‘The same argument might apply to public schoolboys,’ Keeble said casually. ‘But they were Americans, I agree.’
‘So all we need to know now, apart from who were they,’ I said to Teller, ‘is why they wanted you dead.’
No one had any constructive ideas on that point. Teller drank his coffee and a maid in a green overall came to take the tray.
‘You’re guarding against them having another go?’ I said to Keeble, watching the maid’s back disappear through the door.
Keeble followed my eyes. ‘All precautions,’ he nodded. ‘The works. I got the Radnor-Halley Agency. Only the best for Dave!’
‘They won’t let me open any packages,’ Teller complained. ‘I think they take them outside, dunk them in a bucket, and wait for the ticking to start. And the only chocolates I have were bought by Sim personally. You’d never believe the half of what goes on in here.’
I laughed. ‘It’s when you get out of here you’ll notice it.’
‘He’ll stay here till you’ve wrapped it up,’ remarked Keeble; and he wasn’t joking.
I stared. ‘I’m in anti-infiltration, remember? Not the CID.’
‘Oh sure. But the same motivation, I imagine. Just let your hunter instincts loose... and tell us what you plan to do next.’
I stood up restlessly and went to the window, still raining. Two nurses ran from one building to another, clutching capes around them and skitting mud up the backs of their stockings. Useful people, nurses. Needed people. Constructive, compassionate, tough people...
‘Well?’ said Keeble, behind me.
I turned round and leaned against the wall. ‘How’s the exchequer?’
Teller answered, ‘Look, Gene, I’ve enough to launch a minor space programme. And as I said before, if it weren’t for you I wouldn’t be here at all. So spend what you need to, and I’ll pick up the chits.’
‘Right... then I think it would be best to let the Radnor-Halley Agency deal with anything which crops up here... I suppose they did the handkerchief inquiry?’
Keeble nodded.
‘And I’ll go back to the States tomorrow. I can’t believe the attempted murder isn’t tied in with the horse theft, so the springboard for everything must be in America. Unless some Irish fanatic disapproves of you skimming off the cream of British bloodstock!’
‘Is Chrysalis Irish, then?’ Keeble asked seriously.
‘Irish-bred dam,’ I said. ‘That’s all. His sire was Purple Emperor, in the Read Stud at Newmarket.’
‘How do you know?’ Teller asked, surprised.
‘I looked it up,’ I said briefly. ‘Also his markings. And that is important.’ I paused. ‘Whoever took Allyx and Chrysalis knew a lot about horses. Allyx was one of six stallions loose in a paddock at night. Chrysalis was one of five horses in a horse box. Yet each time the right horse was singled out for removal. We have to believe it was the right horse, not just chance, because each time it was by far the most valuable one of the collection which disappeared. Well... Chrysalis is a dark bay with no distinguishing marks. No socks, no blaze, no star. One colour all over. And Allyx was exactly the same. There are literally thousands of horses like that.’
The two men didn’t stir.
I went on, ‘This means that if we ever do find Chrysalis, there will be an enormous problem of identification. English horses have no tattooed numbers, like American.’
‘Christ,’ Teller said.
‘I wouldn’t know him if he came up and ate sugar out of my hand. Would you?’ He shook his head. I went on, ‘The only people at all likely to be able to pick him out for us with any certainty are those who handled him in England. And that’s where we hit a very big snag. The stud groom at Read’s died of a heart attack two months ago and the new man couldn’t be sure of knowing Chrysalis again. Read himself is too short sighted, apparently, to be of any help. This means we have to go back nearly five years, to the season when Chrysalis last raced. To his owner at that time, and his trainer. Though the only one I’d pin any faith on would be the lad who looked after him. And it’s the lad, I think, who we’ll need to take to the States, if we find a horse which might be Chrysalis.’
‘We could easily find out who the lad is,’ Keeble nodded, ‘and shunt him over.’
‘His name is Sam Kitchens, and he’ll be at Ascot at this moment, as one of his horses is running in the four-thirty. It’s Gold Cup day today.’ I smiled faintly. ‘I thought I might just drift along to the races when I leave here.’
‘Just tell me,’ Teller said in a small voice, ‘how and when you found out all this?’ He spread his fingers. ‘I only ask.’
‘I spent an hour this morning at the British Bloodstock Agency... I was practically camped on their doorstep at nine o’clock. And then I did some telephoning. That’s all.’
‘When do you sleep, fella?’
‘Between meals. Very bad for the appetite.’
‘He’s mad,’ Teller said to Keeble.
‘You get used to it,’ Keeble assured him. ‘The first eight years are the worst.’
‘And this is the guy you’d trust your daughter to?’
‘Hm,’ said Keeble. ‘We haven’t mentioned that.’
‘What?’ I said suspiciously.
‘We’d... er... like you to take Lynnie back with you, to the States,’ Teller said. ‘She’s going to visit with Eunice for a while.’
I glanced at Keeble and saw that he knew what I was inevitably thinking: that Eunice’s special need for company was more compelling than the rest of Lynnie’s finishing-school term.
‘I’d be glad to,’ I said to them both with formality. ‘On a slow boat via New Zealand, if you like.’
‘She’s too young for you,’ said Keeble, without anxiety.
‘She is indeed.’ I pushed myself away from the wall and stood upright. ‘Where will I collect her?’
Keeble handed me an envelope. ‘Air tickets for you both. She’ll be at the Victoria Air Terminal at eight-thirty tomorrow morning. Is that all right?’
I took the tickets and nodded. ‘Can I have the handkerchief?’
He obligingly produced it, in another envelope. I put that and the air tickets away, and picked up Peter’s snaps. Holding the negatives up to the light I singled out the drinking group and put it in my wallet.
‘I’ll get it blown up tomorrow in New York,’ I said. ‘Then it’ll only be a matter of sifting through two hundred million inhabitants.’
Drizzle was wilting the fluffy hats when I got to Ascot, but the turf looked greener for it, and the horses glossier. I spotted the trainer I wanted and walked across to where he was talking to a large woman in a creased pink dress under a dripping pink umbrella. He caught sight of me over her shoulder, and I watched the initial memory-jog pass through mind-search to recognition. He smiled warmly at his success.
‘Gene Hawkins.’
The large woman turned round, saw she didn’t know me, decided she didn’t want to, and departed.
‘Mr Arkwright.’ We shook hands, and I thought how little age had changed him. Still the upright, brisk, grey-headed neighbour from my father’s days in Yorkshire.
‘Come and have a drink,’ he said, ‘and let’s get out of this rain.’ There were misty beads of water fuzzing his tall grey hat. ‘Though it’s much better than it was an hour ago, isn’t it?’
‘I’ve only just come.’
He led the way up the staircase into the balcony bar and ordered vodka and tonic. I asked if I could have the tonic without the vodka and he remarked that my father, an enthusiastic alcoholic, would have turned in his grave.
‘What are you doing now then?’ he said, sipping the clear fizzy mixture. ‘Still in the Civil Service?’
‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘But I’m on leave at present.’
‘It always seemed rum to me, you doing something so... so tame,’ he said. ‘Considering the sort of boy you were.’ He shrugged. ‘Never would have thought it. Your old father always thought you’d do something in racing, you know. You rode well enough, you knew your way around. Can’t understand it.’ He looked at me accusingly. ‘Those two years in the Army did you no good.’