Дик Фрэнсис - Knock Down

‘Right.’

I squelched down to the drab old stables and found Box 126 with Lot 126 duly inside, shifting around on his straw and looking bored. Lot 126 was a five-year-old hurdler which someone with a macabre sense of humour had named Hearse Puller, and in a way one could see why. Glossy dark brown all over, he was slightly flashy looking, holding his head high as if preening. All he needed was a black plume on his head and he’d have been fine for Victorian trips to the cemetery.

Kerry Sanders had stipulated that her gift should be a young good-looking past winner, with cast-iron future prospects. Also that in all its races it should never have fallen. Also that it should be of a calibre pleasing to the father even though it was to be given to the son. Also that it should be interesting, well bred, sensible, brave, bursting with health and keen to race: in short, the perfect chaser. Also that it should be bought by Friday which was the young man’s birthday. Also it should cost no more than six or seven thousand dollars.

That had been the gist of her first call to me on Monday afternoon. She had conceived the idea of the gift at two o’clock, found my name by two-ten, and talked to me by two-twenty. She saw no reason why I should not put the same sort of hustle on and seemed delighted when I suggested Ascot Sales. Which was, of course, before she went there.

No one buys the perfect novice steeplechaser for seven thousand dollars. Most of my time since Monday had been taken both by persuading her to settle for a fifty per cent reduction on perfection and by searching through the Ascot catalogue for a cut-price paragon. I had come up finally with Hearse Puller, knowing that she would object to the name. It had no breeding to speak of but I had seen it race and knew it had guts, which was half the battle, and it was trained by a nervy trainer which meant it might do better somewhere more relaxed.

I felt the Hearse Puller legs and peered at the tonsils and went back and told Kerry Sanders that her money was on the way.

‘You think we’ll get him, then?’ she asked.

‘As long as no one else wants him very badly.’

‘Do you think they will?’

‘Can’t tell,’ I said, and wondered how many times every year I had this same conversation. Nothing warned me there was anything different this time.

The rain had slackened to drizzle by the time we went over to the ring but even so it was difficult to find room for Kerry Sanders in a dry spot. No one in the rain-coated assembly looked much except miserable. They stood with hunched shoulders, coat collars turned up, hands in pockets, the usual collection of bloodstock agents, racehorse trainers, breeders and hopeful would-be purchasers all out on the same trail of winners and loot.

Lot 122, a sad looking chestnut, plodded round the asphalt path and failed to reach his reserve despite the auctioneer’s cajoling. I told Kerry Sanders I would be back in a minute, and went to watch 126 being led round in the collecting ring as he waited his turn. He carried himself well enough but he looked a little too excited and I thought that the rain was probably hiding the fact that he was sweating.

‘You interested in that black peacock?’ said a voice at my shoulder, and there again was Jiminy Bell, following the direction of my eyes and giving me the benefit of the treble brandy at close quarters.

‘Not specially,’ I said, and knew he couldn’t have read anything from my face. Nothing like bloodstock dealing for encouraging an expression to make poker players look indiscreet.

Hearse Puller pranced past and I switched my attention to 127 coming along next.

‘Now that one,’ Jiminy said approvingly. ‘Bit of class there.’

I grunted noncommittally and turned towards him. He made way for me with a half-aggressive half-ingratiating smile, a short man with greying hair, deeply wrinkled skin, and teeth too good to be true. Four or five years out of the saddle had put weight on him like a padded coat and all his past pride in being able to do a job well had evaporated from his general carriage and the way he held his head. But feel sorry for him as I might, I had no intention of telling him in advance in which direction my interest lay: he was well into the stage of trotting off with the news to the vendor and asking a commission for bidding the price up high.

‘I’m waiting for number one four two,’ I said, and as soon as I walked off he started busily looking it up in the catalogue. When I glanced briefly back he was staring after me in amazement so I looked up 142 out of curiosity and found it was a crib-biting point-to-pointer still a maiden at ten.

Laughing inwardly I rejoined Kerry Sanders and watched the determined auctioneer wring twelve hundred pounds out of the U.K. Bloodstock Agency for the sinewy chestnut mare who was Lot 125. As she was led out I felt Kerry Sanders stir beside me with her intentions showing to all and sundry like a flourish of trumpets. Inexperienced customers always did this if they came to the sales and it cost them a good deal of money.

Hearse Puller was led into the ring and the auctioneer checked his number against his notes.

‘Bit on the leg,’ a man behind us said disparagingly.

‘Is that bad?’ Kerry Sanders asked anxiously, overhearing.

‘It means his legs are long in proportion to his body. It’s not ideal, but some good chasers are like that.’

‘Oh.’

Hearse Puller tossed his head and regarded the scene with eyes filled with alarm, a sign of waywardness which made me wonder if that were the basic reason for selling him.

Kerry Sanders’ anxiety grew a little.

‘Do you think he’ll be able to manage him?’

‘Who?’

‘His new owner, of course. He looks damn wild.’

The auctioneer began his spiel, reeling off the gelding’s origins and history. ‘Who’ll start me at a thousand? A thousand anywhere? Come along now, he’d look cheap at that wouldn’t he? A thousand? Well, five hundred then. Someone start me at five hundred...’

I said to Kerry Sanders, ‘Do you mean the young man is going to ride him himself? In races?’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t tell me that.’

‘Didn’t I?’ She knew she hadn’t.

‘Why didn’t you, for heaven’s sake?’

‘Five hundred,’ said the auctioneer. ‘Thank you sir. Five hundred I have. That’s nowhere near his value. Come along now. Five hundred. Six. Thank you sir. Six... Seven... Eight... against you sir...’

‘I just...’ She hesitated, then said, ‘What difference does it make?’

‘Is he an amateur?’

She nodded. ‘But he’s got what it takes.’

Hearse Puller was no armchair ride and I would be doing my job badly if I bought him for the sort of amateur who bumped around half fit. The customer’s insistence on the horse never having fallen suddenly made a lot of sense.

‘Twelve hundred. Fourteen. Against you at the back, sir. Fourteen. Come along now, you’re losing him...’

‘You’ll have to tell me who it’s for,’ I said.

She shook her head.

‘If you don’t, I won’t buy it for you,’ I said, trying with a smile to take the discourtesy out of the words.

She stared at me. ‘I can buy it myself.’

‘Of course.’

The auctioneer was warming up. ‘Eighteen... can I make it two thousand? Two thousand, thank you sir. Selling all the time now. Two thousand... against you in front... Shall I say two thousand two? Two thousand one... thank you sir. Two thousand one... Two... Three...’

‘It will be too late in a minute,’ I said.

She came to a decision. ‘Nicol Brevett, then.’

‘Jeez,’ I said.

‘Buy it then. Don’t just stand there.’

‘All done?’ said the auctioneer. ‘Selling at two thousand eight hundred. Selling once... all done then?’