Bolt - By Dick Francis Page 0,82

I’d beaten Applejack into second place, on Pinkeye.

‘You’re not drinking,’ he observed, eying my still full glass.

Beer was fattening … ‘You can have it,’ I said, ‘if you like.’

He took the glass without ado and started on the contents.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘You’d better tell me … was it the man I gave the message to, who fell off the balcony?’ His eyes were worried, almost pleading for any answer but the one he feared.

‘I’m afraid so,’ I said.

‘I thought it would be. I didn’t see him fall, I was out front with the bookies, see what I mean? But later on, here and there, I heard people talking about coats and such … I didn’t know what they were on about, though, until the next day, when it was all in the paper.’ He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t say anything, though, could I, on account of being at the races when I’d said I wasn’t.’

‘Difficult,’ I agreed.

‘It wasn’t my fault he fell off the balcony,’ he said aggrievedly. ‘So I thought, what was the point of telling anyone about the message. I’d keep my mouth shut. Maybe this Danielle pushed him, I thought. Maybe he was her husband and her lover got me to send him up there, so she could push him off. See what I mean?’

I stifled a smile and saw what he meant.

‘I didn’t want to be mixed up with the police, see? I mean, he wasn’t killed, thanks to you, so no harm done, was there?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘And he wasn’t pushed. He overbalanced on some loose planks the builders had left there. He told me about it, explaining how he’d fallen.’

‘Oh.’ Mr Anonymous Smith seemed both relieved and disappointed that he hadn’t been involved in an attempted crime of passion. ‘I see.’

‘But,’ I said, ‘he was curious about the message. He thought he’d like to know who asked you to give it to him, so we decided to put that advertisement in the paper.’

‘Do you know him then?’ he said, perplexed.

‘I do now,’ I said.

‘Ah.’ He nodded.

‘The man who gave you the message,’ I said, casually, ‘do you remember what he looked like?’

I tried not to hold my breath. Mr Smith, however, sensed that this was a crucial question and looked meaningfully at the envelope, his mind on the second instalment.

‘The second hundred’s yours,’ I said, ‘if you can describe him.’

‘He wasn’t English,’ he said, taking the plunge. ‘Strong sort of character, hard voice, big nose.’

‘Do you remember him clearly?’ I asked, relaxing greatly inside. ‘Would you know him again?’

‘I’ve been thinking about him since Thursday,’ he said simply. ‘I reckon I would.’

Without making a big thing of it I pulled the five photographs out of the envelope: all eight by ten black and white glossy pictures of people receiving trophies after races. In four of the groups the winning jockey was Fielding, but I’d had my back to the camera in two of them: the pictures were as fair a test as I’d been able to devise at short notice.

‘Would you look at these photographs,’ I said, ‘and see if he’s there?’

He brought out a pair of glasses and sat them on the flattened nose: an ineffectual man, not unhappy.

He took the photographs, and looked at them carefully, one by one. I’d put Nanterre’s picture in fourth place of the five; and he glanced at it and passed on. He looked at the fifth and put them all down on the table, and I hoped he wouldn’t guess at the extent of my disappointment.

‘Well,’ he said judiciously, ‘yes, he’s there.’

I watched him breathlessly and waited. If he could truly recognise Nanterre, I would play any game he had in mind.

‘Look,’ he said, as if scared by his own boldness. ‘You’re Kit Fielding, right? You’re not short of a bob or two. And that man who fell, he looked pretty well heeled. See what I mean? Make it two fifty, and I’ll tell you which one he is.’

I breathed deeply and pretended to be considering it with reluctance.

‘All right,’ I said eventually. ‘Two fifty.’

He flicked through the photographs and pointed unerringly to Nanterre.

‘Him,’ he said.

‘You’ve got your two fifty,’ I said. I gave him the second of the small envelopes. ‘There’s a hundred in there.’ I fished out my wallet and sorted out fifty more. ‘Thanks,’ I said.

He nodded and put the money away carefully, as before.

‘Mr Smith,’ I said easily. ‘What would you do for another hundred?’

He stared at me through the glasses.