Hot Money

by Dick Francis

  Mrs A. very bitter on subject of Mr Pembroke spending money. Mr Ian’s name brought angry looks. Mrs A. turned me out.

  End of enquiry.

  Short and unsweet, I thought.

  I couldn’t face going to see Alicia at that moment. I didn’t think her physically capable of carrying Malcolm while he was unconscious, and I didn’t think her efficient enough to construct a bomb: good enough reasons for avoiding something I wanted to do as much as jump into a crocodile-infested swamp.

  I didn’t want to talk to Gervase either, but that couldn’t be as easily avoided.

  I drove back to Grant Street in the early evening and parked along the road from No 14 waiting for the master to return. It wasn’t until I was sitting there that I remembered Norman West’s advice about defence. Pepper… paint… I couldn’t see myself throwing either in Gervase’s eyes, or anyone else’s for that matter. Gervase was, goddammit, my brother. Half-brother. Cain killed Abel. Abel hadn’t had his pepper ready, or his paint.

  Upon that sober reflection, Gervase came home.

  His Rover turned into his house’s short driveway and pulled up outside the garage. Gervase, carrying a briefcase, let himself in through the front door. Five minutes later, I walked along the road and rang the bell.

  The door was opened by one of the children, who called over her shoulder, ‘It’s Ian.’

  Gervase, still in his City suit, came immediately into the hall from his sitting-room, looking inhospitable and carrying a cut-glass tumbler half filled with what I expected was scotch.

  ‘Ferdinand phoned me,’ he said authoritatively, it’s the police’s business to look into the bombing of Quantum, not yours.’

  ‘Malcolm asked me to,’ I said.

  ‘You’d better come in, I suppose.’ He was grudging, but pointed me to the room he’d left. ‘Do you want a drink?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  He poured from the scotch bottle into a duplicate tumbler, and handed me the glass, gesturing to the matching jug of water which stood on a silver tray. I diluted my drink and sipped it, and said, ‘Thanks.’

  He nodded, busy with his own.

  There was no sign of Ursula, but I could hear the two girls’ high voices in the kitchen and supposed she was with them. They would tell her I had come, and she would be worrying about her lunch.

  ‘Ferdinand told me about Malcolm’s new will,’ Gervase said with annoyance, it’s ridiculous putting in that clause about being murdered. What if some random mugger bumps him off? Do we all lose our inheritance?’

  ‘Some random mugger is unlikely. A paid assassin might not be.’

  Gervase stared. ‘That’s rubbish.’

  ‘Who killed Moira?’ I said. ‘Who’s tried three times to kill Malcolm?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘I think you should put your mind to it.’

  ‘No. It’s for the police to do that.’ He drank. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Staying with friends.’

  ‘I offered him a bed here,’ he said angrily, ‘but I’m not good enough, I suppose.’

  ‘He wanted to be away from the family,’ I said neutrally.

  ‘But he’s with you.’

  ‘No, not any more.’

  He seemed to relax a little at the news. ‘Did you quarrel again?’ he said hopefully.

  We were still standing in the centre of the room, as the offer of a drink hadn’t extended to a chair also. There were fat chintz-covered armchairs in a stylised flower pattern on a mottled grey carpet, heavy red curtains and a brick fireplace with a newly-lit fire burning. I’d been in his house about as seldom as in Ferdinand’s, and I’d never been upstairs.

  ‘We haven’t quarrelled,’ I said. ‘Do you remember when old Fred blew up the tree stump?’

  He found no difficulty in the change of subject. ‘Ferdinand said you’d asked that,’ he said. ‘Yes, of course I remember.’

  ‘Did Fred show you how he set off the explosive?’

  ‘No, he damn well didn’t. You’re not trying to make out that I blew up the house, are you?’ His anger, always near the surface, stoked up a couple of notches.

  ‘No,’ I said calmly, i should have said, did Fred show you or anyone else how he set off the explosive.’

  ‘I can only speak for myself,’ he said distinctly, ‘and the answer is no.’

  Gervase was heavy and, I thought, getting heavier. His suit looked filled. I had never quite grown to his height. He was the tallest and biggest of all Malcolm’s children and easily the most forceful. He looked a strong successful man, and he was cracking up for lack of a piece of paper that no one gave a damn about except himself.

  Perhaps, I thought, there was something of that obsessiveness in us all. In some it was healthy, in others destructive, but the gene that had given Malcolm his Midas obsession with gold had been a dominant strain.

  Gervase said, ‘Will Malcolm ante up anything before he dies?’

  His voice was as usual loud and domineering, but I looked at him speculatively over my glass. There had been an odd sub-note of desperation, as if it weren’t just of academic interest to him, but essential. Norman West’s notes recycled themselves:‘… lost his nerve and was selling only gilts. Too much playing safe was bad stockbroking…’ Gervase, who had seemed comfortably fixed, might all of a sudden not be.

  I answered the words of the question, not the implications. ‘I did ask him to. He said he would think about it.’

  ‘Bloody old fool,’ Gervase said violently. ‘He’s playing bloody games with us. Chucking the stuff away just to spite us. Buying bloody horses. I could strangle him.’ He stopped as if shocked at what he’d more or less shouted with conviction. ‘Figure of speech,’ he said, hard-eyed.

  ‘I’H try again,’ I said, ignoring it, ‘but Vivien tried, and rubbed him up the wrong way so that he stuck his toes in. Malcolm’s obstinate, the way we all are, and the more anyone tries to push him, the harder he’ll resist.’

  ‘It’s you that got him to buy horses. He wouldn’t have thought of it on his own.’ He was glaring at me. ‘Two million pounds for a bloody colt. Do you realise what two million pounds means? Have you any idea? Two million pounds for a four-legged nothing? He’s raving mad. Two million pounds invested in any one of us would give us freedom from worry for the rest of our lives, and he goes and spends it on a horse. Retarded children are bad enough, half a million for retarded children… but that’s not enough for him, is it? Oh no. He buys that bloody horse Blue Clancy, and how many more millions did that cost him? How many?’ He was insistent, belligerent, demanding, his chin thrust aggressively forward.

  ‘He can afford it,’ I said, i think he’s very rich.’

  ‘Think!’ Gervase grew even angrier. ‘How do you know he isn’t flinging away every penny? I’ll find a way of stopping him. He’s got to be stopped.’

  He suddenly stretched out his free hand and plucked my half-full glass from my grasp.

  ‘Go on, get out of here,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough.’

  I didn’t move. I said, ‘Throwing me out won’t solve any problems.’

  ‘It’ll make a bloody good start.’ He put both glasses on the table and looked ready to put thought into action.

  ‘When Malcolm fled to Cambridge,’ I said, ‘did Alicia tell you where he was?’

  ‘What?’ It stopped him momentarily. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Go on, get out.’

  ‘Did you telephone to Malcolm’s hotel in Cambridge?’

  He hardly listened. He embarked on a heartfelt tirade. ‘I’m fed up with your sneers and your airs and graces. You think you’re better than me, you always have, and you’re not. You’ve always weaselled into Malcolm’s good books and set him against us and he’s blind and stupid about you… and get out.’ He stepped forward threateningly, one hand in a fist.

  ‘But you still want me to plead your case,’ I said, standing still.

  His mouth opened but no words came out.


  ‘Alicia tells you I sneer at you,’ I said, ‘but I don’t. She tells you lies, you believe them. I’ve never set Malcolm against you. You hit me now, and I might think of it. If you want me to try to get him to cough up, you’ll put that fist down and give me my scotch back, and I’ll drink it and go.’

  After a long staring pause, he turned his back on me. I took it as agreement to the terms and picked up one of the glasses, not sure whether it was mine or his.

  It was his. The drink was much stronger, hardly any water in it at all. I put it down and picked up the other. He didn’t turn round, didn’t notice.

  ‘Gervase,’ I said dispassionately, ‘try a psychiatrist.’

  ‘Mind your own bloody business.’

  I drank a mouthful of scotch but as a token only, and put the glass down again.

  ‘Goodbye,’ I said.

  He still showed me his back, and was silent. I shrugged wryly and went out into the hall. Ursula and the two girls stood in the kitchen doorway looking anxious. I smiled at them lopsidedly and said to Ursula, ‘We’ll get through it somehow.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Forlorn hope, she was saying.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ I said, not knowing if I meant it, but meaning anyway that anything I could do to help her or Gervase, I would do.

  I let myself out of the front door quietly, and back at Cookham telephoned to the Canders in Lexington. I talked to Mrs Cander; Sally.

  Malcolm had gone to Stamford, Connecticut with Ramsey, she said. She thought they were fixing some kind of deal. She and Dave had really enjoyed Malcolm’s visit and Malcolm had just loved the horse farms. Yes, of course she had Ramsey’s phone number, he was an old friend. She read it out to me. I thanked her and she said sure thing and to have a nice day.

  Ramsey and Malcolm were out. A woman who answered said to try at five-thirty. I tried at five-thirty Connecticut time and they were still out. The woman said Mf Osborn was a busy man and would I like to leave a message. I asked her to tell Mr Pembroke that his son Ian had phoned, but that there was no special news. She would do that, she said.

  I went to bed and in the morning rode out on the Downs, and afterwards, from the house of the trainer whose horses I was riding, got through to Superintendent Yale’s police station. He was there and came on the line.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At the moment in a racing stable near Lambourn.’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He made a disbelieving grunt. ‘What time could you meet me at Quantum House?’

  I looked at my watch. ‘In riding clothes,’ I said, ‘in forty-five minutes. If you want me to change, add on an hour.’ ‘Come as you are,’ he said. ‘Mr Smith says there’s something to see.’

  Fifteen

  At Quantum, the heap of rubble had reduced to merely a mess.

  I walked round to the back of the house and found two men in hard hats barely ankle deep as they methodically removed debris brick by brick from house to rubbish skip. The wind had abated and the clouds had relented to the extent that a pale sunshine washed the scene, making it to my eyes more of a wasteland than ever.

  Superintendent Yale stood beside a trestle table that had been erected on the lawn, with the explosive Smith in his beige overalls and blue hat standing close beside him, heads bent in conference. There were no spectators any more on the far side of the rope across the lawn, not even Arthur Bellbrook. I walked over to the experts and said good morning.

  ‘Good morning,’ they said, looking up.‘Glad you came,’ Smith said.

  He stretched out a casual hand and picked up an object from the table, holding it out to me.

  ‘We’ve found this,’ he said.‘What do you think?’

  I took the thing from him. It had been a coil of thin plastic-coated wire, but the coils had been stretched so that the wire was straighter, but still curled. It was about eighteen inches long. The plastic coating had been white, I thought. About an inch of bare wire stuck out of the plastic at each end. Onto the plastic, near one end, someone had bonded a hand from a clock. The hand pointed to the bare wire, so that the wire was an extension of the hand.

  I looked at it with despair, though not with shock. I’d been fearing and hoping… trying not to believe it possible.

  When I didn’t ask what it was, Yale said with awakening suspicion,‘Does your silence mean that you know what it is?’

  I looked up at the two men. They hadn’t expected me to know, were surprised by my reaction, even astonished.

  ‘Yes,’ I said drearily, ‘I do know. Did you find any other bits?’

  Smith pointed to a spot on the table. I took a step sideways and stared down. There were some pieces of metal and plastic, but not those I’d expected. No cogwheels or springs. A grey plastic disc with a small hole in the centre.

  ‘Was this a clock?’ I said dubiously.

  ‘A battery-driven clock,’ Smith said.‘There’s the coil from the electric motor.’

  The coil was tiny, about a centimetre in diameter.

  ‘How did you find it in all this rubbish?’ I asked.

  ‘We found various remains of the padded box which used to stand at the foot of Mr Pembroke’s bed. These small pieces became embedded in the lid when the box blew apart. The wire with the clock’s hand on it, and this…’ he picked up the flat plastic disc ‘… were in the same area.’ He turned the plastic disc over to reveal a clock face on the other side.‘There should also be at least one other piece of wire somewhere, and some of the clock case and a battery or two, but we haven’t found those yet. This was not actually an alarm clock, I don’t think. We’ve found no sign of an alarm mechanism.’

  ‘No, it won’t have been an alarm clock,’ I said.

  The superintendent had been growing restive during Smith’s account and could contain himself no longer.

  ‘Will you please explain your familiarity with this device,’ he said formidably.‘Did the gardener use this sort of thing for blowing up the tree trunk?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. This device wasn’t meant for setting off bombs. It was a toy.’

  ‘What sort of toy?’

  ‘Well… it was for switching things on. Torch bulbs, mostly. Like the lights we had on a station in a train set. A buzzer, sometimes. It was incredibly simple.’

  ‘Explain,’ Yale commanded.

  I glanced at Smith. He was nodding resignedly.

  ‘You get an old or cheap dock,’ I said.‘We had wind-up clocks, not a battery clock. You fix a length of wire to one of the hands, like this, so that a bare bit of wire sticks out and makes the hand much longer.’

  ‘The hands are still on the clock, I take it?’

  ‘Oh yes. Though sometimes we’d pull the minute hand off and just use the hour hand, because it’s stronger, even though it’s shorter. All you need is for the bare wire to reach out beyond the edge of the clock face. We used glue to stick the wire to the hand. Then you have a long bit of wire coming out from the centre of the front of the clock, and you fasten the free end of that to a battery. One of those nine-volt batteries with things like press-studs at the end.’ Smith was still nodding. Yale looked very much as if I shouldn’t know such things.

  ‘We made quite a lot of other gadgets,’ I said, hearing the defensiveness in my voice.‘Buzzers for morse codes. Rudimentary telephones. Not just time-switches. I made a lock once which could only be operated with a straight piece of wire.’ And it still worked fine, although I wasn’t going to show him.

  Yale sighed.‘So in this case, we’ve got the wire fixed to the clock’s hand at one end and to a battery at the other, right? Go on from there.’

  ‘You need two more lengths of wire. One goes from the battery to whatever you want to activate. In our case, it was usually a torch bulb screwed into a metal holder. We fastened a bare end of wire to the metal holder. Then the third wire went back from the metal holder to the clock. We fixed this wire with glue to the clock case itsel
f, not to the hands, in such a way that the bare end of wire was pointing out forwards, towards you if you were facing the clock like this.’ I demonstrated with the clock face.‘We usually stuck it on over the number twelve, at the top, but you could fix it anywhere you liked. Then you wind up the clock and set the hand with the wire where you want it, and just wait. The wired hand travels round towards the jutting out wire and eventually hits against it at right angles. The circuit is thus complete from the clock wires to the battery to the light and back to the clock, so the light goes on. The clock hand keeps on trying to go round and the jutting wire keeps stopping it, so the light stays on. Well…’ I finished lamely,‘that’s what happened when we made them.’

  ‘Them?’ Yale said with apprehension.

  ‘They were easy to make. They were interesting. I don’t know how many we had, but quite a few.’

  ‘My God.’

  ‘There might be one still in the playroom,’ I said.‘The old train sets are there.’

  Yale looked at me balefully.‘How many of your family saw these devices?’ he asked.

  ‘Everyone.’

  ‘Who made them?’

  ‘I did, Gervase did, and Ferdinand. Thomas did. I don’t remember who else.’

  ‘But your whole family knows how to make a simple time-switch?’

  ‘Yes, I should think so.’

  ‘And why,’ he said,‘haven’t you mentioned this before?’

  I sighed and twisted the wired clock hand round in my fingers.‘Because,’ I said,‘for starters I didn’t think of it until after I’d left here the other day. After we’d been digging out the black powder and so on, and I’d been looking back to the past. I didn’t want you to find this. I wanted you to find something sophisticated, that no one in the family could have thought up.’

  ‘Hra,’ he said, seeming to accept it.‘How many people outside your family knew about these clocks?’

  ‘Several did, I suppose, but it was such a long time ago. No one would remember, would they?’

  ‘They might.’ Yale turned to Smith.‘This toy, is this really what set off the bomb?’

  Smith nodded.‘It sounds just right. Wire in a detonator where the Pembroke children had a torch bulb …’ He spread his hands.‘It wouldn’t need more current than that.’