Dick Francis - Straight

Most of the envelope’s contents were a copy of Vaccaro’s detailed application, but on an attached sheet in abbreviated prose Greville had handwritten:

Ramon Vaccaro, wanted for drug-running, Florida, U.S.A. Suspected of several murders, victims mostly pilots, wanting out from flying drug crates. Vaccaro leaves no mouths alive to chatter. My info from scared-to-death pilot’s widow. She won’t come to the committee meeting but gave enough insider details for me to believe her.

Vaccaro seduced private pilots with a big pay-off, then when they’d done one run to Colombia and got away with it, they’d be hooked and do it again and again until they finally got rich enough to have cold feet. Then the poor sods would die from being shot on their own doorsteps from passing cars, no sounds because of silencers, no witnesses and no clues. But all were pilots owning their own small planes, too many for coincidence. Widow says her husband scared stiff but left it too late. She’s remarried, lives in London, always wanted revenge, couldn’t believe it was the same man when she saw local newspaper snippet. Vaccaro’s Family Gaming, with his photo. Family! She went to Town Hall anonymously, they put her on to me.

We don’t have to find Vaccaro guilty. We just don’t give him a gaming license. Widow says not to let him know who turned his application down, he’s dangerous and vengeful, but how can he silence a whole committee? The Florida police might like to know his whereabouts. Extradition?

I telephoned Elliot Trelawney at his weekend home, told him I’d found the red-hot notes and read them to him, which brought forth a whistle and a groan.

“But Vaccaro didn’t kill Greville,” I said.

“No.” He sighed. “How did the funeral go?”

“Fine. Thank you for your flowers.”

“Just sorry I couldn’t get there, but on a working day, and so far...”

“It was fine,” I said again, and it had been. I’d been relieved, on the whole, to be alone.

“Would you mind,” he said, diffidently, “if I arranged a memorial service for him? Sometime soon. Within a month?”

“Go right ahead,” I said warmly. “A great idea.”

He hoped I would send the Vaccaro notes by messenger on Monday to the Magistrates Court, and he asked if I played golf.

In the morning, after a dream-filled night in Greville’s black and white bed, I took a taxi to the Ostermeyers’ hotel, meeting them in the lobby as arranged on the telephone the evening before.

They were in very good form, Martha resplendent in a red wool tailored dress with a mink jacket, Harley with a new English-looking hat over his easy grin, binoculars and racing paper ready. Both of them seemed determined to enjoy whatever the day brought forth and Harley’s occasional ill-humor was far out of sight.

The driver, a different one from Wednesday, brought a huge super-comfortable Daimler to the front door exactly on time, and with all auspices pointing to felicity, the Ostermeyers arranged themselves on the rear seat, I sitting in front of them beside the chauffeur.

The chauffeur, who announced his name as Simms, kindly stowed my crutches in the trunk and said it was no trouble at all, sir, when I thanked him. The crutches themselves seemed to be the only tiny cloud on Martha’s horizon, bringing a brief frown to the proceedings.

“Is that foot still bothering you? Milo said it was nothing to worry about.”

“No, it isn’t, and it’s much better,” I said truthfully.

“Oh, good. Just as long as it doesn’t stop you riding Datepalm.”

“Of course not,” I assured her.

“We’re so pleased to have him. He’s just darling.”

I made some nice noises about Datepalm, which wasn’t very difficult, as we nosed through the traffic to go north on the M highway.

Harley said, “Milo says Datepalm might go for the Charisma ‘Chase at Kempton next Saturday. What do you think?”

“A good race for him,” I said calmly. I would kill Milo, I thought. A dicey gallop was one thing, but no medic on earth was going to sign my card in one week to say I was fit; and I wouldn’t be, because half a ton of horse over jumps at thirty-plus miles an hour was no puffball matter.

“Milo might prefer to save him for the Mackeson at Cheltenham next month,” I said judiciously, sowing the idea. “Or of course for the Hennessy Cognac Gold Cup two weeks later.” I’d definitely be fit for the Hennessy, six weeks ahead. The Mackeson, at four weeks, was a toss-up.

“Then there’s that big race the day after Christmas.” Martha sighed happily. “It’s all so exciting. Harley promises we can come back to see him run.”

They talked about horses for another half hour and then asked if I knew anything about a Dick Turpin.

“Oh, sure.”

“Some guy said he was riding to York. I didn’t understand any part of it.”

I laughed. “It happened a couple of centuries ago. Dick Turpin was a highwayman, a real villain, who rode his mare Black Bess north to escape the law. They caught him in York and flung him in jail, and for a fortnight he held a sort of riotous court in his cell, making jokes and drinking with all the notables of the city who came to see the famous thief in his chains. Then they took him out and hanged him on a piece of land called the Knavesmire, which is now the racecourse.”

“Oh, my,” Martha said, ghoulishly diverted. “How perfectly grisly.”

In time we left the M1 and traveled northeast to the difficult old A1, and I thought that no one in their senses would drive from London to York when they could go by train. The Ostermeyers, of course, weren’t doing the driving.

Harley said as we neared the city, “You’re expected at lunch with us, Derek.”

Expected, in Ostermeyer speech, meant invited. I protested mildly that it wasn’t so.

“It sure is. I talked with Lord Knightwood yesterday evening, told him we’d have you with us. He said right away to have you join us for lunch. They’re giving their name to one of the races, it’ll be a big party.”

“Which race?” I asked with curiosity. Knightwood wasn’t a name I knew.

“Here it is.” Harley rustled the racing newspaper. “The University of York Trophy. Lord Knightwood is the University’s top man, president or governor, some kind of figurehead. A Yorkshire VIP. Anyway, you’re expected.”

I thanked him. There wasn’t much else to do, though a sponsor’s lunch on top of no exercise could give me weight problems if I wasn’t careful. However, I could almost hear Milo’s agitated voice in my ear: “Whatever the Ostermeyers want, for Christ’s sake give it to them.”

“There’s also the York Minster Cup,” Harley said, reading his paper, “and the Civic Pride Challenge. Your horse Dozen Roses is in the York Castle Champions.”

“My brother’s horse,” I said.

Harley chuckled. “We won’t forget.”

Simms dropped us neatly at the Club entrance. One could get addicted to chauffeurs, I thought, accepting the crutches gravely offered. No parking problems. Someone to drive one home on crunch days. But no spontaneity, no real privacy... No thanks, not even long-term Brad.

Back the first horse you see, they say. Or the first jockey. Or the first trainer.

The first trainer we saw was Nicholas Loder. He looked truly furious and, I thought in surprise, alarmed when I came face to face with him after he’d watched our emergence from the Daimler.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded brusquely. “You’ve no business here.”

“Do you know Mr. and Mrs. Ostermeyer?” I asked politely, introducing them. “They’ve just bought Datepalm. I’m their guest today.”

He glared; there wasn’t any other word for it. He had been waiting for a man, perhaps one of his owners, to collect a Club badge from the allotted window and, the transaction achieved, the two of them marched off into the racecourse without another word.