Even Money - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,111

was back in a couple of minutes.

“All done,” he said. “No one’s going to use that phone today.”

Luca and I looked at each other.

“What did you do?” I asked Duggie.

“What do you think?” he said. “I broke it. Then I went into the office and complained that the phone wouldn’t work. They’ve put an OUT OF ORDER sign on it now.”

I laughed. “Well done.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But they offered me the use of the secretary’s phone instead if it were urgent like.”

“Ah,” I said. I didn’t want anyone using the secretary’s phone either.

“It’s simple,” said Duggie. “I got the secretary’s phone number, so I get a mate to call it at the right time and then not hang up. It will tie up the line so no one can call in or out on it. In fact, I’ll get a few of my mates to all call just in case they have more than one line on that number. That’ll tie them all up.”

“But won’t your mates’ numbers show up on caller ID?” I said. “I don’t want them traced.”

“So I’ll get my mates to withhold their numbers, or they can call from the pay phones in Wycombe,” he said. “It’s dead easy.”

“OK,” I said. “Fix it.”

Larry Porter arrived and began to set up his pitch alongside ours.

“Have you got the equipment?” I asked him.

“Yes. All set,” Larry said. “Bill’s coming separately, later.”

Bill, I assumed, was the man I had seen at Ascot in the white shirt and fawn chinos who had placed the “two monkeys” bet with me when the Internet and phones had gone down just before the Gold Cup.

The maiden hurdle was the fifth race of the afternoon, and I became more and more nervous as the clock ticked around to four-thirty, race time. Monday-afternoon racing anywhere was always quiet, and today was no exception. But the lack of activity in the betting ring did nothing to help settle the butterflies in my stomach.

In all, the bookmaker turnout was reasonable. I counted sixteen of us in the main betting ring, and there were a few others over near the course, all of us chasing the meager pickings from the sparse Monday crowd. But other than Larry and Norman, I didn’t recognize any of the other bookies, as we were at the northern extent of our usual patch and wouldn’t normally be standing at Bangor.

At long last, it was nearing the maiden hurdle race time. The horses were in the saddling boxes and the punters were beginning to make their selections. There were nineteen runners, with Pool House the fairly short-priced favorite at six-to-four. The horse had raced three times previously and finished second on the last two occasions. And today it was being ridden by the many-times-champion jockey who had made the journey from Lambourn especially to ride this one horse, so he, for one, expected it to win. And all the newspapers agreed with him.

With the horses in the parade ring, and with precisely six minutes to go before the scheduled start time, I nodded imperceptibly to Larry, who pushed his out-of-sight switch to turn on the phone jammer. At the same time, I nudged Luca, who activated his virus on the racetrack’s Internet server, effectively putting it out of action and isolating the track from the outside world.

I thought of the thirty juvenile delinquents and hoped that they were all poised to place their bets.

A man in a white shirt and fawn chinos suddenly appeared in front of me. Bill, I assumed.

“Grand on number four,” he said, thrusting a wad of banknotes towards me.

Number four was the second favorite.

“Grand on number four at three-to-one,” I said loudly over my shoulder.

“Offer at eleven-to-four,” Luca said equally loudly.

“OK,” said the man. I gave him the TALBOT AND MANDINI-printed ticket, and the price changed on our board.

“Give me a monkey on four at threes,” Luca bellowed at Larry Porter.

“You can have it at five-to-two,” Larry shouted back.

“OK,” said Luca, who then turned the other way towards Norman Joyner. “Give me a monkey on number four,” he shouted even louder.

“Fine,” shouted Norman back. “At nine-to-four.”

Within less than a minute, the price of horse number four was tumbling all over the betting ring and, as a result, the price of Pool House, the favorite, was tending to drift longer.

The panic from the boys from the big outfits wasn’t as dramatic as it had been at Ascot, but it was fairly impressive nonetheless. They rushed around trying desperately to get their