Bolt - By Dick Francis Page 0,41

and witnesses. He says all four of us are to sign this form in the presence of his notary, in a place that he will designate. He said he would telephone each morning until everyone was ready to agree.’

‘Or else?’ I said.

‘He mentioned,’ Litsi said evenly, ‘that it would be a shame for the princess to lose more of her horses needlessly, and that young women out alone at night were always at risk.’ He paused, one eyebrow lifting ironically. ‘He said that princes weren’t immune from accidents, and that a certain jockey, if he wished to stay healthy, should remove himself from the household and mind his own business.’

‘His exact words?’ I asked interestedly.

Litsi shook his head. ‘He spoke in French.’

‘We have asked Beatrice,’ the princess said with brittle veneer politeness, ‘if she has spoken with Henri Nanterre since her arrival in this house on Sunday, but she tells us she doesn’t know where he is.’

I looked at Beatrice, who stared implacably back. It wasn’t necessary to know where someone actually was if he had a telephone number, but there seemed to be no point in making her upgrade the evasion into a straightforward lie, which the boldness in her eyes assured me we would get.

The princess said that her husband had asked to talk to me on my return, and suggested that I might go at this point. I went, sensing the three of them stiffening back into their bell jars, and upstairs knocked on Roland de Brescou’s door.

He bade me come in and sit down, and asked with nicely feigned interest about my day’s fortunes. I said Bernina had won and he said ‘Good’ absentmindedly, while he arranged in his thoughts what to say next. He was looking, I thought, not so physically frail as on Friday and Saturday, but not as determined either.

‘It is going to take time to arrange my retirement,’ he said, ‘and as soon as I make any positive moves, Henri Nanterre will find out. Gerald Greening thinks that when he does find out, he will demand I withdraw my intention, under pain of more and more threats and vicious actions.’ He paused. ‘Has Litsi told you about Nanterre’s telephone call?’

‘Yes, Monsieur.’

‘The horses … Danielle … my wife … Litsi… yourself … I cannot leave you all open to harm. Gerald Greening advises now that I sign the contract, and then as soon as Nanterre gets his firearms approval, I can sell all my interest in the business. Nanterre will have to agree. I shall make it a condition before signing. Everyone will guess I have sold because of the guns … some at least of my reputation may be salvaged.’ A spasm of distress twisted his mouth. ‘It is of the greatest conceivable personal disgrace that I sign this contract, but I see no other way.’

He fell silent but with an implied question, as if inviting my comment; and after a short pause I gave it.

‘Don’t sign, Monsieur,’ I said.

He looked at me consideringly, with the first vestige of a smile.

‘Litsi said you would say that,’ he said.

‘Did he? And what did Litsi himself say?’

‘What would you think?’

‘Don’t sign,’ I said.

‘You and Litsi.’ Again the fugitive smile. ‘So different. So alike. He described you as – and these are his words, not mine – “a tough devil with brains”, and he said I should give you and him time to think of a way of deterring Nanterre permanently. He said that only if both of you failed and admitted failure should I think of signing.’

‘And … did you agree?’

‘If you yourself wish it, I will agree.’

A commitment of positive action, I thought, was a lot different from raising defences; but I thought of the horses, and the princess, and Danielle, and really there was no question.

‘I wish it,’ I said.

‘Very well … but I do hope nothing appalling will happen.’

I said we would try our best to prevent it, and asked if he would mind having a guard in the house every day during John Grundy’s off-duty hours.

‘A guard?’ he frowned.

‘Not in your rooms, Monsieur. Moving about. You would hardly notice him, but we’d give you a walkie-talkie so you could call him if you needed. And may we also install a telephone which records what’s said?’

He lifted a thin hand an inch and let it fall back on the arm of the wheelchair.

‘Do what you think best,’ he said, and then, with an almost mischievous smile, the only glimpse I’d ever