Дик Фрэнсис: High Stakes

He laughed. ‘You’ve kicked the underdog. The British never forgive it.’

‘Even when the underdog bites first?’

‘Underdogs are never in the wrong.’

He led me away to the bar. ‘I’ve been taking a small poll for you. Ten per cent think it would be fair to hear your side. Ten per cent think you ought to be shot. What will you drink?’

‘Scotch. No ice or water. What about the other eighty per cent?’

‘Enough righteous indignation to keep the Mothers’ Union going for months.’ He paid for the drinks. ‘Cheers.’

‘And to you too.’

‘It’ll blow over,’ Charlie said.

‘I guess so.’

‘What do you fancy in the third?’

We discussed the afternoon’s prospects and didn’t refer again to Jody, but later, alone, I found it hard to ignore the general climate. I backed a couple of horses on the Tote for a tenner each, and lost. That sort of day.

All afternoon I was fiercely tempted to protest that it was I who was the injured party, not Jody. Then I thought of the further thousands he would undoubtedly screw out of me in damages if I opened my mouth, and I kept it shut.

The gem of the day was Quintus himself, who planted his great frame solidly in my path and told me loudly that I was a bloody disgrace to the good name of racing. Quintus, I reflected, so often spoke in clichés.

‘I’ll tell you something,’ he said. ‘You would have been elected to the Jockey Club if you hadn’t served Jody such a dirty trick. Your name was up for consideration. You won’t be invited now, I’ll see to that.’

He gave me a short curt nod and stepped aside. I didn’t move.

‘Your son is the one for dirty tricks.’

‘How dare you!’

‘You’d best believe it.’

‘Absolute nonsense. The discrepancy on your bill was a simple secretarial mistake. If you try to say it was anything else...”

‘I know,’ I said. ‘He’ll sue.’

‘Quite right. He has a right to every penny he can get.’

I walked away. Quintus might be biased, but I knew I’d get a straight answer from the Press.

I asked the senior columnist of a leading daily, a fiftyish man who wrote staccato prose and sucked peppermints to stop himself smoking.

‘What reason is Jody Leeds giving for losing my horses?’

The columnist sucked and breathed out a gust of sweetness.

‘Says he charged you by mistake for some schooling Raymond Child didn’t do.’

‘That all?’

‘Says you accused him of stealing and were changing your trainer.’

‘And what’s your reaction to that?’

‘I haven’t got one.’ He shrugged and sucked contemplatively. ‘Others... The concensus seems to be it was a genuine mistake and you’ve been unreasonable... to put it mildly.’

‘I see,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

‘Is that all? No story?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’

He put another peppermint in his mouth, nodded noncommittally, and turned away to more fertile prospects. As far as he was concerned, I was last week’s news. Others, this Saturday, were up for the chop.

I walked thoughtfully down on the Club lawn to watch the next race. It really was not much fun being cast as everyone’s villain, and the clincher was delivered by a girl I’d once taken to Ascot.

‘Steven dear,’ she said with coquettish reproof, ‘you’re a big rich bully. That poor boy’s struggling to make ends meet. Even if he did pinch a few quid off you, why get into such a tizz? So uncool, don’t you think?’

‘You believe the rich should lie down for Robin Hood?’

‘What?’

‘Never mind.’

I gave it up and went home.

The evening was a great deal better. At eight o’clock I collected Miss Alexandra Ward from an address in Hampstead and took her to dinner in the red and gold grill room of the Café Royal.

Seen again in kinder light, properly warm and not blown to rags by the wind, she was everything last week’s glimpse had suggested. She wore the same long black skirt, the same cream shirt, the same cream silk shawl. Also the gold sandals, gold mesh purse and no gloves. But her brown hair was smooth and shining, her skin glowing, her eyes bright, and over all lay the indefinable extra, a typically American brand of grooming.

She opened the door herself when I rang the bell and for an appreciable pause we simply looked at each other. What she saw was, I supposed, about six feet of solidly built chap, dark hair, dark eyes, no warts to speak of. Tidy, clean, house-trained and dressed in a conventional dinner jacket.

‘Good evening,’ I said.

She smiled, nodded as if endorsing a decision, stepped out through the door, and pulled it shut behind her.

‘My sister lives here,’ she said, indicating the house. ‘I’m on a visit. She’s married to an Englishman.’

I opened the car door for her. She sat smoothly inside, and I started the engine and drove off.

‘A visit from the States?’ I asked.

‘Yes. From Westchester... outside New York.’

‘Executive ladder-climbing country?’ I said, smiling.

She gave me a quick sideways glance. ‘You know Westchester?’

‘No. Been to New York a few times, that’s all.’

We stopped at some traffic lights. She remarked that it was a fine night. I agreed.

‘Are you married?’ she said abruptly.

‘Did you bring the fiver?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Well... No, I’m not.’

The light changed to green. We drove on.

‘Are you truthful?’ she said.

‘In that respect, yes. Not married now. Never have been.’

‘I like to know,’ she said with mild apology.

‘I don’t blame you.’

‘For the sakes of the wives.’

‘Yes.’

I pulled up in due course in front of the Café Royal at Piccadilly Circus, and helped her out of the car. As we went in she looked back and saw a small thin man taking my place in the driving seat.

‘He works for me,’ I said. ‘He’ll park the car.’

She looked amused. ‘He waits around to do that?’

‘On overtime, Saturday nights.’

‘So he likes it?’

‘Begs me to take out young ladies. Other times I do my own parking.’

In the full light inside the hall she stopped for another straight look at what she’d agreed to dine with.

‘What do you expect of me?’ she said.

‘Before I collected you, I expected honesty, directness and prickles. Now that I’ve known you for half an hour I expect prickles, directness and honesty.’

She smiled widely, the white teeth shining and little pouches of fun swelling her lower eyelids.

‘That isn’t what I meant.’

‘No... So what do you expect of me?’

‘Thoroughly gentlemanly conduct and a decent dinner.’

‘How dull.’

‘Take it or leave it.’

‘The bar,’ I said, pointing, ‘is over there. I take it.’

She gave me another flashing smile, younger sister to the first, and moved where I’d said. She drank vodka martini, I drank scotch, and we both ate a few black olives and spat out the stones genteelly into fists.

‘Do you usually pick up girls in the street?’ she said.

‘Only when they fall.’

‘Fallen girls?’

I laughed. ‘Not those, no.’

‘What do you do for a living?’

I took a mouthful of scotch. ‘I’m a sort of engineer.’ It sounded boring.

‘Bridges and things?’

‘Nothing so permanent or important.’

‘What then?’

I smiled wryly. ‘I make toys.’

‘You make... what ?’

‘Toys. Things to play with.’

‘I know what toys are, damn it.’

‘What do you do?’ I asked, ‘In Westchestcr.’

She gave me an amused glance over her glass. ‘You take it for granted that I work?’