A good plan, I thought, until he’d knocked the props out by throwing one point five million dollars to the winds. Only he hadn’t, of course. He’d had a sensible plan for a sober profit. Deal with honor ... He’d made a good income, lived a comfortable life and run his racehorses, but he had stacked away no great personal fortune. His wealth, whichever way one looked at it, was in the stones.
Hell and damnation, I thought. If I couldn’t find the damned diamonds I’d be failing him as much as myself. He would long for me to find them, but where the bloody
hell
had he put them?
I stuffed most of the envelopes back into their private basement, keeping out only the insurance policy, and replaced the heavy circular lid. Turned it, turned the key, replaced the upper piece of metal and laid a carpet tile on top. Fireproof the hiding place undoubtedly was, and thiefproof it had proved, and I couldn’t imagine why Greville hadn’t used it for jewels.
Feeling defeated, I climbed at length to the bedroom where I found my own overnight bag had, along with everything else, been tipped up and emptied. It hardly seemed to matter. I picked up my sleeping shorts and changed into them and went into the bathroom. The mirror was still half covered with shaving cream and by the time I’d wiped that off with a face cloth and swallowed a Distalgesic and brushed my teeth and swept a lot of the crunching underfoot junk to one side with a towel, I had used up that day’s ration of stamina pretty thoroughly.
Even then, though it was long past midnight, I couldn’t sleep. Bangs on the head were odd, I thought. There had been one time when I’d dozed for a week afterward, going to sleep in midsentence as often as not. Another time I’d apparently walked and talked rationally to a doctor but hadn’t any recollection of it half an hour later. This time, in Greville’s bed, I felt shivery and unsettled, and thought that that had probably as much to do with being attacked as concussed.
I lay still and let the hours pass, thinking of bad and good and of why things happened, and by morning felt calm and much better. Sitting on the lid of the loo in the bathroom, I unwrapped the crepe bandage and by hopping and holding on to things took a long, luxurious and much needed shower, washing my hair, letting the dust and debris and the mental tensions of the week run away in the soft bombardment of water. After that, loinclothed in a bath towel, I sat on the black and white bed and more closely surveyed the ankle scenery.
It was better than six days earlier, one could confidently say that. On the other hand it was still black, still fairly swollen and still sore to the touch. Still vulnerable to knocks. I flexed my calf and foot muscles several times: the bones and ligaments still violently protested, but none of it could be helped. To stay young the muscles had to move, and that was that. I kneaded the calf muscle a bit to give it some encouragement and thought about borrowing an apparatus called Electrovet which Milo had tucked away somewhere, which he used on his horses’ legs to give their muscles electrical stimuli to bring down swelling and get them fit again. What worked on horses should work on me, I reckoned.
Eventually I wound the bandage on again, not as neatly as the surgeon, but I hoped as effectively. Then I dressed, borrowing one of Greville’s clean white shirts and, down in the forlorn little sitting room, telephoned to Nicholas Loder.
He didn’t sound pleased to hear my voice.
“Well done with Dozen Roses,” I said.
He grunted.
“To solve the question of who owns him,” I continued, “I’ve found a buyer for him.”
“Now look here!” he began angrily. “I...”
“Yes, I know,” I interrupted, “you’d ideally like to sell him to one of your own owners and keep him in your yard, and I do sympathize with that, but Mr. and Mrs. Ostermeyer, the people I was with yesterday at York, they’ve told me they would like the horse themselves.”
“I strongly protest,” he said.
“They want to send him to Milo Shandy to be trained for jumping.”
“You owe it to me to leave him here,” he said obstinately. “Four wins in a row... it’s downright dishonorable to take him away.”
“He’s suitable for jumping, now that he’s been gelded.” I said it without threat, but he knew he was in an awkward position. He’d had no right to geld the horse. In addition, there was in fact nothing to stop Greville’s executor selling the horse to whomever he pleased, as Milo had discovered for me, and which Nicholas Loder had no doubt discovered for himself, and in the racing world in general the sale to the Ostermeyers would make exquisite sense as I would get to ride the horse even if I couldn’t own him.
Into Loder’s continued silence I said, “If you find a buyer for Gemstones, though, I’ll give my approval.”
“He’s not as good.”
“No, but not useless. No doubt you’d take a commission, I wouldn’t object to that.”
He grunted again, which I took to mean assent, but he also said grittily, “Don’t expect any favors from me, ever.”
“I’ve done one for you,” I pointed out, “in not lodging a complaint. Anyway, I’m lunching with the Ostermeyers at Milo’s today and we’ll do the paperwork of the sale. So Milo should be sending a box to collect Dozen Roses sometime this week. No doubt he’ll fix a day with you.”
“Rot you,” he said.
“I don’t want to quarrel.”
“You’re having a damn good try.” He slammed down his receiver and left me feeling perplexed as much as anything else by his constant rudeness. All trainers lost horses regularly when owners sold them and, as he’d said himself, it wasn’t as if Dozen Roses were a Derby hope. Nicholas Loder’s stable held far better prospects than a five-year-old gelding, prolific winner though he might be.
Shrugging, I picked up my overnight bag and felt vaguely guilty at turning my back on so much chaos in the house. I’d done minimum tidying upstairs, hanging up Greville’s suits and shirts and so on, and I’d left my own suit and some other things with them because it seemed I might spend more nights there, but the rest was physically difficult and would have to wait for the anonymous Mrs. P., poor woman, who was going to get an atrocious shock.
I went by taxi to the Ostermeyers’ hotel and again found them in champagne spirits, and it was again Simms, fortyish, with a mustache, who turned up as chauffeur. When I commented on his working Sunday as well as Saturday he smiled faintly and said he was glad of the opportunity to earn extra; Monday to Friday he developed films in the dark.
“Films?” Martha asked. “Do you mean movies?”
“Family snapshots, madam, in a one-hour photo shop.”
“Oh.” Martha sounded as if she couldn’t envisage such a life. “How interesting.”
“Not very, madam,” Simms said resignedly, and set off smoothly into the sparse Sunday traffic. He asked me for directions as we neared Lambourn and we arrived without delay at Milo’s door, where Milo himself greeted me with the news that Nicholas Loder wanted me to phone him at once.
“It sounded to me,” Milo said, “like a great deal of agitation pretending to be casual.”
“I don’t understand him.”
“He doesn’t want me to have Dozen Roses, for some reason.”
“Oh, but,” Martha said to him anxiously, overhearing, “you are going to, aren’t you?”
“Of course, yes, don’t worry. Derek, get it over with while we go and look at Datepalm.” He bore the Ostermeyers away, dazzling them with twinkling charm, and I went into his kitchen and phoned Nicholas Loder, wondering why I was bothering.
“Look,” he said, sounding persuasive. “I’ve an owner who’s very interested in Dozen Roses. He says he’ll top whatever your Ostermeyers are offering. What do you say?”
I didn’t answer immediately, and he said forcefully, “You’ll make a good clear profit that way. There’s no guarantee the horse will be able to jump. You can’t ask a high price for him, because of that. My owner will top their offer and add a cash bonus for you personally. Name your figure.”
“Um,” I said slowly, “this owner wouldn’t be yourself, would it?”
He said sharply, “No, certainly not.”
“The horse that ran at York yesterday,” I said even more slowly, “does he fit Dozen Roses’ passport?”
“That’s slanderous!”
“It’s a question.”
“The answer is yes. The horse is Dozen Roses. Is that good enough for you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then,” he sounded relieved, “name your figure.”
I hadn’t yet discussed any figure at all with Martha and Harley and I’d been going to ask a bloodstock agent friend for a snap valuation. I said as much to Nicholas Loder who, sounding exasperated, repeated that his owner would offer more, plus a tax-free sweetener for myself.
I had every firm intention of selling Dozen Roses to the Ostermeyers and no so-called sweetener that I could think of would have persuaded me otherwise.
“Please tell your owner I’m sorry,” I said, “but the Ostermeyers have bought Datepalm, as I told you, and I am obligated to them, and loyalty to them comes first. I’m sure you’ll find your owner another horse as good as Dozen Roses.”
“What if he offered double what you’d take from the Ostermeyers?”
“It’s not a matter of money.”
“Everyone can be bought,” he said.
“Well, no, I’m sorry, but no.”
“Think it over,” he said, and slammed the receiver down again. I wondered in amusement how often he broke them. But he hadn’t in fact been amusing, and the situation as a whole held no joy. I was going to have to meet him on racecourses forever once I was a trainer myself, and I had no appetite for chronic feuds.
I went out into the yard where, seeing me, Milo broke away from the Ostermeyers, who were feasting their eyes as Datepalm was being led round on the gravel to delight them.
“What did Loder want?” Milo demanded, coming toward me.
“He offered double whatever I was asking the Ostermeyers to pay for Dozen Roses.”
Milo stared. “Double? Without knowing what it was?”
“That’s right.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What do you think?” I asked.
“If you’ve accepted, I’ll flatten you.”
I laughed. Too many people that past week had flattened me and no doubt Milo could do it with the best.
“Well?” he said belligerently.
“I told him to stuff it.”
“Good.”
“Mm, perhaps. But you’d better arrange to fetch the horse here at once. Like tomorrow morning, as we don’t want him having a nasty accident and ending up at the knackers, do you think?”
“Christ!” He was appalled. “He wouldn’t! Not Nicholas Loder.”
“One wouldn’t think so. But no harm in removing the temptation.”
“No.” He looked at me attentively. “Are you all right?” he asked suddenly. “You don’t look too well.”
I told him briefly about being knocked out in Greville’s garden. “Those phone calls you took,” I said, “were designed to make sure I turned up in the right place at the right time. So I walked straight into an ambush and, if you want to know, I feel a fool.”
“Derek!” He was dumbfounded, but also of course practical. “It’s not going to delay your getting back on a horse?”
“No, don’t worry.”
“Did you tell the Ostermeyers?”
“No, don’t bother them. They don’t like me being unfit.”
He nodded in complete understanding. To Martha, and to Harley to a lesser but still considerable extent, it seemed that proprietorship in the jockey was as important as in the horse. I’d met that feeling a few times before and never undervalued it: they were the best owners to ride for, even if often the most demanding. The quasi-love relationship could however turn to dust and damaging rejection if one ever put them second, which was why I would never jeopardize my place on Datepalm for a profit on Dozen Roses. It was hard to explain to more rational people, but I rode races, as every jump jockey did, from a different impetus than making money, though the money was nice enough and thoroughly earned besides.
When Martha and Harley at length ran out of questions and admiration of Datepalm we all returned to the house, where over drinks in Milo’s comfortable living room we telephoned to the bloodstock agent for an opinion and then agreed on a price which was less than he’d suggested. Milo beamed. Martha clapped her hands together with pleasure. Harley drew out his checkbook and wrote in it carefully, “Saxony Franklin Ltd.”
“Subject to a vet’s certificate,” I said.
“Oh yes, dear,” Martha agreed, smiling. “As if you would ever sell us a lemon.”
Milo produced the “Change of Ownership” forms, which Martha and Harley and I all signed, and Milo said he would register the new arrangements with Weatherby’s in the morning.
“Is Dozen Roses ours, now?” Martha asked, shiny-eyed.
“Indeed he is,” Milo said, “subject to his being alive and in good condition when he arrives here. If he isn’t the sale is void and he still belongs to Saxony Franklin.”
I wondered briefly if he were insured. Didn’t want to find out the hard way.
With the business concluded Milo drove us all out to lunch at a nearby restaurant which as usual was crammed with Lambourn people: Martha and Harley held splendid court as the new owners of Gold Cup winner Datepalm and were pink with gratification over the compliments to their purchase. I watched their stimulated faces, hers rounded and still pretty under the blonde-rinsed gray hair, his heavily handsome, the square jaw showing the beginning of jowls. Both now looking sixty, they still displayed enthusiasms and enjoyments that were almost childlike in their simplicity, which did no harm in the weary old world.
Milo drove us back to rejoin the Daimler and Simms, who’d eaten his lunch in a village pub, and Martha in farewell gave Milo a kiss with flirtation but also real affection. Milo had bound the Ostermeyers to his stable with hoops of charm and all we needed now was for the two horses to carry on winning.
Milo said ‘“Thanks” to me briefly as we got into the car, but in truth I wanted what he wanted, and securing the Ostermeyers had been a joint venture. We drove out of the yard with Martha waving and then settling back into her seat with murmurs and soft remarks of pleasure.