'How did you enjoy your Turkish bath on Sunday?' I asked, smiling.
'Oh, you heard about that, did you?'
'I think everyone has heard about it,' I said.
'Good. Serve the little bastard right,' said Sandy, grinning hugely.
'How did you know where to find him?' I asked.
'Asked his mother-' Sandy broke off in the middle of the word, and his eyes widened.
'Yes,' I said. 'You sent him those threatening Bolingbroke notes.'
'And what,' said Sandy, with good humour, 'makes you think so?'
'You like practical jokes, and you dislike Joe,' I said. 'The first note he received was put into his jacket while it hung in the changing-room at Plumpton, so it had to be a jockey or a valet or an official who did it. It couldn't have been a bookmaker or a trainer or an owner or any member of the public. So I began to think that perhaps the person who planted the note in Joe's pocket was not the person who was paying him to stop horses. That person has, strangely enough, exacted no revenge at all. But I asked myself who else would be interested in tormenting Joe, and I came to you. You knew before the race that Joe was not supposed to win on Bolingbroke. When he won you told him you'd lost a lot of money, and you'd get even with him. And I guess you have. You even tracked him down to enjoy seeing him suffer.'
'Revenge is sweet, and all that. Well, it's a fair cop,' said Sandy. 'Though how you know such a lot beats me.'
'Joe told me most of it,' I said.
'What a blabbermouth. That tongue of Joe's will get him into a right mess one of these days.'
'Yes, it will,' I said, thinking of the incautious way Joe had spoken of his 'stopping' and its rewards.
'Did you tell him I had sent him those notes?' asked Sandy, with his first show of anxiety.
'No, I didn't. It would only stir up more trouble,' I said.
'Thanks for that, anyway.'
'And in reward for that small service, Sandy,' I said, 'will you tell me how you knew in advance that Bolingbroke was not supposed to win?'
He grinned widely, rocking gently on his heels, but he didn't answer.
'Go on,' I said. 'It isn't much to ask, and it might even give me a lead to that other mystery, about Bill Davidson.'
Sandy shook his head. 'It won't help you any,' he said. 'Joe told me himself.'
'What?' I exclaimed.
'He told me himself. In the washroom when we were changing before the race. You know how he can't help swanking? He wanted to show off, and I was handy, and besides, he knew I'd stopped a horse or two in my time.'
'What did he say?' I asked.
'He said if I wanted a lesson in how to choke a horse I'd better watch him on Bolingbroke. Well, a nod's as good as a wink to Sandy Mason. I got a punter to put fifty quid on Leica, which I reckoned was bound to win with Bolingbroke not trying. And look what happened. The little sod lost his nerve and beat Leica by two lengths. I could have throttled him. Fifty quid's a ruddy fortune, mate, as far as I'm concerned.'
'Why did you wait as long as ten days before you gave him that first note?' I asked.
'I didn't think of it until then,' he said, frankly. 'But it was a damn good revenge, wasn't it? He nearly got his licence suspended at Cheltenham, and he sweated his guts out for three days at the week-end, all in the screaming heeby-jeebies worked up by yours truly.' Sandy beamed. 'You should have seen him in the Turkish baths. A sodden, whining, clutching wreck. In tears, and begging me to keep him safe. Me! What a laugh. I was nearly sick, trying not to laugh. A cracking good revenge, that was.'
'And you put him over the rails at Plumpton, too,' I said.
'I never did,' said Sandy, indignantly. 'Did he tell you that? He's a bloody liar. He fell off, I saw him. I've a good mind to frighten him again.' His red hair bristled and his brown eyes sparkled. Then he relaxed. 'Oh, well- I'll think of something, sometime. There's no rush. I'll make his life uncomfortable – ants in his pants, worms in his boots, that sort of thing. Harmless,' and Sandy began to laugh. Then he said, 'As you're such a roaring success as a private eye, how are you getting on with that other business?'
'Not fast enough,' I said. 'But I know a lot more than I did at this time last week, so I haven't lost hope. You haven't heard anything useful?' He shook his head.
'Not a squeak anywhere. You're not giving it up, then?'
'No,' I said.
'Well, the best of British luck,' said Sandy, grinning.
An official poked his head round the door. 'Jockeys out, please,' he said. It was nearly time for the first race.
Sandy put his helmet on and tied the strings. Then he took out his false teeth, the two centre incisors of the upper jaw, wrapped them in a handkerchief and tucked them into the pocket of the coat hanging on his peg. He, like most jockeys, never rode races wearing false teeth, for fear of losing them, or even swallowing them if he fell. He gave me a gap-toothed grin, sketched a farewell salute, and dived out into the rain.
It was still raining an hour later when I went out to ride Palindrome. Pete was waiting for me in the parade ring, the water dripping off the brim of his hat in a steady stream.
'Isn't this a God-awful day?' he said. 'I'm glad it's you that's got to strip off and get soaked, and not me. I had a bellyful when I was riding. I hope you're good at swimming.'
'Why?' I asked, mystified.
'If you are, you'll know how to keep your eyes open under water.' I suspected another of Pete's rather feeble jokes, but he was serious. He pointed to the goggles slung round my neck. 'You won't need those, for a start. With all the mud that's being kicked up today, they'd be covered before you'd gone a furlong.'
I'll leave them down, then,' I said.
'Take them off. They'll only get in your way,' he said.
So I took them off, and as I turned my head to ease the elastic over the back of my helmet, I caught a glimpse of a man walking along outside the parade ring. There were few people standing about owing to the rain, and I had a clear view of him.
It was Bert, the man in charge of the horse in the lay-by on Maidenhead Thicket. One of the Marconicar drivers.
He was not looking at me, but the sight of him was as unpleasant as an electric shock. He was a long way from base. He might have travelled the hundred and forty miles solely to enjoy an afternoon's racing in the rain. Or he might not.
I looked at Palindrome, plodding slowly round the parade ring in his waterproof rug.
A dead cert.
I shivered.
I knew I had made some progress towards my quarry, the man who had caused Bill's death, even though he himself was as unknown to me as ever. I had disregarded his two emphatic warnings and I feared I had left a broad enough trail for him to be well aware of my pursuit. Bert would not be at Bristol alone, I thought, and I could guess that a third deterrent message was on its way.
There are times when one could do without an intuition, and this was one of them. Palindrome, the dead cert. What had been done once would be tried again, and somewhere out on the rain-swept racecourse another strand of wire could be waiting. For no logical reason, I was certain of it.
It was too late to withdraw from the race. Palindrome was an odds-on favourite, and clearly in the best of health; he showed no lameness, no broken bloodvessels, none of the permitted excuses for a last minute cancellation. And if I myself were suddenly taken ill and couldn't ride, another jockey would be quickly found to take my place. I couldn't send someone out in my colours to take a fall designed for me.
If I refused point-blank, without explanation, to let Palindrome run in the race, my permit to ride would be withdrawn, and that would be the end of my steeple-chasing.
If I said to the Stewards, 'Someone is going to bring Palindrome down with wire,' they might possibly send an official round the course to inspect the fences: but he wouldn't find anything. I was quite sure that if a wire were rigged, it would be, as in Bill's case, a last minute job.