Bolt - By Dick Francis Page 0,60

number of the house in Eaton Square.

Bunty’s mystification came clearly across the air waves. ‘You want the personal column for that,’ he said.

‘No. The racing page. Did you get it straight?’

He read it over, word for word.

‘Hey,’ he said, ‘if you were riding at Bradbury, perhaps you can confirm this very odd story we’ve got about a guy falling from a balcony onto a pile of coats. Is someone having us on, or should we print it?’

‘It happened,’ I said.

‘Did you see it?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Was the guy hurt?’

‘No, not at all. Look, Bunty, get the story from someone else, will you? I’m in my car, and I want to get that ad in the Sporting Life and the Racing Post, before they go to press. And could you give me their numbers?’

‘Sure, hold on.’

I put the receiver down temporarily and passed my pen and notebook back to Danielle, and when Bunty returned with the numbers, repeated them aloud for her to write down.

‘Hey, Kit,’ Bunty said, ‘give me a quote I can use about your chances on Abseil tomorrow.’

‘You know I can’t, Bunty, Wykeham Harlow doesn’t like it.’

‘Yeah, yeah. He’s an uncooperative old bugger.’

‘Don’t forget the ad,’ I said.

He promised to see to it, and I made the calls with the same request to the two sporting papers.

‘Tomorrow and Saturday,’ I said to them. ‘In big black type on the front page.’

‘It’ll cost you,’ they said.

‘Send me the bill.’

Danielle and Litsi listened to these conversations in silence, and when I’d finished, Litsi said doubtfully, ‘Do you expect any results?’

‘You never know. You can’t get results if you don’t try.’

Danielle said, ‘Your motto for life.’

‘Not a bad one,’ Litsi said.

We dropped Danielle at the studio just on time and returned to Eaton Square. Litsi decided to say nothing at all about his narrow escape, and asked for my advice in the matter of strained muscles.

‘A sauna and a massage,’ I said. ‘Failing that, a long hot soak and some aspirins. And John Grundy might give you a massage tomorrow morning.’

He decided on the home cures and, reaching the house, disappeared into his rooms to deal with his woes in private. I continued up to the bamboo room, still uninvaded territory, where, in the evening routine, I telephoned to Wykeham and picked up my messages.

Wykeham said the owners of Pinkeye were irritated that the race had been delayed, and had complained to him that I’d been off-hand with them afterwards.

‘But Pinkeye won,’ I said. I’d ridden the whole race automatically, like driving a well-known journey with a preoccupied mind and not remembering a yard of it on arrival. When I’d gone past the winning post, I hadn’t been able to remember much about the jumps.

‘You know what they’re like,’ Wykeham said. ‘Never satisfied, even when they win.’

‘Mm,’ I said. ‘Is the horse all right?’

All the horses were fine, Wykeham said, and Abseil (pronounced Abseil) was jumping out of his skin and should trot up on the morrow.

‘Great,’ I said. ‘Well, goodnight Wykeham.’

‘Goodnight, Paul.’

Normality, I thought with a smile, disconnecting, was definitely on its way back.

Dinner was a stilted affair of manufactured conversations, with Roland de Brescou sitting at the head of the table in his wheelchair, looking abstracted.

Beatrice spent some time complaining that Harrods was now impossible (busloads of tourists, Casilia) and that Fort-nums was too crowded, and that her favourite fur shop had closed and vanished. Beatrice’s day of shopping had included a visit to the hairdresser, with a consequent intensification of peach tint. Beatrice’s pleasures, I saw, were a way of passing time which had no other purpose: a vista of smothering pointlessness, infinitely depressing. No wonder, I thought, that she complained, with all that void pursuing her.

She looked at me, no doubt feeling my gaze, and said with undisguisable sudden venom, ‘It’s you that’s standing in the way of progress. I know it is, don’t deny it. Roland admitted it this morning. I’m sure he would have agreed to Henri’s plans if it hadn’t been for you. He admitted you’re against it. You’ve influenced him. You’re evil.’

‘Beatrice,’ the princess remonstrated, ‘he’s our guest.’

‘I don’t care,’ she said passionately. ‘He shouldn’t be. It’s he all the time who’s standing in my way.’

‘In your way, Beatrice?’ Roland asked.

Beatrice hesitated. ‘In my room,’ she said finally.

‘It’s true,’ I said without aggression, ‘that I’m against Monsieur de Brescou signing anything against his conscience.’

‘I’ll get rid of you,’ she said.

‘No, Beatrice, really, that’s too much,’ the princess exclaimed. ‘Kit, please accept my apologies.’

‘It’s all