Death of a Sunday Writer (24 page)

“Surely your son's adoption isn't secret?”

“Of course not. It's private, though. Fluffy, a few old friends, and they've no doubt told their children, so most of the people in my world know that at some point Henry was adopted. They also think he was my nephew before I adopted him, as the authorities do. You know different, and I'd like you to forget it.”

“All right.”

Both Tibbles looked at her steadily.

“All right. Giving Denton forty thousand dollars goes against the grain, though.”

“Call it ransom. Now Jim let's have a drink. I feel a bit wobbly.”

“You realise that what I did someone else could do? The records are there for anyone to search.”

“What you did was awfully clever, and I don't think anyone else could have done it, but just in case, I've
taken care that no one else will see the picture on that newspaper's files. The newspaper is still in the family.”

Ten minutes later, Lucy left, knowing what she had to do for Mrs. Denton.

But first the other world she had been keeping at bay demanded a hearing. On the day before Johnny's next horse ran, she got a call from Nina, asking her to meet in the travel agent's office in an hour. It was, Nina said, extremely important.

An hour later she crossed the street and trotted up the stairs into Nina's office. There, seated in the client's chair, was Johnny Comstock.

Lucy said, “I don't want to talk to you,” and turned to leave, stumbling over a chair, but Nina sprang up and took her arm, leading her to her own chair, opposite Johnny. “Listen,” she said.

Lucy sat down, avoiding Johnny's eye, concentrating on looking at her own office across the street. Johnny said, “I hear you're making enquiries. May I know what about?” It was clear from his stillness, and from the lack of expression on his face that he knew what she had discovered. Cowan, she thought. But why would Cowan talk to a man who had swindled him out of fifty thousand dollars?

Lucy had prepared her speech. “You know what I've found out. I ought to go to the police, but I've decided that the only person who really suffered was the owner of your horse. When I find the money, I'll give it to him.”

“Could we have a little chat, maybe? This is coming at me sideways.”

“I don't want any more little chats. I want you to stay away from me. All that stuff up at your farm, and all the time all you were doing was making sure your tracks were covered. Well, I've uncovered them.”

“Look, Lucy. So far, I've heard that you've found out that Trimble had put together some crazy rigged bet. Cowan told me. Have a little patience. Let's pretend, anyway. Okay? Pretend I don't know a thing about it. Now, tell me what the hell this is all about.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Go along with the gag, though, would you?”

“You just want to find out how much I know.”

“That I do. Tell me.”

Lucy considered. The evidence was on her computer. He couldn't deny that. “All right. I don't see the point, but I'll go along with the gag, as you say. By the way, what's the name of your horse in tomorrow's race?”

“Up for Grabs. Why?”

“Have you fixed it so he'll win?”

“Watch your mouth, Lucy. He might win, but I think he'll come second or third. Back him to show.”

She shrugged. “Did you tell the jockey on —” she glanced at the printout of the race “— Desk Lamp that the horse had been drugged to come last?”

“Keep your voice down, Lucy Brenner. I think you know what you're saying and I'd like you to spell it out.
And no more silly questions about my horse, eh? I'm curious. What's up with you?”

“You know perfectly well.” She turned away and immediately turned back. “All right. My cousin left a diary behind, one he kept on his computer. There's a lot of stuff on it about the horse that won the race that Desk Lamp was in. A horse called Sly Peek. David had a big bet on it, and he collected his winnings. But then I think David might have been robbed. The diary says that MacGovern, David, you, and a man named Nolan put the swindle together, but you and David double-crossed the others.”

“You think we arranged the way that race was going to go?”

“David would never have bet so much if the race hadn't been rigged.”

“What do you think I can tell you?”

“Did you make Desk Lamp run slow?”

Now Comstock grew angry. “Lucy. I don't use drugs to make my horses run slow. Not many trainers do. I don't bet; nor does the jockey. He doesn't do dope, either. Ask around. Ask around about me, too. I train horses for fun. I own enough real estate here and in Florida to keep me comfortable for two lives. By and large, the owners come to me because they like my attitude. They trust me. Ask around.”

Lucy decided he was angry enough to tell the truth. “Then what happened to Desk Lamp that day?”

“Would you believe me if I told you I don't know. I've already told the Stewards that, and the owner. Something got to him. Possibly nothing. It does happen that a horse can't run well on a particular day. He struggled along at the back of the field with his tongue hanging out. It's not like him.”

“Are you saying he wasn't drugged?”

“The stewards had him tested, so did I. There was no evidence of a drug.”

“An unknown drug?”

“It's possible. You hear them brag that they are always a step ahead of the chemists.”

“Who would benefit?”

“Your cousin, apparently.” Comstock smiled, assuming a tolerant, ironical attitude.

“Could he have got near your horse?”

“I wouldn't have let him or his pals within fifty yards of any horse I train. Your cousin was —”

“Bad.”

“That's the term.” Comstock agreed. “He could have found someone to do it.”

“But how could he be sure Sly Peek would win?”

“Now we're coming to it, the flaw in your scenario. He couldn't, without a lot more help than he could have mustered.”

Lucy was feeling the ground shift from under her. The conversation seemed to be leaving Johnny out of the swindle. She took out the copy of the race result from her purse. “According to this, you and David and MacGovern and Nolan were in it together. The diary is very clear. You were a part of it.”

“You think I've just been soft-soaping you?”

“What else can I think?”

Nina started to speak, but Comstock restrained her. He said, “You plan to stay in this business? The deerstalker racket?”

“I told you, yes.”

“May I sugggest that you don't get too tricky with the psychology? It could backfire. You ask a guy if it's
true he's a crook and he's liable to get antsy. There are always some ugly customers around when the stakes are high, but you can't tell by looking at them. Be careful.”

“I'm trying to be.”

“Good. Now who else does the diary talk about? Macgovern, you say. I can't vouch for him. I hardly know the guy. Who else?”

“David, Nolan, and the jockey on Sly Peek, Billy Woodhouse.”

After a long pause for dramatic emphasis while he looked at Lucy, he said, “Okay. Nina's turn. But first, let me just say that Billy Woodhouse is a Born Again Christian. He won't even ride on Sundays, so you can leave him out. I'll arrange for you to meet him if you like, but ask anyone. Ask Peter here.”

Now Lucy looked around and began to realise that something serious was happening. She had been concentrating so hard on Johnny that she had forgotten to wonder why Peter Tse was standing by the window. Now she said, “What are you doing here? Nina, what's this all about?”

Nina took a print-out from her desk, and handed it to Lucy. Lucy glanced at it. “It's the diary, plus the bits about you. I was trying to spare you that.” Then, “How did you get this?”

Tse said, “I got it. I broke into your office. I have keys. Remember, I know how to call up the diary. I was with you when you found out.”

“So?”

Johnny said, “Cowan came to see me. You have to understand how big that is. He never leaves his office, but he came down to the track to tell me about this story of yours. It's all bullshit, Lucy, but we'll come to that. I decided
I had to see the diary so I talked to Peter. He was already worried about you, so it didn't take much persuading to get him to print out the diary. But then we saw the bits about Nina, surrounding the swindle and it happens that Peter could remember distinctly that Nina had only taken one day off this summer, in May, not June.”

“Rubbish. How could he know that?”

Johnny looked at Nina, who looked at Tse, who looked away. Good God, Lucy thought. He's the one buying Nina's fur coats.

Nina said, “Peter brings me coffee every day on his way in to work. He always knows when I'm not there. He knew that didn't happen in June, so he got me to look at the printout. Those dates aren't real, Lucy. The real date is in the file index. He wrote the whole diary in one day, on June 11th.”

Johnny said, “He made it up.”

Lucy looked over the printout, read again the names of the horses and realised finally what she was reading, realised that if she compared the names with the names of the horses in Trimble's early attempts at fiction, the initials would probably correspond. It was one of the things you were supposed to look for. The revelation made her feel like the victim of a giant practical joke constructed by her cousin to make a fool of her. “Oh, shit,” she said. “His stupid fucking novel.” She looked up at the faces of the trio watching her. No one was laughing. That was something.

“I'm going back to Longborough,” she said.

Johnny said, “Could you postpone it for a few days? I've lined up Nolan now. Remember Nolan? I've spent a long time tracking him down. You owe me.”

“I can't see him now! There's no point.”

“It'd be polite.”

“But — oh, I suppose so.”

“Greenwood tonight. Meet me at the valet parking door. Seven o'clock. Okay?”

“I suppose so.”

If thoroughbred racing is the sport of kings, then harness racing is, or was, the pastime of farmers and small-town people, especially in the Maritimes. Yet Greenwood, it seemed to Lucy, worked much harder than Woodbine at giving its patrons the feeling that they were having an outing. Successfully, too. Lucy chose the valet service to park her car, which brought her to the entrance to the clubhouse, where, instead of the solitary worshippers she had encountered at Woodbine, family parties seemed to be the norm, arriving for a night out as if to the theatre.

Johnny was waiting inside the door. “He's here, and there's lots of room in his section. Let's go. Stick to your story. Tell him you know he was a friend of Trimble's, and ask him if he has any anecdotes for that memoir of yours.”

“You think I'm writing that memoir now? I hope David's in hell, backing all the losers.”

“Were you ever? Wait a couple of years and write your own.”

“Why do you think Nolan didn't want to see me?”

“He's shy. A lot of people wondered what you were going to put in that memoir. Now, let's go see him.”

He guided her up to the dining room, a long glassed-in enclosure overlooking the winning post, and Lucy was again struck with the sense of being at a performance rather than a race track. It seemed like a giant dinner theatre. Through the windows, she could see some of the performers warming up, trotting briskly around the circuit.

A hostess tried to commandeer them. Comstock said, “We're meeting someone. We'll take a look around first.”

“Do you have a reservation?”

“No.” The trainer looked at the largely empty dining-room. “If we spot him, you can probably find us a seat nearby.”

He took Lucy's arm, and they climbed to the top row. “Down there,” he pointed. “That's Nolan. Two rows down. On the far left.” Lucy looked where he was pointing and felt an attack of vertigo, unjustified by the slope of the stands. When she had recovered, she said, “You're sure?”

“You okay? I don't think he's dangerous. I'll come with you.”

“No.” Lucy pulled hard on his sleeve. “No. I want to talk to him by myself. You keep an eye on me from here.”

“He knows you're looking for him, and we still don't really know why he wouldn't talk to you until now. But, okay, go ahead. He won't hurt you. I'll be here.”

“I think I know why he didn't want to see me. If I walk along here, I can come down behind him, can't I, so he won't see me coming?”

“See, the seat behind him is empty. You can slip into it, and say 'boo' in his ear. Off you go.”

Lucy had about three minutes in which to think of her first sentence. Nolan was quite alone, finishing a steak, the
Racing Guide
open beside him.

She lowered herself with as little fuss as possible on to the seat behind him and waited, willing him to look up. When, finally, the bald brown head swivelled upwards, she was calm and ready. “Hello, Ben,” she said. “Want me to pretend not to know you?”

The Trog lowered his eyes, then looked up and around the enclosure. “Comstock with you?” he asked.

“I've told him to leave us alone unless he sees you trying to kill me.”

He smiled, acknowledging her joke. “Why don't you come down here?”

Lucy climbed down on to the seat beside him, taking the opportunity to shake her head at Johnny who was watching openly now from the end of the row.

“I guess I've blown my cover,” Nolan/Tranter said.

“What's your name here?”

“Ben. Still Ben.”

“Nolan?”

“That's right.”

“Not in the secret service?”

“I'm just a gambler, Lucy.”