough of this nonsense. I’m going to speak to you like a Dutch aunt.”

“Mr. Halliday,” said Ellery formally, “I believe this is our cue to exit.”

“Kathryn!”

“Hank!”

Ellery and Miss Paris tore the lovers apart.

It was a little after ten o’clock when Miss Scott, no longer weeping but facially still tear-ravaged, crept out of Miss Paris’s white frame house and got into her dusty little car.

As she turned her key in the ignition lock and stepped on the starter, a bass voice from the shadows of the back seat said, “Don’t yell. Don’t make a sound. Turn your car around and keep going till I tell you to stop.”

“Eek!” screeched Miss Scott.

A big leathery hand damped over her trembling mouth.

After a few moments the car moved away.

Ellery called for Miss Paris the next day and they settled down to a snail’s pace, heading for Arcadia eastward, near which lay the beautiful Santa Anita race track.

“What happened to Lachrymose Katie last night?” demanded Ellery.

“Oh, I got her to go back to the ranch. She left me a little after ten, a very miserable girl. What did you do with Hankus-Pankus?”

“I oiled him thoroughly and then took him home. He’d hired a room in a Hollywood boarding house. He moaned on my shoulder all the way. It seems old John also kicked him in the seat of his pants, and he’s been brooding murderously over it.”

“Poor Hankus. The only honest male I’ve ever met.”

“I’m afraid of horses, too,” said Ellery hurriedly.

“Oh, you! You’re detestable. You haven’t kissed me once today.”

Only the cooling balm of Miss Paris’s lips, applied at various points along U.S. Route 66, kept Ellery’s temper from boiling over. The roads were sluggish with traffic. At the track it was even worse. It seemed as if every soul in Southern California had converged on Santa Anita at once, in every manner of conveyance, from the dusty Model T’s of dirt farmers to the shiny metal monsters of the movie stars. The magnificent stands seethed with noisy thousands, a wriggling mosaic of color and movement. The sky was blue, the sun warm, zephyrs blew, and the track was fast. A race was being run, and the sleek animals were small and fleet and sharply focused in the clear light.

“What a marvelous day for the Handicap!” cried Paula, dragging Ellery along. “Oh, there’s Bing and Bob and Rock!... Hello!... and Marilyn and Clark and Jayne..."

Despite Miss Paris’s overenthusiastic trail breaking, Ellery arrived at the track stalls in one piece. They found old John Scott watching with the intentness of a Red Indian as a stablehand kneaded Dangers velvety forelegs. There was a stony set to Scott’s gnarled face that made Paula cry, “John! Is anything wrong with Danger?”

“ Danger’s all right,” said the old man curtly. “It’s Kate. We had a blowup over that Halliday boy and she ran out on me.”

“Nonsense, John. I sent her back home last night myself.”

“She was at your place? She didn’t come home.”

“She didn’t?” Paula’s little nose wrinkled.

“I guess,” growled Scott, “she’s run off with that Halliday coward. He’s not a man, the lily-livered—”

“We can’t all be heroes, John. He’s a good boy, and he loves Katie.”

The old man stared stubbornly at his stallion, and after a moment they left and made their way toward their box.

“Funny,” said Paula in a scared voice. “She couldn’t have run off with Hank — he was with you. And I’d swear she meant to go back to the ranch last night.”

“Now, Paula,” said Ellery gently. “She’s all right.”

But his eyes were thoughtful and a little perturbed.

Their box was not far from the paddock. During the preliminary races, Paula kept searching the sea of faces with her binoculars.

“Well, well,” said Ellery suddenly, and Paula became conscious of a rolling thunder from the stands about them.

“What’s the matter? What’s happened?”

“Broomstick, the favorite, has been scratched,” said Ellery dryly.

“Broomstick? Santelli’s horse?” Paula stared at him, paling. “But why? Ellery, there’s something in this—”

“It seems he’s pulled a tendon and can’t run.”

“Do you think,” whispered Paula, “that Santelli had anything to do with Katie’s... not getting... home?”

“Possible,” muttered Ellery. “But I can’t seem to fit—”

“Here they come!”

The shout shook the stands. A line of regal animals began to emerge from the paddock. Paula and Ellery rose with the other restless thousands, and craned. The Handicap contestants were parading to the post.

There was High Tor, who had gone lame in the stretch at the Derby the year before and had not run a race since. This was to be his comeback; the insiders held him in a contempt which the public apparently shared, for he was quoted at 50 to 1. There was little Fighting Billy. There was Equator, prancing sedately along with Buzz Hickey up. There was Danger, glossy black, gigantic, imperial. Whitey Williams was having a difficult time controlling him and a stablehand was struggling at his bit.

Old John Scott, his big shapeless body unmistakable even at this distance, lumbered from the paddock toward his nervous stallion, apparently to soothe him.

Paula gasped. Ellery said quickly, “What is it?”

“There’s Hank Halliday in the crowd. Up there! Right above the spot where Danger’s passing. About fifty feet from John Scott. And Kathryn’s not with him!”

Ellery took the glasses from her and located Halliday.

Paula sank into her chair. “Ellery, I’ve the queerest feeling. There’s something wrong. See how pale he is...”

The powerful glasses brought Halliday to within a few inches of Ellery’s eyes. The boy’s eyeglasses were steamed over; he was shaking, as if he had a chill; and yet Ellery could see the globules of perspiration on his cheeks.

And then Ellery stiffened abruptly.

John Scott had just reached the head of Danger; his thick arm was coming up to pull the stallion’s head down. And in that instant Mr. Hankus-Pankus Halliday fumbled in his clothes; and in the next his hand appeared clasping a snub-nosed automatic. Ellery nearly cried out. For, the short barrel wavering, the automatic in Mr. Halliday’s trembling hands pointed in the general direction of John Scott; there was an explosion, and a puff of smoke blew out of the muzzle.

Miss Paris leaped to her feet, and Miss Paris did cry out.

“Why, the crazy young fool!” said Ellery dazedly.

Frightened by the shot, which apparently had gone wild, Danger reared. The other horses began to kick and dance. In a moment the place below boiled with panic-stricken thoroughbreds. Scott, clinging to Danger’s head, half turned in an immense astonishment and looked inquiringly upward. Whitey struggled desperately to control the frantic stallion.