And then Ellery stiffened abruptly.
John Scott had just reached the head of Danger; his thick arm was coming up to pull the stallion’s head down. And in that instant Mr. Hankus-Pankus Halliday fumbled in his clothes; and in the next his hand appeared clasping a snub-nosed automatic. Ellery nearly cried out. For, the short barrel wavering, the automatic in Mr. Halliday’s trembling hands pointed in the general direction of John Scott; there was an explosion, and a puff of smoke blew out of the muzzle.
Miss Paris leaped to her feet, and Miss Paris did cry out.
“Why, the crazy young fool!” said Ellery dazedly.
Frightened by the shot, which apparently had gone wild, Danger reared. The other horses began to kick and dance. In a moment the place below boiled with panic-stricken thoroughbreds. Scott, clinging to Danger’s head, half turned in an immense astonishment and looked inquiringly upward. Whitey struggled desperately to control the frantic stallion.
And then Mr. Halliday shot again. And again. And a fourth time. And at some instant, in the space between those shots, the rearing horse got between John Scott and the automatic in Mr. Halliday’s shaking hand.
Danger’s four feet left the turf. Then, whinnying in agony, flanks heaving, he toppled over on his side.
“Oh, gosh; oh, gosh,” said Paula, biting her handkerchief.
“Let’s go!” shouted Ellery, and he plunged for the spot.
By the time they reached the place where Mr. Halliday had fearfully discharged his automatic, the bespectacled youth had disappeared. The people who had stood about him were still too stunned to move. Elsewhere, the stands were in pandemonium.
In the confusion, Ellery and Paula managed to slip through the inadequate track-police cordon hastily thrown about the fallen Danger and his milling rivals. They found old John on his knees beside the black stallion, his big hands steadily stroking the glossy, veined neck. Whitey, pale and bewildered-looking, had stripped off the tiny saddle, and the track veterinary was examining a bullet wound in Danger’s side, near the shoulder. A group of track officials conferred excitedly nearby.
“He saved my life,” said old John in a low voice to no one in particular. “He saved my life, poor lad.”
The veterinary looked up. “Sorry, Mr. Scott,” he said grimly. “Danger won’t run this race.”
“No, I suppose not.” Scott licked his leathery lips. “Is it — mon, is it serious?”
“Can’t tell till I dig out the bullet. We’ll have to get him out of here and into the hospital right away.”
An official said, “Tough luck, Scott. You may be sure we’ll do our best to find the scoundrel who shot your horse.”
The old man’s lips twisted. He climbed to his feet and looked down at the heaving flanks of his fallen thoroughbred. Whitey Williams trudged away with Danger’s gear, head hanging.
A moment later the loudspeaker system proclaimed that Danger, Number 5, had been scratched, and that the Handicap would be run immediately after the other contestants could be quieted and lined up at the barrier.
“All right, folks, clear out,” said a track policeman as a hospital van rushed up, followed by a hoisting truck.
“What are you doing about the man who shot this horse?” demanded Ellery, not moving.
“We’ll get him; got a good description. Move on, please.”
“Well,” said Ellery slowly, “I know who he is.”
They were ushered into the Steward’s office just as the announcement was made that High Tor, at 50 to 1, had won the Santa Anita Handicap, purse $100,000, by two and a half lengths... almost as long a shot, in one sense, as the shot which had laid poor Danger low, commented Ellery to Miss Paris.
“Halliday?” said John Scott with heavy contempt. “That yellow-livered pup tried to shoot me?”
“I couldn’t possibly be mistaken, Mr. Scott,” said Ellery.
“I saw him, too, John,” sighed Paula.
“Who is this Halliday?” demanded the chief of the track police.
Scott told him in monosyllables, relating their quarrel of the day before. “I knocked him down and kicked him. I guess the only way he could get back at me was with a gun. And Danger took the rap, poor beastie.” For the first time his voice shook.
“Well, we’ll get him; he can’t have left the park,” said the police chief grimly. “I’ve got it sealed tighter than a drum.”
“Did you know,” murmured Ellery, “that Mr. Scott’s daughter Kathryn has been missing since last night?”
Old John flushed slowly. “You think — my Kate had somethin’ to do—”
“Don’t be silly, John!” said Paula.
“At any rate,” said Ellery dryly, “her disappearance and the attack here today can’t be a coincidence. I’d advise you to start a search for Miss Scott immediately. And, by the way, send for Danger’s gear. I’d like to examine it.”
“Say, who the devil are you?” growled the chief.
Ellery told him and the chief looked properly awed. He telephoned to police headquarters, and he sent for Danger’s gear.
Whitey Williams, still in his silks, carried the high small racing saddle in and dumped it on the floor.
“John, I’m awful sorry about what happened,” he said in a low voice.
“It ain’t your fault, Whitey.”
“Ah, Williams, thank you,” said Ellery briskly. “This is the saddle Danger was wearing a few minutes ago?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Exactly as it was when you stripped it off him after the shots?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has anyone had an opportunity to tamper with it?”
“No, sir. I been with it ever since, and no one’s come near it but me.”
Ellery nodded and knelt to examine the empty-pocketed saddle. Observing the scorched hole in the flap, his brow puckered in perplexity.
“By the way, Whitey,” he asked, “how much do you weigh?”
“Hundred and seven.”
Ellery frowned. He rose, dusted his knees, and beckoned the chief of police. They conferred in undertones. The policeman looked baffled, shrugged, then hurried out.
When he returned, a certain familiar — appearing gentleman in too-perfect clothes and a foreign air accompanied him. The gentleman looked sad.
“I hear some crackpot took a couple o’ shots at you, John,” he said sorrowfully, “and got your nag instead. Tough luck.”
There was a somewhat quizzical humor behind this ambiguous statement which brought old John’s head up in a flash of belligerence.
“You dirty, thievin’—”
“Mr. Santelli,” greeted Ellery. “When did you know that Broomstick would have to be scratched?”
“Broomstick?” Mr. Santelli looked mildly surprised at this irrelevant question. “Why, last week.”
“So that’s why you offered to buy Scott’s stable — to get control of Danger?”
“Sure.” Mr. Santelli smiled genially. “He was hot. With my nag out, he looked like a cinch.”
“Mr. Santelli, you’re what is colloquially known as a cockeyed liar.” Mr. Santelli ceased smiling. “You wanted to buy Danger not to see him win, but to see him lose!”
Mr. Santelli looked unhappy. “Who is this,” he appealed to the police chief, “Mister Wacky himself?”
“In my embryonic way,” said Ellery, “I have been making a few inquiries in the last several days and my information has it that your bookmaking organization covered a lot of Danger money when Danger’s odds stood at five to one.”