Dick Francis - The Danger

He had said he had heard of our existence from a friend of his who was an underwriter at Lloyds, and that he had since made several enquiries.

'It seems your firm is well-regarded,' he told me austerely. 'I must say I would have seen no need for such an organisation, but I now learn there are approximately two hundred kidnaps for ransom in the world each year, not counting tribal disturbances in Africa, or political upheavals in Central and South America.'

'Er…' I said.

He swept on. 'I am told there may be many more occurrences than those actually reported. Cases where families or firms settle in private and don't inform the police.'

'Probably,' I agreed.

'Foolish,' he said shortly.

'Most often, yes.'

'I understand from the Police Commissioners that they are willing to work with your firm whenever appropriate.' He paused, and added almost grudgingly, 'They have no adverse criticisms.'

Bully for them, I thought.

'I think we can say, therefore,' Morgan Freemantle went on judiciously, 'that if anything further should happen to anyone connected with racing, you may call upon the Jockey Club for any help it is within our power to give.'

'Thank you very much,' I said, surprised.

He nodded. 'We have an excellent security service. They'll be happy to work with you also. We in the Jockey Club,' he informed me regretfully, 'spend a great deal of time confounding dishonesty, because unfortunately racing breeds fraud.'

There didn't seem to be an answer to that, so I gave none.

'Let me know, then, Mr… er… Douglas,' he said, rising, 'if your firm should be engaged by anyone in racing to deal with a future circumstance which might come within our province. Anything, that is to say, which might affect the stability of racing as a whole. As extortion by means of horses most certainly does.'

I stood also. 'My firm could only advise a client that the Jockey Club should be informed,' I said neutrally. 'We couldn't insist.'

He gave me a straight considering stare. 'We like to know what's going on in our own backyard,' he said. 'We like to know what to defend ourselves against.'

'Liberty Market will always cooperate as fully as possible,' I assured him.

He smiled briefly, almost sardonically. 'But you, like us, don't know where an enemy may strike, or in what way, and we find ourselves wishing for defences we never envisaged.'

'Mm,' I said. 'Life's like that.'

He shook my hand again firmly and came with me from his desk to the door of his office.

'Let's hope we've seen an end to the whole thing. But if not, come to see me.'

'Yes,' I said.

I telephoned to the Villa Francese one evening and my call was answered by Ilaria.

'Hello, Mr Fixit,' she said with amusement. 'How's it going?'

'Every whichway,' I said. 'And how are you?'

'Bored, wouldn't you know?'

Is Alessia there?' I asked.

'The precious girl is out visiting with Papa.'

'Oh…'

'However,' Ilaria said carefully, 'she should be back by ten. Try again later.'

'Yes. Thank you.'

'Don't thank me. She is out visiting Lorenzo Traventi, who has made a great recovery from his bullets and is now looking particularly ravishing and romantic and is kissing her hand at every opportunity.'

'Dear Ilaria,' I said. 'Always so kind.'

'Shit,' she said cheerfully, 'I might tell her you called.'

She did tell her. When I rang again, Alessia answered almost immediately.

'Sorry I was out,' she said. 'How's things?'

'How are they with you?' I asked.

'Oh… fine. Really fine. I mean it. I've ridden in several races since I've been back. Two winners. Not bad. Do you remember Brunelleschi?'

I thought back. 'The horse you didn't ride in the Derby?'

'That's right. Spot on. Well, he was one of my winners last week, and they're sending him to Washington to run in the International, and believe it or not but they've asked me to go too, to ride him.' Her voice held both triumph and apprehension in roughly equal amounts.

'Are you going?' I said.

'I… don't know.'

' Washington DC?' I asked. ' America?'

'Yes. They have an international race every year there at Laurel racecourse. They invite some really super horses from Europe to go there - pay all their expenses, and those of the trainers and jockeys. I've never been, but I've heard it's great. So what do you think?'

'Go, if you can,' I said.

There was a small silence. 'That's the whole thing, isn't it? If I can. I almost can. But I have to decide by tomorrow at the latest. Give them time to find someone else.'

'Take Ilaria with you,' I suggested.

'She wouldn't go,' she said positively, and then more doubtfully, 'Would she?'

'You can but ask.'

'Yes. Perhaps I will. I do wish, though, that you could go, yourself, I'd sail through the whole thing if I knew you were there.'

'Not a chance,' I said regretfully. 'But you will be all right.'

We talked for a while longer and disconnected, and I spent some time wondering if I could, after all, wangle a week off and blow the fare, but we were at that time very shortbanded in the office, Tony Vine having been called away urgently to Brazil and four or five partners tied up in a multiple mess in Sardinia. I was constantly taking messages from them on the switchboard in between the advisory trips to racehorse owners, and even Gerry Clayton's folded birds of paradise had given way to more orthodox paperwork.

Nothing happens the way one expects.

Morgan Freemantle, Senior Steward of the Jockey Club, went to Laurel for a week to be the guest of honour of the president of the racecourse, a courtesy between racing fraternities.

On the second day of his visit he was kidnapped.

The Chairman sent me round to the Jockey Club, where shock had produced suspended animation akin to the waxworks.

For a start there were very few people in the place and no one was quite sure who was in charge; a flock without its leader. When I asked which individual had received the first demand from the kidnappers I was steered to the office of a stiff-backed middle-aged woman in silk shirt and tweed skin who looked at me numbly and told me I had come at a bad time.

'Mrs Berkeley?' I enquired.

She nodded, her eyes vague, her thoughts elsewhere, her spine rigid.

'I've come about Mr Freemantle,' I said. It sounded rather as if I'd said 'I've come about the plumbing', and I had difficulty in stifling a laugh. Mrs Berkeley paid more attention and said, 'You're not the man from Liberty Market, are you?'

'That's right.'

'Oh.' She inspected me. 'Are you the person who saw Mr Freemantle last week?'

'Yes.'

'What are you going to do about it?'

'Do you mind if I sit down?' I asked, indicating the chair nearest to me, beside her polished desk.

'By all means,' she said faintly, her voice civilised upper class, her manner an echo of country house hostess. I'm afraid you find us… disarranged.'

'Could you tell me what messages you have actually received?' I said.

She looked broodingly at her telephone as if it were itself guilty of the crime. 'I am taking all incoming calls to the Senior Steward's private number on this telephone during his absence. I answered…There was an American voice, very loud, telling me to listen carefully… I felt disembodied, you know. It was quite unreal.'

'The words,' I said without impatience. 'Do you remember the words?'

'Of course I do. He said the Senior Steward had been kidnapped. He said he would be freed on payment of ten million English pounds sterling. He said the ransom would have to be paid by the Jockey Club.' She stared at me with the shocked glaze still in her eyes. 'It's impossible, you know. The Jockey Club doesn't have that sort of money. The Jockey Club are administrators. There are no… assets.'