by John Birkett
“His owner seems to think he’s got a chance,” Rhineheart said.
Murphy shrugged. “Lots of dreams floating around out here. Lot of dreamers.”
“You know Kingston?”
“I see him around,” Murphy said. “We don’t exactly move on the same social levels.”
“What about Taggert?”
“Same thing. Why are you asking about them two?”
“No special reason. Just interested.”
“You on a . . . case, or something?”
“Something.”
“Word around here is that Taggert and Kingston can’t stand each other’s guts.”
“How come?”
Murphy shrugged. “There’s some bad blood between them. Goes back in the past. Something to do with a mare one of them owned.”
“What do you think about Taggert’s horse?”
“Calabrate? He’ll be one of the favorites. Got a real shot, run a big race in the Wood. Personally though, I like this here horse—” Murphy pointed at a dark gray whose rider was standing straight up in his stirrups. “Blustering.”
Murphy began to explain why he liked Blustering, but Rhineheart wasn’t listening. He was looking around for Taggert and Gilmore. They had disappeared.
Rhineheart was walking back to his car when he noticed a flurry of activity around Barn 41, the building where all the Derby horses were stabled.
Eight to ten reporters and photographers were grouped around a figure he recognized.
Duke Kingston.
Kingston looked as if he were posing for a cover of Gentleman’s Quarterly. He wore a cashmere sportcoat and linen trousers and a scarf tied around his neck. He was being interviewed and a cameraman with a minicam on his shoulder was filming the scene.
Rhineheart was too far away to be noticed, but close enough to overhear. The perfect position for a private eye.
“Where’s Royal Dancer right now, Mr. Kingston?” a reporter asked.
Kingston gestured in the direction of the backstretch. “He’s out on the track, working out.”
“How’s he coming up to the race?” someone asked.
“Supah,” Kingston said. “Just supah.”
“How about you, sir?”
“I’m doing okay, too.”
Everyone laughed.
“What kind of chance do you think he has on Saturday?”
“Just a small one,” Kingston said. “Everything depends on the pace. If it’s slow and Dancer gets out there and Julio gives him the sort of ride he’s capable of, why then we think we might have a chance to steal some part of the purse money, maybe get on the board anyway.”
“Don’t you really mean, Mr. Kingston, that you might have a chance to win?”
“Of course.”
“How do you feel about your horse being a long shot?”
“I’m glad Royal Dancer can’t read the odds board.”
“Is Dancer the best three-year-old colt you’ve ever had, Mr. Kingston?”
Kingston shook his head. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll see about that come Saturday, won’t we?”
“Can your colt go a mile and a quarter, Mr. Kingston?”
“We think he can, yes. Again though, we won’t know for sure until after the race is over.”
“Mr. Kingston, your horse is known for his early speed. Aren’t you afraid that when the time comes he’ll have nothing left for the stretch run?”
“Son, when you been in the racing game as long as I have, you either stop being afraid of all the possible consequences, or else you get out of the business.”
“Mr. Kingston, can you tell us something about—”
Rhineheart spun on his heel and headed for the exit, shaking his head with a kind of sneaking admiration. Kingston was something. A high-level bullshitter. He had handled one question after another deftly and easily. His voice and his gestures were assured and decisive. Whatever else he was, Rhineheart thought, the man had presence, style.
Rhineheart drove home and went back to sleep for a few hours. He woke at noon, showered, shaved, and dressed. He drank a cup of coffee and read the morning paper. He was on the editorial page and his second cup when the telephone rang.
It was Karen Simpson.
“I thought maybe you might like to come over and interrogate me some more.”
“I’m going to be busy today, babe. But I’ll try to make it.”
“You promise?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
She giggled and hung up. Rhineheart dialed the office.
McGraw answered the phone.
“Rhineheart Investigations. McGraw speaking.”
“Morning, McGraw.”
“Morning! Are you serious? It’s twelve-thirty. Don’t tell me you’re just now getting up. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. No self-respecting private eye would sleep as late as you do, Rhineheart.”
The best way to handle McGraw’s lectures, Rhineheart had discovered, was to ignore them.
“I get any calls?”
“Negative. What time are you coming in?”
“Later on,” Rhineheart said.
“I love how specific you are. Precise.”
“You going to be there?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve got a class at four.”
McGraw was into adult education courses. “Sociology?”
“Tai kwan do.”
“That shit won’t do you any good in a street fight,” Rhineheart said. “The thing you want to do if someone messes with you is pick up something—a bottle, a brick, whatever it takes.”
“Is that the Michael P. Rhineheart theory of self-defense?”
“It’s no theory. It’s the real thing.”
“You going to see Jessica Kingston again?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s she want to see you about?”
“No idea.”
“Well, be careful.”
“I’m always careful,” Rhineheart said.
“She’s out of your league, Rhineheart.”
“Thanks for the advice, McGraw.”
“And Rhineheart?”
“Huh?”
“Let her pick up the check. She can afford it.”
“Good-bye, McGraw.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“I think my husband’s considering offering you a job, Mr. Rhineheart. He was very impressed with you.”
Rhineheart took a sip of his drink. Jessica Kingston, who sat across the table, was wearing a light-colored summer dress. She looked terrific.
They were in the bar off the lobby of the Seelbach. It was an old-timey and elegant hotel, the kind of place that had a doorman who wore top hat and tails. F. Scott Fitzgerald had written about the Seelbach. Gatsby had taken Daisy to a dance there.
“I saw him this morning,” Rhineheart said.
“Duke?”
“Out at the track. He was holding a press conference. He handled himself very well.”
“Duke can be quite charming.”
“I’ll bet.” Rhineheart lit a cigarette. “What kind of a job?”
Jessica Kingston shook her head. “I have no idea. Something in your line. I should think. Maybe he wants you to spy on me. That’d be quite a task, Mr. Rhineheart. You’d have to follow me around, go where I go, see who I see. You’d have to stick close to me.”
“Sounds pretty good.”
“What a nice thing to say. Are you flirting with me, Mr. Rhineheart?”
“I guess I am. Do you mind?”
Jessica Kingston shook her head. “I’m rather enjoying it.”
Be cool, Rhineheart told himself. Remember who she is and who you are. Don’t make any dumb moves.
“Actually,” he said, “what your husband’s probably looking for is another security consultant. Like Mr. Borchek.”
Jessica Kingston laughed merrily. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“And I’ve already got a job.”
“Duke thinks he can
buy everybody who walks in the door,” she said. “Apparently, he was wrong about you.”
“What did you want to see me about, Mrs. Kingston?”
She raised an eyebrow. “As always, you get straight to the point, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
She said, “Why not, indeed. I asked you here, Mr. Rhineheart, because I have some information for you. It concerns Cresthill Farms and possibly Carl Walsh. It may be of some help to you in your investigation.” She paused. “How much do you know about thoroughbreds, Mr. Rhineheart?”
“Not much.”
“Do you know what foal papers are?”
“No.”
Jessica Kingston removed a manila envelope from her purse and withdrew from it a neatly folded piece of paper. She unfolded the paper and handed it to Rhineheart. “This is the foal registration certificate on a Cresthill mare who died a few years back. I brought it with me to show you what foal papers look like.”
It was an official-looking document with scrolled borders, approximately the same size and shape (9 by 9, rectangular) as a share of IBM he had once caught a fleeting glimpse of. The front side of the document read:
THE JOCKEY CLUB CERTIFICATE OF FOAL REGISTRATION
This is to certify that the bay filly named SEA PRINCESS
foaled SEP 21, 1964
Out of FISHGAL
by SEAFARER
by PRINCE SURF
is duly registered by the Jockey Club.
Marks: Small star—forehead. Crescent-shaped scar—right forefoot. Discoloration—right hind pastern.
Issued to: CRESTHILL FARMS
Bred by: CHARLES “DUKE” KINGSTON
Foaled in: KENTUCKY
Rhineheart turned the paper over. The reverse side was divided into two sections, an official record of races won on the North American continent, and a space for recording all transfers and sales of the registered animal.
While he looked it over Jessica Kingston filled him in on the significance of foal certificates. Every thoroughbred in North America had one. They were issued by the Jockey Club in New York. Racetracks used foal papers to identify the different horses stabled on the grounds. Foal papers had to be on file in the racing secretary’s office before a horse could run at a particular track. This rule applied to all horses and all races. If a horse’s foal papers were missing he would not be allowed to race.
Rhineheart looked up from the document.
She nodded. “Royal Dancer’s foal certificate is missing, Mr. Rhineheart. It was discovered missing last Wednesday, the same day that Carl Walsh disappeared.”
“This mean that Royal Dancer’s not going to be allowed to run in the Derby?”
She shook her head. No, she said, fortunately there was a procedure for getting copies of missing foal papers. It was complicated and expensive and somewhat time-consuming. It involved long-distance communication between the Jockey Club in New York, and the racing secretary’s office here, and thank God, that was being taken care of. Nevertheless, the original certificate was missing, and she had decided to tell Rhineheart about it on one condition. He had to promise not to tell anyone about the missing certificate, and above all not let her husband know that he knew about it.
“He wants to keep it a secret?”
She nodded. “From everyone he can. He’s afraid that the press might find out about it, and that Cresthill could receive some adverse publicity.”
“How would a missing foal certificate result in bad publicity?”
“In Duke’s view any publicity about the racing stable that isn’t favorable, is adverse.”
“You said the paper’s been gone since Wednesday. You think Walsh took it?”
“I don’t know. I do know that Carl Walsh had access to it. The paper was in John Hughes’s car on Wednesday. He was getting ready to bring it over to the racing secretary’s office. The car was parked by the barn. Walsh was in the vicinity.”
Walsh, Rhineheart remembered, had been seen talking to Howard Taggert the day before. Did that mean that Taggert might have something to do with the missing paper?
“Any chance that Howard Taggert’s involved?”
Jessica Kingston looked surprised. “Howard Taggert?”
“He and your husband are enemies, aren’t they?”
She nodded reluctantly. “Yes, I suppose so, but—”
“Tell me why they hate each other.”
“It’s a long complicated story, and even I don’t know all the details. Duke and Howard Taggert were partners once. They owned a broodmare together: Somethinglovely. She’s the dam of Royal Dancer. She also happens to be the foundation mare on which Cresthill Farms has built its racing stable. Taggert claims Duke swindled him out of the mare. Duke says it was an honest transaction. They don’t speak to each other anymore. Taggert hates Duke and everything connected to Cresthill Farms, including me, I suppose. But I have no idea if he would stoop to stealing foal papers.” She signaled the waitress. “Perhaps when you find Mr. Walsh you might ask him.”
If I find him, Rhineheart thought.
The waitress came over to the table. Jessica Kingston ordered a second martini. The waitress, who had red hair, asked Rhineheart if he wanted another drink, or anything else. He said no thanks. She asked Rhineheart if he was sure. When he said he was, she looked disappointed. After she left, Jessica Kingston said, “The waitress seems quite interested in you, Mr. Rhineheart.”
He shrugged. “She’s probably wondering what I’m doing in here. This place is a little too nice for private-eye types.” In truth, Rhineheart was pretty much wondering the same thing. What was he doing here on a spring afternoon in the plush bar of a grand old hotel sitting across the table from a rich and beautiful woman? He had a case to solve, and he should have been out in the streets, detecting, running down leads, taking care of business.
“I haven’t asked you about the investigation yet. Are you any closer to finding Carl Walsh?”
Rhineheart shrugged. “That’s hard to say. I’ve been followed. I got shot at the other night, and everyone’s been lying to me. So I must be doing something right.”
“You got shot at?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What did you do when they shot at you?”
“Shot back.”
“You carry a gun then?”
Rhineheart nodded.
“May I see it?”
“I guess so,” Rhineheart said. He took the weapon out of his shoulder holster and handed it to her. Her slim well-manicured fingers encircled the grip.
“It’s big, isn’t it?” she said. “What kind of a gun is it?”
“Colt Python. Six shots.”
“Is it powerful?”
He shrugged. “It’s a .357 Magnum. It does the job.”
“I bet it does,” she said. She handed it back to him carefully. Their eyes met. She smiled.
He put the gun back in his holster. I better get the hell out of here, he thought, before I make a bad move. He stood up.
“One more thing, Mr. Rhineheart.” Jessica Kingston took a white envelope out of her purse and handed it to Rhineheart. “It’s an invitation to my party,” she said. “Thursday at nine. At Cresthill. I’d very much like you to come.”
“Sure,” Rhineheart said. “It’d be a pleasure. Can I bring someone?”
“Of course.”
“Her name is McGraw.”
“Bring anyone you like, Mr. Rhineheart.”
“If I run across those foal papers, Mrs. Kingston, I’ll let you know.”
“I’d be grateful, Mr. Rhineheart.”
“Good afternoon.”
“Take care, Mr. Rhineheart.”
This is ridiculous, Rhineheart thought, as he turned and walked out of the place. He was supposed to be the tough, sophisticated private eye, and his heart was booming in his chest like a goddamn kid on his first day at school.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was midafternoon when Rhineheart got back to
his office. McGraw had lunch—hamburger, fries, milk shake—spread across her desk.
“I thought you were into health food,” Rhineheart said.
“Big Macs aren’t healthy?”
“That shit’ll rot your gut.”
“How nicely put.”
“How was your date last night?”
McGraw made a face. “Don’t ask.”
“That bad, huh?”
McGraw nodded. “It’s the reason I’m stuffing myself with this junk. I’m a tragedy eater. I eat when I’m depressed.”
“I get any calls?”
“One. From someone named Farnsworth. He said he’d call back. He called me ‘girlie.”’
“Be nice to him,” Rhineheart said. “He’s the guy I told you about from the old days. He’s working for us.”
“How was lunch with Jessica Kingston?”
“It wasn’t bad.”
McGraw gave Rhineheart a look. “You really go for her, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “She’s okay.”
Rhineheart sorted through the mail on his desk. There was a check from Channel 6. He gave it to McGraw. “Deposit that when you get a chance, and write yourself a check for last week’s pay.”
“What about this week’s pay?”
“Next week.”
“Of course. I should have known.” She looked him over. “You get shot at, or beat up recently? I’m talking about the last twelve hours or so.”
Rhineheart headed for the door. “I’ll be back.”
“I’ll be in my martial arts class,” McGraw said. “You going to be at O’Brien’s later?”
“Maybe.”
“Guess what’s playing at the Vogue tonight?”
“McGraw, I’m a busy man. I got to find a missing person and now it turns out there’s some missing papers.”
“What papers?”
“I’ll tell you about it later. I don’t have time now. And I don’t have time to be going to the movies.” Rhineheart pulled open the door, then stopped. “What’s playing?”
“The Sea Wolf.”
God damn. Edward G. and John Garfield. Ida Lupino. Directed by Michael Curtiz. From a script by Robert Rossen.
“What time?”
“Starts at nine-thirty.”
“If I can make it,” he said, “I’ll call you.”
