Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Gamble

“Yes,” said Claudia unequivocally, still not opening her eyes.

“Then we will just have to be very careful,” he said. “Won’t we?”

At three-thirty in the afternoon I left Claudia resting in the hospital while I went home to change and have a shower, taking a Northern Line Tube train from Warren Street to Finchley Central.

“I won’t be long,” I told her. “About an hour and a half. Is there anything I can get you?”

“A new body,” she said miserably.

“I love the one you have,” I said, and she forced a smile.

The doctor had told us that she would have to stay in the hospital for another night but she should be able to go home the following day, or on Thursday at the latest.

The sun was shining as the Tube train rose from the dark tunnels into the daylight just before East Finchley Station. It was always a welcome sign. It meant I was nearly home.

As I walked down Lichfield Grove I could see that there was a man standing outside my house with his finger on the doorbell. I was about to call out to him when he turned his head slightly as if looking over his shoulder.

In spite of telling the police that I hadn’t seen Herb’s killer, I knew him instantly. And here he was, standing outside my front door in Finchley. And I didn’t think he was visiting to inquire after my health.

My heartbeat jumped instantly to stratospheric proportions, and I stifled the shout that was already rising in my throat. I started to turn away from him but not before our eyes had made contact and I had glimpsed the long black shape in his right hand: his trusty gun, complete with silencer.

Bugger, I thought.

I turned and ran as fast as I could back up Lichfield Grove towards Regent’s Park Road.

Lichfield Grove may have been used as a busy shortcut during the rush hour, but it was sleepy and deserted at four o’clock in the afternoon, with not even any schoolchildren on their way home.

Safety, I thought, would be where there were lots of people. Surely he wouldn’t kill me with witnesses. But he had killed Herb with over sixty thousand of them.

I chanced a glance back, having to turn my upper body due to the restricted movement in my neck. It was a mistake.

The gunman was still behind me, only about thirty yards away, running hard and lifting his right arm to aim.

I heard a bullet whizz past me on my left.

I ran harder, and also I started shouting.

“Help! Help!” I shouted as loudly as my heaving lungs would allow. “Call the police!”

No one shouted back, and I needed the air for my aching leg muscles. Oh, to be as fit as I once was as a jockey.

I thought I heard another bullet fly past me and zing off the pavement ahead as a ricochet, but I wasn’t stopping to check.

I made it unharmed to Regent’s Park Road and went left around the corner. Without breaking stride, I went straight into Mr. Patel’s newsagent’s shop, pushed past the startled owner and crouched down under his counter, gasping for air.

“Mr. Patel,” I said, “I am being chased. Please call the police.”

I didn’t know why, perhaps it was because of his Indian subcontinent cultural background, but he didn’t become angry or question why I had invaded his space. He simply stood quietly and looked down at me, as if in slight surprise at the strange behavior of the English.

“Mr. Patel,” I said again with urgency, still breathing hard, “I am being chased by a very dangerous man. Please do not look down at me or he will know that I am here. Please call the police.”

“What man?” he said, still looking down at me.

“The man outside the window,” I said. Mr. Patel looked up.

Suddenly, I remembered that I had my mobile in my pocket. As I dialed 999 for emergency I heard the shop door being opened, the little bell ringing once.

I held my breath. I could feel my heart going thump, thump in my chest.

“Emergency, which service?” said a voice from my phone.

I stuffed the phone into my armpit, hoping that the newcomer into the shop hadn’t heard it.

“Yes?” said Mr. Patel. “Can I help you, sir?”

The newcomer made no reply, and I went on holding my breath, my chest feeling like it was going to burst.

“Can I help you, sir?” Mr. Patel said again but more loudly.

Again there was no reply. All I could hear were faint footsteps.

I just had to breathe, so I let the air out through my mouth as quietly as I could and took another deep breath in.

I wished I could see what was happening in the shop. After a few seconds I heard the door close, ringing the bell once again, but was the gunman on the inside or the outside?

Mr. Patel stood stock-still above me, giving me no indication either way.

“He has gone outside,” he said finally without changing his position.

“What’s he doing?” I asked.

“He is standing and looking round,” Mr. Patel said. “Who is he and why is he chasing you? Are you a criminal?”

“No,” I said, “I am not.”

I remembered the phone under my arm. The operator had obviously got fed up waiting and had hung up. I dialed 999 again.

“Emergency, which service?” said a voice again.

“Police,” I said.

“Police Incident Room, go ahead,” said another voice.

“There’s an armed gunman in the street on Regent’s Park Road in Finchley,” I said quickly.

Mr. Patel looked down at me.

“Mr. Patel,” I said urgently, “please do not look down. The man might see you and come back into the shop.”

“What number Regent’s Park Road?” said the voice on the phone.

“Near the corner of Lichfield Grove,” I said. “Please hurry.”

“Your name, sir?” said the voice.

“Foxton,” I said into the phone. “Mr. Patel, what is the man doing now?”

“He is walking away. No. He has stopped. He is looking back. Oh, goodness gracious, he is coming back this way.”

Mr. Patel leaned down, grabbed some keys from a hook under the counter and walked out of my sight.

“What are you doing?” I called after him urgently.

“Locking the door,” he said.

I didn’t have time to think whether it was a good idea or not before I heard Mr. Patel turn the key in the lock. Now the gunman would be sure where I was. And I could hear the door being shaken.

“Mr. Patel,” I shouted, “get away from the door. The man has a gun.”

“It is all right, Mr. Foxton,” he said with a laugh. “It is not him shaking the door, it is me. The man has gone past. I cannot see him anymore.”

It didn’t mean he wasn’t there so I stayed exactly where I was. My heart rate may have come down a few notches, but, as far as I was concerned, it was still no laughing matter.

“Now, Mr. Foxton, why is a man with a gun chasing you? It is like a film, no?”

“No,” I said. “This was very real life. He was trying to kill me.”

“But why?” he said.

It was a good question. A very good question.

Iremained sitting on the floor behind Mr. Patel’s counter until the police arrived. It took them nearly forty minutes, and I had telephoned 999 again twice more, before two heavily armed and body-armored officers finally made an appearance at the shop door. Mr. Patel let them in.

“About time too,” I said, standing up from my hiding place.

“Mr. Foxton?” one of the officers asked, his machine pistol held at the ready position with his finger over the trigger.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s me.”

“Are you armed, sir?”

“No,” I said.

“Please put your hands on your head,” he said, pointing his gun towards me.

“It’s not me who’s the gunman,” I said, slightly irritated. “It was the man who was chasing me.”