Honey lunged forward to run to the fence, but Trixie grabbed her arm and stopped her. She whispered into Honey’s ear, and Honey’s face dissolved into a wide grin, her hazel eyes twinkling.
The two girls walked quietly, almost on tiptoe, to the fence and arranged themselves in casual watching postures, their feet on the bottom rail of the fence and their elbows resting on the top.
So intent was Regan on his riding that he made two more broad passes around the yard before he noticed the girls. On the third pass, he glanced over at them. Then the girls saw Regan do something they had never seen him do before and wouldn’t have believed he possibly could do: Looking back over his shoulder to confirm what his first glance had told him, Regan lost his balance and fell off the horse!
He scrambled quickly to his feet and caught the horse’s reins. The expression on his face changed from astonishment to embarrassment to anger. Then he threw back his head and laughed, and the girls scrambled over the fence and ran to embrace him.
“You girls are a sight for sore eyes!” he exclaimed. “Although my eyes won’t be the only part of me that’s sore tomorrow, after that spill I just took. How in the world did you happen to come to this place?”
“By taxi,” Trixie said teasingly.
“After we went to two other riding stables looking for you,” Honey added.
“After a certain chatty cabdriver at the track told us about a nice young redheaded man who perfumed his cab with horse scent he brought with him from the boarding stable where he worked,” Trixie concluded.
Regan looked from one girl to the other as their jumbled explanation flew back and forth. Then he shook his head. “You’d better come back to the stable with me and explain the whole thing— slowly—while I curry this horse.”
While Regan worked, the girls told him how they’d traced him to this spot, starting with their walk through Saratoga and their finding his boots in the pawnshop.
“We were afraid something might have happened to you, Regan, because the pawnbroker’s description of the man who brought the boots in didn’t fit you at all,” Trixie said.
“It wasn’t me,” Regan said. “It was Johnny, who’s an exercise boy here at the stable. He and I have gotten to be pretty good friends since I started working here. Johnny’s not much of a talker, and I don’t think he managed to get much schoolroom education, so most people treat him as though he’s plain stupid. But I spotted him as a good man with horses. I respect him for that, and I let him know it. He was grateful for the encouragement, and he’s done everything he could to help me out. I was a little short of cash when I first got here. Johnny offered to loan me some money, but he doesn’t have much himself. So I asked him if he’d take the boots in for me and bring me back the money, which he did, no questions asked. My old boots are plenty good enough for the work I do around here. But I plan to get my good boots back as soon as I get my first paycheck.
“But wait a minute,” Regan said suddenly. “You girls have done a first-rate detective job in tracing me here, with nothing to go on but a pair of monogrammed boots in a pawnshop window. But that doesn’t explain how you came to be in Saratoga in the first place.”
In their joy at finally finding Regan, and their pride in relating the detecting process that had led them to him, the girls had forgotten the shadow of accusation that still hung over their friend’s head. The smiles left their faces, and they stared at the ground, neither one wanting to introduce the unpleasant topic.
“Come on, girls. Out with it!” Regan demanded. “Is this a pleasure jaunt, or did you manage to trail me from Sleepyside to Saratoga, too?”
Trixie took a deep breath, then blurted out the rest of the story: their hunch that Mr. Worthington was connected with Regan’s disappearance; the information in the book at the Sleepyside library; the invitation they’d wangled to join the Wheelers in Saratoga; and, finally, Carl Stinson’s accusations against Regan the day before.
As he listened, Regan’s face turned almost the same fiery red as his hair. When Trixie had finished, the only sound for a few moments was that of the currycomb against the Appaloosa’s coat as Regan waited for his rage to subside enough so that he could speak. Finally, he threw the currycomb into the equipment box and stalked out of the stable, beckoning the girls to follow him.
He led them into the office, where he poured himself a cup of coffee from a large urn and gave each of the girls a soft drink from a well-stocked refrigerator. Then he sat down at a battered wooden table, and the girls took chairs on the opposite side.
“You girls have done a remarkable job of piecing this story together,” Regan began, “but there are a few things you don’t know. For one thing, the race that Gadfly ran when he was doped seven years ago was a claiming race. Do you know what that is?”
Honey nodded, but Trixie shook her head.
“It’s a pretty common type of race, Trixie,” Regan said, “because the care and upkeep of a Thoroughbred racehorse is so expensive, and so many things can damage a horse, that owners have to weed out their stables constantly to keep from falling into debt.
“Here’s how it works: The track announces that there will be, say, a five-thousand-dollar claiming race. That means that the winner of the race can be purchased for five thousand dollars by anyone who submits a sealed bid to the track officials before the race. Any owner who enters the race knows that if his horse wins, someone might claim him.
“So it becomes a game of chance—and trickery. Sometimes an owner will enter an unsound horse in hopes that it will win and be claimed by someone who thinks it’s worth more than it is. And sometimes an owner will enter a sound horse, one that’s far superior to the other horses in the field, in hopes that it can win against the lesser horses and yet not be claimed, because people will think there’s something wrong with it.”
“Whew!” Trixie exclaimed. “This is as confusing as watching the workouts at the track yesterday morning. I don’t see how the owners can fool each other, though. I mean, they all know about horses. Surely they can tell whether one is sound or not.” Regan shook his head. “You don’t know the lengths that owners will go to, Trix. An owner who wants his good horse to win without being claimed might bandage one of its legs for days before the race, to make it look as though it’s injured. And an owner who wants an unsound horse claimed will use ice packs, medication, even ultraviolet rays to treat a bad shoulder or a sore knee so that the horse will look good for a few days before the race. And don’t forget, anyone who puts in a bid for a horse is risking paying a lot of money for something that may or may not pay back the investment. I used a five-thousand-dollar claiming race as an example, but it might be as high as twenty-five thousand, which is what Gadfly was entered for.”
“Whew!” Trixie exclaimed again.
“But what does the fact that it was a claiming race have to do with Gadfly’s being drugged, Regan?” Honey asked.
“I don’t know for sure, Honey,” Regan answered. “But the rumors that were going around right before the race put a few other people besides me in a suspicious light.
“For one thing, there was a rumor that Mr. Worthington was having some financial problems right around the time of that race. He speculates on the stock market, you know, and I heard he’d dropped a bundle. Also, Gadfly had been having a knee problem. Carl Stinson thought it would clear up, but Worthington disagreed. I heard them arguing about it one afternoon a couple of weeks before the race—shortly before Gadfly was entered.”
“I’m not following you very well,” Trixie confessed. “Did the rumors and the argument you overheard make you suspicious of Mr. Worthington or Mr. Stinson?”
“Both,” Regan replied. “The facts against Stinson are that he’d never really had a great horse to work with before, and he believed1 very much in Gadfly. So he could have drugged the horse, knowing that the finding of the drugs in the horse’s system would disqualify any claim. He wouldn’t have figured, of course, that the six-month suspension wou
ld completely ruin the horse’s spirit and bring his racing career to an early end.
“My reasons for suspecting Worthington are a little more complicated, because he’s a more complex man. One thing that’s occurred to me is that his finances could have taken a turn for the better right before the race, so he’d have been able to take the risk of keeping Gadfly for a while to see if the knee did respond to treatment.”
“But then couldn’t he have just withdrawn the horse from the race?” Honey asked.
“He could have,” Regan said. “But you have to remember that Mr. Worthington is a very rich and powerful man. He’s used to giving orders, not taking them. And he knows that Carl Stinson is the backbone of Worthington Farms. If he did decide that he didn’t want Gadfly claimed, he could have drugged the horse to break the trainer’s spirit.”
“Huh?” Trixie asked, totally confused. “According to racing regulations, the trainer of a horse that is drugged is automatically considered responsible, and he’s suspended from the track pending an investigation. By drugging Gadfly, Worthington would get revenge on Stinson for arguing with him, and at the same time he’d make it financially impossible for Carl to leave, since the six-month suspension from racing would also mean a six-month loss in his commissions from the horses’ earnings.”
“Whew!” Trixie exclaimed for the third time.
Regan chuckled wryly. “I told you the reasons for my suspicions are complicated. I think you can see why I wasn’t too eager to hang around and try to explain my theories to the racing commission. It would have been the jumbled theories of a seventeen-year-old groom against the reputations of a wealthy horse owner and an established, respected trainer.
“It was natural for them to suspect me, in a way. I was young, I came to work for Worthington and Stinson out of nowhere, and I was the only person aside from them who had access to Gadfly right before the race. I knew I was innocent, but I also knew it would be hard to prove. And the only two people in the world who could have an interest in defending me against the charges were the same two people that I myself suspected of the crime.” Regan was silent for a moment. He swirled the last of his coffee in the bottom of the cup, staring at the circling liquid. He set the cup down on the table with a bang, then concluded, “So I ran.”
“But you came back,” Trixie said softly.
Regan nodded. “When I heard that Worthington was coming to the Manor House, the whole thing came flooding back over me—all the fear and confusion I’d felt seven years ago. But then I stopped and thought about it, and I realized that I’m not a scared, confused kid anymore. I’m a man, with friends and responsibilities. For their sake, and for mine, I knew I couldn’t live with the suspicions anymore. So I came back to clear my name.”
“Have you found any evidence yet to help you do that?” Trixie asked eagerly.
“No,” Regan said shortly. “This red head of mine makes me pretty recognizable. I haven’t been able to do as much snooping as I’d like because I’m afraid someone I knew seven years ago might spot me and turn me in. Then I’d be right back where I started.
“About the only thing of interest I’ve turned up might turn out to be a coincidence. Seven years ago, there was a tough-looking fellow hanging around the Worthington stables. I never knew his name or figured out what his connection with Worthington was, if there was one. But I got the feeling that he was up to no good. And yesterday when I went to the track, I spotted him again.”
“Are you sure it was the same man?” Honey asked. “Seven years is a long time, after all.”
“There’s no mistaking this guy,” Regan told her. “He has a long, ugly scar running down the side of his face.”
“I saw him!” Trixie exclaimed. “I saw him yesterday at the track, too. Remember, Honey? The same cabdriver who told us about giving a ride to Regan told us he’d driven that guy to the track. I bet if we found that taxi driver again, he’d be able to tell us—”
“Hold it right there,” Regan interrupted. “Trixie, I appreciate everything you’ve gone through to find me, and I appreciate your trying to believe I was innocent, when a lot of people said I wasn’t. I’m glad you found me. Seeing you girls has done me a world of good. It’s reminded me of how much I want to clear myself so that I can go home, to Sleepyside and the Manor House.”
“But?” Trixie queried.
“But,” Regan said firmly, “I don’t want you to get involved with that man. Racetrack hoodlums are as tough as they come. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you girls while you were trying to help me out. Don’t try to find that man, Trixie. Promise me you won’t.”
“I—I promise,” Trixie said reluctantly.
“Good girl,” Regan said. “I’ll clear myself in due time, and I’ll be back at the Manor House as soon as I do. And I want both of you to promise me something else. Promise me you won’t tell anyone where I am. The only way I can hope to clear myself is to stay undercover a while longer.”
“We won’t tell anyone,” Trixie said quickly.
“I wanted to tell my parents we’d found your boots, but Trixie stopped me,” Honey confessed. “I’m glad she did.”
“Me, too,” Regan said. “But for heaven’s sake, don’t feel bad because you wanted to confide in your parents, Honey. It was the right thing to do.
We’ll tell them everything soon, believe me. And now,” he concluded, rising from the table, “I’d better call you girls a cab so you can get back to town.”
An Old Romance ● 13
RELUCTANTLY, Honey and Trixie got into the backseat of the taxi, after giving Regan one last hug. As the cab pulled away, they knelt on the backseat and waved to their friend until the cab turned a corner and he was lost from their sight.
Turning and sitting down on the backseat, Trixie sighed happily. “Well, Honey, the first part of our mission is accomplished. We found—” Trixie glanced at the cabdriver— “we found our friend and got his side of the story.”
Honey nodded. “It’s amazing, Trixie. As soon as I saw him, all my doubts and suspicions just vanished, and I knew he was innocent. Our first hunch, back in Sleepyside, was the right one after all: He ran just because he was young and scared, not because he had a gambling problem or resented his boss or any of the other theories We came up with later.”
“I think that’s an important lesson for us, Honey,” Trixie said. “What your heart tells you about someone is usually right. Later on, when your head gets into the act, you start thinking up all kinds of wild theories that are logical enough but just not true.”
“We should try to remember that,” Honey said. “But we shouldn’t discount all the ‘wild theories’ we’ve had since we came to Saratoga. Following up on them helped us solve our mystery.”
“Part one of our mystery,” Trixie corrected her. “We know now that our friend didn’t do what he’s been accused of doing, but we still have to find out who did.”
“Trixie, you promised!” Honey wailed. “Not five minutes ago you said you wouldn’t get involved!”
“I said I wouldn’t get involved with the scarfaced man,” Trixie pointed out, “and that’s a promise I’m only too happy to keep.” She shuddered. “I don’t need to be told that he’s out of my league. But don’t forget, there are a couple of other suspects in this case that we’re in a perfect position to keep an eye on, and I intend to do just that.” Honey shook her head in mock exasperation, but there was a smile on her face as she said, “Trixie Belden, if the criminals we chase were half as sneaky as you are, they’d all commit perfect crimes and never get caught.”
“Why, what do you mean?” Trixie asked, her blue eyes rounded innocently.
“You know what I mean,” Honey said sternly. “Every time someone makes you promise to stay out of trouble, it turns out you’ve found a loophole that will let you go charging right ahead without breaking the promise.” Honey sighed. “I don’t suppose you have any tricky ideas for breaking our promise not to tell my parents
what we know, if we think we should.”
Trixie shook her head. “That’s one promise we have to keep, Honey. Remember what Dan said to us outside the library back in Sleepyside? If someone’s grown up poor and afraid, they’ve also built up a lack of faith in people that’s hard to overcome. You and I tend to trust people, because our experience tells us that most people are good and kind and will believe us when we tell them the truth. Regan’s only had that experience since he took the job with your parents. He still has a lot of mistrust to overcome. If your parents try to contact him—or worse yet, if they decide to bring the police or the racing association in on the case—Regan will run again. I’m sure of it.”
“I know all that,” Honey said. “But I know, too, that Regan’s chances of clearing himself aren’t helped by his own fear of being recognized. And our chances of clearing him are pretty dim; we’re fourteen-year-old girls who’ll be going up against some very tough customers.”
Trixie leaned her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes. “People always think detective work is just a matter of finding out what the truth is,” she said mournfully. “But in this case, we have more truths than we need. The problem is trying to figure out how to deal with them.” She lifted her head and looked at Honey resolutely. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “We’ll keep working on the case until this so-called vacation is over and it’s time for us to go back to Sleepyside. If nothing has fallen into place by then, we’ll have another discussion about telling your parents. How’s that?”
“I guess it’ll have to do,” Honey said reluctantly as the taxi pulled up in front of their hotel. “But from now on, I’m going to keep my fingers crossed whenever I make a promise.”
The Mystery at Saratoga Page 10
