Dick Francis - Straight

“He’s not as good.”

“No, but not useless. No doubt you’d take a commission, I wouldn’t object to that.”

He grunted again, which I took to mean assent, but he also said grittily, “Don’t expect any favors from me, ever.”

“I’ve done one for you,” I pointed out, “in not lodging a complaint. Anyway, I’m lunching with the Ostermeyers at Milo’s today and we’ll do the paperwork of the sale. So Milo should be sending a box to collect Dozen Roses sometime this week. No doubt he’ll fix a day with you.”

“Rot you,” he said.

“I don’t want to quarrel.”

“You’re having a damn good try.” He slammed down his receiver and left me feeling perplexed as much as anything else by his constant rudeness. All trainers lost horses regularly when owners sold them and, as he’d said himself, it wasn’t as if Dozen Roses were a Derby hope. Nicholas Loder’s stable held far better prospects than a five-year-old gelding, prolific winner though he might be.

Shrugging, I picked up my overnight bag and felt vaguely guilty at turning my back on so much chaos in the house. I’d done minimum tidying upstairs, hanging up Greville’s suits and shirts and so on, and I’d left my own suit and some other things with them because it seemed I might spend more nights there, but the rest was physically difficult and would have to wait for the anonymous Mrs. P., poor woman, who was going to get an atrocious shock.

I went by taxi to the Ostermeyers’ hotel and again found them in champagne spirits, and it was again Simms, fortyish, with a mustache, who turned up as chauffeur. When I commented on his working Sunday as well as Saturday he smiled faintly and said he was glad of the opportunity to earn extra; Monday to Friday he developed films in the dark.

“Films?” Martha asked. “Do you mean movies?”

“Family snapshots, madam, in a one-hour photo shop.”

“Oh.” Martha sounded as if she couldn’t envisage such a life. “How interesting.”

“Not very, madam,” Simms said resignedly, and set off smoothly into the sparse Sunday traffic. He asked me for directions as we neared Lambourn and we arrived without delay at Milo’s door, where Milo himself greeted me with the news that Nicholas Loder wanted me to phone him at once.

“It sounded to me,” Milo said, “like a great deal of agitation pretending to be casual.”

“I don’t understand him.”

“He doesn’t want me to have Dozen Roses, for some reason.”

“Oh, but,” Martha said to him anxiously, overhearing, “you are going to, aren’t you?”

“Of course, yes, don’t worry. Derek, get it over with while we go and look at Datepalm.” He bore the Ostermeyers away, dazzling them with twinkling charm, and I went into his kitchen and phoned Nicholas Loder, wondering why I was bothering.

“Look,” he said, sounding persuasive. “I’ve an owner who’s very interested in Dozen Roses. He says he’ll top whatever your Ostermeyers are offering. What do you say?”

I didn’t answer immediately, and he said forcefully, “You’ll make a good clear profit that way. There’s no guarantee the horse will be able to jump. You can’t ask a high price for him, because of that. My owner will top their offer and add a cash bonus for you personally. Name your figure.”

“Um,” I said slowly, “this owner wouldn’t be yourself, would it?”

He said sharply, “No, certainly not.”

“The horse that ran at York yesterday,” I said even more slowly, “does he fit Dozen Roses’ passport?”

“That’s slanderous!”

“It’s a question.”

“The answer is yes. The horse is Dozen Roses. Is that good enough for you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then,” he sounded relieved, “name your figure.”

I hadn’t yet discussed any figure at all with Martha and Harley and I’d been going to ask a bloodstock agent friend for a snap valuation. I said as much to Nicholas Loder who, sounding exasperated, repeated that his owner would offer more, plus a tax-free sweetener for myself.

I had every firm intention of selling Dozen Roses to the Ostermeyers and no so-called sweetener that I could think of would have persuaded me otherwise.

“Please tell your owner I’m sorry,” I said, “but the Ostermeyers have bought Datepalm, as I told you, and I am obligated to them, and loyalty to them comes first. I’m sure you’ll find your owner another horse as good as Dozen Roses.”

“What if he offered double what you’d take from the Ostermeyers?”

“It’s not a matter of money.”

“Everyone can be bought,” he said.

“Well, no, I’m sorry, but no.”

“Think it over,” he said, and slammed the receiver down again. I wondered in amusement how often he broke them. But he hadn’t in fact been amusing, and the situation as a whole held no joy. I was going to have to meet him on racecourses forever once I was a trainer myself, and I had no appetite for chronic feuds.

I went out into the yard where, seeing me, Milo broke away from the Ostermeyers, who were feasting their eyes as Datepalm was being led round on the gravel to delight them.

“What did Loder want?” Milo demanded, coming toward me.

“He offered double whatever I was asking the Ostermeyers to pay for Dozen Roses.”

Milo stared. “Double? Without knowing what it was?”

“That’s right.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What do you think?” I asked.

“If you’ve accepted, I’ll flatten you.”

I laughed. Too many people that past week had flattened me and no doubt Milo could do it with the best.

“Well?” he said belligerently.

“I told him to stuff it.”

“Good.”

“Mm, perhaps. But you’d better arrange to fetch the horse here at once. Like tomorrow morning, as we don’t want him having a nasty accident and ending up at the knackers, do you think?”

“Christ!” He was appalled. “He wouldn’t! Not Nicholas Loder.”

“One wouldn’t think so. But no harm in removing the temptation.”

“No.” He looked at me attentively. “Are you all right?” he asked suddenly. “You don’t look too well.”

I told him briefly about being knocked out in Greville’s garden. “Those phone calls you took,” I said, “were designed to make sure I turned up in the right place at the right time. So I walked straight into an ambush and, if you want to know, I feel a fool.”

“Derek!” He was dumbfounded, but also of course practical. “It’s not going to delay your getting back on a horse?”

“No, don’t worry.”

“Did you tell the Ostermeyers?”

“No, don’t bother them. They don’t like me being unfit.”

He nodded in complete understanding. To Martha, and to Harley to a lesser but still considerable extent, it seemed that proprietorship in the jockey was as important as in the horse. I’d met that feeling a few times before and never undervalued it: they were the best owners to ride for, even if often the most demanding. The quasi-love relationship could however turn to dust and damaging rejection if one ever put them second, which was why I would never jeopardize my place on Datepalm for a profit on Dozen Roses. It was hard to explain to more rational people, but I rode races, as every jump jockey did, from a different impetus than making money, though the money was nice enough and thoroughly earned besides.

When Martha and Harley at length ran out of questions and admiration of Datepalm we all returned to the house, where over drinks in Milo’s comfortable living room we telephoned to the bloodstock agent for an opinion and then agreed on a price which was less than he’d suggested. Milo beamed. Martha clapped her hands together with pleasure. Harley drew out his checkbook and wrote in it carefully, “Saxony Franklin Ltd.”