Four Furlongs

by C. K. Crigger

  “I’m sorry. He’s out right now. I’m also a detective.” I stretched the truth only a little. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. Mr. Howe ... I saw him. He looked kind.”

  If she didn’t stop with the chewing, she’d soon be wiping blood from her chin. A tiny red dot already beaded her lip.

  “He is kind,” I said. A thought occurred to me. “When did you see him?”

  “Yesterday. Last night. After—” Tears brimmed in those beautiful eyes.

  My breath caught. Hadn’t I heard Grat, or maybe Monk, mention another “kid” belonging to yesterday’s horrible racetrack mishap? I’d assumed a boy, but might the kid as well be a she?

  “What’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking?” I patted the chair beside my desk, inviting her to sit. Nimble, no doubt thinking I meant her, came over and jumped onto it. The girl, emboldened, claimed half the chair from Nimble, the pair of them seeming satisfied with the arrangement.

  “Neva,” she mumbled. “Neva Sue O’Dell.”

  O’Dell? Hmm. As Irish as Doyle or Bohannon. The men had spoken last night of someone with a French name. So who was this girl? I’d thought at first she must be connected to their case, but maybe not. And what did she want with my uncle? Apparently I’d have to work at drawing her out.

  “Neva Sue,” I said. “What a pretty name. I am Miss China Bohannon.”

  “How do you do,” she said politely, and glanced at me through lowered lashes. “I don’t like the Sue part. Neva is all right.”

  “Neva. Yes. Sounds more grown up. Although Sue is nice, too.”

  “My granddad,” she said, her outrage plain, “calls me Sue-ee, as if he’s calling a pig.”

  Grandfather, eh? And not her favorite relative. “Maybe he doesn’t realize—” I hesitated. “Maybe he thinks he’s being funny.”

  She reached over and pulled Nimble into her lap, hugging my dog against her like a shield. Nimble, who loves pets and pats and all sweet words, verbal or otherwise, willingly cuddled close and licked Neva’s chin. If I hadn’t known the girl needed the solace, I’d have been a little jealous.

  “No.” Seeming to take heart, she looked me in the eye. “He knows I hate it. I wish I could hide my feelings from him, but he can always tell what I’m thinking. He, and my mother, are why I’m here. I heard her talking to Mr. Howe last night, lying to him, and I thought ... well, he ... Mr. Howe, said—” She stumbled to a stop.

  “Who is your grandfather?” I asked.

  “Louis Duchene. My mother is Hazel O’Dell.”

  “Oh, so you are talking about the ... the tragedy at the races yesterday?” I stumbled a bit myself, but figured I was on the right track.

  “Tragedy? I’m talking about my brother, Robbie. He got killed.” Her breath caught on a sob. “And Mercury lamed. Sneaking, slimy snakes in the grass, both of them!”

  Goodness gracious. Neva was certainly an intense young person.

  “Who are sneaking snakes in the grass, Neva?” I understood the alliterative to refer to her grandfather, but ... her? Grat had spoken of the mother saying something strange. Was it she who Neva meant?

  A second later, she confirmed my suspicion.

  “Granddad. And my mother. They got paid to run up the odds on Mercury. So Robbie was supposed to pull him up at the pole, but he said ‘no’ so something bad happened and then he got killed. And it’s their fault.”

  Appalled, I leaned forward. “You’re making a pretty strong accusation. Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” Her jaw set. Oh, yes. She was sure, all right.

  “But why would they do something like that? Don’t they want their own horse to win?”

  “Yes, well, sometimes.” Her chewed-upon lip curled in revulsion. “But only when the price is right, like on derby day. Not yesterday. I told you. They got paid to make sure Mercury lost. Well, he lost all right. And so did Robbie.” Another sob punctuated her claim.

  Her explanation sounded remarkably like the kind of scam Jimsy Woodsmith would cook up. Illegal and immoral. But what she described was not only about money. It was also about a dead boy. A name. I needed a name. “Who paid them, Neva?”

  Her shoulders sagged. “I don’t know. I’d never seen him before. But I heard him and Granddad and my mother talking. They didn’t know I was there.”

  “Where were you?”

  “In the racetrack stables, in the tack room beside Mercury’s stall. It was the day before yesterday.” The sentence ended with a gulp, but she gathered herself and went on. “I wasn’t supposed to be there, but after supper I wanted to make sure the dray team had enough food and water. They’re staked out in an area next to the track. Granddad tends to forget everything with a race coming up—win or lose—and I went out to check if they were all right.”

  She stroked Nimble’s head. “The grass is pretty well grazed out, so I was in the barn fetching them a handful of grain from Mercury’s sack when I saw my mother and Granddad and another man coming. My mother had told me I had to stay in the wagon and guard our camp, you see, while they went off to meet somebody.”

  Her voice faltered. “Although, I don’t see why anyone would want to steal our stuff. I think they just didn’t want me around. So when I saw them coming toward the stable, I hid. I didn’t want another beating.”

  A beating? Was her family—her mother—an ogre, then, to make Neva so frightened of disobeying her? I noticed the girl never referred to the woman as Mom or Mama, or even Mother, but always said “my mother” in the same tone of voice I used to speak of my own stepmother, who is not my favorite person.

  “Oh dear,” I said, and although I wanted to ask if she were truly afraid of them, refrained in view of the girl’s stony expression. “What happened next?”

  “When the stranger said he wanted to see the horse, Granddad opened the gate into Mercury’s stall and they went in. He, the stranger, told my mother to keep watch and tell them if anybody came poking around, so she stayed outside. Didn’t even argue. They were acting queer and secretive, all of them, which really scared me. The partitions have big gaps and I thought for sure I’d be caught. So I kept still. Didn’t hardly breathe or move, even when a mouse ran over my hand. I was afraid I’d faint.”

  I had a notion Neva was a strong-minded girl not inclined to fainting spells. Much like me.

  “What did they talk about?” I asked.

  “Money. About rigging the race. About how much he—the man—was paying Granddad to pull Mercury. I think it was a lot of money.” She gulped and glanced up at me. “You won’t tell Granddad what I said, will you, Miss Bohannon? They ... I don’t know what they’d do to me if they knew I told anyone.”

  Melodrama or a genuine fear? Either way, it seemed she’d finished her story. I waited for her to say more, but she just sat in the chair and petted Nimble.

  After a while, I said, “Why did you come here, Neva?”

  “Because of Robbie getting killed.” She sounded surprised I had to ask. “And because Mercury pulled up lame.”

  “I’m sympathetic. And so sorry about Robbie. But why here? Why tell me?”

  Another drop of blood formed on her abused lip. “Granddad and my mother plan on racing Mercury anyway. Use the whip, my mother said. Lay into him good and he’ll run.” She sounded bitter, as if she, too, might know the taste of a whip. “He will, too, even if it hurts. He’s born to run.”

  I was appalled. I am horsewoman enough to know a lame animal may be ruined for life and never race again. And yet, as long as her people owned the horse, they could do as they liked with him. Throwing the race, however, was something else.

  “Please, ma’am.” Tears formed in her great dark eyes. “I want you to stop them. I want you to prove Robbie was hurt ... killed ... on purpose. I want you to put Granddad and my mother in jail right alongside the man who paid them to pull Mercury.”

  Her vehemence was more than a little shocking. What kind of existence did this girl l
ead to make her so bitter, even when accounting for her brother’s death?

  “I’m sorry,” I began, feeling like the lowest worm as I said it. “I don’t think there’s anything I can do to stop them from running Mercury. And ... are you certain your brother was murdered? Because if he was, you’re diving into some deep water. Stop and think, Neva. Would your grandfather or your mother really intend such an awful thing?”

  Her lips formed the word murder, tasting and testing it. Her hands trembled as they rested against Nimble’s curly gray fur. The sunlit room dimmed as a couple paused outside the window, casting a shadow across the desk. Neva jumped to her feet, tumbling Nimble, who yipped sharply, to the floor.

  “Who’s that?” she croaked.

  The shadow disappeared as abruptly as it had appeared when the couple resumed their walk. I got up and went to the door. Peaking outside, I caught a glimpse of them from the back. One was a tall man wearing a big farmer-style hat; the other an immensely fat woman with a pronounced waddle. They seemed innocuous enough.

  “It’s no one.” I turned back to Neva. “Passersby, is all. See, they’re gone now.”

  “Did they look in at us?” Neva’s feet did a little dance, as though she wanted to flee.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. People sometimes do.” One of the problems with our ground-level office was its proximity to the sidewalk. The sunshine and light pouring in had been nice as I worked by myself. I’d neglected to pull the window shade this morning when Neva entered, which I often did to help protect our clients’ privacy. “I’m sure it’s all right.”

  I tried not to show her nervousness had infected me, but it had.

  “Is your mother a large woman?” I asked. “And your grandfather tall?”

  She shook her head. “No. My grandfather is short for a man. Years ago, he was a jockey. And my mother is little, too, like me. And like Robbie.” Her breath caught. “It runs in the family.”

  “No resemblance to those people just now,” I assured her.

  She seemed to relax, if only a little. She didn’t sit again, but remained standing by my desk, her hands gripping the edge as she leaned toward me.

  “Will you do it?” she said. “Please?”

  I sighed. Time to rain on her parade. “Put your people in jail, you mean? And the other man?”

  “Yes. Yes. I want them to pay for what they did to Robbie. And to Mercury.”

  I suspected she cared almost as much for the horse as she had for her brother. Sitting down, I got a pad of paper from my desk drawer and poised the pencil over it. “Do you have, or can you get proof of bribery?”

  “I told you. I heard them talking. I saw the money.”

  “What did your granddad do with the money?”

  She frowned. “He put it in his pocket. Why?”

  “Your word against theirs about the bribe.” I tapped the pad. “And you’re a child.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I’m not a child. I’m almost fifteen.”

  I leaned forward, the better to study her face. “Proof, Neva. First of all, you need to go to the police. To bring charges, they’ll need something tangible. A note in the culprit’s handwriting. Marked money. Witnesses. Confessions.”

  “But my brother is dead!”

  I had to be brutal. “I know. I’m so sorry, my dear. But was he shot? Stabbed? Poisoned? Beat up?” I stopped short of saying “beaten to death.”

  Her face puckered. Tears welled as she pounded a small fist on her knee. “You know he wasn’t. He was crushed and trampled.”

  “Which is why it’s going to be hard to prove he died by any means other than an unfortunate accident. If he did.”

  “Oh, he did,” she said grimly. “He told me. Yesterday morning, before the race. He told me, and he was madder than heck.”

  “Told you what?” My heart took a little leap. Start with a name and, if she was right, perhaps I could discover the rest. Maybe this wasn’t a lost cause after all.

  “Robbie said he was going to tell them all to go to Hades. He was going to run Mercury like he’s meant to run. And he knew he’d be in trouble. But he figured he’d have to take a whipping, not be killed.” Her words ended on a wail.

  I let the part about a whipping instead of death slide past. “Tell who to go to Hades?”

  Her face fell. “I don’t know. Granddad and my mother, for starters. The man Granddad was dealing with. See, I didn’t know the man in Mercury’s stall, but when I told Robbie what he looked like, Robbie knew him.” Her breath caught. “He wouldn’t tell me his name. He said it was too dangerous.”

  Yes, I’d known Robbie had to have been part of the conspiracy, something I didn’t think Neva had realized as yet.

  “For him, too,” I said. She’d pretty much convinced me.

  Her dark eyes rose to meet mine. “Yes.”

  I guess it never occurred to her it might be dangerous for me, as well. To tell the truth, I didn’t think of it either. Until later.

  5

  Patting Nimble’s boney little head in farewell, Neva went on her way with a great deal less dillydallying than when she’d arrived. Hunched like an old frail woman, she slouched down the sidewalk glancing over her shoulder every few steps as if she expected a bullet in the back. Wishing herself invisible, I expect.

  I watched over her for a block or so, scanning pedestrians, horseback riders, and loiterers for any who might show untoward interest. No one took the slightest notice of her as far as I could tell.

  “Come inside, Nimble.” Feeling her muscles tense, I hooked a finger in the dog’s collar an instant before she could run into the street to procure a fresh horse apple, and we retreated to the office.

  “You liked her, didn’t you?” I asked the dog once I settled at my desk again.

  Nimble, with a deep, put-upon sigh, flopped down on the floor and stretched out on her tummy, basking in a shaft of sunlight. She gave a quick wag of the tail.

  “You don’t think she’s imagining things, do you?”

  The Bedlington cocked her wedge-shaped head as if questioning the theory.

  “Yes, I agree. Me neither. But would her grandfather and her mother really be complicit in her brother’s death? The very idea makes me sick for the poor girl. Perhaps we should discuss the question with Uncle Monk, or Gratton.” I hesitated. “Hmm, I think Monk is the better choice.”

  I didn’t know what to make of Neva’s story. Her account of witnessing a payoff seemed convincing enough, if we ever reached the point of testifying before a judge and jury. But murder? A fourteen-year-old pitting herself against her elders? Her word against theirs? Her reluctance to go to the police made sense. I doubted she’d be taken seriously. As for me? I believed her. Mostly. I just didn’t know what to do in order to help her. Aside from talking with Monk about what she’d said, I mean. With the men already working the case, even if from a different perspective, it only made sense for me to share this new piece of information. I’d bet the racing commission would be happy to expand the parameters of the investigation.

  I felt a little reluctant to involve myself in the business. First, because my uncle and his partner don’t always appreciate my involvement and second, because this showed signs of becoming another case of pro bono work. At least the part of it I took on and, though they may fret at managing the books, pro bono is payment they frown over. I do too, most of the time. The difference is, they only object when I’m the one giving services away. They can be careless about keeping records and time charts and getting bills out, let alone seeing said bills are paid on time. Apparently, they think it’s the way to conduct business. Hence the fact they were almost broke before I took over the bookkeeping. If I do upon occasion let a few things slide, like charging women and children a fee, I don’t see their beef. But still—

  I ruined two sheets of paper, rolling them into balls and tossing them for Nimble to chase, before I managed a clean copy of a bill to an insurance company for whom Monk had proved a fraud case. I got it in the
outgoing mail mere seconds before the postman arrived.

  The telephone rang twice during the next two hours. One call was from Mavis, wanting to speak to Uncle Monk. She sounded disappointed when I said he was out. I expect she wanted to arrange an assignation with him for tomorrow.

  The second call, going by the background tinkle of a honky-tonk piano coming over the wire, was for Grat. I had to hold the receiver away from my ear as the man on the other end shouted imprecations at or about someone or another. He did apologize once he figured out it wasn’t Grat on the line. Confession time—I never did understand what he wanted even though, in order to be rid of him, I promised to pass on his message on.

  The morning passed. Noon found me feeling as if I were aboard a ship stuck in the doldrums. I couldn’t stand the lack of activity. Nimble needed a walk, I decided, and so did I. A visit to the stables at Corbin Park sounded just the thing to work off our energy.

  With the closed sign propped in the window and a sign on the door telling clients to either call back later or to push a note under the door, we set off. First on the streetcar (dogs ride free on their owner’s nickel), and then by foot.

  Mind you, I planned on purchasing a bicycle as soon as I saved up enough money for either a Columbia Safety or a Victor Pneumatic Safety. With a wheeled vehicle I’d have freedom to go where I willed without having to rely on streetcars or hansom cabs or shank’s mare. And Nimble could run alongside the bicycle, getting her exercise.

  I couldn’t wait. Think of it! No more enduring obnoxious people like the man on the streetcar who seemed determined to crowd in beside me—practically in my lap—until Nimble ran him off with a fierce growl. What a good dog. Even the conductor smiled.

  The first race of the afternoon was being announced as we entered the fairgrounds. The race caller, his voice loud but tinny, was declaring the competing horses’s names through a megaphone. “In position number three, Benjamin’s Folly. In the number four slot is Winter Sun, followed by number five, General Grant.”

  I lost track of the others because I spied Uncle Monk standing outside the saddling enclosure talking to a dark-haired woman. She wore a drab blue skirt splotched with stains of some kind, and a man’s red-plaid shirt. Since she bore a distinct resemblance to Neva, in attire—except Neva wore britches—as well as looks, I had no doubt it was the girl’s dreaded “my mother.”