by Hall, Ian
“What?”
“Nothing,”
“Alice! No secrets, remember?”
She grinned wide. “We’ve got hooks in Möller.” She pumped her fist. “Because of you.”
I didn’t question her further; I didn’t like the possibility of her closing up on me. I walked away, knowing our fragile truce had reached stony ground; at that moment it needed nurturing, not conflict. Leaving her to her own message delivery, I busied myself on the Musselburgh Races story, ready for the Wednesday morning edition. I even managed a German connection. Seems the current Governor of Scotland, General Hermann Ullrich, was interested in the Gee-Gee’s too.
With the race meeting starting at noon, I’d arranged to present myself early at German HQ, and was pleasantly surprised when I noticed the increased security restrictions had been lifted; no getting escorted to Möller’s office, no silly questions at the gate.
I dropped a copy of The Scotsman on Möller’s desk just as he read a story of the German take-over of Grangemouth; I’d allowed a little too much detail into that piece, and I hoped the newspaper would deflect his concentration. “The whole third back page pulls out for a great racing section.”
“Excellent,” To my surprise he dropped the story and pulled the newspaper out to its full extent. Quickly finding the racing section, he stabbed the page excitedly. “Weit-veg Geist, in the 3.35. You must bet it, James, it is a German-trained horse, no one knows but we haff been hearing good times for his circuits.”
Man, not only had he called me ‘James’, but his usual diction had slipped. “Really?” I leaned in to see, but his constant tapping of the paper made the section unreadable.
“Your Scotsman gives the odds at eight to one.” He looked up animatedly. “Weit-veg Geist is better than that. It is his first time to run in Britain.”
I now treated every verbal sparring session with Captain Möller as a minefield, and a non-German speaking person would automatically ask for a translation. “What does it mean? The name.”
“Ah yes,” he looked up from the newspaper. “It’s in English here; Distant Ghost.”
‘Far away Ghost’ was a more literal translation, but I nodded my approval.
“He has been trained near Perth,” I almost laughed, the usually precise Captain had pronounced the town as ‘Perss’. I knew there was a racecourse up there.
“On the course?”
“Yes, he had been timed there, but secretly. This horse will win.” He locked eyes with mine. “But bet quickly, he will not start the race at eight to one. All the high-ranking German money will be on this one.”
I was back in the office by eleven thirty, and back out onto the street five minutes later. I crossed the road and walked down to the junction of Princes Street. I knew the number 21 tram to the coast would take me straight to Levenhall, its Musselburgh terminus.
I was on the racecourse lawns before half past twelve.
With the surfeit of German officers attending, the last person I expected to see was Balfour, pint in hand, standing on the grass, leaning on the newly-painted white railing. I crossed to his side and made as if to breathe the fresh air. “What you here for?”
He never flinched. “Keeping an eye on you,”
“As if…” Yet I didn’t know for certain he was joking.
“See the wee laddie standing giving out programs.”
I looked up slowly; saw a boy, near thirteen or so. “The one next to the finishing line?”
“That’ll be him. Take a good look; he’s our runner. Any word on anything, he’ll be there all day. Unless the balloon goes up.”
“You’ve got something planned?”
“Mum’s the word, old bean.” He finished his pint with a grand swallow. “Let’s just say that if the big-wig shows face, don’t sit too close.”
Holy crap. They planned to top the Governor. “Hey, I got news,” I almost wanted to grab his sleeve and stop him. “Jerry have a ringer in the fourth race; Distant Ghost.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Aye, Möller’s convinced he’s going to win, big German money on it. It’s been training at Perth.”
“Odds?”
“Eights, but it’ll topple as soon as proper betting starts, the Germans plan to throw the kitchen sink at it.”
“Okay. Message understood, Biggles. Don’t bet on it.”
I frowned, almost turning to look at him. Almost. “Why not?”
“‘Cause I’ve got men in the stables.”
Oh boy. It just went from bad to worse. Not only were they planning to assassinate the Governor of Scotland, but they were going to nobble their horse too. I almost smiled, but stood in silent contemplation. The coast of Fife was clear in the distance, its twin ‘paps’ showing distinctly. I’d received my initial training over there; it still held fond memories, although I hadn’t touched C4 since.
I roused myself, walked into the main enclosure, bought a beer, and sauntered out to the main betting board.
There high on a gantry stood the main board that all the individual bookies took their prices from. A huge board of chalked names, the numbers next to them changing as word spread out to the course’s bookies, then back again. Yes, it was a fixed system, but it worked. The more money that appeared for a horse determined its price for the race, the favorite being the money’s choice, not anything else.
“James!” I recognized Möller’s voice without turning around. He slapped me on the back, and peered at the boards. On the 3.35 race, Distant Ghost stood at ten to one. The favorite Percy’s Law was two to one. “Haff you bet yet?”
“No.”
“Then do so now, we are about to all bet.” He looked at his watch. Twelve forty-five is when we German’s bet.” So not only was it going to be a ringer, it was going to be a betting coup too.
“Okay.” I walked away, determined to risk a lowly pound on the German nag, praying that Balfour and his men would nobble it.
So much for a quiet day at the races.
The Distant Ghost
As I walked away from the bookie, three German officers almost knocked me over trying to bet their cash. I heard ten pounds twice and twenty pounds bet before the bookie sent his runner to the main board.
I watched him immediately scrub the ten from his own board, cancelling all further betting on the horse until he secured new information. In the meantime, his hands were relaying messages back and forth along the line in the private semaphore that only bookmakers know. Nodding at a hand-signal he marked Distant Ghost to eights, then immediately changed it again. Five to one.
And we were still three hours until that particular race. When I returned to the main board, the price had sharpened to seven to two favorite. I wondered how much money had been deposited at tens before the bookies realized that a coup was under way.
A quick look along the boards showed the favorites on the other races had also been shortened; the bookies were quick to close ranks, anything to mitigate their possible loss, balance their books for the day.
I bought another beer, then went to the paddock to have a look at the horses in the first race. Möller’s ticket had already taken me inside the stand, into the upper tier bar, and into the paddock. I silently thanked the Captain for his gift.
“You wanna program?”
I looked down to see the ‘runner’, his eyes looking up at me, begging me to take one. “Yes, thanks.”
He took one from the bottom of the pile, and passed it to me. “It’s been marked.” Then he set off to annoy everyone else, German officers too. As he weaved through the crowd, I saw him crash into people, stumbling on the turf. Then I saw his hand slip into a German pocket.
Damn.
I checked my wallet. Still there in my trouser pocket. Thinking of the boy’s dexterity, I slipped the wallet into my inside jacket pocket instead, and buttoned it snugly, lesson learned. I opened the program.
2.00 race.
A name had been ringed in pen; Dark Royal. EW.
Each, way. I looked around the paddock, found the number eight; not a bad looking horse. But being told to back it each way meant they weren’t completely certain it would win, but they were certain it would try; that was the key.
I watched it until about 1.50, and headed towards the bookies row.
Twelve to one.
I put five pounds each way on it, a ten pound stake, then retired to the stand to watch the race.
At a mile, the whole spectacle took little more than ninety seconds, and I watched the black and white colors of Dark Royal split from the pack around the halfway stage. I couldn’t help let out a roar.
“Dark Royal?” Möller’s voice rang into my ears along with the calls of half the stand, cheering their own horse’s home. The announcer’s voice over the speakers now vied for superiority with the rising cry of humanity.
“Aye!” I glanced at him, then back to the race, enthralled in the contest between my horse and a red rider on Lancastrian. “Come on!”
Damn it if Dark Royal wasn’t caught near the line.
“Ach, you lose.” Möller said as the crowd’s cheering died quickly.
“I had it each way.” I nodded, not altogether unhappy with the result; the race had given me a lift, a distraction from the norm that only sporting events can. “I’ll still double my money on the place.”
“Excellent!” he clapped excitedly, making me a little embarrassed. “Will you join me in the bar?”
“Aye, sure. Thank you.” I mean, what else could I say; he’d gifted me the ticket, and I’d just won two weeks wages on my first race.
The bar in question turned out to be the ‘Members Suite’, and he preened himself as he led me through the throng of German senior staff. Heck a bomb here would have more damage to the Nazi war effort than the one in the Ritz.
“Your poison?” Möller asked, his diction perfect as usual.
“I’ll have a short, thank you,”
“Ah, perfect for putting it over the neck quickly,” he stumbled slightly over the phrase, as if he hadn’t practiced its delivery. “To get back to the nags.”
“Exactly!” I replied, with far more enthusiasm than I felt. The idea of him dominating my whole afternoon loomed heavy on the horizon.
“So. Is it scotch?”
“Eh, yes.”
“What do you recommend?”
I glanced along the top shelf, determined if I was to get shanghaied with his company, he’d pay for it. “Talisker, please.”
“Two Talisker!” he said far too loudly, but the bartender didn’t raise an eyebrow, just jumped to the task.
“Three!” a voice behind me called. I turned to see Major Stegen, his usual Gestapo uniform covered by a long black leather coat. Considering the day was already quite balmy, he didn’t show the heat. “I will also join ze party.”
Möller clipped his heels in salute, but surprisingly Stegen waved his gesture away. “Haff you been lucky today, Herr Baird?”
My nerves were losing the battle in the ‘uncomfortable stakes’, but I smiled thinly. “A second place, Herr Major,” I emphasized the German pronunciation of his rank. “You?”
“Ah, I haff more earthly pursuits.” The whisky’s arrived, and Stegen hit the bar with a five pound note, leaning between us. I could sense Möller’s awkwardness in his stance and thin-lipped expression. We all took our glasses. “A toast, gentlemen?”
I could have toasted a bomb right then and there to take me out of my misery.
But Möller toadied well, making up for my reluctance. “Your privilege, Herr Major.”
The German gestapo bastard raised his glass, looking at me intently. “Let us toast Herr Baird’s recent incarceration.”
Oh shit, double barreled, double entendre, and coming my way. With a fleeting thought of the Jews cremated at Carstairs, I could swear I didn’t flinch a fraction of an inch.
“Incarceration?” Möller quizzed.
Stegen stole his glare from me, annoyance fleetingly slipping over his face. “Why, yes. He is recently married, yes? Zerr iss no more complete incarceration, surely.”
My face smiled, leaving my emotion far behind. I raised my glass further. “My recent incarceration, it is.”
I swilled the nectar around my glass twice, then poured it straight over my throat like a knife thrust.
Stegen’s participation was far more labored. He leaned between us, putting his empty glass firmly on the bar. “Good day, gentlemen.”
As he wove through the room, I made note that he already knew of my wedding; I was on his watch-list, and he’d just made that point abundantly clear. Suddenly the whole room seemed to close around me, and the voices rang like fingers raked across a chalk board.
“Time for the second race, no?” Möller saved me.
“Yes, Captain. Time for a visit to the paddock.”
“And to collect our winnings!”
It took me a few seconds to process his statement. “You won?”
“I also bet each way, but on the third horse.” And yet he’d never shown one iota of emotion as the horses had neared the line. I’d learned a good deal about the man in the last few minutes.
As we weaved to the betting stalls and Möller veered away to another stall, I got a chance to glance at my program; nothing marked for this race. I looked at the board, finding no name vying for my attention. I accepted my twenty pounds from the man, and handed a fiver back. “Five on the favorite.”
“Five pounds on Tipsy Kate at six to four, ticket six-eight-three.” the bookie rang out, and the man beside him wrote it all down in a huge journal.
“Slip it,” the man replied softly, and the bookie bent to his board, rubbing out my price, replacing it with a slightly tighter eleven to eight. Again, the bookie balancing his books; unless the German coup worked, he’d make money that day. The bookmaker never loses.
“Your horse?” Möller asked once we’d settled a position in the stand. He took a small pair of binoculars from a case on his hip, and glared into the distance.
“Tipsy Kate, the favorite.”
“Ach, me also! Red cap, green tunic.” His expression was fleetingly wistful. “My mother is called Katherine.”
As the announcer called the start of the race, I watched the distant colors round the turn and begin to race towards us. Tipsy Kate took the lead at the end of the turn, and never gave it up for a second. Our horse romped home half a mile in front, and we cheered our good fortune as we stepped down out of the stand, Möller leading the way. A man buffeted me, and steady hands held onto my shoulders for a split second. “Get him drunk.”
I stumbled from his grip, and followed the Captain’s back.
I hadn’t recognized the man, but my day at the races had turned into a mission, and it involved drinking. I steeled myself for the next passage of conversation; hopefully my years of enforced delinquency would stand me in good stead.
We began a pattern of race-bar-bookies-paddock, and I made sure I ordered and paid the next round, upping the ante. “Two Glenfiddich eighteen year old, and two half’s of Fowlers Wee Heavy.”
By the 3.35, I was already beginning to feel the effects, and Möller looked to be the same, his movements wilder, his usually perfect diction slipping more often.
I had avoided the German horse, yet told Möller I had put a fiver on it. My money lay with the original favorite called Percy’s Law.
Well, damn it all if my choice beat the field, leaving the German horse in a distant fourth place. “I don’t understand it!” Möller railed, ripping his ticket into small pieces.
So we drowned our sorrows and I collected my winnings two races later, so as not to alert him to my deceit. By five o’clock, we were leaning on the common man’s bar, Möller looking far worse than I felt. Two women appeared out of nowhere, dressed flimsily, waving hands, making it very obvious they were ours for the taking if we wanted. Carol and Marie.
Seconds later I could hear Carol asking poor Möller how long it had been sinc
e he’d had any.
Due to the effects of the alcohol, Möller’s aloofness fell in seconds, unbelievably making lewd suggestions, buying everyone more drink. As Carol busied herself whispering sweet nothings into Möller’s attentive ear, Marie leaned in closer to me, her hands busy. “It’s all planned. We’ll suggest a new venue, you just play along.”
Oh, God. I was in the middle of a sting.
It only took another drink, a mention of a quieter place, and we were walking away from the racetrack along the walled street, the last race completely forgotten. With my arm around Marie’s waist, we followed Möller and Carol. “You’ll be served cold tea,” Marie said into my ear, then kissed me deeply as we walked. I swear I almost veered into the wall in confusion. “We have to make it real.” She grinned wickedly as Möller and Carol looked back at us, laughing.
I remember a tall white-washed building, and the strong smell of cigarette smoke as we entered.
Then the sobering taste of cold tea. Three times.
I guessed that Möller was getting whisky. He now was kissing Carol openly in the crowded bar. When his hands wandered to her considerable bosom, the girls nodded to each other, and we went upstairs away from the throng.
Considering I’d never had illicit sex before, and probably compounded by the alcohol, I felt a deer-in-the-headlights for most of the proceedings. Two single beds dominated the room, and initially Möller seemed to be intent on getting to business fully clothed. Carol, on the other hand, was having nothing of it. As Marie and I rolled like extras on stage on the other bed, most of our attention on the drunken German, Carol soon got him down to his underpants. I almost blushed when she tore the final vestiges of modesty away.
As soon as he’d positioned himself between her legs and began performing, Marie got up and opened the room door. Two men entered, and proceeded to take pictures as Marie and Carol encouraged Möller to further heights of passion. To my surprise he took to the task like a leading actor on stage, completely oblivious to the flashbulbs going off nearby.
Then a large man appeared, a smug smile on his face. “Nice day for it.” He turned to the photographers. “Are we done here?”
