Twice Shy

by Dick Francis

  “It’s on there?”

  “Can’t tell yet. But there’s something filed under ‘Z.’ Might just try that.” He flicked a few more switches and sat back beaming. “Now all we do is wait a few minutes while that”—he pointed at the large upright box—“soaks up whatever it is on the tape under ‘Z,’ and if it should happen to be Grantley BASIC, we’ll be in business.”

  “Why does ‘Z’ give you hope?”

  “Instinct. Might be a hundred percent wrong. But it’s a much longer recording than anything else I’ve found so far on the tapes, and it feels the right length. Four and a quarter minutes. I’ve fed BASIC into the Harris thousands of times.”

  His instinct proved reliable. The word READY suddenly appeared on the screen, white and bright and promising. Ted sighed heavily with satisfaction and nodded three times.

  “Sensible fellow, your friend,” he said. “So now we can see what you’ve got.”

  When he ran Oklahoma! again the file names came up clearly beside the flashing asterisk at top right of the screen, and although some of them were mysterious to me, some of them were definitely not.

  DONCA EDINB EPSOM FOLKE FONTW GOODW HAMIL HAYDK HEREF HEXHM

  “Names of towns,” I said. “Towns with racecourses.”

  Ted nodded. “Which would you like to try?”

  “Epsom.”

  “OK,” he said. He rewound the tape with agile fingers and typed CLOAD “EPSOM” on the keyboard. “This puts the program filed under EPSOM into the computer, but you know that, of course. I keep forgetting.”

  The encouraging word READY appeared again, and Ted said, “Which do you want to do, list it or run it?”

  “Run,” I said.

  He nodded and typed RUN on the keyboard, and in bright little letters the screen inquired:WHICH RACE AT EPSOM? TYPE NAME OF RACE AND PRESS “ENTER”.

  “My God,” I said. “Let’s try the Derby.”

  “Stands to reason,” Ted said, and typed DERBY. The screen promptly responded with:TYPE NAME OF HORSE AND PRESS “ENTER”.

  Ted typed JONATHAN DERRY and again pressed the double-sized key on the keyboard marked ENTER; and the screen obliged with:EPSOM: THE DERBY.

  HORSE: JONATHAN DERRY.

  TO ALL QUESTIONS ANSWER YES OR NO AND PRESS “ENTER”.

  A couple of inches lower down there was a question:HAS HORSE WON A RACE?

  Ted typed YES and pressed ENTER. The first three lines remained, but the question was replaced with another:HAS HORSE WON THIS YEAR?

  Ted typed NO. The screen responded:HAS HORSE WON ON COURSE?

  Ted typed NO. The screen responded:HAS HORSE RUN ON COURSE?

  Ted typed YES.

  There were questions about the horse’s sire, its dam, its jockey, its trainer, the number of days since its last run, and its earnings in prize money; and one final question:IS HORSE QUOTED ANTE-POST AT 25-1 OR LESS?

  Ted typed YES and the screen said merelyANY MORE HORSES?

  Ted typed YES again, and we found ourselves back atTYPE NAME OF HORSE AND PRESS “ENTER”.

  “That’s not handicapping,” I said.

  “Is that what it’s supposed to be?” Ted shook his head. “More like statistical probabilities, I should have thought. Let’s go through it again and answer NO to ANY MORE HORSES?”

  He typed TED PITTS for the horse’s name and varied the answers, and immediately after his final NO we were presented with a cleared screen and a new display.

  You’ve no chance,” I said. “You might as well stay in the stable.”

  He looked a bit startled, and then laughed. “Yes. That’s what it is. A guide to gamblers.”

  He typed LIST instead of RUN, and immediately the bones of the program appeared, but scrolling upward too fast to read, like flight-information changes at airports. Ted merely hummed a little and typed LIST 10-140, and after some essential flickering the screen presented the goods:LIST 10-140

  10 PRINT “WHICH RACE AT EPSOM? TYPE NAME OF RACE AND PRESS ‘ENTER’ ”

  20 INPUT A$

  30 IF A$ = “DERBY” THEN 330

  40 IF A$ = “OAKS” THEN 340

  50 IF A$ = “CORONATION CUP” THEN 350

  60 IF A$ = “BLUE RIBAND STAKES” THEN 360

  The list went down to the bottom of the screen in this fashion, and Ted gave it one appraising look and said, “Dead simple.”

  The dollar sign, I seemed to remember, meant that the input had to be in the form of letters. Input A, without the dollar sign, would have asked for numbers.

  Ted seemed perfectly happy. He typed LIST 300-380 and got another set of instructions.

  At 330 the program read:LET A = 10: B = 8: C = 6: D = 2: D1 = 2

  Lines 332, 334 and 336 looked similar, with numbers being ascribed to letters.

  “That’s the weighting,” Ted said. “The value given to each answer. Ten points for the first question, which was . . . um . . . has the horse won a race. And so on. I see that ten points are given also for the last question, which was about . . . er . . . ante-post odds, wasn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  “There you are, then,” he said. “I dare say there’s a different weighting for every race. There might of course be different questions for every race. Ho hum. Want to see?”

  “If you’ve the time,” I said.

  “Oh sure. I’ve always got time for TOMs. Love ’em, you know.”

  He went on typing LIST followed by various numbers and came up with such gems as:520IF N$ =“NO” THEN GOTO560:×=×+B

  530 INPUT N$ : AB = AB + 1

  540IF N$ =“NO” THEN GOTO650:×=×+M

  550 T = T + G2

  560 GOSUB 4000

  “What does all that mean?” I asked.

  “Um . . . well . . . it’s much easier to write a program than to read and understand someone else’s. Programs are frantically individual. You can get the same results by all sorts of different routes. I mean, if you’re going from London to Bristol you go down the M4 and it’s called M4 all the way, but on a computer you can call the road anything you like, at any point on the journey, and you might know that at different moments L2, say, or RQ3 or B7(2) equaled M4, but no one else would.”

  “Is that also what you teach the kids?”

  “Er, yes. Sorry, it’s a habit.” He glanced at the screen. “I’d guess that these top lines are to do with skipping some questions if previous answers make them unnecessary. Jumping to later bits of program. If I printed the whole thing out onto paper I could work out their exact meaning.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t trouble. Let’s try a different racecourse.”

  “Sure.”

  He rewound the tape to the beginning and typed CLOAD “DONCA,” and when the screen said READY, typed RUN.

  Immediately we were asked:WHICH RACE AT DONCASTER? TYPE NAME OF RACE AND PRESS “ENTER”.

  “OK,” Ted said, pressing switches. “What about further down the tape? Say, GOODW?”

  We got: WHICH RACE AT GOODWOOD? TYPE NAME OF RACE AND PRESS “ENTER”.

  “I don’t know any races at Goodwood,” I said.

  Ted said, “That’s easy,” and typed LIST 10-140. When the few seconds of flickering had stopped, we had:LIST 10-140

  10 PRINT “WHICH RACE AT GOODWOOD? TYPE NAME OF RACE AND PRESS ‘ENTER’ ”

  20 INPUT A$

  30 IF A$ = “GOODWOOD STAKES” THEN 330

  40 IF A$ = “GOODWOOD CUP” THEN 340

  There were fifteen races listed altogether.

  “What happens if you type in the name of a race there’s no program for?” I asked.

  “Let’s see,” he said. He typed RUN, and we were back to:WHICH RACE AT GOODWOOD?

  He typed DERBY, and the screen informed us:THERE IS NO INFORMATION FOR THIS RACE.

  “Neat and simple,” Ted said.

  We sampled all the sides of the three tapes, but the programs were all similar.

  WHICH RACE AT REDCAR? WHICH RACE AT ASCOT?

  WHICH RACE AT
NEWMARKET?

  There were programs for about fifty racecourses, with varying numbers of races listed at each. Several lists contained not actual titles of races but general categories like STRAIGHT 7 FURLONGS FOR 3 YR OLDS AND UPWARDS, or THREE MILE WEIGHT-FOR-AGE STEEPLECHASE: and it was not until quite late that I realized with amusement that none of the races were handicaps. There were no questions at all about how many lengths a horse had won by, while carrying such and such a weight.

  All in all, there was provision for scoring for any number of horses in each of more than eight hundred named races, and in an unknown quantity of unnamed races. Each race had its own set of weightings and very often its own set of questions. It had been a quite monumental task.

  “It must have taken him days,” Ted said.

  “Weeks, I think. He had to do it in his spare time.”

  “They’re not complicated programs, of course,” Ted said. “Nothing really needing an expert. It’s more organization than anything else. Still, he hasn’t wasted much space. Amateurs write very long programs. Experts get to the same nitty-gritty in a third of the time. It’s just practice.”

  “We’d better make a note of which side of which tape contains the Grantley BASIC,” I said.

  Ted nodded. “It’s at the end. After York. Filed under ‘Z.’ ” He checked that he had the right tape, and wrote on its label in pencil.

  For no particular reason I picked up the other two tapes and briefly looked at the words I had half-noticed before: the few words Peter had penciled onto one of the labels: “Programs compiled for C. Norwood.”

  Ted, glancing over, said, “That’s the first side you’re looking at. Ascot and so on.” He paused. “We might just as well number the sides properly, one to six. Get them in order.”

  Order, to him as to me, was a habit. When he’d finished the numbering he put the cassettes back in their gaudy boxes and handed them over. I thanked him most profoundly for his patience and took him out for a couple of beers: and over his pint he said, “Will you be trying them out?”

  “Trying what out?”

  “Those races, of course. It’s the Derby next month some time. If you like we could work out the scores for all the Derby horses, and see if the program comes up with the winner. I’d actually quite like to do it. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t begin to know the answers to all those questions.”

  “No.” He sighed. “Pity. The info must be somewhere, but unearthing it might be a bore.”

  “I’ll ask my brother,” I said, explaining about William. “He sometimes mentions form books. I’d guess the answers would be in those.”

  Ted seemed pleased with the idea, and I didn’t immediately ask him which he was keener to do, to test the accuracy of the programs or to make a profit. He told me, however.

  He said tentatively, “Would you mind very much . . . I mean . . . would you mind if I took a copy of those tapes?”

  I looked at him in faint surprise and he smiled awkwardly.

  “The fact is, Jonathan, I could do with a boost to the economy. I mean . . . if these tapes actually come up with the goods, why not use them?” He squirmed a little on his seat, and when I didn’t rush to answer, he went on, “You know how bloody small our salaries are. It’s no fun with three kids to feed. And their clothes, their shoes cost a bomb, and the little devils grow out of them before you’ve paid for them, practically. I’m never under my limit on my credit cards. Never.”

  “Have another beer,” I said.

  “It’s better for you,” he said gloomily, accepting the offer. “You’ve no children. It isn’t so hard for you to manage on a pittance. And you earn more anyway, with being a head of department.”

  I said thoughtfully, “I don’t see why you shouldn’t make copies, if you want to.”

  “Jonathan!” He was clearly delighted.

  “But I wouldn’t use them,” I said, “without finding out if they’re any good. You might lose a packet.”

  “I’ll be careful,” he said, but his eyes gleamed behind his black-rimmed spectacles, and I wondered uneasily if I were seeing the birth of a compulsion. There was always a slight touch of the fanatic about Ted. “Can you ask your brother where I can get a form book?” he said.

  “Well . . .”

  He scanned my face. “You’re regretting saying I could copy them. Do you want them for yourself, now, is that it?”

  “No. I just thought . . . gambling’s like drugs. You can get addicted and go down the drain.”

  “But all I want—” He stopped and shrugged. He looked disappointed but nothing more; and I sighed and said, “OK. But for God’s sake be sensible.”

  “I will,” he said fervently. He looked at me expectantly and I took the tapes out of my pocket and gave them back to him.

  “Take good care of them,” I said.

  “With my life.”

  “Not that far.” I thought briefly of gun-toting visitors and of much I didn’t understand, and I added slowly, “While you’re about it, make copies for me, too.”

  He was puzzled. “But you’ll have the originals.”

  I shook my head. “They belong to someone else. I’ll have to give them back. But I don’t see why, if copies are possible, that I shouldn’t also keep what I return.”

  “Copies are dead easy,” he said. “Also they’re prudent. All you do is load the program into the computer, from the cassette, like we did, then change to a fresh cassette and load the program back from the computer onto the new tape. You can make dozens of copies, if you like. Any time I’ve written a program I especially don’t want to lose I record it onto several different tapes. That way, if one tape gets lost or some idiot rerecords on top of what you’ve done, you’ve always got a back-up.”

  “I’ll buy some tapes, then,” I said.

  He shook his head. “You give me the money, and I’ll get them. Ordinary tapes are OK if you’re pushed, but special digital cassettes made for computer work are better.”

  I gave him some money, and he said he would make the copies the following day, either at lunch time or after school. “And get the form book,” he reminded me, “won’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said. And later, from home, I telephoned the farm and spoke to William.

  “How’s it going?”

  “What would you say if I tried for a racing stable in the summer?”

  “I’d say stick to farms,” I said.

  “Yeah. But the hunters are all out at grass in July and August, and this riding school here’s cracking up; they’ve sold off the best horses, there’s nothing much to ride, and there’s weeds and muck everywhere. Mr. Askwith’s taken to drink. He comes roaring out in the mornings clutching the hard stuff and swearing at the girls. There are only two of them left now, trying to look after fourteen ponies. It’s a mess.”

  “It sounds it.”

  “I’ve been reduced to doing some revision for those grotty exams.”

  “Things must be bad,” I said.

  “Thanks for the check.”

  “Sorry it was late. Listen, I’ve a friend who wants a racing form book. How would he get one?”

  William, it transpired, knew of about six different types of form book. Which did my friend want?

  One which told him a horse’s past history, how long since it had last raced and whether its ante-post odds were less than 25 to 1. Also its sire’s and dam’s and jockey’s and trainer’s history, and how much it had won in prize money. For starters.

  “Good grief,” said my brother. “You want a combination of the form book and the Sporting Life.”

  “Yes, but which form book?”

  “The form book,” he said. “Raceform and Chaseform. Chaseform’s the jumpers. Does he want jumpers as well?”

  “I think so.”

  “Tell him to write to Turf Newspapers, then. The form book comes in sections; a new updated section every week. Best on earth. I covet it increasingly, but it costs a bomb. Do you think the trust
ees would consider it vocational training?” He spoke, however, without much hope.

  I thought of Ted Pitts’s financial state and inquired for something cheaper.

  “Hum,” William said judiciously. “He could try the weekly Sporting Record, I suppose.” A thought struck him. “This wouldn’t be anything to do with your friend Peter and his betting system, would it? You said he was dead.”

  “Same system, different friend.”

  “There isn’t a system born,” William said, “that really works.”

  “You’d know, of course,” I said dryly.

  “I do read.”

  We talked a little more and said goodbye in good humor, and I found myself regretting, after I’d put down the receiver, that I hadn’t asked him if he’d like to spend the week with me rather than on the farm. But I didn’t suppose he would have done. He’d have found even the drunken Mr. Askwith more congenial than the decorum of Twickenham.

  Sarah telephoned an hour later, sounding strained and abrupt.

  “Do you know anyone called Chris Norwood?” she asked.

  “No, I don’t think so.” The instant I’d said it I remembered Peter’s handwriting on the cassette. “Program compiled for C. Norwood.” I opened my mouth to tell her, but she forestalled me.

  “Peter knew him. The police have been here again, asking questions.”

  “But what—” I began in puzzlement.

  “I don’t know what it’s all about, if that’s what you’re going to ask. But someone called Chris Norwood has been shot.”

  5

  Ignorance seemed to surround me like a fog.

  “I thought Peter might have mentioned him to you,” Sarah said. “You always talked with him more than to Donna and me.”