I thought the Thursday concert was even better than the previous evening. For a start, I could see Caroline, and she knew it. The hall had been sold out completely, with not so much as a spare stool for me to be found in the auditorium. When I arrived at the box office at seven o’clock, there wasn’t a ticket for me, but there was a note.
“Come to the stage door and ask for Reggie,” it had said in Caroline’s handwriting. So I had done just that.
“Right,” Reggie had said. “So you’re the English guy she’s been yappin’ about all week.” He was a big, burly black man, and he spoke with a rhythmic lilt that made me want to boogie.
“You got it, man,” I replied, mimicking him.
He guffawed expansively, giving me a glimpse of a mouth full of gold-capped teeth. “You’re a dude,” he said. I wasn’t sure whether it was a compliment or not, but he smiled broadly. “I’ve got just the place for you. Come along with me.”
His place turned out to be a couple of metal chairs set out of sight of the audience behind black curtains in the wing of the stage. One of the chairs had a particularly fine view of the first desk of the viola section, a view of my Caroline. As I sat there, I could see her through the gap between the second violins and the French horns. In truth, I could only see the back of her shoulders and part of her right side, but it was enough.
On this occasion, I quietly hummed my way through “Nimrod” with hardly a tear. It still reminded me vividly of my father’s funeral, but I was now at peace with the mental image of that day, not that it didn’t remain a poignant and emotional memory.
Caroline came over and sat with me during the intermission while the rest of the orchestra disappeared down some concrete steps at the back of the stage.
“What do they all do during the intermission?” I asked as we watched them go.
“Same as the audience, I expect,” she said. “Some have a cup of tea. There’s usually some waiting for us in the dressing room. Others have something a little stronger, although they’re not supposed to. One or two go outside for a smoke. Believe it or not, some sit and go to sleep for fifteen minutes.”
“What do you normally do?” I asked her, taking her hand.
“All of the above.” She laughed.
“Do you want to go and have your tea, then?” I asked her.
“No. I want to stay here. I share a dressing room with twelve other women and I’d much rather be here with you.”
Good. I would much rather it too.
“I’m going back to Delafield tomorrow,” I said. “I’m going to have a snoop around the Lake Country Polo Club. Rolf Schumann was a vice president of the club, and one of those killed by the bomb at Newmarket was the president.”
“But I can’t come with you,” she said miserably. “There are some changes to the program for tomorrow night, and I have rehearsals at eleven and at three.”
“How about on Saturday?” I asked.
“We have a matinee on Saturday at two-thirty, as well as the evening performance,” she said. “You go tomorrow without me, but be careful. Remember, someone tried to kill Rolf Schumann, and that same person may have tried to kill you twice already.”
“You don’t need to remind me,” I said.
THE LAKE COUNTRY POLO CLUB was a very grand affair, with rows and rows of white-painted stables with brown roofs alongside four or five polo fields and a mass of club facilities. There were also dozens of horses in white-railed paddocks, their heads down as they chewed the spring grass. This was clearly a busy place, but also one where everything oozed money, and lots of it.
I pulled the Buick nose first into the visitors parking lot next to the club offices and walked in where it said RECEPTION on the door. There was a woman in a white crewneck sweatshirt and jeans sitting at a desk, typing on a computer. She looked up.
“Can I help you?” she said.
“I wondered if Mr. Komarov is anywhere about,” I said.
“No,” she said. “I’m afraid he won’t be back here now until next month at the earliest. For the Delafield Cup, I expect. He’s usually here for that.”
So they knew Mr. Komarov. In fact, they seemed to know him quite well.
“So he doesn’t own this club, then?” I asked her, feigning surprise.
“Oh no,” she said. “But he does own most of the ponies. His pony man is here, if you’d like to see him?” I wasn’t sure whether I did, but, before I could stop her, she lifted a phone and pushed some buttons. “What did you say your name was?” she asked me.
I hadn’t, in fact, said anything about my name. “Mr. Buck,” I said, looking out at my car. I very nearly said Buick.
Someone answered at the other end. “Kurt,” said the woman. “I have a Mr. Buck here asking after Mr. Komarov. He wants to know when he will be coming back to the club. Can you help?” She listened for a moment and then said, “Hold on, I’ll ask him.” She looked up at me. “Kurt says to ask you how you know Mr. Komarov.”
“I don’t,” I said. “But I want to ask him about something that happened in England.”
She relayed the message and then listened briefly. “Where in England?” she asked me.
“Newmarket,” I said loudly.
She didn’t say anything but listened a while longer. “Fine, I’ll tell him.” She hung up. “Kurt is coming over to see you,” she said to me. “Kurt’s in charge of all Mr. Komarov’s ponies.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll wait for him outside.”
Why were the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end and signaling danger, danger? Perhaps it would be safer to get back in the car and leave immediately. Instead, I went for a stroll and walked through a horse passageway beneath the empty grandstand and out onto the polo pitch beyond.
It put the Guards Polo Club in the shade. While it was true that there wasn’t a Royal Box, the rest of the facilities for watching were outstanding, with covered stands and hundreds of padded armchairlike seats for maximum comfort. The playing area had been set up for what the man at the Guards Club had called arena polo, but it could obviously be converted into a larger field for the real thing by removal of the boundary boards. There was plenty enough of the well-tended grass for even the biggest polo pitch.
I was standing, looking at the grandstand, when a man called out to me.
“Mr. Buck?” he shouted as he came through the passageway. Kurt, I presumed, and he wasn’t alone. A second man was with him, and he made me feel decidedly uncomfortable. Whereas Kurt was small and jockeylike in stature, his sidekick was tall and wide. And he carried a five-foot-long polo mallet across his chest like a soldier might carry a gun. I was left in no doubt that it was there to intimidate. It worked. I was very intimidated. Why hadn’t I got in the car and gone away when I had had the opportunity?
I stood in the middle of the grass polo arena and my exit route was on the other side of the grandstand. I had no choice but to brazen it out.
“What do you want?” Kurt asked brusquely. No word of welcome. But there wouldn’t be. His body language said it all. I wasn’t welcome one little bit.
I smiled, tying to relax. “I understand,” I said cheerfully, “that you know Mr. Komarov. Is that right?”
“It might be,” he said. “Depends on who wants to know.”
“I was hoping Mr. Komarov might be able to help me identify something,” I said.
“What?” he said.
“It’s in my car,” I said. I set off quickly past him towards the passageway.
“What is it?” he asked again.
“I’ll show you,” I said over my shoulder without breaking step. He wasn’t to know that the item was, in fact, in my trouser pocket, but I had no intention of getting it out here. I thought I would be safer at the car, but that might only be illusory.
Kurt didn’t seem happy and snorted through his nose, but he followed, and, sadly, so did his shadow. I walked ahead of them, and while I didn’t actually run they would have had to in order to overtake me. The larger man was unfit, and by the time I reached my car he was some way back and blowing hard.