‘I remember,’ said Dryden. ‘You were full of admiration for him.’
‘You bet. Well, you know how it is, you get talking in physiotherapy? I mentioned one afternoon that I was doing some work to foster tennis at college level — you know, my UCLA project? We soon got around to talking about girls and the poor facilities they have in college compared with guys. He said the system was loaded against women in sports, and I had to agree. Then he started to tell me about this seventeen-year-old girl he knew with an incredible talent for track. Left to herself, she’d most likely lose interest in the sport. Doc Serafin had a plan to set her up in a secret training camp with a team of top-line coaches. He reckoned that in two years she could make the Olympics. He was forming a group of businessmen — a consortium — to sponsor her. They each put up a few grand, and if she won, they’d recoup it with interest.’
‘From merchandising revenue, I suppose,’ said Dryden. ‘And you joined the consortium?’
‘I went to see her run a private trial in Bakersfield first, and that convinced me she was blue chip.’
‘How much?’
Armitage frowned. ‘I’m not reading you.’
‘The stake. What did you hand over to Serafin?’
‘Fifty grand.’
Dryden closed his eyes.
‘The physiotherapy was almost worth that,’ said Armitage in justification. ‘I won two-sixty plus that season, if you recollect.’
‘Sometimes I think I do you guys no good at all, keeping you in pocket money like that,’ said Dryden. ‘Tell me, this secrecy bit — did Dr. Serafin explain why that was necessary?’
‘Mainly to achieve a dramatic impact. If the girl had spent this two years in competition around the world, she’d be marked down as Olympic favorite by now. Believe me, Jack, she’s that good. It wouldn’t surprise anyone when she took the gold. But this way she’ll be a sensation. The all-American blonde who appears from nowhere to beat the world in the Lenin Stadium. The Golden Girl of the West. You’ve got to admit it has great possibilities.’
‘What’s Serafin’s angle — political?’ asked Dryden.
‘Christ no,’ answered Armitage. ‘You mean he wants to put one over on the Soviets? No, I can’t go along with that. He’s just a regular American with an interest in sports who wants to see a talented girl get her chance in the Olympics. That’s my reading, anyway. You’ll be able to judge for yourself. He’s coming to dinner. I think you’ll find him a 100 per cent genuine guy.’
‘I’ll let you know,’ said Dryden, unimpressed. ‘Do I meet the girl as well?’
Armitage hesitated. He took a long sip of beer. ‘Well, no. That is, not this trip. He’s bringing a film instead. I haven’t seen it myself yet.’ He gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘It’ll make a change from the late-night movie. And there is another guest. One of the backers, a guy named Gino Valenti. He’s in pharmaceuticals in a big way.’
‘Valenti. I know the name,’ said Dryden. ‘From his profit margin, he can afford to lose a few grand.’
Armitage looked injured. ‘You don’t sound too impressed.’
Dryden picked up his glass and gently rotated the last of his drink. ‘Don’t worry, Dick. I won’t upset your guests. But if you want to know, this whole thing sounds to me like a con.’
Two
A speck above the pine forest flashed brilliantly, touched by sunlight.
‘That’s him!’ At the window of the cocktail lounge, Dick Armitage was triumphant. ‘I told you I could count on him.’
Undeniably an aircraft was coming their way, defined against a pink cirrus formation. The engine note carried to them, telegraphing its type by its flat pitch. It dipped low, skimming the conifers. Glasses rattled in the lounge as the sound intensified.
Armitage went out to meet his guest.
The helicopter passed overhead, a Jet Ranger 206A executive model, a white five-seater. The pilot banked as he spotted the concrete tennis court Armitage had cleared for the landing. The Jet Ranger hovered, descended and touched down.
Dryden from the lounge watched for his first view of the man who had relieved Armitage of $50,000. The door swung open and a slight, silver-haired figure emerged, dipping to avoid the downthrust of air from the still-whirring rotor. He stepped down spryly, shook Armitage’s hand and indicated that a second person was at the cabin door. A girl.
She was laughing at her predicament. Long red hair whipped her face while she pinned her skirt to her knees with one hand and gripped the support rail with the other. Armitage went to her aid. The maneuver was complicated by her shoes, glossy yellow creations with a heel Dryden could see from the lounge was not styled for balancing on a bar two inches in width, but she got down without mishap.
If this was the wonder runner, she threatened a revolution in track, for she was generously curved and scarcely five feet tall in her elevated shoes.
The three moved briskly out of the rotor’s unsocial orbit, leaving one of Armitage’s staff collecting hand luggage from the pilot. They passed out of sight behind the projecting bay of the restaurant, the girl still laughing, more careless of her wind-blown hair than Armitage, who had clamped his to the back of his neck.
On returning to the lounge, he told Dryden the party was complete. ‘Gino Valenti’s car was moving up the drive as I left Doc Serafin unpacking. They’ll join us very soon.’
‘The girl?’ inquired Dryden.
‘An unscheduled bonus. Her name is Melody Fryer. Some chick.’
‘She’s not by any chance the Olympic hope?’
Armitage gave a broad grin. ‘You’ve got to be kidding. The sport she’s built for doesn’t need spiked shoes. Not for my taste, anyhow. No, the Doc informs me Melody is his personal assistant, and in case, like me, you jump to conclusions, I can tell you they asked to be accommodated in separate casitas.’
As it was past eight when the party finally assembled, they took their drinks to the dining table. The restaurant, empty now, but with seating for a hundred or more, was partitioned with white lattice screens. Circular tables of wrought iron, also painted white, suggested a period theme reinforced by photomurals of tennis action between women in bonnets and flounced skirts, and mutton-chopped partners in straw hats and long flannels.
Armitage steered his guests around a small water garden with fountain and lilypads. ‘I thought we’d use the table at the end. The large lady with the winning smile is May Sutton, the first U.S. girl to take the Wimbledon title. She came from California and she was just eighteen years old when she won in 1905. I’m told she had a devastating forehand drive.’
Dr. Serafin put on bifocals to examine the blowup. ‘The photographic evidence, so far as it goes, confirms what you say. This garment she is wearing has padded shoulders, of course, but the biacromial measurement must still have been formidable. I’ll sit with my back to her, if you don’t mind. Melody, would you take the place on my right?’
Dryden drew back the chair for Melody.
‘You just have to be English,’ she told him, smiling over her shoulder as she sat down. She had disciplined the wayward hair, but it was too fine to lie still against the silk grosgrain of her dress. The movement of her head caused some to slip around her throat. She flicked it off her breasts without glancing down. There was no need to draw attention to them.
‘Crazy about sports, you mean?’ said Dryden. ‘Yes, it won’t bother me facing Miss Sutton’s forehand through dinner if I can sit here.’ He took the place beside her, shaking open the napkin with a decisive action.