Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

Another person who had supposedly fled to California, I noted. Did he count as a penniless young man? I’d have to check whether Letitia had ever visited a racetrack.

“So is this the kind of thing you might have expected of Billy Hughes?”

He thought for a moment before answering. “He carried a grudge, all right,” he said, “but he sure loved his horses. I can’t see him wanting to kill one of the loveliest animals that ever lived. And if word ever got out that he did it, he’d never work in racing again. Too big a risk to take, if you ask me. And for what? One less good horse to ride.”

“And what about the jockey who rode Ballyhoo—Ted Sloan you said? Where’s he to be found?”

“He may be out of the hospital by now,” the man said. “He broke his leg when the horse fell on him. He’s recuperating out in the Hamptons at the owner’s estate, so I hear.”

“If it wasn’t Billy Hughes, but a rival owner, wanting to make sure that his own horse won, who would come to mind then?” I asked.

He gave me a sideways look. “It was a syndicate that won. A bunch of city gents who had a horse brought over from Ireland. Pride of Killarney, the horse is called. Not a bad little runner, but I don’t think he’s got what it takes to be a champion. Now old Ballyhoo, he’d won the Brighton Derby once before, and the Futurity Stakes. Made Mr. Whitney a tidy sum over the last couple of years. You should talk to him about this. He’s hopping mad, I can tell you. He’s hired his own investigators to look into it.”

“You say the police are also looking into it.”

“The police.” He sniffed. “If it’s anything to do with the Morningstar Syndicate, then they’ve got the police in their pocket. Those guys have all got connections.”

“So do you happen to know who is part of this syndicate?”

He shook his head. “Don’t ask me. I know most of the owners because they come down to the track and follow their horses like they were their children. I’ve no time for syndicates who just use their horses to make money and couldn’t care a damn what happens to them—pardon the language, lady.”

I nodded my forgiveness. “Was it obvious that this Pride of Killarney would win if the favorite was eliminated?”

“Nah. Lucky winner, if you ask me. Old Sultan’s Dream was taken out too fast, and he didn’t have the stamina to keep going in that heat. Otherwise I’d have backed him to win.”

“Do you have any suspicions yourself?”

“Me? Not really. To tell you the truth, I can’t think who would want to harm old Ballyhoo. Everyone loved him. He had a real sweet nature and it was pure poetry to watch him run. I used to think it was a privilege just to rub him down. He’d never turn and give you a nip, not like some of them.”

It didn’t seem as if we were getting anywhere, and I wasn’t sure what to ask next.

“They didn’t find any kind of incriminating evidence, then?”

He shook his head. “The police went through the whole place and found nothing. If you ask me, Billy Hughes was angry with the owner for bringing in another jockey to replace him. He probably never meant to hurt Ballyhoo, just slow him down so that he’d lose. When the horse keeled over and died, Billy hoofed it to California.”

This seemed quite logical to me as well.

“Well, thank you for your help, Mr. Jameson. I’ll make sure you get a copy of the article if my editor runs it, and if there’s any money forthcoming, I’ll make sure you get your cut.” A wave of guilt swept over me as I said this. I’d had my mouth washed out with soap enough times for lesser fibs as a child. But then I reminded myself that Daniel’s life was at stake. My life, too, in a way. Besides, as the church had reminded me, I was already damned to hell, so one more lie wouldn’t matter.





SEVENTEEN




I left the stable yard with no clear idea what I should be doing next. If a disgruntled jockey had already fled to California, he wouldn’t be interested in trying to stop an investigation. Those influential businessmen in the syndicate might have more interest, but as Jerry Jameson pointed out, their horse only won by luck. There was no clear second favorite. So what now? Back to New York, I supposed.

As I passed along the fence beside the racetrack, I glanced inside and saw movement. It wasn’t a horse trotting around the track, but a person—a big, gangling man, dressed in a singlet and what looked like white long johns, lurching along with large, ungainly strides. Then the surprise turned to astonishment as he came closer, and I realized that I recognized him. It was Gentleman Jack Brady. I ran up to the fence and yelled his name as he trotted past me. He started, looked up, and his battered face broke into a smile as he recognized me. He came up to the fence.

“I know you. It’s Daniel’s friend, isn’t it? I met you at his place.”