‘He’s a brother of Lord Middleburg.’
‘Yeah. So I’m told.’
I laughed inwardly. Nothing sinister about Cranfield refusing to name his mysterious pal. Just another bit of ladder climbing. He might be one rung up being in a position to use the Hon. P. Foxcroft as a runner: but he would certainly be five rungs down involving him in a messy Enquiry.
‘There’s one other thing...’ I hesitated. ‘Would you... could you... do me a considerable favour?’
‘Depends what it is.’ He sounded cautious but not truculent. A smooth, experienced character.
‘I can’t offer much in return.’
He chuckled. ‘Warning me not to expect tip offs when you’re on a hot number?’
‘Something like that,’ I admitted.
‘O.K. then. You want something for strictly nothing. Just as well to know where we are. So shoot.’
‘Can you remember who you told about Cranfield backing Cherry Pie?’
‘Before the Enquiry, you mean?’
‘Yes. Those bookmaker colleagues you mentioned.’
‘Well...’ he sounded doubtful.
‘If you can,’ I said, ‘Could you ask them who they told?’
‘Phew.’ He half breathed, half whistled down the receiver. ‘That’s some favour.’
‘I’m sorry. Just forget it.’
‘Hang on, hang on, I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it. It’s a bit of a tall order, though, expecting them to remember.’
‘I know. Very long shot. But I still want to know who told the Stewards about the bet with you.’
‘You’ve got your licence back. Why don’t you let it rest?’
‘Would you?’
He sighed. ‘I don’t know. All right then, I’ll see what I can do. No promises, mind. Oh, and by the way, it can be just as useful to know when one of your mounts is not fit or likely to win. If you take my meaning.’
‘I take it,’ I said smiling. ‘It’s a deal.’
I put down the receiver reflecting that only a minority of bookmakers were villains, and that most of them were more generous than they got credit for. The whole tribe were reviled for the image of the few. Like students.
Chapter Fourteen
Oakley didn’t come. No one came. I took the chair from under the door knob to let the world in with the morning. Not much of the world accepted the invitation.
Made some coffee. Tony came while I was standing in the kitchen drinking it and put whisky into a mug of it for himself by way of breakfast. He’d been out with one lot of horses at exercise and was waiting to go out with the other, and spent the interval discussing their prospects as if nothing had ever happened. For him the warning off was past history, forgotten. His creed was that of newspapers; today is important, tomorrow more so, but yesterday is nothing.
He finished the coffee and left, clapping me cheerfully on the shoulder and setting up a protest from an Oakley bruise. I spent most of the rest of the day lying flat on my bed, answering the telephone, staring at the ceiling, letting Nature get on with repairing a few ravages, and thinking.
Another quiet night. I had two names in my mind, juggling them. Two to work on. Better than three hundred. But both could be wrong.
Saturday morning the postman brought the letters right upstairs, as he’d been doing since the era of plaster. I thanked him, sorted through them, dropped a crutch, and had the usual awkward fumble picking it up. When I opened one of the letters I dropped both the crutches again in surprise.
Left the crutches on the floor. Leant against the wall and read.
Dear Kelly Hughes,
I have seen in the papers that you have had your licence restored, so perhaps this information will be too late to be of any use to you. I am sending it anyway because the friend who collected it is considerably out of pocket over it, and would be glad if you could reimburse him. I append also his list of expenses.
As you will see he went to a good deal of trouble over this, though to be fair he also told me that he had enjoyed doing it. I hope it is what you wanted.
Sincerely,
Teddy Dewar.
Great Stag Hotel, Birmingham.
Clipped behind the letter were several other sheets of varying sizes. The top one was a schematic presentation of names which looked at first glance like an inverted family tree. There were clumps of three or four names inside two-inch circles. The circles led via arrows to other circles below and sometimes beside them, but the eye was led downwards continually until all the arrows had converged to three circles, and then to two, and finally to one. And the single name in the bottom circle was David Oakley.
Behind the page was an explanatory note.
‘I knew one contact, the J. L. Jones underlined in the third row of circles. From him I worked in all directions, checking people who knew of David Oakley. Each clump of people heard about him from one of the people in the next clump. Everyone on the page, I guarantee, has heard either directly or indirectly that Oakley is the man to go to if one is in trouble. I posed as a man in trouble, as you suggested, and nearly all that I talked to either mentioned him of their own accord, or agreed when I brought him up as a possibility.
I only hope that one at least of these names has some significance for you, as I’m afraid the expenses were rather high. Most of the investigation was conducted in pubs or hotels, and it was sometimes necessary to get the contact tight before he would divulge.’
Faithfully,
The expense list was high enough to make me whistle. I turned back to the circled names, and read them carefully through.
Looking for one of two.
One was there.
Perhaps I should have rejoiced. Perhaps I should have been angry. Instead, I felt sad.
I doubled the expenses and wrote out a cheque with an accompanying note:
‘This is really magnificent. Cannot thank you enough. One of the names has great significance, well worth all your perseverance. My eternal thanks.’
I wrote also a grateful letter to Teddy Dewar saying the information couldn’t have been better timed, and enclosing the envelope for his friend Timieson.
As I was sticking on the stamp the telephone rang. I hopped over to it and lifted the receiver.
George Newtonnards.
‘Spent all last evening on the blower. Astronomical phone bill, I’m going to have.’
‘Send me the account,’ I said resignedly.
‘Better wait to see if I’ve got results,’ he suggested. ‘Got a pencil handy?’
‘Just a sec’ I fetched a writing pad and ball point. ‘O.K. Go ahead.’
Right then. First, here are the chaps I told.’ He dictated five names. ‘The last one, Pelican Jobberson, is the one who holds a fierce grudge against you for that bum steer you gave him, but as it happens he didn’t tell the Stewards or anyone else because he went off to Casablanca the next day for a holiday. Well... here are the people Harry Ingram told...’ He read out three names. ‘And these are the people Herbie Subbing told...’ Four names. ‘These are the people Dimmie Ovens told...’ Five names. ‘And Clobber Mackintosh, he really spread it around...’ Eight names. ‘That’s all they can remember. They wouldn’t swear there was no one else. And of course, all those people they’ve mentioned could have passed the info on to someone else... I mean, things like this spread out in ripples.’
‘Thanks anyway,’ I said sincerely. ‘Thank you very much indeed for taking so much trouble.’