by Heron Carvic
“Oughtn’t I,” ventured Miss Seeton, “to collect my umbrella?”
Mel and Thrudd had found Miss Seeton too late to see the incident which had affected the outcome of the race, but the mangled remains of metal and black nylon still lay beyond the rails and the overhead remarks from the crowd discussing the event—“A brolly” . . . “A bloody gamp,” . . . “umbrella, thrown on the course deliberately”—combined with Miss Seeton’s present lack of her usual armory, had given them a rough idea as to what had taken place.
Mel laughed. “Your umbrella? On the whole, no, and if anybody asks, I’d swear blind it isn’t yours if I were you. Forget it, Miss S. You’ve got enough there to buy a few dozen more.”
Tom Haley, too, hearing the repeated mention of an umbrella and drawing his own conclusions, had decided to search for his charge by the rails. Pushing his way through the throng, he saw her returning with her two escorts from her visit to the bookmaker.
“There you are,” he exclaimed with relief. “I was afraid I’d lost you.”
“Not lost,” observed Thrudd sourly. “Just gone before—and to a very pretty tune at that.”
“There’s been . . .” Haley was in a quandary. He thought that Miss Seeton was unaware of Fingers’ death, and that it would be healthier to get away—though it was awkward, her being there as a guest of the Kenhardings. Also, he did not wish to tip off the reporters. “There’s been a bit of a development,” he said lamely. “I think it’s time you left.”
Three hearts that beat one thought among them. “You’re overruled, Miss S. We all think you ought to go.”
“But,” Miss Seeton pointed out, “I have to wait for Deirdre. She’s driving me home.”
Deirdre. Tom Haley brightened. “We’ll find her and I’ll follow in my car just in case.”
Thrudd became alert. “In case of what?”
The announcement of the runners for the next race saved Tom the necessity of answering and their route to the car park, which crossed the main stream heading for the paddock, made conversation impossible.
The car park appeared to be deserted. As they approached the first line of cars, Tom heard a metallic click. Another. Then another. The sound teased his mind. He couldn’t remember . . . but it registered a warning. Yes—The Police News. There’d been an advice that some of the young hoodlums used a small metal spring to signal to each other, especially when ganging up for a fight.
“Wait,” he commanded. The others halted in surprise. “Back—quick.” He turned, but behind them a man lounged, grinning, a pistol dangled in his hand. Miss Seeton’s erstwhile tipster had played the good shepherd and now, having penned the lambs for slaughter, could relax and linger to enjoy the butchery.
The incessant menace of the metallic clicks, which by now filled the air and exacerbated the nerves, was cut by the sound of shattering glass. A score of youths sprang from behind the cars. Windows and windshields smashed under coshes; expensive coachwork dented and buckled beneath heavy boots. An attendant came running, was sapped to the ground and kicked unconscious as he huddled for protection. Farther off, other attendants, seeing the odds against them, ran for the fence, scrambling or vaulting over it according to their age and prowess, in a race to summon help.
The young men, their appetites whetted by the mutilated vehicles and the crumpled figure lying on the grass, fanned out in a semicircle to close in on their quarry.
Held inside the car park by the threat of the gun and the knowledge that any attempt to escape would accelerate attack, for the first time Tom Haley regretted being in plain clothes. No personal radio, no whistle, no truncheon—nothing. Instinctively he and Thrudd had backed the women against the fence, to stand in front of them at bay, while Mel, deciding that in the circumstances a woman’s arsenal held but one effective weapon—her throat—screamed and screamed again. Miss Seeton was silent, shocked beyond words that these—these ragamuffins, really little more than children, albeit children who she perceived were quite beyond control, should be led by the Kenharding boy, Deirdre’s brother Derrick.
Once he had seen that his victims were safely hemmed in, Miss Seeton’s tipster pocketed his pistol and decamped. Hopped-up young fools. Couldn’t resist working themselves up for the kill by smashing whatever lay in their path and making enough row to raise the whole police force of the county. God save him from amateurs. Maybe the bosses were right to play it this way, but give him a quick professional kill and a fast get-out every time.
The county police, or at all events those members of the force on duty at the racecourse, had indeed been raised by the noise of the damage to the cars coupled with Mel’s screams, and also by the car park attendants. They were on their way, calling for reinforcements as they ran, but to the beleaguered quartet the situation looked hopeless. Mel’s shrieks appeared to drive the youths into a frenzy of expectation, encouraging them to prolong the torment. They yodeled back in imitation. Two darted forward and knocked Thrudd to the ground while Mel, who had removed one shoe for armament, slammed at their faces with the heel, giving her protector time to regain his feet, kick one of his assailants in the groin and deliver an uppercut which floored the other. Tom Haley, whose police training stood him in better stead, with an armlock on one youngster, hooked the legs from under a second, getting one foot on his neck, and was butting a third in the face when Derrick Kenharding came at him with a knife. Tom swerved to avoid an upward thrust for the abdomen, the arm of the boy he was holding snapped, to a howled accompaniment, and the blade only pierced Tom’s hip. Derrick retrieved the knife with a grin of triumph. His adversary was off balance and defenseless; he slashed for the throat. Behind Tom Miss Seeton reacted in desperation and swung the only weapon that remained to her, her handbag. The stout, old-fashioned leather, with its sensible clasp preventing her on this occasion from showering her winnings abroad, caught Derrick full in the face, deflected his aim, and as he staggered, momentarily blinded, the knife blade buried itself in Tom’s shoulder.
chapter
~9~
TOM HALEY GAZED about him. Slowly the picture of his surroundings settled into focus. Beside him, opposite him, were rows of iron bedsteads with figures lying or sitting, some with earphones on, and over all the pervasive smell of . . . What was he doing in a hospital ward, for God’s sake?
Somebody’d boobed someplace. There was something important he had to . . . Tom tried to get out of bed. His right arm and leg helped to push him up in the bed, although the position was lopsided since his left limbs refused to cooperate. There was pain. It had a dulled edge but carried a warning that should he take liberties, it could sharpen and become acute. He looked down at himself. His left forearm was strapped across his chest and, raising the bedclothes, he found that his left thigh was padded and swathed in bandages. He made a determined effort. As though he had pressed a television switch while the tube was still warm, his vision of the ward tilted backward, spun and clicked into place on a different channel. Deirdre Kenharding’s face in close-up. Tom relaxed carefully, controlling his breathing, fearful lest further movement should again change the program. Deirdre smiled. The focus was good, the picture steady; this program was definitely on. Well, he couldn’t go on lying there gawping at her. Say something. Some neatly turned phrase in greeting, casual, preferably witty, just to test if she was real.
“ ’Lo,” muttered Tom.
“Oh, good.” Deirdre laughed in relief. “I wasn’t sure if you were really with us—you look a bit wonk-eyed. They didn’t want to let me in but I said . . .” Well, never mind what she’d said; anyway, it had got her in. “How’re you feeling?”
“Fine,” lied Tom.
“Well, you don’t look it. I . . .” Her hands came into play. How did she—how could she put it? “I’m desperately sorry about Derrick. He must’ve been mad—or drugged, I suppose. But even so”—her fingers played a tortured accompaniment—“to try and kill you and Miss Seeton . . . I just don’t . . . I can’t . . .” Both hand
s and voice yielded to incredulity.
Miss Seeton? MissEss? Derrick? The events of the afternoon swayed through his mind in an obscure panorama of flashbacks. Tom Haley began to fret. “MissEss,” he mumbled. “Sh’ all right?”
“She’s fine. Those two reporters are driving her home—”
Tom roused himself. “No,” he interrupted.
“Yes. You see, I was going to take her back, but with all that happened and coming to the hospital and having to wait and everything, I couldn’t, so they said not to worry, they’d run her down to Plummergen and—”
“No,” repeated Tom. “She’s my reshponsh—” He shook his head, winced as the pain in his shoulder flared, made a determined effort: “ ’shponshibility,” he stated firmly. He had an uncomfortable feeling of déjà dit, though no one, this time, could accuse him of swilling gin and bubbly.
Deirdre laughed. “Don’t be silly. You couldn’t drive anyone anywhere at the moment. You lost an awful lot of blood and that had to be replaced and your arm and leg had to be stitched up and they shot you full of all sorts of things and you were out for the count—that’s why you’re still woozy.”
Memory of the fight in the car park took on a keener edge and with memory came a keener edge to the pain in his thigh and shoulder. He remembered that last moment as the knife slashed for his throat; remembered knowing he’d bought it. But although his brain might be less trammeled, his mouth still retained an overplus of furred tongue. “How’d he mish me?”
“Miss Forby told me—she saw it. I thought she’d been hurt herself because she was limping, but it was only she’d lost the heel off one of her shoes. You were in front of Miss Seeton, and you’d knocked out three of them.” Deirdre’s eyes shone with pride. “Then when Derrick went for you with a knife, Miss Seeton slammed him in the face with her handbag.”
That was the second time, reflected Tom, that MissEss had saved his bacon. As a fighting unit they were a match for all comers—him trailing a wing and taking the odd knock or two while she laid out the opposition in rows.
“Miss Seeton came to see you,” continued Deirdre, “but that dragon of a ward sister wouldn’t let her in, so she left some grapes and asked me to give you this.” She took a bulky envelope from her handbag.
Tom put out his right hand, started to lean forward, winced, and desisted. “Wha’s innit?” he inquired.
With mock solemnity, Deirdre opened the envelope and fanned out the contents on the bed. “Five hundred pounds,” she announced.
“Wha’—wha’?” quacked Tom incredulously.
“Wha’ indeed,” she retorted. “I gather you asked her to back a horse for you—though I’d hardly’ve called it a horse—so she did and these are your ill-gotten gains. Apparently she tipped the parents off about it as well and Father went quite mad and stuck five hundred on it. Poor sweets. They’re feeling pretty downtrodden about Derrick, but ten thousand quid’s boosted their morale quite a bit. I do think”—Deirdre looked wistful—“Miss Seeton might’ve tipped me off too—all I did was lose fifty p. By the way, the parents came to see you, too, but the dragon wouldn’t let ’em in either. They left you some grapes. Sister also barred the Forby-Banner pair, which took some doing. They—er—left grapes. And she tried to chuck me out as well until I explained . . .” Deirdre’s color rose and her fingers intertwined and twisted, then she chuckled. “I’m afraid I brought some too—so between the lot of us you’re rather overgraped.”
Tom glanced sideways at the bed table, which sported a dish piled high with an overflowing cascade of blackish purple and green. He looked again at the money on the coverlet. “Not mine,” he said, “ ’nly half—we were splittin’.” Pain was increasing and he felt muddled. But there was something . . . yes. “Car park,” he asked. “Wha’ happened?”
“The police rounded up most of the boys,” Deirdre told him. “A few got away—Derrick amongst them.” She shrugged and her hands expressed doubt. “I don’t know whether I’m glad or sorry.”
“That’s quite enough.” The ward sister rustled to the bedside with a kidney-shaped bowl and an air of starched efficiency. “I’ve let you have five minutes more than I said.” She produced a thermometer from the breast pocket of her uniform, shook it, examined it severely and thrust it into Tom’s mouth, then put a finger on his pulse. She eyed with disapproval the money littering the tidy bed. “Now, we can’t have this sort of thing. I told you not to excite the patient.”
“But it’s his—” began Deirdre. Around the thermometer Tom attempted protest, but was quelled with a glance.
“I can’t help that. We don’t want it here. You’d better keep it for him.”
Obediently Deirdre collected the notes, stuffed them back into the envelope and replaced it in her bag. She stood up and smiled at Tom. “I’ll give it back to Miss Seeton and you can settle up with her.” He nodded.
The ward sister was adamant. “Now off you go.” With a flutter of fingers to Tom, Deirdre took a reluctant departure. “Perhaps”—the brusqueness softened fractionally—“you can see him again tomorrow. We’ll see what doctor says.” The sister released Tom’s wrist, removed the thermometer, frowned and clicked her tongue. “You shouldn’t have had any visitors at all.” She took a hypodermic from the bowl, held it up while she slightly depressed the plunger to remove air, swabbed his arm and jabbed in the needle with swift, painless efficiency. “But your financée was so upset and insistent that I thought . . .”
Her thoughts failed to impinge on Tom. One word stood out to loom and fill his mind. His fiancée? His fian . . .? His fi . . .? The plunger went home. Bars of light flickered across Tom’s vision, the ward tilted forward, turned over. His fian . . .? Hish fi . . .? The ward sister’s face in close-up back-somersaulted twice. The screen went blank.
chapter
~10~
DUTIFULLY MISS SEETON watched the television screen in the saloon bar, which reenacted for her the grandstand, the crowds, the horses at the race meeting which she had attended less than three hours since, while the commentator described the teen-age riot which had taken place. It was extraordinary, she reflected, when you came to think of it, how quickly news was disseminated nowadays, even though so many other things were slower. Like travel or the post. Naturally one could understand Mel and Mr. Banner wishing to catch up, as they called it, on the news, since news was their livelihood, but to stop at this roadhouse, near Wrotham—how very odd that it should be pronounced Rootem—when they were so near home—less than thirty miles, she thought—had been, she must admit, a little disappointing. And then again, orangeade—she drank some more and put the glass down upon the round tabletop—though very kind, was not quite the same as tea.
“The police wish to interview Derrick Kenharding . . .”
The name recalled Miss Seeton’s wandering attention. That poor family. And she still felt guilty that she had been, at least in part, responsible for the latest trouble with their son. Yet while she was trying to apologize when saying good-bye, Lord Kenharding had shaken her most warmly by the hand and Lady Kenharding had suddenly hugged her, kissed her on the cheek and actually thanked her—though for what Miss Seeton could not imagine.
“. . . get in touch with their local police.” A photograph of Derrick was faded out and another face was substituted.
To Miss Seeton’s trained eye, the absence of a checked cap and raincoat was no bar to recognition. Oh, good gracious. That reminded her. She’d forgotten to remember. She burrowed in her handbag.
“What’s biting you, Miss S.?” asked Mel. “Want a tissue?”
“It’s that man,” explained Miss Seeton, indicating the television screen. “You see, I’d meant to ask Deirdre, or give it to Tom—Mr. Haley—but with all that happened afterwards I’m afraid it completely slipped my mind.”
“. . . remembers seeing this man or noticed anything unusual in the paddock before the third race should inform the Guildford police”—the figure of a telephone number appeared bel
ow Fingers’ face—“or contact their local force.”
“What?” asked Thrudd.
“What?” echoed Miss Seeton.
“This mental skid of yours—what was it?”
“I don’t know,” she confessed. “That is to say, it looked rather like a large . . .” She shook her head and appealed to Mel. “But then it couldn’t have been, because he wouldn’t use one, would he?”
“Wouldn’t,” said Mel patiently, “use what?”
“A powder compact.”
“Improbable,” Thrudd acknowledged. Miss Seeton’s burrowing had evidently proved fruitful, and realizing this from her expression, he leaned quickly across, took the handbag, made a show of searching in his turn, gave her a handkerchief, returned the bag and let his hand, with the palm gun concealed in it, drop beneath the tabletop.
Mel watched with interest. “Bag snatching yet,” she observed.
Thrudd was engrossed with his find. He aimed the nozzle at the floor, depressed the plunger and was rewarded with a click, felt rather than heard. For dope, he’d guess. Yeah, some form of dope gun or he was a Tibetan yak. “Where’d you get it?” he inquired.
Miss Seeton gave her own somewhat involved version of the circumstances. “. . . and I picked it up when he dropped it and ran away,” she concluded. Looking up, she saw that the photograph of Fingers was gone and the news had passed on to banal trivialities, with the commentator describing a debate in the House upon in- and deflation.
Thrudd was skeptical. All very innocent-sounding—as usual—and, even allowing for her earnest endeavors to make things clear, which invariably made them anything but, all very pat. But he’d lay odds this man Fingers had been her assignment, that she’d picked his pocket for the evidence, meaning to follow it up, but the fight had prevented her. And could be—just could be—it was true she’d forgotten it till now. Anyway, the cops were clamoring for information, so they’d better have it pronto, which, he realized with satisfaction, would help to solve his own immediate problem.
