Dick Francis - For Kicks

When they had gone to bed October put two fingers into an inner pocket, drew out a slip of paper, and handed it to me without a word.

I unfolded it. It was a cheque for ten thousand pounds. A lot of noughts. I looked at them in silence. Then, slowly, I tore the fortune in half and put the pieces in an ashtray.

"Thank you very much," I said.

"But I can't take it."

"You did the job. Why not accept the pay?"

"Because…" I stopped. Because what? I was not sure I could put it into words. It had something to do with having learned more than I had bargained for. With diving too deep. With having killed. All I was sure of was that I could no longer bear the thought of receiving money for it.

"You must have a reason," said October, with a touch of irritation.

"Well, I didn't really do it for the money, to start with, and I can't take that sort of sum from you. In fact, when I get back I am going to repay you all that is left of the first ten thousand."

"No," he protested.

"You've earned it. Keep it. You need it for your family."

"What I need for my family, I'll earn by selling horses."

He stubbed out his cigar.

"You're so infuriatingly independent that I don't know how you could face being a stable lad. If it wasn't for the money, why did you do it?"

I moved in my chair. The bruises still felt like bruises. I smiled faintly, enjoying the pun.

"For kicks, I suppose."

The door of the office opened, and Beckett unhurriedly came in. I stood up. He held out his hand, and remembering the weakness of his grasp I put out my own. He squeezed gently and let go.

"It's been a long time, Mr. Roke."

"More than three months," I agreed.

"And you completed the course."

I shook my head, smiling.

"Fell at the last fence, I'm afraid."

He took off his overcoat and hung it on a knobbed hat rack, and unwound a grey woollen scarf from his neck. His suit was nearly black, a colour which only enhanced his extreme pallor and emphasized his thinness: but his eyes were as alive as ever in the gaunt shadowed sockets. He gave me a long observant scrutiny.

"Sit down," he said.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. I see they've looked after you all right."

"Yes, thank you." I sat down again in the leather chair, and he walked round and sank carefully into the one behind his desk. His chair had a high back and arms, and he used them to support his head and elbows.

"I didn't get your report until I came back to London from Newbury on Sunday morning," he said.

"It took two days to come from Posset and didn't reach my house until Friday. When I had read it I telephoned to Edward at Slaw and found he had just been rung up by the police at Clavering. I then telephoned to Clavering myself. I spent a good chunk of Sunday hurrying things up for you in various conversations with ever higher ranks, and early on Monday it was decided finally in the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions that there was no charge for you to answer."

"Thank you very much," I said.

He paused, considering me.

"You did more towards extricating yourself than Edward or I did. We only con- finned what you had said and had you freed a day or two sooner than you might have been. But it appeared that the Clavering police had already discovered from a thorough examination of the stable office that everything you had told them was borne out by the facts. They had also talked to the doctor who had attended Elinor, and to Elinor herself, and taken a look at the shed with the flame thrower, and cabled your solicitor for a summary of the contract you signed with Edward.

By the time I spoke to them they were taking the truth of your story for granted, and were agreeing that you had undoubtedly killed Adams in self-defence.

"Their own doctor the one who examined you had told them straight away that the amount of crushing your right forearm had sustained was entirely consistent with its having been struck by a force strong enough to have smashed in your skull. He was of the opinion that the blow had landed more or less along the inside of your arm, not straight across it, thus causing extensive damage to muscles and blood vessels, but no bone fracture; and he told them that it was perfectly possible for you to have ridden a motor-bike a quarter of an hour later if you had wanted to enough."

"You know," I said, "I didn't think they had taken any notice of a single word I said."

"Mmm. Well, I spoke to one of the CID men who questioned you last Thursday evening. He said they brought you in as a foregone conclusion, and that you looked terrible. You told them a rigmarole which they thought was nonsense, so they asked a lot of questions to trip you up. They thought it would be easy. The CID man said it was like trying to dig a hole in a rock with your finger nails. They all ended up by believing you, much to their own surprise."

"I wish they'd told me," I sighed.

"Not their way. They sounded a tough bunch."

"They seemed it, too."

"However, you survived."

"Oh yes."

Beckett looked at his watch.

"Are you in a hurry?"

"No." I shook my head.

"Good… I've rather a lot to say to you. Can you lunch?"

"Yes. I'd like to."

"Fine. Now, this report of yours." He dug the handwritten foolscap pages out of his inside breast pocket and laid them on the table.

"What I'd like you to do now is to lop off the bit asking for reinforcements and substitute a description of the flame-thrower operation. Right? There's a table and chair over there. Get to work, and when it's done I'll have it typed."

When I had finished the report he spent some time outlining and discussing the proceedings which were to be taken against Humber, Cass, and Jud Wilson, and also against Soupy Tarleton and his friend Lewis Greenfield. He then looked at his watch again and decided it was time to go out for lunch. He took me to his Club, which seemed to me to be dark brown throughout, and we ate steak, kidney, and mushroom pie which I chose because I could manage it unobtrusively with a fork.

He noticed though.

"That arm still troubling you?"

"It's much better."

He nodded and made no further comment. Instead, he told me of a visit he had paid the day before to an elderly uncle of Adams, whom he had discovered living in bachelor splendour in Piccadilly.

"Young Paul Adams, according to his uncle, was the sort of child who would have been sent to an approved school if he hadn't had rich parents. He was sacked from Eton for forging cheques and from his next school for persistent gambling. His parents bought him out of scrape after scrape and were told by a psychiatrist that he would never change, or at least not until late middle age. He was their only child. It must have been terrible for them. The father died when Adams was twenty-five, and his mother struggled on, trying to keep him out of too disastrous trouble. About five years ago she had to pay out a fortune to hush up a scandal in which Adams had apparently broken a youth's arm for no reason at all, and she threatened to have him certified if he did anything like that again. And a few days later she fell out of her bedroom window and died. The uncle, her brother, says he has always thought that Adams pushed her."

"Very likely, I should think," I agreed.

"So you were right about him being psychopathic."

"Well, it was pretty obvious."

"From the way he behaved to you personally?"

"Yes."

We had finished the pie and were on to cheese. Beckett looked at me curiously and said, "What sort of life did you really have at Humber's stable?"

"Oh," I grinned.

"You could hardly call it a holiday camp."

He waited for me to go on and when I didn't, he said, "Is that all you've got to say about it?"