Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

I found the Gut easily enough and saw why Daniel had warned me. Saloons were doing a lively trade, even at this hour on a Sunday morning. Obviously the police didn’t enforce Sunday temperance out here. Half-dressed girls, sprawled on porches and in doorways, gave me scornful glances while their pimps sat playing dice or spitting gobs of chewing tobacco. One or two eyed me appraisingly. I gave them my haughtiest stare in response and hurried past.

Tucked in between the brothels and the saloons were cheap boardinghouses and various types of cafes and food stalls. I picked up my skirts to avoid the filth that lay beneath my feet and hurried past. Soon I was in a more respectable neighborhood. I caught sight of a grand gothic structure, made my way to it, and found myself at the gateway to the Brighton racetrack. These imposing main gates were closed, but I walked around the side of the track, behind the pavilion, until I came to more modest wooden gates. One of these swung open to the touch and I found myself in a stable area behind the main pavilion. One or two horses’ heads appeared over stable doors, but the area had a deserted air about it.

I was about to give up and admit defeat when I heard the sound of boots on cobbles and a stable hand came around a corner, carrying a light little saddle. He almost dropped it when he saw me standing there.

“Whatta you doin’ in here?” he demanded. “This area ain’t open to the public. Go on. Beat it.”

“I just need a couple of minutes of your time,” I said. “It’s about the horse that dropped dead a few weeks ago at one of the tracks here. There was a big scandal.”

“What’s it to you?”

Hurriedly I weighed plausible excuses. “I’m a reporter,” I said. “I’m writing an article on horse doping.”

He stared at me blankly. “I don’t know nothing about it. Go on, beat it.”

“Where do you think I might find somebody who can answer my questions?” I asked. “My newspaper editor will be angry if we can’t run the story in tomorrow’s edition.”

“You’re a bit late, ain’t ya?” He gave me a sneer. “Half the reporters in the world have already been here. And the police has been investigating.”

“But they haven’t found out the truth behind it, have they?” I asked, giving what I hoped was a smug and secretive smile. “We might just have a new angle on the case.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not at liberty to say any more. But I was sent to get the inside scoop from people who work here at the track.”

“It’d be more than my job’s worth to tell you what I think. We’ve been told to keep our mouths shut—especially to reporters.”

“Very well,” I said. “I’ll just have to look for someone else. But there might be money in it, if my editor thinks I’ve come back with a good story. Of course your name need never be mentioned.”

He looked up sharply. “How much money?”

Again I was amazed at how easily the whole world could apparently be bribed, except for Daniel, of course.

“I can’t promise anything, but my editor has been known to be generous. I tell you what—if he gives me a bonus, you’ll get your cut. And that’s a promise.”

“All right,” he said. “Name’s Jerry. Jerry Jameson. And yours is?”

He was holding out his hand. My brain resorted to the last alias I had used to Police Commissioner Partridge. “It’s Miss Delaney. Mary Delaney.” I shook his hand. His fingers felt as callused and rough as old tree bark. “So, Mr. Jameson, you really know nothing about the horse doping? Didn’t it take place at this very track, and you work with the horses here?”

He half met my gaze. “Didn’t say I didn’t know nothing,” he muttered. “We all knew about it.”

“And you do think it was doping, don’t you? The horse didn’t die of natural causes.”

He sniffed. “Of course it was doping. That horse was fit as a fiddle. I rubbed him down after his exercise that morning. Ballyhoo Bay—lovely colt he was. Three to two on favorite. And he was ridden by Ted Sloan. Best in the business, Ted is. Those other owners knew they didn’t stand a chance against him.”

“So you reckon it was one of the other owners who doped the horse?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Who can say? It’s quiet in here now, but on race days it’s crazy. Owners and trainers and jockeys and the press all milling around. It wouldn’t have been too hard to slip into Ballyhoo’s stall and doctor his mash. And even if anyone knows who’s behind it, nobody’s going to talk, are they? We all want to keep our jobs.”

I tried another tack. “Someone suggested that it might have been a disgruntled jockey, getting his own back.”

The stable hand sucked through his teeth. “Billy Hughes, you mean. Well, he was scheduled to ride Ballyhoo until the owner changed his mind and had Ted Sloan brought in. I heard the owner had a lot of money on his horse and wanted to make sure that it didn’t lose.”

“So do you think it’s possible that Billy Hughes was the one who doctored the horse’s food? He could have moved around without drawing attention to himself.”

“And he did a bunk right afterward, too,” the man agreed. “They say he’s gone out to race at Santa Anita in California.”