“Now this is a bit of all right!” Bodie said, his practiced eye taking in the crowded Ascot grandstand. He and his partner, Raymond Doyle, gradually made their way through the mob of racing enthusiasts to a position along the track rail. A few of the jostled bystanders considered challenging the CI5 men as they advanced forward, but they swallowed their comments after getting a second look at the two agents.
Bodie and Doyle took stock of their location, Bodie surveying the doubled track (the inside track being a steeplechase course) in front of them, while Doyle turned around to casually observe the packed grandstand. His green eyes swept over the spectators thronging the gradually escalating rows of the Queen Elizabeth II Stand and homed in on the three tiers of private viewing boxes above the common horde. Two hundred and eighty private boxes were rented out to the wealthier racing aficionados, so they could observe the races in roomy, heated comfort - although the July afternoon temperatures negated the need for artificial heat. Doyle spotted the particular box he was interested in, twentieth from the right in the middle tier: Harry Walter’s box.
Meanwhile, Bodie had adequately scoped out the racecourse. He trained his binoculars - openly slung around his neck, as any spectator’s would be - over the entire course. He first focused the field glasses to his far right, past the betting stands and all the way down to the golden gates that marked the starting position. Then he traced the course covered by the mile-or-under races, a long, straight stretch of track from his far right, past his position, and ending off to his left, with the finish line directly in front of the Royal Stand. Finally, Bodie shifted the binoculars to cover the entire course as it would be run in the Brown Jack Stakes later that afternoon. That race and its June Royal Ascot counterpart, the Queen Alexandra Stakes, were the longest flat-track races in England, covering two miles, six furlongs and thirty-four yards. The Brown Jack Stakes began at the same post as the straight mile races, but instead of ending at the finish line, continued around the main triangular course, overlapping about a third of the straight mile course from the last turn of the triangle to the finishing post. This added another mile, six furlongs and thirty-four yards before the horses crossed the finish line for the second and final time.
A sharp elbow to the ribs interrupted Bodie’s perusal of the track.
“Eh,” Doyle grunted, “we’re supposed to be watching Harry Walter, not the track!”
“Just making sure we blend in with the crowd,” Bodie smirked. Smoothing out his voice, he flicked an imaginary speck of dust off the lapel of his light grey suit. “After all, this is Ascot, where one goes to see and be seen.” His eyes raked over Doyle’s blue jeans, open-necked shirt and windcheater with silent disapproval.
“No, Bodie, this is work. Besides, this isn’t a royal meet,” Doyle gestured to the unoccupied Royal Stand, which could accommodate nearly 8,000 of the royal family’s guests, “so there won’t be much of high society on view, anyway.”
“Six-two to three-seven,” the R/T broke in before Bodie could get off a reasonable retort.
“Three-seven here,” Bodie answered crisply. Rather a good thing it isn’t a royal meet. Be a bit complicated trying to explain our operation to the Queen’s security forces. “You in position?”
“Yes,” Murphy answered. “The suspect just arrived, and I’m stationed in the corridor, back of the second row of boxes, with a clear view of the entrance to his private box.”
While Murphy spoke, Doyle turned his back to the track and easily located Walter’s box with his binoculars. He watched as the occupant took off his mac and draped it over the back of an empty chair. Then the man extracted a piece of paper from his grey suit coat and sat down, studying the paper. “Yeah, he’s all nice and comfy, looking over the tipsheet,” Doyle said from behind his field glasses.
“Racing form,” Bodie corrected, surveying Walter with his own pair of binoculars. “Doesn’t look like he’s expecting company.”“It’s early days yet. They haven’t even run the first race.”
“Besides,” Murphy cut in on the R/T, “Turner’s monitoring the Reeve brothers. We’ll know when they get here, all right.”
Bodie grunted agreement and signed off, noting that no one in the tightly packed audience seemed to be paying the slightest bit of attention to them. Ray’s right again. I could take out my Browning as easily as the R/T, and nobody’d bat an eyelash. Race crowds are blind, deaf and dumb to everything but the races and the success of their betting.
Proving his point, the racetrack loudspeaker boomed that the horses were entering the field for the first race, and the steady background chatter of the spectators immediately ceased. Grinning, Bodie pulled out a racing form. It was too late to bet on the first race, but there were five more after that, and he was determined to get a few bets down. The idea of charging them off as legitimate expenses appealed to him to no end.
“Bodie,” his partner’s disapproving tone broke his concentration.
“Look, Ray,” Bodie’s blue eyes lifted from the racing form, “I want Harry Walter as badly as you do, especially if he’s shifted from silver stealing to drug dealing, as your grass claims. But everything’s under control now; we’re watching Harry’s box from the front, Murphy’s got the back covered, and contact hasn’t been made yet. So as long as we’re at the races, I intend to take advantage of the situation and do a little betting.”
“I thought you gave up betting on the tracks, seeing as your picks never win.”
“That was greyhounds, Doyle, not horse racing. I happen to be a very good judge of horseflesh --”
“Pull the other one, mate,” Doyle hooted. “I’ve seen you ride, remember.”
“One does not have to be a champion rider to recognize good horseflesh when one sees it,” Bodie said loftily.
“Of course not,” Doyle agreed, “especially with that tipsheet I saw you buy earlier.”
“This is not a tipsheet,” Bodie said indignantly. “It’s a racing form. It doesn’t tell you which horses to bet on; it’s a listing of the horses, their owners and trainers, racing colours, roughly current odds, and which positions they’ve drawn on the track. Also included are the horses’ past performances and their sires and dams, which an astute judge of thoroughbreds can parlay into intelligent and winning bets.”
“So, who do you fancy in the first race, Mr. Astute Judge of Horseflesh?”
“I haven’t had time to study the form,” Bodie answered as the loudspeaker announced “They’re off” and the first race commenced. Just over two minutes later, the mile-long race ended, with Various and Sundry winning by a length.
Waiting for the noise level to die down as the winning jockey was officially weighed in, Bodie grumbled, “Just my luck! My pick would’ve been Various and Sundry, and I’d be fifty pounds richer!”
“Sure, Bodie, anyone can win by hindsight. Who do you favour in the second race, eh? You can study the form while I check in with Murph.” Doyle surreptitiously drew his R/T from the pocket of his lightweight jacket and conferred with the third member of their stakeout.
“Walter’s still by his lonesome,” Doyle reported to Bodie as he slipped the R/T back into his pocket. “So, which horse is going to win the second race?”
“I’m not particularly keen on the horses in the second race,” Bodie pronounced his judgment, “but I do fancy a horse in the race after that. In fact, I’m going to put a tenner on it.”
“Your money or CI5’s money?” Doyle teased. He plucked the racing form out of Bodie’s grasp and asked, “Which horse are you keen on, then?”
“Number seven.”
“Third race, seventh horse?” Doyle chuckled. “Wonder why you chose that one.” He found the horse’s name on the listing and practically choked. “Bodie --?!”
“George’s Boy has excellent bloodlines on both sides. Look at his dam; she’s got bloodlines to rival Secretariat’s!”
“It’s a mug’s bet all the same! Take a butcher’s at the odds: twelve to one.”
“They’ll probably come down a bit by post time.”
Doyle continued examining the form. “Hunch bets are dumb, mate. But if you want to throw your money away, you ought to just bet on a real long shot, like this one.” He pointed to a horse listed as running in the fifth race.
Bodie read the form over Doyle’s shoulder. “That’s the Brown Jack Stakes, innit? Not up on the distance horses, ’m afraid, so I’ll pass. You can have a go if you’d like.”
“Ta, mate.”
“Besides, a hundred-to-one long shot really is a mug’s bet,” Bodie scoffed, adding, “True gamblers prefer three- or four-horse accumulators for serious moneymaking at the track.”
“Maybe so, but your horse has to win the first race before you can pass the winnings on to the second race, and so on.”
“I have better luck with accumulators at Epsom or Newmarket,” Bodie admitted, “so I’m only going with two races this afternoon.”
“And who’s the other half of this star bet of yours?”
“Fifth horse in the fourth race,” Bodie said casually. “Name of Dubious Intent, I believe.”
Doyle almost choked again. Third race, seventh horse and fourth race, fifth horse -- 3.7 and 4.5.
“I can’t think of a better ‘doubles’ bet than that,” Bodie grinned slyly. “Can you, Ray?”
Ray’s response was interrupted by the R/T. “Six-two to four-five. Seven-one just checked in. The Reeve brothers are here.”
Both men swiveled to face the grandstand, and Bodie brought the binoculars up to his eyes. “They haven’t reached Walter’s box yet, but he did just glance at his watch.”
Doyle nodded and slipped the high-powered zoom-lens camera he’d been carrying out of its case. Scarcely a minute later, two average-looking men entered Walter’s box under the CI5 agents’ close scrutiny. The two newcomers took off their raincoats and slung them over a couple of chair backs, exchanging a few words with Walter, while Doyle snapped their pictures. Then, all three men sat down and seemingly focused their attention on the racetrack.
The official announced that the horses were lining up for the second race, and the CI5 men turned to face the track. Bodie remarked quietly, “Well, I guess your grass was reliable this time. And you’ve got some nice shots of Walter and the Reeves. Consorting with known criminals.” He clucked his tongue. “Not the sort of thing for a respectable City businessman to do.”
“We need more than that, Bodie. I didn’t see anything that looked like a deal - they didn’t even shake hands.”
“Yeah. Shame we couldn’t bug the box.” Cowley’s orders had been explicit on that point: their surveillance was in a highly public place, and they had to maintain a low profile. Specifically, they were to do nothing that would interfere with the public’s ordinary racing activities, and that included inconveniencing in any way the spectators in the boxes surrounding Walter’s private box.
The running of the second race consumed the next two minutes, with Bodie and Doyle following the horses around the track with their field glasses, as did all the other rail-sitters. They alternately checked on Walter and his companions in the box behind them, but the trio seemed to be doing what everyone else was doing: watching the horses sweep by.
“You don’t suppose they’re here just for the races?” Bodie asked his partner at the end of the race. “Harry Walter does own a couple of thoroughbreds.”
“Neither of them is racing at Ascot today, though,” Doyle spoke authoritatively. Bodie raised his eyebrows questioningly, and Doyle chuckled. “Thought you read that racing form? There’s no listing for any horse owned by Harry Walter. I checked.”
Reminded of it, Bodie extracted the racing form from his jacket pocket and scanned it briefly. “Got to go place that bet before the next race starts.”
“Deserting your post, three-seven?” Doyle asked in his best Scottish accent.
“Aw, c’mon, Ray. You’re here with your hawk’s eyes, watching the front, and Murphy’s got the back covered. Can certainly spare me for the few minutes it’ll take to dash down to the tote and back. Besides, they’re up there,” Bodie jabbed his finger at the private box, “sitting around like three -” He broke off, rapidly brought the binoculars to his eyes and cursed. Pulling out his R/T, he radioed tersely, “Six-two! They’re all putting on their macs and heading for the exit. Should be in sight any second!”
“Got ’em,” Murphy said calmly. “You two stay put; Turner and I’ll keep tabs on old Harry and friends.”
“‘You two stay put,’” Bodie repeated with a grimace as he slipped his R/T into his pocket. “Who does Murph think he is, telling us what to do? He hasn’t been given the Cow’s job yet.” Scanning the crowded stands for the quickest route to the betting stalls, he nudged Doyle. “Keep your eyes on that empty box, mate. I’ve got to see a man about a couple of horses.” He stepped away, paused, and swung back to his partner. “Y’know, that’s probably where Walter and his cohorts went, too. Want to get their bets down before the weather worsens.” The afternoon sun had been clouded over during the last few minutes, and a mist was forming, slowly blurring the rails along the far side of the racetrack. Bodie left Doyle standing by the rail and headed purposefully for the tote.
He returned nearly a quarter of an hour later, minus ten pounds and full of optimism. “Odds went off at ten to one,” he informed Doyle as he rejoined him. “Told you they’d come down closer to post time.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Doyle grumbled absently. “Hope you’re through skiving now that you’ve made your little wager.”
“Skiving?” Bodie’s tone was hurt. “Wasn’t skiving, Ray; I was merely keeping myself available in case Murph or Turner lost their suspects in the crowd. Awful lot of men wearing macs here today, in case you haven’t noticed, Sherlock. Wish I’d brought mine; don’t fancy getting my suit soaked in a downpour.”
“It isn’t going to rain,” Doyle dismissed the notion airily. “Think we’re due for some serious fog, though. Hang about, that might be worse. Track’ll have to cancel the rest of the racing program if it gets too foggy - and then where’s your bet?”
“Don’t be absurd, Ray,” Bodie sniffed. “They won’t shut the track down due to fog. I’m sure you’ve heard enough of the background chatter to know there’s a fair amount of Yanks in the stands?”
Doyle nodded, recalling vividly an argument between a Texan and a boisterous Irishman over the merits of the second race’s winning horse. He’d also heard several other distinctly American voices in the crowd.
“Have to spell it out for you, eh, Ray? The last thing Britain wants is a bunch of Yank tourists complaining to everyone back in the States that Ascot was canceled because of heavy fog. It took years for the Americans to stop believing those old movies as it was, always showing London shrouded in pea-soupers rolling in off the Thames.”
Finding himself with no immediate rebuttal, Ray retreated to the job at hand. He drew up his field glasses, swept them over the spectators’ heads and focused on Walter’s box, just managing to catch Harry and the Reeves re-entering it. Before he could mention the fact to Bodie, his partner’s R/T beeped.
“They’re back,” Murphy reported crisply. “We followed ’em down to the betting stalls. Then, they split up; Walter went to one bookie, and the Reeves went to a different one a couple of stalls farther down. I was close enough to hear most of Walter’s bets. Mostly small - twenty pounds or less. He did take a bit of a flyer on the fifth race, though. Not sure how much, but I saw the wad of bills he handed to the bookie. Very thick, it was.”
Doyle interrupted, speaking over Bodie’s receiver. “You didn’t see anything suspicious, then? No meetings under the stands?”
“Sorry, Ray. Walter stopped once, but he wasn’t speaking to the Reeves. Couldn’t see very much, but he was a short fellow in a bright jacket. Figured he was a jockey. They only exchanged a few words; then Walter caught up with the Reeves, and they continued straight to the betting stalls.”
“Probably getting a hot tip,” Doyle said disgustedly as Bodie signed off and put away the R/T. “What’s next on the agenda?” he asked, watching the three men in the private box remove their coats and get comfortable again.
“The third race. George’s Boy is going to sweep the field,” Bodie predicted enthusiastically. Doyle merely glanced at his partner, mumbling something about a fool and his money under his breath.
At seven furlongs, the third race was over in almost a minute and a half, with the horses passing the spectators in a blurred bunch. The thickening mist made it hard to tell the individual horses apart, and Doyle wasn’t the only one surprised by the result: George’s Boy won by a half-length. Bodie happily pictured the hundred pounds he’d just won.
“What’d I tell you, mate? You’ve got to have faith.”
“Wish you could cash in your winning ticket now, though, Bodie. Dubious Intent is not the sort of name to inspire my confidence.”
“Well, he’s not nearly the long shot George’s Boy was. The board lists the odds on Dubious Intent at four to one now…. That’s four hundred quid!”
Bodie quietly plotted out how many birds he could wine and dine with four hundred pounds in one part of his brain, while he and Doyle continued observing Harry Walter and his drug-dealer guests. Ray took more pictures of the box’s occupants, but he knew they wouldn’t be as sharp as his earlier snapshots; the murky weather would see to that.
The half-hour between the third and fourth races finally passed, and both agents unconsciously tensed as the horses left the gates, starting the mile-long fourth race. Again, the racing thoroughbreds passed the stands in a blurry cluster of churning hooves. After the half-mile pole, the caller gave up trying to announce the order of the running horses; as he explained apologetically, all of the horses looked alike in the fog. Unsurprisingly, the race ended in a photo finish. After three long, drawn-out minutes, the result was announced and the winners posted. Dubious Intent didn’t even show, finishing fifth.
“Oh, wonderful,” Bodie grumbled, mentally kissing several nights of luscious women goodbye. Doyle even managed to keep his “I told you so” to himself. Losing all interest in the track, Bodie turned his attention to the case with a vengeance. Binoculars raised, he watched Walter and the Reeves, saying peevishly, “They haven’t done a single thing out of the ordinary yet. Damn the Old Man, anyway! He orders us to keep watch on Walter, then ties our hands behind our backs, saying we can’t use bugs or ‘inconvenience’ any of the other box-holders. And to top it all off, even if we do manage to get the goods on Walter, we can’t collar him or even approach him in his box.”
“That’s right, we can’t!” Doyle snapped back. “You might’ve forgotten the Coogan affair - it’s been two years now - but John Q. Public hasn’t. Or if he has, Fleet Street will certainly remind him of it if we’re spotted hauling respectable businessmen out of their private boxes at Ascot. C’n see the tabloids now: ‘CI5 Makes Killing at Track.’ D’you want to be the subject of another court of inquiry, then? Once was enough for me, mate!”
“Sorry, Ray.” Didn’t mean to stir up old wounds and remind you of the Coogan case. Cowley’s orders make perfect sense now. He doesn’t want us to catch the public’s eye again and have another investigation into CI5’s “unfettered, unlawful power.” Harry Walter’d be just the type to have influential friends....
“Wasn’t thinking clearly, was I?” Bodie apologized obliquely, then lightly punched Doyle’s arm. “But then, like you always say, you’re the brains of this partnership, eh?”
“Nice to hear you admit it for once,” Doyle mumbled under his breath. Smoothly, he turned around and focused his binoculars upward. “Fog’s getting heavier,” he commented, only dimly perceiving three manlike shapes in the private box.
“Yeah, I know. Still got fifteen minutes ‘til the next race, though.”
They spent the next quarter hour in quiet surveillance, until the announcer called for the horses to start the fifth race. The field of thoroughbreds lined up at the starting gate to the far right of the stands. The agents listened as the announcer spieled on about each horse, trying to make up in verbiage for the fog-blocked view.
“…And there’s the tenth horse, Golden Voyage, in his chute. Now, here comes the last horse, Lucky Strike…. He’s in his chute. The starter’s ready, and they’re off! The Brown Jack Stakes is underway, ladies and gentlemen.”
Bodie leaned against the rail, craning his head to the right, trying to glimpse the racing horses. He could see nothing in the dense fog for several seconds. Finally, he heard the horses’ hooves striking the dirt track, and shortly thereafter, the field galloped past the grandstand. Bodie unconsciously counted the last stragglers - eight, nine, ten - then raised his binoculars to catch the fast-moving blobs of horseflesh at the far left, as they circled the first curve of the triangular course. He set the binoculars down at that point, deeming it a waste of time and effort to even try to follow the fast-receding blurs any farther around the course until they reached the third turn of the track.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer boomed, “again we apologize for the inability to provide you with our usual running commentary on the race, due to extremely poor track visibility. Perhaps we should remember that the first time that Brown Jack raced in the Queen Alexandra Stakes at the royal meet, there was a dreadful downpour preceding the race. Indeed, the weather has often been a mitigating factor in the more than two and a half centuries that Ascot has been holding meets - and has canceled or delayed numerous past races. Usually, the royal meets are more plagued with bad weather than common meets, like today’s, if that’s any comfort to you.” The announcer ran on in a similar vein until he suddenly cut in again: “The lead horses are now rounding the turn and entering the last leg of the race. The time for the lead horse is three minutes, thirty-seven seconds; so you won’t see any record-breaking times in today’s Brown Jack Stakes - understandable under the current track conditions.”
Bodie raised the field glasses again and watched the indistinct horse-shapes emerge from the mist to his right, gradually building up definition until eleven equine racing machines thundered past his rail position. Thousands of voices roared indecipherable encouragement as the lathered horses raced the last few furlongs of the exhausting, nearly three-mile race.
“Unofficial results of the race are as follows,” the announcer spoke half a minute after the last horse crossed the finish line. “First place: number five, Finishing Touches. Second place: number seven, Scottish Mist. And third place: number four, Battleguard.”
Doyle fidgeted and lowered his binoculars. The fog had turned his visual stakeout of Walter’s box into a joke, so he had tracked the race instead, as Bodie had. “Well, that was an interesting race, eh?”
“Very,” Bodie said economically, his attention centered on trying to read the tote board. Doyle caught something in Bodie’s tone and sneaked a peek at the racing form entries for the fifth race. He soon found what he was looking for: number five, Finishing Touches; racing colours, red and yellow; odds, 100:1.
“Bloody hell! Do you think --”
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please,” the announcer cut in. “We seem to have a problem with the last race; hold onto your betting slips. I repeat, we have had an inquiry posted on the fifth race. Please hold onto your tickets until further notice.”
“Ah,” Bodie murmured, satisfied. “They’re onto them.”
“Who’s onto who?”
“You watched the last race, right?” Bodie questioned smugly.
“Yeah, so?”
“So, how many horses crossed in front of us first time around the track?”
“First time --?” Doyle reviewed the race mentally. “Ten.” He frowned. “But there were eleven entries in the Brown Jack Stakes,” he tapped the form, “and no scratches before the race…and the hundred-to-one long shot won. Bodie! Are you saying that Finishing Touches didn’t run the whole race? Then where was he --?”
“Hidden in a bank of fog down by the first turn.” Bodie nodded off to the right. “He started with the other horses all right, but when they reached the turn where the starting straightaway merges into the main track, his jockey pulled him up, and they waited for the other horses to make the complete circuit of the track. When he heard the horses approaching the turn again, he got back into the race. And won easily against the competition, since they’d all raced an extra mile and a half.”
“Do you seriously think you could hide a horse in the fog for…it must have been close to three minutes?” Doyle asked.
Before Bodie could reply, the loudspeaker interrupted, “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please. Finishing Touches has been disqualified from the last race for failure to complete the course. The official results are first place: number seven, Scottish Mist; second place: number four, Battleguard; and third place: number one, Cassandra. The winning odds are….” The announcer droned on.
“The racing steward believes you can hide a horse in the fog for three minutes,” Bodie said, “or he’d never have disqualified the horse.” All around the grandstand, small groups were discussing the last race avidly.
“But hiding in the fog for three minutes --? That’s got to be one for the books.”
“Which means today hasn’t been a total washout,” Bodie said. “Even if we get nowhere with Walter, we’ve seen a bit of racing history.”
Doyle’s R/T beeped. “Six-two to four-five. The Reeve brothers are leaving the box. Seven-one is tailing them.”
“Wonderful,” Bodie grumped, hearing the news. “Means they did their dealing right under our noses, and we have no proof. Nothing.”
About to agree with Bodie’s gloomy assessment of their operation, something niggled at Doyle’s memory. “Six-two, you said Walter bet a bundle on the fifth race, right? And that was after he spoke with a jockey?”
“Yes,” Murphy agreed over the receiver. “The bloke just topped five feet, so I pegged him as a jockey - especially with the bright jacket on.”
“What colour was the jacket, did you see?”
“Red,” Murphy spoke after a pause. “Sort of fire-engine red with yellow stripes on the sleeves. As I said, very bright.”
“Bingo. Hang about,” he directed Murphy, then turned expectantly to Bodie. “Finishing Touches’ racing colours are red and yellow.”
“Bloody hell!” Bodie cursed softly. “You think Walter was part of the foggy horse race?”
Doyle nodded. “Or at least was tipped off about it by the jockey. Something the racing steward should know about, don’t you think?” He thumbed his R/T. “Six-two?” Waiting for Murphy to respond, he asked Bodie, “D’you suppose the Cow has any pull with the racing steward?”
“Probably, why?” came over the R/T as Murphy heard the question.
“Because Walter’s part of the foggy race conspiracy. And if the steward was questioning Walter in his office, and we happened to be there -”
”We could have a quiet little chat with Walter ourselves!” Bodie clapped his partner on the back. “Nice going, Ray.”
“Yeah, but we have to set it up quickly. The last race starts in ten minutes.”
“That won’t be a problem, four-five,” Murphy said. “The steward’s an old friend of my father. Give me a couple of minutes to fill him in, then come on up to the steward’s office. Jack’ll dispatch one of his assistants to bring in Mr. Walter. Six-two out.”
* * *
“Gentlemen,” Jack Linden, the fiftyish racing steward, ushered Bodie and Doyle into his medium-sized office. “Young Murphy here has told me your ideas about the attempted fraud in the fifth race. I’m not sure why CI5 is interested in our track scandals, but I do appreciate the information. Make yourselves at home.” He waved them toward a couple of chairs in front of a well-organized desk.
Doyle took one of the chairs while Bodie drifted over to the right-hand wall, where Murphy stood partially concealed from the entrance. A knock at the door brought Linden to answer it, and he returned with Harry Walter in tow.
“Have a seat, Mr. Walter. May I take your coat?” Linden offered. Walter removed his raincoat and handed it to the racing steward, who hung it on a small hat stand behind his desk. Linden settled into his chair and clasped his hands on the desktop. “Thank you for coming in. We just have a few questions for you.”
“We?” Walter’s eyes darted around the room, belatedly taking in the two standing men and the other occupied chair in front of Linden’s desk. He brushed a speck of lint off his tailor-made navy suit and sat down in the indicated chair. “What’s going on here? Your assistant said you wished to speak with me, Mr. Linden. Something about the fifth race, he implied.”
“Yes, that’s true. These gentlemen,” Linden indicated the agents, “brought the matter to my attention. I’ll let them explain.”
Doyle produced his I.D. and flipped it open. “CI5, Mr. Walter.” Casually returning it to his pocket, Doyle canted his chair so that he faced Walter squarely. “I’m Doyle; that’s Bodie and Murphy behind me. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“About a horse race? That hardly seems to be CI5’s concern.”
“You’d be surprised what CI5 is concerned with, sir,” Doyle answered dryly. “For instance, you placed a substantial bet on Finishing Touches in the fifth race, didn’t you?”
“Did I?” Walter echoed.
Not removing his gaze from Walter’s face, Doyle asked, “Murph, you saw the bet. How much?”
“Thick wad of bills, no small denominations. I’d say between five hundred and a thousand pounds,” Murphy answered calmly.
“Five hundred to a thousand pounds - a lot of money to put on a hundred-to-one long shot for no reason,” Doyle mused. “Or did you have a reason, Mr. Walter? Did you know that Finishing Touches’ jockey was going to hide his horse in the fog?”
“I most certainly did not!” Walter said emphatically.
“Then why did you place such a high wager on a hundred-to-one long shot? It hardly seems the type of bet a prudent businessman would make. Or did you have a hot tip?”
Harry Walter sized up Doyle while appearing too mull over the question. “Yes, I had a hot tip. Bumped into Eshley - the jockey - on the way to my bookie. Told me he had a dead cert. in the fifth race.”
“And you believed him, just like that?”
“Eshley’s ridden for me a few times, Mr. Doyle. He’s a very good judge of what his ride is capable of doing. He told me to back his horse to the hilt, that I wouldn’t be disappointed.” Walter met Doyle’s eyes. “So I placed a rather large bet on Finishing Touches, and you know the rest. Now, if that’s really all --”
“It isn’t,” Doyle interrupted. “Actually, we’re not really interested in the racing scheme, Walter. We’re more interested in what you and the Reeve brothers were up to in your box this afternoon.”
“Up to --? I resent the implications in that remark.” Walter’s voice turned frosty. “Dennis and John Reeve are acquaintances of mine. They expressed an interest in horse racing at Ascot, and I invited them to join me in my box for the races today.”
“Acquaintances, eh? Are they business acquaintances of yours, Mr. Walter?” Doyle asked.
“No. More like friends of mine.”
“I see. You do know what business the Reeve brothers are in, don’t you?” Doyle asked suddenly.
“Import/export, I believe,” Walter answered easily.
“That’s one way to describe it,” Murphy joined the conversation again. “The Reeve brothers are drug dealers, Mr. Walter. And we think they were conducting business in your box this afternoon.”
“That’s slander!” Walter snapped. “Linden, did you hear that?”
Bodie stopped lounging against the wall and walked over to Walter’s chair. “We’re here with the racing steward’s full cooperation, Walter. He takes a dim view of people using Ascot racecourse as a rendezvous point for drug dealing.”
“Mind you, it’s an ideal setup for dealing,” Doyle continued smoothly. “Private box in a very public place. Even have a built-in reason for carrying large amounts of cash: lucky at the track. Could probably get your favourite bookie to back up your winning bets, too.”
“As I mentioned before, I resent the implications you’re making, Mr. Doyle, and CI5 will be hearing from my solicitors, I assure you. Furthermore, you’ll find no large amounts of cash on me. I lost the only large bet I made today.”
“Oh, too bad, mate,” Bodie clucked. “Having a run of bad luck, aren’t you? First, there was that four million quid in silver you lost in May and now this.”
“Four million --?” Walter’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Never mind, you will,” Bodie said, giving Walter’s arm an encouraging pat. “Nice suit, this,” he added approvingly. “Comes from Savile Row - not that my partner would recognize that.” Bodie circled around the back of Walter’s chair and over to the hat stand. “This is more his style, a cheap Oriental knockoff.” Bodie picked up Walter’s raincoat and carried it back, stopping in full sight of Walter and Doyle. “Now, why would a man with such excellent taste in clothes wear such a disreputable mac as this?” he mused as he extracted a Swiss army knife from his trouser pocket. “I wonder….”
Murphy suddenly appeared at his side, taking the raincoat and turning it to reveal the lining. “Allow me,” the taller agent said and held the raincoat while Bodie cut the lining.
Walter glared daggers at all three CI5 men but held his tongue.
“Well, well, well,” Bodie said, pulling out a string of small, thin, white packets from inside the lining. “What have we here?” He opened one packet, dipped his finger in it and gingerly tasted the white powder. “Cocaine.”
“Harry Walter,” Doyle’s voice was rich with satisfaction as he clamped his handcuffs on the businessman’s wrists, “you’re nicked.”
* * *
Murphy and Bodie watched as Doyle situated their prisoner in the Capri’s backseat, slipped the cuffs through the handhold and re-secured Walter’s wrists. Closing and locking the door, Doyle walked over to the two loitering men.
“Nice job, Ray, Bodie,” Murphy said. “The Old Man’ll be pleased. I radioed Turner to get some backup and haul in the Reeve brothers. Told him not to let their raincoats out of sight, too. I’m willing to bet one of them has several thousand pounds sewn inside its lining.”
“Think you’re right,” Doyle nodded, “and it’s probably Dennis’s raincoat.”
“John Reeve is closer in size to Walter,” Bodie objected lightly.
“Yeah, but Dennis is the brains behind the operation, Bodie,” Doyle reminded his partner. “Suppose we should get going.”
“What’s your hurry? The only thing we have to do when we get back to HQ is write our reports. Paperwork!” Bodie grumbled.
“How about stopping off at the pub after the paperwork’s done?” Murphy offered, pulling a roll of bills out of his leather jacket pocket. “My treat.”
“Murph, old son,” Bodie eyed the money incredulously, “where’d you get -?”
“How do you think I saw Walter’s bets? I was behind him in the queue at his bookie’s. Had to place a bet fast, and George’s Boy in the third race caught my eye, so I plunked ten quid on him. Horse won at odds of --”
“Ten to one,” Doyle interrupted, trying hard not to laugh at the strange look on Bodie’s face. “That’s right decent of you, Murph. Soon as we finish our reports, Bodie and I’ll meet you at The Hoof and Mouth - er, Hoof and Claw.”
* * *
Author’s note: The fog-hidden racehorse is based on a true incident at Delta Downs in Vinton, LA. However, the racetrack at Ascot is quite different from American tracks, so I had to jockey the facts to fit the story.
THE END
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