Bolt

THIRTEEN

Litsi said it again. ‘I got this message that Danielle was waiting for me up on the balcony to look at the view.’
‘I didn’t send any such message,’ Danielle said blankly. ‘I was waiting where we’d watched the race before, where we’d said we’d meet.’
‘Who gave you the message?’ I asked Litsi.
‘Just a man.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Well … an ordinary man. Not very young. He had a Sporting Life in his hands, and a sort of form book, with his finger keeping the place … and binoculars.’
‘What sort of voice?’
‘Just … ordinary.’
I let the brakes off with a sigh and started off towards Chiswick. Litsi had walked straight into a booby trap which had been meant either to frighten him or to kill him, and no one would have set it but Henri Nanterre. I hadn’t seen Nanterre at the races, and neither Litsi nor Danielle knew him by sight.
If Nanterre had set the trap, he’d known where Litsi would be that day, and the only way he could have known was via Beatrice. I couldn’t believe that she would have known what use would be made of her little tit-bit, and it occurred to me that I didn’t want her to know, either. It was important that Beatrice should keep right on telling.
Litsi and Danielle were quiet in the back of the car, no doubt travelling along much the same mental track. They protested, though, when I asked them not to tell Beatrice about the fake message.
‘But she’s got to know,’ Danielle said vehemently. Then she’ll see she must stop it. She’ll see how murderous that man is …’
‘I don’t want her to stop it just yet,’ I said. ‘Not until Tuesday.’
‘Why ever not? Why Tuesday?’
‘We’ll do what Kit wants,’ Litsi said, I’ll tell Beatrice just what I told the racecourse people, that I went up to look at the view.’
‘She’s dangerous,’ Danielle said.
‘I don’t see how we can catch Nanterre without her,’ I said. ‘So be a darling.’
I wasn’t sure whether or not it was the actual word which silenced her, but she made no more objections, and we travelled for a while without saying anything significant. Litsi’s arms and shoulders were aching from the strain of having hung onto the wall so long, and he shifted uncomfortably from time to time, making small grunts.
I went back to thinking about the man who had delivered the misleading message, and asked Litsi if he was absolutely positive the man had used the word ‘Danielle’.
‘Positive,’ Litsi said without hesitation. ‘What he said to me first was, “Do you know someone called Danielle?” When I said I did, he said she wanted me to go up the stairs to the balcony to look at the view. He pointed up there. So I went.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Then we’ll take a spot of positive action.’
Like almost everyone in the racing world, I had a telephone in my car, and I put a call through to the Towncrier and asked for the Sports Desk. I wasn’t sure whether their racing correspondent, Bunty Ireland, would be in the office at that time, but it seemed he was. He hadn’t been at Bradbury: he went mostly to major meetings and on other days wrote his column in the office.
‘I want to pay for an advertisement,’ I told him, ‘but it has to be on the racing page and in a conspicuous place.’
‘Are you touting for rides?’ he asked sardonically. ‘A Grand National mount? Have saddle, will travel, that sort of thing?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Very funny.’ Bunty had an elephantine sense of humour but he was kind at heart. ‘Write this down word for word, and persuade the racing page editor to print it in nice big noticeable letters.’
‘Fire away, then.’
‘Large reward offered to anyone who passed on a message from Danielle at Bradbury races on Thursday afternoon.’ I dictated it slowly and added the telephone number of the house in Eaton Square.
Bunty’s mystification came clearly across the air waves. ‘You want the personal column for that,’ he said.
‘No. The racing page. Did you get it straight?’
He read it over, word for word.
‘Hey,’ he said, ‘if you were riding at Bradbury, perhaps you can confirm this very odd story we’ve got about a guy falling from a balcony onto a pile of coats. Is someone having us on, or should we print it?’
‘It happened,’ I said.
‘Did you see it?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Was the guy hurt?’
‘No, not at all. Look, Bunty, get the story from someone else, will you? I’m in my car, and I want to get that ad in the Sporting Life and the Racing Post, before they go to press. And could you give me their numbers?’
‘Sure, hold on.’
I put the receiver down temporarily and passed my pen and notebook back to Danielle, and when Bunty returned with the numbers, repeated them aloud for her to write down.
‘Hey, Kit,’ Bunty said, ‘give me a quote I can use about your chances on Abseil tomorrow.’
‘You know I can’t, Bunty, Wykeham Harlow doesn’t like it.’
‘Yeah, yeah. He’s an uncooperative old bugger.’
‘Don’t forget the ad,’ I said.
He promised to see to it, and I made the calls with the same request to the two sporting papers.
‘Tomorrow and Saturday,’ I said to them. ‘In big black type on the front page.’
‘It’ll cost you,’ they said.
‘Send me the bill.’
Danielle and Litsi listened to these conversations in silence, and when I’d finished, Litsi said doubtfully, ‘Do you expect any results?’
‘You never know. You can’t get results if you don’t try.’
Danielle said, ‘Your motto for life.’
‘Not a bad one,’ Litsi said.
We dropped Danielle at the studio just on time and returned to Eaton Square. Litsi decided to say nothing at all about his narrow escape, and asked for my advice in the matter of strained muscles.
‘A sauna and a massage,’ I said. ‘Failing that, a long hot soak and some aspirins. And John Grundy might give you a massage tomorrow morning.’
He decided on the home cures and, reaching the house, disappeared into his rooms to deal with his woes in private. I continued up to the bamboo room, still uninvaded territory, where, in the evening routine, I telephoned to Wykeham and picked up my messages.
Wykeham said the owners of Pinkeye were irritated that the race had been delayed, and had complained to him that I’d been off-hand with them afterwards.
‘But Pinkeye won,’ I said. I’d ridden the whole race automatically, like driving a well-known journey with a preoccupied mind and not remembering a yard of it on arrival. When I’d gone past the winning post, I hadn’t been able to remember much about the jumps.
‘You know what they’re like,’ Wykeham said. ‘Never satisfied, even when they win.’
‘Mm,’ I said. ‘Is the horse all right?’
All the horses were fine, Wykeham said, and Abseil (pronounced Abseil) was jumping out of his skin and should trot up on the morrow.
‘Great,’ I said. ‘Well, goodnight Wykeham.’
‘Goodnight, Paul.’
Normality, I thought with a smile, disconnecting, was definitely on its way back.
Dinner was a stilted affair of manufactured conversations, with Roland de Brescou sitting at the head of the table in his wheelchair, looking abstracted.
Beatrice spent some time complaining that Harrods was now impossible (busloads of tourists, Casilia) and that Fort-nums was too crowded, and that her favourite fur shop had closed and vanished. Beatrice’s day of shopping had included a visit to the hairdresser, with a consequent intensification of peach tint. Beatrice’s pleasures, I saw, were a way of passing time which had no other purpose: a vista of smothering pointlessness, infinitely depressing. No wonder, I thought, that she complained, with all that void pursuing her.
She looked at me, no doubt feeling my gaze, and said with undisguisable sudden venom, ‘It’s you that’s standing in the way of progress. I know it is, don’t deny it. Roland admitted it this morning. I’m sure he would have agreed to Henri’s plans if it hadn’t been for you. He admitted you’re against it. You’ve influenced him. You’re evil.’
‘Beatrice,’ the princess remonstrated, ‘he’s our guest.’
‘I don’t care,’ she said passionately. ‘He shouldn’t be. It’s he all the time who’s standing in my way.’
‘In your way, Beatrice?’ Roland asked.
Beatrice hesitated. ‘In my room,’ she said finally.
‘It’s true,’ I said without aggression, ‘that I’m against Monsieur de Brescou signing anything against his conscience.’
‘I’ll get rid of you,’ she said.
‘No, Beatrice, really, that’s too much,’ the princess exclaimed. ‘Kit, please accept my apologies.’
‘It’s all right,’ I assured her truthfully. ‘Perfectly all right. I do stand in Mrs Bunt’s way. In the matter of Monsieur acting against his conscience, I always will.’
Litsi looked at me speculatively. I had made a very explicit and provocative declaration, and he seemed to be wondering if I was aware of it. I, on the other hand, was glad to have been presented with the opportunity, and I would repeat what I’d said, given the chance.
‘You are after Danielle’s money,’ Beatrice said furiously.
‘You know she has none.’
‘After her inheritance from Roland.’
The princess and Roland were looking poleaxed. No one, I guessed, had conducted such open warfare before at that polite dinner table.
‘On the contrary,’ I said civilly. ‘If selling guns would make Monsieur richer, and if I were after Danielle’s mythical inheritance, then I would be urging him to sign at once.’
She stared at me, temporarily silenced. I kept my face entirely noncommittal, a habit learned from dealing with Maynard Allardeck, and behaved as if we had been having a normal conversation. ‘In general,’ I said pleasantly, ‘I would implacably oppose anyone trying to get their way by threats and harassment. Henri Nanterre has behaved like a thug, and while I’m here I’ll try my hardest to ensure he fails in his objective.’
Litsi opened his mouth, thought better of it, and said nothing. The speculation however disappeared from his forehead to be replaced by an unspecified anxiety.
‘Well,’ Beatrice said. ‘Well …’
I said mildly, as before, ‘It’s really as well to make oneself perfectly clear, isn’t it? As you have admirably done, Mrs Bunt?’
We were eating dover sole at the time. Beatrice decided there were a good many bones all of a sudden demanding her attention, and Litsi smoothly said that he had been invited to the opening of a new art gallery in Dover Street, on the following Wednesday, and would his Aunt Casilia care to go with him.
‘Wednesday?’ The princess looked from Litsi to me. ‘Where’s the racing next Wednesday?’
‘Folkestone,’ I said.
The princess accepted Litsi’s invitation, because she didn’t go to Folkestone normally, and he and she batted a few platitudes across the table to flatten out those Bunt-Fielding ripples. When we moved to the sitting room, Litsi again helped make sure I was next to the telephone, but it remained silent all evening. No messages, threats or boasting from Nanterre. It was too much to hope for, I thought, that he had folded his tents and departed.
When Roland, the princess and Beatrice finally went to bed, Litsi, rising to his feet to follow them, said, ‘You elected yourself as goat, then?’
‘I don’t intend to get eaten,’ I said, smiling and standing also.
‘Don’t go up to any balconies.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Sleep well.’
I did the rounds of the house, but everything seemed safe, and in due time went to the car, to go to fetch Danielle.
The alley seemed just as spooky, and I took even more precautions with the guts of the car, but again everything appeared safe, and I drove to Chiswick without incident.
Danielle looked pale and tired. ‘A hectic evening,’ she said. Her job as bureau coordinator involved deciding how individual news stories should be covered, and despatching camera crews accordingly. I’d been in the studio with her several times and seen her working, seen the mental energy and drive which went into making her the success she’d proved there. I’d seen her decisiveness and her inspirational sparkle, and knew that afterwards they could die away fast into weary silence.
The silences between us, though, were no longer companionable spaces of deep accord, but almost embarrassments, as between strangers. We had been passionate weekend lovers through November, December and January, and in her the joy had evaporated from one week to the next.
I drove back to Eaton Square thinking how very much I loved her, how much I longed for her to be as she had been, and when I stopped the car in the mews, I said impulsively, before she could get out, ‘Danielle, please … please … tell me what’s wrong.’
It was clumsily said and came straight from desperation, and I was disregarding the princess’s advice; and as soon as I’d said it, I wished I hadn’t because the last thing on earth I wanted to hear her say was that she loved Litsi. I thought I might even be driving her into saying it, and in a panic I said, ‘Don’t answer. It doesn’t matter. Don’t answer.’
She turned her head and looked at me, and then looked away.
‘It was wonderful, at the beginning, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘It happened so fast. It was … magic’
I couldn’t bear to listen. I opened the car door and started to get out.
‘Wait,’ she said, ‘I must – now I’ve started.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Don’t.’
‘About a month ago,’ she said, all the repressed things pouring out in a jumble, ‘when you had that dreadful fall at Kempton and I saw you lying on a stretcher unconscious while they unloaded you from the ambulance … and it gave me diarrhoea, I was so frightened you would die … and I was overwhelmed by how much danger there is in your life … and how much pain … and I seemed to see myself here in a strange country … with a commitment made for my whole life … not just enjoying a delicious unexpected romance but trapped for ever into a life far from home, full of fear every day … and I didn’t know it was so cold and wet here and I was brought up in California … and then Litsi came … and he knows so much … and it seemed so simple being with him going to safe things like exhibitions and not hearing my heart thud … I could hear the worry in your voice on the telephone and see it this week in your face, but I couldn’t seem to tell you …’ She paused very briefly. ‘I told Aunt Casilia. I asked her what to do.’
I loosened my throat. ‘What did she say?’ I said.
‘She said no one could decide for me. I asked her if she thought I would get used to the idea of living for ever in a foreign country, like she has, and also to facing the possibility you’d be killed or horrifically injured … and don’t say it doesn’t happen, there was a jockey killed last week … and I asked her if she thought I was stupid.’
She swallowed. ‘She said that nothing would change you, that you are as you are, and I was to see you clearly. She said the question wasn’t whether I could face life here with you, but whether I could face life anywhere without you.’
She paused again. ‘I told her how calm I felt with Litsi… she said Litsi was a nice man … she said in time I would see … understand … what I wanted most … She said time has a way of resolving things in one’s mind … she said you would be patient, and she’s right, you are, you are … But I can’t go on like this for ever, I know it’s unfair. I went racing yesterday and today to see if I could go back … but I can’t. I hardly watch the races. I blank out of my mind what you’re doing … that you’re there. I promised Aunt Casilia I’d go … and try … but I just talk to Litsi …’ Her voice faded in silence, tired and unhappy.
‘I love you very much,’ I said slowly. ‘Do you want me to give up my job?’
‘Aunt Casilia said if I asked, and you did, and we married, it would be disastrous, we would be divorced within five years. She was very vehement. She said I must not ask it, it was totally unfair, I would be destroying you because I don’t have your courage.’ She swallowed convulsively, tears filling her eyes.
I looked along the shadowy mews and thought of danger and fear, those old tamed friends. One couldn’t teach anyone how to live with them: it had to come from inside. It got easier with practice, like everything else, but also it could vanish overnight. Nerve came and nerve went: there could be an overload of the capacity for endurance.
‘Come on,’ I said, ‘it’s getting cold.’ I paused. ‘Thank you for telling me.’
‘What … are you going to do?’
‘Go indoors and sleep till morning.’
‘No …’ she sobbed on a laugh. ‘About what I said.’
‘I’m going to wait,’ I said, ‘like Princess Casilia told me to.’
‘Told you!’ Danielle exclaimed. ‘Did you tell her?’
‘No, I didn’t. She said it out of the blue in the parade ring at Ascot.’
‘Oh,’ Danielle said in a small voice. ‘It was on Tuesday, while you were in Devon, that I asked her.’
We got out of the car and I locked the doors. What Danielle had said had been bad enough, but not as bad as an irrevocable declaration for Litsi. Until she took off the engagement ring she still wore, I would cling to some sort of hope.
We walked back side by side to the square, and said goodnight again briefly on the landing. I went on upstairs and lay on the bed and suffered a good deal, for which there was no aspirin.
When I went in to breakfast, both Litsi and Danielle were already in the morning room, he sitting at the table reading the Sporting Life, she leaning over his shoulder to do the same.
‘Is it in?’ I said.
‘Is what in?’ Litsi asked, intently reading.
‘The advertisement,’ I said, ‘for the message-passer.’
‘Yes, it’s in,’ Litsi said. There’s a picture of you in the paper.’
I fetched some grapefruit juice, unexcited. There were photographs of me in newspapers quite often: result of the job.
‘It says here,’ Litsi said, ‘that Champion jockey Kit Fielding saved the life of a man at Bradbury by persuading the crowd to take off their coats …’ He lowered the paper and stared at me. ‘You didn’t say a word about it being your idea.’
Danielle too was staring. ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’
‘An uprush of modesty,’ I said, drinking the juice.
Litsi laughed. ‘I won’t thank you, then.’
‘No, don’t.’
Danielle said to me, ‘Do you want some toast?’
‘Yes … please,’ I said.
She walked over to the sideboard, cut a slice of wholemeal bread and put it in the toaster. I watched her do it, and Litsi, I found, watched me. I met his eyes and couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and wondered how much had been visible in my own face.
‘How are the muscles?’ I asked.
‘Stiff.’
I nodded. The toast popped up in the toaster and Danielle put the slice on a plate, brought it over and put it down in front of me.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘You’re welcome.’ It was lightly said, but not a return to November. I ate the toast while it was still hot, and was grateful for small mercies.
‘Are you busy again this afternoon?’ Litsi asked.
‘Five rides,’ I said. ‘Are you coming?’
‘Aunt Casilia said we’re all going.’
‘So she did.’ I reflected a little, remembering the morning conversation in the hall. ‘It might be a good idea,’ I said to Danielle, ‘if you could casually mention in front of Beatrice, but so as to make sure she hears, that you’ll only be working on Monday next week.’
She looked astonished. ‘But I’m not. I’m working a normal schedule.’
‘I want Beatrice to think Monday’s your last night for coming home so late.’
‘Why?’ Danielle asked. ‘I don’t mean I won’t do it, but why?’
Litsi was watching me steadily. ‘What else?’ he said.
I said conversationally, ‘There’s no harm in laying out a line with a few baited hooks. If the fish doesn’t take the opportunity, nothing will have been lost.’
‘And if he does?’
‘Net him.’
‘What sort of line and hooks?’ Danielle asked.
‘A time and place,’ I said, ‘for removing an immovable object.’
She said to Litsi, ‘Do you know what he means?’
‘I’m afraid I do,’ he said. ‘He told Beatrice last night that while he was here to prevent it, Roland would never sign a contract for arms. Kit is also the only one of us that Nanterre hasn’t directly attacked in any way, although he has twice promised to do it. Kit’s directing him to a time and place which we may be able to turn to our advantage. The time, I gather, is early Tuesday morning, when he leaves this house to fetch you from work.’
‘And the place?’ Danielle said, her eyes wide.
Litsi glanced at me. ‘We all know the perfect place,’ he said.
After the briefest of pauses, she said flatly, The alley.’
I nodded. ‘When Thomas drives the princess and Beatrice to the races today, he’ll say he’s forgotten something essential which he has to fetch from the garage on the way. He’s going to drive the Rolls right down the mews to the turning circle, to give Beatrice a full view of it, and on the way back he’ll stop by the garage but behind my Mercedes. He’s going to say how deserted and dark the alley is at night… he’s going to point out that the Mercedes is my car, and he’s going to mention that I fetch you in it every night. If Beatrice does her stuff, there’s just a chance Nanterre will come. And if he doesn’t, as I said, nothing’s lost.’
‘Will you be there,’ Danielle said, ‘in the alley?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Silly question,’ she said.
‘I’ll hire a chauffeur-driven car to go to Chiswick to bring you back,’ I said.
‘Couldn’t Thomas …?’
‘Thomas,’ I said, ‘says he wouldn’t miss the show for anything. He and Sammy will both be there. I’m not walking into that alley on my own.’
‘I won’t be able to work,’ Danielle said. ‘I don’t think I’ll go.’
‘Indeed you must,’ Litsi said. ‘Everything must look normal.’
‘But what if he comes?’ she said. ‘What if you catch him, what then?’
‘I’ll make him an offer he can’t resist,’ I said, and although they both wanted to know what it was, I thought I wouldn’t tell them just yet.