Rat Race by Dick Francis
She latched her arm through Colin’s so that he couldn’t disentangle without giving offence, and said with a somehow unattractive gaiety, ‘Come along everyone, let’s take the plunge. Isn’t it all just too unnerving, flying around with Colin these days.’
‘You don’t actually have to come,’ Colin said without quite disguising his wishes.
She seemed oblivious. ‘Darling,’ she said. ‘Too riveting. Nothing would stop me.’
She moved off towards the door, followed by the Major and Annie and the new man together, and finally by me. The new man was large and had the same air as the woman of expecting people to jump to it and smooth his path. The Major and Annie Villars were busy smoothing it, their ears bent deferentially to catch any falling crumbs of wisdom, their heads nodding in agreement over every opinion.
The two just-teenage girls I had stationed beside the locked aircraft were still on duty, retained more by the promise of Colin’s autograph than by my money. They got both, and were delighted. No one, they anxiously insisted, had even come close enough to ask what they were doing. No one could possibly have put a piece of chewing gum on to the aeroplane, let alone a bomb.
Colin, signing away, gave me a sidelong look of amusement and appreciation and said safety came cheap at the price. He was less amused to find that the affectionate lady had stationed herself in one of the rear seats and was beckoning him to come and sit beside her.
‘Who is she?’ I asked.
‘Fenella Payne-Percival. Fenella pain in the neck.’
I laughed. ‘And the man?’
‘Duke of Wessex. Annie’s got a horse running for him today.’
‘Not Rudiments again?’
He looked up in surprise from the second autograph book.
‘Yes. That’s right. Bit soon, I would have thought.’ He finished the book and gave it back. ‘Kenny Bayst isn’t riding it.’ His voice was dry.
‘You don’t say.’
The passengers had sorted themselves out so that Annie and the Duke sat in the centre seats, with the Major waiting for me to get in before him into the first two. He nodded his stiff little nod as I stepped up on to the wing, and pushed at his moustache. Less tense, slightly less rigid, than last time. The owner was along instead of Goldenberg and Kenny wasn’t there to stir things up. No coup today, I thought. No coup to go wrong.
The flight up was easy and uneventful, homing to the radio beacon on the coast at Ottringham and tracking away from it on a radial to Redcar. We landed without fuss on the racecourse and the passengers yawned and unbuckled themselves.
‘I wish every racecourse had a landing strip,’ Colin sighed. ‘It makes the whole day so much easier. I hate all those dashes from airport to course by taxi.’
The racecourses which catered for aeroplanes were in a minority, which seemed a shame considering there was room enough on most, if anyone cared enough. Harley constantly raved in frustration at having to land ten or fifteen miles away and fix up transportation for the passengers. All the conveniently placed R.A.F. airfields with superb runways who either refused to let private aircraft land at all, or shut their doors firmly at 5 p.m. weekdays and all day on Saturdays had him on the verge of tears. As also did all the airfields whose owners said they wouldn’t take the responsibility of having an aircraft land there or take off if they didn’t have a fire engine standing by, even though Harley’s own insurance didn’t require it.
‘The English are as air-minded as earth worms,’ Harley said.
On the other hand Honey had tacked a list to the office wall which started in big red letters ‘God Bless…” and continued with all the friendly and accommodating places like Kempton Park, which let you land up the five furlong straight (except during five furlong races) and R.A.F. stations like Wroughton and Leeming and Old Sarum, who really tried for you, and the airfields who could let you land when they were officially shut, and all the privately owned strips whose owners generously agreed to you using them any time you liked.
Harley’s view of Heaven was an open public landing field outside every town and a windsock and a flat four furlongs on every racecourse. It wasn’t much to ask, he said plaintively. Not in view of the dozens of enormous airfields which had been built during world war two and were now disused and wasted.
He could dream, I thought. There was never any money for such schemes, except in wars.
The passengers stretched themselves on to the grass. Fenella Payne-Percival made little up and down jumps of excitement like a small girl, the Major patted his binocular case reassuringly, Annie Villars efficiently picked up her own belongings and directed a look of melting feminine helplessness towards the Duke, Colin looked at his watch and smiled, and the Duke himself glanced interestedly around and said, ‘Nice day, what?’
A big man, he had a fine looking head with thick greying hair, eyebrows beginning to sprout, and a strong square jaw, but there wasn’t enough living stamped on his face for a man in his fifties, and I remembered what Nancy had said of him: sweet as they come, but nothing but cottonwool upstairs.
Colin said to me, ‘Are you coming into the paddock?’
I shook my head. ‘Better stay with the aeroplane, this time.’
The Duke said, ‘Won’t you need some lunch, my dear chap?’
‘It’s kind of you, sir. but I often don’t have any.’
‘Really?’ He smiled. ‘Must have my lunch.’
Annie Villars said, ‘We’ll leave soon after the last. About a quarter to five.’
‘Right,’ I agreed.
‘Doesn’t give us time for a drink, Annie,’ complained the Duke.
She swallowed her irritation. ‘Any time after that, then.’
‘I’ll be here,’ I said.
‘Oh do come on,’ said Fenella impatiently. ‘The pilot can look after himself, can’t he? Let’s get going, do. Come on, Colin darling.’ She twined her arm in his again and he all but squirmed. They moved away towards the paddock obediently, with only Colin looking back. I laughed at the desperation on his face and he stuck out his tongue.
There were three other aircraft parked in a row. One private, one from a Scottish taxi firm, and one Polyplane. All the pilots seemed to have gone in to the races, but when I climbed out half way through the afternoon to stretch my legs, I found the Polyplane pilot standing ten yards away, staring at the Cherokee with narrowed eyes and smoking a cigarette.
He was one of the two who had been at Haydock. He seemed surprised that I was there.
‘Hello,’ I said equably. Always a sucker.
He gave me the old hard stare. ‘Taking no chances today, I see.’
I ignored the sneer in his voice. ‘That’s right.’
‘We got rid of that aircraft,’ he said sarcastically nodding towards it, ‘Because we’d flown the guts out of it. It’s only suitable now for minor operators like you.’
‘It shows signs of the way you flew it,’ I agreed politely: and that deadly insult did nothing towards cooling the feud.
He compressed his lips and flicked the end of his cigarette away into the grass. A thin trickle of blue smoke arose from among the tangled green blades. I watched it without comment. He knew as well as I did that smoking near parked aircraft was incredibly foolish, and on all airfields, forbidden.
He said, ‘I’m surprised you take the risk of flying Colin Ross. If your firm are proved to be responsible for his death you’ll be out of business.’
‘He’s not dead yet.’
‘If I were him I wouldn’t risk flying any more with Derry-downs.’
‘Did he, by any chance,’ I asked, ‘Once fly with Polyplanes? Is all this sourness due to his having transferred to Derrydowns instead?’
He gave me a bitter stare. ‘No,’ he said.
I didn’t believe him. He saw that I didn’t. He turned on his heel and walked away.
Rudiments won the big race. The dim green colours streaked up the centre of the track at the last possible moment and pushed Colin on th
An hour until the end of racing. I yawned, leaned back in my seat, and went to sleep.
A young voice saying ‘Excuse me,’ several times, woke me up. I opened my eyes. He was about ten, slightly shy, ultra well bred. Squatting down on the wing, he spoke through the open door.
‘I say, I’m sorry to wake you, but my uncle wanted me to come over and fetch you. He said you hadn’t had anything to eat all day. He thinks you ought to. And besides, he’s had a winner and he wants you to drink his health.’
‘Your uncle is remarkably kind,’ I said, ‘But I can’t leave the aeroplane.’
‘Well, actually, he thought of that. I’ve brought my father’s chauffeur over with me, and he is going to sit here for you until you come back.’ He smiled with genuine satisfaction at these arrangements.
I looked past him out of the door, and there, sure enough, was the chauffeur, all togged up in dark green with a shining peak to his cap.
‘O.K..’ I said. ‘I’ll get my jacket.’
He walked with me along the paddock, through the gate, and across to the Members’ bar.
‘Awfully nice chap, my uncle,’ he said.
‘Unusually thoughtful,’ I agreed.
‘Soft, my mother says,’ he said dispassionately. ‘He’s her brother. They don’t get along very well.’
‘What a pity.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. If they were frightfully chummy she would always be wanting to come with me when I go to stay with him. As it is, I go on my own, and we have some fantastic times, him and me. That’s how I know how super he is.’ He paused. ‘Lots of people think he’s terribly thick, I don’t know why.’ There was a shade of anxiety in his young voice. ‘He’s really awfully kind.’
I reassured him. ‘I only met him this morning, but I think he’s very nice.’
His brow cleared. ‘You do? Oh, good.’
The Duke was knee deep in cronies all armed with glasses of champagne. His nephew disappeared from my side, dived through the throng, and reappeared tugging at his uncle’s arm.
‘What?’ The kind brown eyes looked round; saw me. ‘Oh yes.’ He bent down to talk, and presently the boy came back.
‘Champagne or coffee?’
‘Coffee, please.’
‘I’ll get it for you.’
‘I’ll get it,’ I suggested.
‘No. Let me. Do let me. Uncle gave me the money.’ He marched off to the far end of the counter and ordered a cup of coffee and two rounds of smoked salmon sandwiches, and paid for them with a well crushed pound note.
‘There,’ he said triumphantly. ‘How’s that?’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Terrific. Have a sandwich.’
‘All right.’
We munched companionably.
‘I say,’ he said, ‘Look at that man over there, he looks like a ghost.’
I turned my head. Big blond man with very pale skin. Pair of clumsy crutches. Large plaster cast. Acey Jones.
Not so noisy today. Drinking beer very quietly in a far corner with a nondescript friend.
‘He fell down some steps and broke his ankle and collected a thousand pounds from an insurance policy,’ I said.
‘Golly,’ said the boy. ‘Almost worth it.’
‘He thinks so, too.’
‘Uncle has something to do with insurance. Don’t know what, though.’
‘An underwriter?’ I suggested.
‘What’s that?’
‘Someone who invests money in insurance companies, in a special sort of way.’
‘He talks about Lloyds, sometimes. Is it something to do with Lloyds?’
‘That’s right.’
He nodded and looked wistfully at the sandwiches.
‘Have another,’ I suggested.
‘They’re yours, really.’
‘Go on. I’d like you to.’
He gave me a quick bright glance and bit into number two.
‘My name’s Matthew,’ he said.
I laughed. ‘So is mine.’
‘Is it really? Do you really mean it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wow.’
There was a step behind me and the deep Eton-sounding voice said, ‘Is Matthew looking after you all right?’
‘Great sir, thank you,’ I said.
‘His name is Matthew too,’ said the boy.
The Duke looked from one of us to the other. ‘A couple of Matts, eh? Don’t let too many people wipe their feet on you.’
Matthew thought it a great joke but the touch of sadness in the voice was revealing. He was dimly aware that despite his ancestry and position, one or two sharper minds had wiped their feet on him.
I began to like the Duke.
‘Well done with Rudiments, sir,’ I said.
His face lit up. ‘Splendid, wasn’t it? Absolutely splendid. Nothing on earth gives me more pleasure than seeing my horses win.’
I went back to the Cherokee just before the last race and found the chauffeur safe and sound and reading Doctor Zhivago. He stretched, reported nothing doing, and ambled off.
All the same I checked the aircraft inch by inch inside and even unscrewed the panel to the aft baggage compartment so that I could see into the rear part of the fuselage, right back to the tail. Nothing there that shouldn’t be. I screwed the panel on again.
Outside the aircraft, I started in the same way. Started only: because when I was examining every hinge in the tail plane I heard a shout from the next aircraft.
I looked round curiously but without much haste.
Against that side of the Polyplane which faced away from the stands, two large men were laying into Kenny Bayst.
CHAPTER SIX
The pilot of the Polyplane was standing aside and watching. I reached him in six strides.
‘For God’s sake,’ I said. ‘Come and help him.’
He gave me a cold stolid stare. ‘I’ve got my medical tomorrow. Do it yourself.’
In three more steps I caught one of the men by the fist as he lifted it high to smash into the crumpling Kenny, bent his arm savagely backwards and kicked him hard in the left hamstring. He fell over on his back with a shout of mixed anger, surprise, and pain, closely echoed in both emotion and volume by his colleague, who receive the toe of my shoe very solidly at the base of his spine.
Bashing people was their sort of business, not mine, and Kenny hadn’t enough strength left to stand up, let alone fight back, so that I got knocked about a bit here and there. But I imagined that they hadn’t expected any serious opposition, and it must have been clear to them from the beginning that I didn’t play their rules.
They had big fists all threateningly bunched and the hard round sort of toecaps which cowards hide behind. I kicked their knees with vigour, stuck my fingers out straight and hard towards their eyes, and chopped the sides of my palms at their throats.
I’d had enough of it before they had. Still, I outlasted them for determination, because I really did not want to fall down and have their boots bust my kidneys. They got tired in the end and limped away quite suddenly, as if called off by a whistle. They took with them some damaged knee cartilage, aching larynxes, and one badly scratched eye; and they left behind a ringing head and a set of sore ribs.
I leaned against the aeroplane getting my breath back and looking down at Kenny where he sat on the grass. There was a good deal of blood on his face. His nose was bleeding, and he had tried to wipe it with the back of his hand.
I bent down presently and helped him up. He came to his feet without any of the terrible slowness of the severely injured and there was nothing wrong with his voice.
‘Thanks, sport.’ He squinted at me. ‘Those sods said they were going to fix me so my riding days were over… God… I feel crook… here, have you got any whisky… aah… Jesus…’ He bent double and vomited rakingly onto the turf.
Straightening up afterwards he dragged a large handkerchi
‘I’m bleeding…’
‘It’s your nose, that’s all.’
‘Oh…’ He coughed weakly. ‘Look, sport, thanks. I guess thanks isn’t enough…’ His gaze sharpened on the Polyplane pilot still standing aloof a little way off. ‘That bastard didn’t lift a finger… they’d have crippled me and he wouldn’t come… I shouted.’
‘He’s got his medical tomorrow,’ I said.
‘Sod his bloody medical…’
‘If you don’t pass your medical every six months, you get grounded. If you get grounded for long in the taxi business you lose either your whole job or at least half your income…’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘And your own medical, when does that come up?’
‘Not for two months.’
He laughed a hollow, sick sounding laugh. Swallowed. Swayed. Looked suddenly very small and vulnerable.
‘You’d better go over and see the doctor,’ I suggested.
‘Maybe… but I’ve got the ride on Volume Ten on Monday… big race… opportunity if I do well of a better job than I’ve had with Annie Villars… don’t want to miss it…’ He smiled twistedly. ‘Doesn’t do jockeys any good to be grounded either, sport.’
‘You’re not in very good shape.’
‘I’ll be all right. Nothing broken… except maybe my nose. That won’t matter; done it before.’ He coughed again. ‘Hot bath. Spell in the sauna. Good as new by Monday. Thanks to you.’
‘How about telling the police?’
‘Yeah. Great idea.’ He was sarcastic. ‘Just imagine their sort of questions. “Why was anyone trying to cripple you, Mr Bayst?” “Well, officer, I’d promised to fiddle their races see, and this sod Goldenberg, I beg his pardon, gentleman, Mr Eric Goldenberg, sticks these two heavies on to me to get his own back for all the lolly he had to cough up when I won…” “And why did you promise to fiddle the race Mr Bayst?” “Well officer I done it before you see and made a handy bit on the side…”’ He gave me a flickering glance and decided he’d said enough. ‘Guess I’ll see how it looks tomorrow. If I’m in shape to ride Monday I’ll just forget it happened.’