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

“You got my proposition, John?” said the well-dressed man, with a toothy smile.

“Get the hell off my ranch, Santelli,” said John Scott, without turning his head.

“Sure,” said Santelli, still smiling. “You think my proposition over, hey, or maybe somethin’ happen to your nag, hey?”

They saw the old man quiver, but he did not turn; and Santelli nodded curtly to his driver. The big roadster roared away.

The dust cloud on the track rolled toward them and they saw a small, taut figure in sweater and cap perched atop a gigantic stallion, black-coated and lustrous with sweat. The horse was bounding along like a huge cat, his neck arched. He thundered magnificently by.

“2:02-4/5,” they heard Scott mutter to his stop watch. “Rosemont’s ten-furlong time for the Handicap in ’37. Not bad... Whitey!” he bellowed to the jockey, who had pulled the black stallion up. “Rub him down good!”

The jockey grinned and pranced Danger toward the adjacent stables.

The man with the shotgun drawled, “You got more company, John.”

The old man whirled, frowned deeply; his craggy face broke into a thousand wrinkles and he engulfed Paula’s slim hand in his two paws. “Paula! It’s fine to see ye. Who’s this?” he demanded, fastening his cold keen eyes on Ellery.

“Mr. Ellery Queen. But how is Katie? And Danger?”

“You saw him.” Scott gazed after the dancing horse. “Fit as a fiddle. He’ll carry the handicap weight of a hundred twenty pounds Saturday and never feel it. Did it just now with the leads on him. Paula, did ye see that murderin’ scalawag?”

“The fashion-plate who just drove away?”

“That was Santelli, and ye heard what he said might happen to Danger.” The old man stared bitterly down the road.

“Santelli!” Paula’s serene face was shocked.

“Bill, go look after the stallion.” The man with the shotgun slipped off the rail and waddled toward the stable. “Just made me an offer for my stable. Hell, the dirty thievin’ bookie owns the biggest stable west o’ the Rockies — what’s he want with my picayune outfit?”

“He owns Broomstick, the Handicap favorite, doesn’t he?” asked Paula quietly. “And Danger is figured strongly in the running, isn’t he?”

“Quoted five to one now, but track odds will shorten his price. Broomstick’s two to five,” growled Scott.

“It’s very simple, then. By buying your horse, Santelli can control the race, owning the two best horses.”

“Lassie, lassie,” sighed Scott. “I’m an old mon, and I know these thieves. Handicap purse is $100,000. And Santelli just offered me $100,000 for my stable!” Paula whistled. “It don’t wash. My whole shebang ain’t worth it. Danger’s no cinch to win. Is Santelli buyin’ up all the other horses in the race, too? — the big outfits? I tell ye it’s somethin’ else, an’ it’s rotten.” Then he shook his heavy shoulders straight. “But here I am gabbin’ about my troubles. What brings ye out here, lassie?”

“Mr. Queen here, who’s a — well, a friend of mine,” said Paula, coloring, “has to think up a horse-racing plot for a movie, and I thought you could help him. He doesn’t know a thing about racing.”

Scott stared at Ellery, who coughed apologetically. “Well, sir, I don’t know but that ye’re not a lucky mon. Ye’re welcome to the run o’ the place. Go over and talk to Whitey; he knows the racket backwards. I’ll be with ye in a few minutes.”

The old man lumbered off, and Paula and Ellery sauntered toward the stables.

“Who is this ogre Santelli?” asked Ellery with a frown.

“A gambler and bookmaker with a national hookup.” Paula shivered a little. “Poor John. I don’t like it, Ellery.”

They turned a corner of the big stable and almost bumped into a young man and a young woman in the lee of the wall, clutching each other desperately and kissing as if they were about to be torn apart for eternity.

“Pardon us,” said Paula, pulling Ellery back.

The young lady, her eyes crystal with tears, blinked at her. “Is — is that Paula Paris?” she sniffled.

“The same, Kathryn,” smiled Paula. “Mr. Queen, Miss Scott. What on earth’s the matter?”

“Everything,” cried Miss Scott tragically. “Oh, Paula, we’re in the most awful trouble!”

Her amorous companion backed bashfully off. He was a slender young man clad in grimy, odoriferous overalls. He wore spectacles floury with the chaff of oats, and there was a grease smudge on one emotional nostril.

“Miss Paris — Mr. Queen. This is Hank Halliday, my — my boyfriend,” said Kathryn.

“I see the whole plot,” said Paula sympathetically. “Papa doesn’t approve of Katie’s taking up with a stablehand, the snob!”

“Hank isn’t a stablehand,” cried Kathryn. “He’s a college graduate who—”

“Kate,” said the odoriferous young man with dignity, “let me explain, please. Miss Paris, I have a character deficiency. I am a physical coward.”

“Heavens, so am f!” said Paula.

“But a man, you see... I am particularly afraid of animals. Horses, specifically.” Mr. Halliday shuddered. “I took this — this filthy job to conquer my unreasonable fear.” Mr. Halliday’s sensitive chin hardened, “f have not yet conquered it, but when I do I shall find myself a real job. And then,” he said firmly, embracing Miss Scott’s trembling shoulders. “I shall marry Kathryn, papa or no papa."

“Oh, I hate him for being so mean!” sobbed Katie.

“And I—” began Mr. Halliday somberly.

“Hankus-Pankus!” yelled a voice from the stable. “What the hell you paid for, anyway? Come clean up this mess before I belt you one!’*

“Yes, Mr. Williams,” said Hankus-Pankus hastily, and he hurried away. His lady-love ran sobbing off toward the ranch-house.

Ellery and Miss Paris regarded each other. Then Ellery said, “I’m getting a plot, b’gosh, but it’s the wrong one.”

“Poor kids,” sighed Paula. “Well, talk to Whitey Williams and see if the divine spark ignites.”

During the next several days Ellery ambled about the Scott ranch, talking to Jockey Williams, to the bespectacled Mr. Halliday — who, he discovered, knew as little about racing as he and cared even less — to a continuously tearful Kathryn, to the guard named Bill — who slept in the stable near Danger with one hand on his shotgun — and to old John himself. He learned much about jockeys, touts, racing procedure, gear, handicaps, purses, stewards, the ways of bookmakers, famous races and horses and owners and tracks; but the divine spark perversely refused to ignite.

So on Friday at dusk, when he found himself unaccountably ignored at the Scott ranch, he glumly drove back to Hollywood.

He found Paula in her garden soothing two anguished young people. Katie Scott was still weeping and Mr. Halliday, the self-confessed craven, for once dressed in an odorless garment, was awkwardly pawing her golden hair.

“More tragedy?” said Ellery. “I should have known. I’ve just come from your father’s ranch, and there’s a pall over it.”

“Well, there should be!” cried Kathryn. “I told my father where he gets off. Treating Hank that way! I’ll never speak to him as long as I live! He’s — he’s unnatural! ”

“Now Katie,” said Mr. Halliday reprovingly, “that’s no way to speak of your own father.”

“Hank Halliday, if you had one spark of manhood—!”

Mr. Halliday stiffened as if his beloved had jabbed him with the end of a live wire.

“I didn’t mean that, Hankus,” sobbed Kathryn, throwing herself into his arms. “I know you can’t help being a coward. But when he knocked you down and you didn’t even—”