Knock Down - By Dick Francis Page 0,33

the breeder. Even though they hadn’t bought the horse they would collect just for raising the price.

By mid-morning the crowd had swelled tremendously and almost every seat in the amphitheatre was taken. Two highly bred colts, due to come up towards noon, were bringing in the punters on their way to the races and the town’s wives with their shopping baskets and the semi-drunks from the bars. None had the slightest intention of buying, but there was an irresistible fascination in seeing huge sums being spent. I watched the two star attractions stalk grandly round the collecting ring and then with the tide moved inside for the actual sale. No seats vacant near the door. I leaned against one of the dividing partitions and found myself next to Pauli Teksa. Short, tough, American. Wearing a wide-shouldered light blue overcoat.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘How’re you doing?’

‘Fine. And you?’

‘Grand… I hear Nicol Brevett liked his horse. Kerry called me.’

‘Did she tell you we nearly lost that one too?’

‘She sure did. That’s some mystery you’ve got there.’

His attention however was not on Kerry or me or the problem of our disappearing purchases, but on the sale in hand. Heavy scribblings and calculations surrounded the high-bred colts in his catalogue, and it looked as though one American agent at least was about to try for a slice of British bloodstock.

The double doors from the collecting ring opened and the first of the colts was led in. The crowd stirred expectantly. The auctioneers put their best man forward. Pauli Teksa cleared his throat.

I glanced at his face. Nothing relaxed about it. Strong features, hard muscles beneath the skin, a face of resolution and decision, not of kindness and compassion. He had crinkly black hair receding at the temples and smoky grey eyes which could move faster than thought.

‘The first of two colts by Transporter.’ The auctioneer trotted through his spiel.‘… offered for sale by the Baylight Stud… Someone start me at ten thousand.’

Someone started him at five. When the price rose to ten, Pauli Teksa started bidding. I owed him something, I thought, for giving me Kerry Sanders’ commission, however oddly it had turned out.

‘I wouldn’t buy that colt if I were you,’ I said.

‘Why not?’ He raised the price another two thousand with his eyebrows.

‘Because of its colour.’

‘Nothing wrong with its colour. Perfectly good chestnut.’ Another two thousand.

I said, ‘Transporter has sired about three hundred horses and that’s the only chestnut. All the rest are dark bay or light brown.’

‘So?’ Another two thousand.

‘So I wouldn’t bet on the paternity.’

Pauli stopped bidding abruptly and turned towards me with an intent, concentrated expression.

‘You sure do your homework.’

I watched the chestnut colt going round the sand track while the price rose to forty thousand.

‘I’ve seen a lot of Transporter’s progeny,’ I said. ‘And they don’t look like that.’

The auctioneer looked over to Pauli enquiringly. ‘Against you, sir.’

Pauli shook his head, and the bidding went on without him.

‘This guy from New Zealand,’ he said. ‘When he was over Statesside, he asked me to buy him a Transporter colt at Newmarket if one came up, and ship it out to him so he could mix the blood line with his stock.’

I smiled and shook my head.

‘How much do you want,’ Pauli said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘For the information.’

‘Well… nothing.’

Pauli looked at me straightly. ‘You’re a goddam fool,’ he said.

‘There’s things besides money,’ I said mildly.

‘No wonder these other guys are against you!’

‘What have you heard?’ I asked curiously.

‘Why don’t you go along with them?’

‘I don’t like what they’re doing.’

He gave me an old-man-of-the-world look and told me I’d get hurt if I didn’t go along with the crowd. I said I would chance it. I was a triple goddam fool, he said.

The chestnut colt made fifty-six thousand pounds. The second potential star seller came into the ring looking as a Transporter should, dark bay with a slightly narrow neck and sharp pelvic bones high on the rump.

‘What about this one?’ Pauli demanded.

The real McCoy.’

‘You slay me.’

He bid for it but dropped out at his authorised limit of fifty thousand. I reflected upon how terribly easy it was to influence a sale. Pauli had believed me on two counts, first against the chestnut and then for the bay, and had acted unhesitatingly on what I’d said. Just so had others with Vic Vincent. Who could blame anyone at all for heeding off-putting advice when so much money was at risk.

At fifty-two thousand all the big firms had dropped out and the bidding