In the Frame - By Dick Francis Page 0,77

engine’s turning over.’

‘What engine?’ Sarah said.

Porter stared at her blankly. ‘What we planned,’ he said painstakingly, ‘is happening.’

‘Oh.’

Porter listened again to his private ear and spoke directly to me. ‘He’s taken the bait.’

‘He’s a fool,’ I said.

Porter came as near to a smile as he could. ‘All crooks are fools, one way or another.’

Seven-thirty came and went. I raised my eyebrows at Porter. He shook his head.

‘We can’t say too much on the radio,’ he said. ‘Because you get all sorts of ears listening in.’

Just like England, I thought. The Press could turn up at a crime before the police; and the mouse might hear of the trap.

We waited. The time dragged. Jik yawned and Sarah’s eyes were dark with fatigue. Outside, in the lobby, the busy rich life of the hotel chattered on unruffled, with guests’ spirits rising towards the next day’s race meeting, the last of the carnival.

The Derby on Saturday, the Cup on Tuesday, the Oaks (which we’d missed) on Thursday, and the International on Saturday. No serious racegoers went home before the end of things, if they could help it.

Porter clutched his ear again, and stiffened.

‘He’s here,’ he said.

My heart, for some unaccountable reason, began beating overtime. We were in no danger that I could see, yet there it was, thumping away like a steam organ.

Porter disconnected himself from the radio, put it on the manager’s desk, and went out into the foyer.

‘What do we do?’ Sarah said.

‘Nothing much except listen.’

We all three went over to the door and held it six inches open. We listened to people asking for their room keys, asking for letters and messages, asking for Mr and Mrs So-and-So, and which way to Toorak, and how did you get to Fanny’s.

Then suddenly, the familiar voice, sending electric fizzes to my finger tips. Confident: not expecting trouble. ‘I’ve come to collect a package left here last Tuesday by a Mr Charles Todd. He says he checked it into the baggage room. I have a letter here from him, authorising you to release it to me.’

There was a crackle of paper as the letter was handed over. Sarah’s eyes were round and startled.

‘Did you write it?’ she whispered.

I shook my head. ‘No.’

The desk clerk outside said, ‘Thank you, sir. If you’ll just wait a moment I’ll fetch the package.’

There was a long pause. My heart made a lot of noise, but nothing much else happened.

The desk clerk came back. ‘Here you are, sir. Paintings, sir.’

‘That’s right.’

There were vague sounds of the bundle of paintings and the print-folder being carried along outside the door.

‘I’ll bring them round for you,’ said the clerk, suddenly closer to us. ‘Here we are, sir.’ He went past the office, through the door in the desk, and round to the front. ‘Can you manage them, sir?’

‘Yes. Yes. Thank you.’ There was haste in his voice, now that he’d got his hands on the goods. ‘Thank you. Goodbye.’

Sarah had begun to say ‘Is that all?’ in disappointment when Porter’s loud voice chopped into the Hilton velvet like a hatchet.

‘I guess we’ll take care of those paintings, if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘Porter, Melbourne city police.’

I opened the door a little, and looked out. Porter stood four square in the lobby, large and rough, holding out a demanding hand.

At his elbows, two plain-clothes policemen. At the front door, two more, in uniform. There would be others, I supposed, at the other exits. They weren’t taking any chances.

‘Why… er… Inspector… I’m only on an errand… er… for my young friend, Charles Todd.’

‘And these paintings?’

‘I’ve no idea what they are. He asked me to fetch them for him.’

I walked quietly out of the office, through the gate and round to the front. I leaned a little wearily against the reception desk. He was only six feet away, in front of me to my right. I could have stretched forward and touched him. I hoped Porter would think it near enough, as requested.

A certain amount of unease had pervaded the Hilton guests. They stood around in an uneven semi-circle, eyeing the proceedings sideways.

‘Mr Charles Todd asked you to fetch them?’ Porter said loudly.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

Porter’s gaze switched abruptly to my face.

‘Did you ask him?’

‘No,’ I said.

The explosive effect was all that the Melbourne police could have asked, and a good deal more than I expected. There was no polite quiet identification followed by a polite quiet arrest. I should have remembered all my own theories about the basic brutality of the directing mind.

I