Dick Francis - The Danger

'I'll do it at once,' I said.

'It is Sunday,' he said, almost doubtfully.

'But you yourself are working,' I pointed out. 'And I'll reach him, somehow.'

He gave me his schedule of times on and off duty, which I wrote down.

'You've done marvels, Enrico,' I said warmly, near the end. 'I do congratulate you. It must be worth promotion.'

He laughed shortly, both pleased and unhopeful. 'This Goldoni has still to be caught.' A thought struck him; 'In which country, do you think, will he be brought to trial?'

'On his past record,' I said dryly, 'nowhere. He'll skip to South America as soon as the police get near him here, and next year maybe a polo player will be snatched from out of a chukka.'

'What?'

'Untranslatable,' I said. 'Goodbye for just how.9

I telephoned immediately to Kent Wagner's headquarters and by dint of threats and persuasion finally tracked him to the home of his niece, who was celebrating her birthday with a brunch.

'Sorry,' I said; and explained at some length.

'Jesus Christ,' he said. 'Who is this guy Pucinelli?'

'A good cop. Very brave. Talk to him.'

'Yeah.'

I gave him the telephone numbers and Enrico's schedule. 'And the Goldonis are going to New York,' I said. 'Mrs Goldoni told me. I think they're going today. They've been staying here at the Regency.'

'I'll get onto it at once. Will you be at the Sherryatt still?'

'Yes, I'm there now.'

'Stay by the 'phone.'

'OK.'

He grunted. 'Thanks, Andrew.'

'A pleasure, Kent,' I said, meaning it. 'Just catch him. He's all yours.'

As soon as I put the receiver down there was a knock on the door, and I was already opening it before it occurred to me that perhaps I should start to be careful. It was only the maid, however, on my doorstep; short, dumpy, middle-aged and harmless, wanting to clean the room.

'How long will you be?' I said, looking at the trolley of fresh linen and the large vacuum cleaner.

She said in Central-American Spanish that she didn't understand. I asked her the same question in Spanish. Twenty minutes, she said stolidly. Accordingly I lifted the telephone, asked the switchboard to put any calls through to me in the lobby temporarily, and went downstairs to wait.

To wait… and to think.

I thought chiefly about Beatrice Goldoni and her excited guilt. I thought of her son, banished from his father's house. I thought it highly likely that it wasn't a lover Beatrice had been sneaking off to meet in Washington that Friday, but a still-beloved black sheep. He would have set it up himself, knowing she was there for the race, and still feeling, on his part, affection.

For a certainty she didn't know he was the kidnapper of Alessia and Freemantle. She hadn't that sort of guile. She did know, however, that it had been I who'd negotiated Alessia's ransom, because at that Friday breakfast Paolo Cenci had told her. What else he had told her, heaven knew. Maybe he had told her also about Dominic: it wouldn't have been unreasonable. Many people didn't understand why Liberty Market liked to keep quiet about its work, and saw no great harm in telling.

I had myself driven Beatrice into Washington; and she talked, always, a lot. Chatter, chatter… we're here with the Cencis, you remember Alessia who was kidnapped? And there's a young man with her, the one who came to Italy to get her back safely… he's here because of this other kidnapping… and Paolo Cenci told us he rescued a little boy Dominic in England… Alessia was there too… chatter, chatter, chatter.

I stood up from the lobby sofas went to the desk, and said I was checking out; would they please prepare my bill. Then I got through again to Kent Wagner, who said I'd just caught him, he was leaving the branch.

'You sure as hell broke up my day,' he said, though sounding philosophical. 'Thought of something else?

I said I was leaving the Sherryatt, and why.

'Jes-sus' he said. 'Come down to headquarters; I'll put you into a good place where Goldoni would never find you. It's sure prudent to assume that he does now know you exist.

'Might be safer,' I agreed. 'I'm on my way.

The desk said my account would be ready when I came down with my gear. The twenty minutes was barely up, but when I stepped out of the lift I saw the maid pushing her trolley away down the passage. I unlocked my door and went in.

There were three men in there, ail in high-domed peaked caps and white overalls, with International Rug Co. Inc. on chests and backs. They had pushed some of the furniture to the walls and were unrolling a large Indian-type rug in the cleared free centre.

'What…' I began. And I thought: it's Sunday.

I spun on my heel to retreat, but it was already too late.

A fourth man, International Rug Co. Inc. on his chest, was blocking the doorway; advancing, stretching out his arms, thrusting me forcefully backwards into the room.

I looked into his eyes… and knew him.

I thought in lightning flashes.

I thought: I've lost.

I thought: I'm dead.

I thought: I meant to win. I thought I would win. I thought I'd find him and get him arrested and stop him, and it never seriously occurred to me it could be this way round.

I thought: I'm a fool, and I've lost. I thought I would win, and Brunelleschi… the danger… has beaten me.

Everything happened very fast, in a blur. A sort of canvas bag came down over my head, blocking out sight. I was tripped and tossed by many hands to the floor. There was a sharp sting in my thigh, like a wasp. I was conscious of being turned over and over, realised dimly that I was being rolled up like a sausage in the Indian rug.

It was the last thing I thought for quite a long while.

I woke up out of doors, feeling cold.

I was relieved to wake up at all, but that said, could find little else of comfort.

For a start, I had nothing on.

Sod it, I thought furiously. True to bloody form. Just like Alessia. Morgan Freemantle - he too, I dared say, was currently starkers.

Liberty Market's own private unofficial training manual, issued to each partner on joining, spelled it out: 'immediate and effective domination and demoralisation of the victim is achieved by depriving him/her of clothes'.

Dominic had had clothes; they'd even added a jersey to his tiny shorts. Dominic, on the other hand, was too little to find anything humiliating in nakedness. There would have been no point.

The only thing to do was to try to think of myself as dressed.

I was sitting on the ground; ground being loamy earth covered with fallen leaves. I was leaning against the tree from which most of the said leaves appeared to have descended: a small tree with a smooth hard trunk no more than four inches in diameter.

The view was limited on every side by growths of evergreen; mostly, it seemed to me ironically, of laurel. I was in a small clearing, with only one other youthful tree for company. Beech trees, perhaps, I thought.

The main and most depressing problem was the fact of being unable to walk away on account of having something that felt like handcuffs on my wrists, on the wrong side of the tree trunk, behind my back.

It was quiet in the clearing, but beyond I could hear the muffled, constant roar which announced itself as city. Wherever I was, it wasn't far out. Not nearly as far, for instance, as Laurel. More like a mile or two… in a suburb.

I opened my mouth and yelled at the top of my lungs the corny old word 'Help.' I yelled it many times. Consistently negative results.

The sky, so blue for the race-week, was clouding over: grey, like my thoughts.

I had no idea what time it was. My fingers, exploring, discovered I had no watch.

I could stand up.

I stood.

I could kneel down: didn't bother.