Murder at the Races

by Carmen Radtke

  ‘You’d like him,’ he said. ‘Strong enough to carry two sheep under his arms and the sort of man who’d actually do that if they needed help.’

  ‘Good.’ She held up her cocktail shaker, a question in her eyes. ‘Martini?’

  ‘If you have enough. I assume you’re expecting Phil?’

  ‘He said he might drop in.’ A faint blush spread over her throat. It must be getting serious for her, then. Dolores, who’d been widowed just before the end of the war, hadn’t had a serious relationship since she met Phil Anderson, an old war mate of Jack’s, and, more importantly, her dead husband’s.

  The only stumbling block between them was the fact that Phil worked for the police and Dolores sang in a night club that served alcohol after booze became illegal every evening at the stroke of six o’clock. They seemed to have found their way around that issue, but Jack didn’t want to bet on it.

  Dolores poured the drinks. They clinked glasses as a rap on the door interrupted them.

  Dolores rushed to the door only to slow down at the last moment. She opened and leant against the frame. ‘Hello, darling,’ she said.

  Phil clasped her shoulders and kissed her with passion. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Hi, Phil,’ Jack said, before the situation became embarrassing for anyone.

  Phil shook his hand. ‘I should’ve known you’d come to Frances’s rescue.’

  ‘Somebody had to.’

  Dolores slipped away, giving them privacy.

  ‘Who do you think did it?’ Jack asked.

  ‘If it wasn’t Rob, I don’t know.’

  ‘You can’t suspect him.’

  Phil smoothed back his hair. ‘As a policeman, I can’t afford not to. It’s not about my emotions, just the facts.’

  ‘Good to hear. That’s what I’m after.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I need a list of the racecourse where the victim shooed the horses.’

  Phil blew out his breath. ‘That’s a tall order. I don’t think we would have looked to deeply. Not with a suspect in the cells.’

  ‘But you can do it.’

  ‘I’ll try. That’s the best I can say.’

  ‘I’ll take that. Also, jockeys.’

  Phil gave him a blank stare.

  ‘If anyone would remember a horse, it should be the jockey, right? Gait, colouring, mannerism, I’ll take anything. And they’d know their way around the stables and lodgings without anyone paying them attention.’

  ‘Fair point. But I’d have to have my superior’s permission, and he thinks Rob’s a dead cert for the murder.’ Phil motioned towards Jack’s cocktail. ‘Any of that left?’

  ‘Help yourself.’

  Phil sipped in silence. ‘Excellent drink.’

  ‘Dolores made it. And the sooner you tell me all you can, the sooner she can come out of her bedroom and entertain you.’

  That spurred Phil on. ‘You want the racing programmes. I don’t know if there’s an archive, but they shouldn’t be too hard to get hold off.’ Phil’s gaze flickered towards the bedroom door.

  ‘I’ll call in at the club tomorrow night with any information I have.’

  ‘Good-oh.’ Jack rose. ‘I appreciate that.’

  ‘Well, if the kid’s innocent, I’m only doing my job. If he’s guilty, I’m not doing any harm.’ Phil led Jack to the door and shook his hand again. ‘It’s good to have you back. Dolores was wearing a path in the carpet, but don’t tell her I said that.’

  Jack and Bluey’s network sprang into action overnight. They might be separated by thousands of miles, but the years in the trenches forged bonds they’d never forget. A summons from Captain Jack should be good enough to guarantee the spreading of information from coast to coast.

  They’d converted part of Jack’s office into a campaign headquarters. Marie had organised a huge map of Australia with pins marking bigger racecourses. Jack had decided they could ignore the small ones. Fraud was too risky to engage in for a handful of pennies. Everywhere they could be sure of a contact in place was marked with a note of the name pinned next to it. A list with more names sat on the desk, waiting to be handed over to Frances for research.

  Jack estimated if they reached ten men, or women thanks to Marie’s contacts, within 48 hours that number should easily quadruple. He didn’t fear any gossip reaching the wrong ears. A request from one veteran to another would assure no questions being asked.

  He yawned as he surveyed the map. Two men in Sydney and one each in Melbourne and Perth had already been contacted and promised to report back by nightfall.

  ‘Did you sleep at all? You look all in.’ Marie propelled him towards his chair.

  ‘Not a lot. First too much yacking with the family, and then, well, you know.’ He yawned again, prompting Marie to fetch a fresh pot of coffee. ‘Hot as hell and black as a mine pit,’ she said.

  He gulped it down, waiting for the energy surge to kick in. ‘How are the rehearsals going?’ he asked.

  ‘Uncle Sal’s act is going to be beaut,’ she said. ‘That is, if Frances doesn’t pull out. I wish I could step in, but Bluey almost blew his top.’

  ‘Fancy that. Not too keen to have someone throw knives at you, while he’s running after the littlees?’

  Marie pouted. ‘I don’t see what he’s fussing about. You’re not clucking over Frances like a broody mother hen.’

  Laughter rose in Jack’s throat, the first genuine laugh since he’d heard about Rob. ‘I leave that to Uncle Sal. And the rest?’

  ‘Will be just as you want it. We could have five times as many orchestras and sell at least twice as many seats.’ She sighed. ‘As much as I love the talkies, it’s a shame we don’t have the music anymore.’

  ‘True,’ he said. ‘Do we have any tickets left?’

  ‘Maybe a dozen. Why?’

  ‘Just a thought. Where’s Bluey?’

  ‘Yacking away with a cove at the garage, who used to drive horse floats to Morphettville.’ A sly grin spread over Marie’s face. ‘He’s taken the Rover to have the engine checked. His idea.’

  ‘I assume that’ll take a few hours.’

  ‘I can easily take over phone duty,’ Marie said. ‘Dolores is dead-set on showing you her new number, but she promised not to bother you.’

  ‘Who did she promise?’

  ‘Herself.’ Marie nudged him aside and sat down at his desk. ‘I’ll call you if anything happens.’

  Jack strolled towards the main room, so deep in thought he almost collided with a tuba player on his way to rehearsal.

  ‘Sorry,’ the man said. ‘She’s a bit unwieldy.’ He patted his instrument case.

  ‘No worries. How are things shaping up?’

  ‘Bonzer, Mr Sullivan.’ The man beamed. His clothes were at least one size too big but fitted too well when it came to length to have been hand-me-downs.

  ‘And the food and all the rest?’ Some men could be prickly when it came to accepting charity. Going hungry meant nothing to them compared to being considered a bludger, and with an unemployment rate close to thirty percent, having an empty belly wasn’t even considered a hardship.

  Jack found himself whistling a tune he’d heard only too often lately. Children sang it like a kind of nursery rhyme.

  The tuba player gave him a resigned shrug as he sang softly, ‘We’re on the susso now, we can’t afford a cow. We live in a tent, we pay no rent, we’re on the susso now.’ He stopped. ‘I’d be on the susso now if it weren’t for you.’

  Jack winced. The food-dole, as South Australia knew it, or susso was only available if people had been unemployed for a long enough period. Only then they’d be able to receive food vouchers for meagre enough rations.

  The employment Jack could offer the musicians covered a few weeks, which would then count against them when they applied for government help. All he could do was offer them decent pay, and decent meals. Marie sent the men home with food parcels, so their families could eat, but they couldn’t feed all o
f Adelaide.

  With the whole world starving, he could understand why people might be tempted to cheat on the racecourse. Murder though, and framing an innocent man, was in a different league.

  The tuba player peered at him. ‘Did I say anything wrong?’

  Jack clapped him on the back. ‘Just wool-gathering. Dolores happy?’

  ‘She’s the best singer I’ve ever met,’ the musician said. ‘Doesn’t need many cues and always has a smile for everyone. Not that she’d look at anyone but her fella.’

  ‘Good to hear,’ Jack said. ‘But I mustn’t keep you.’ He held the door open for the tuba player and followed him.

  On the stage, the orchestra was setting up. A small area was curtained off, as a private place for Dolores where she would warm her vocal cords or sit down for a spell. On another part of the stage, the silhouette drawn onto a door had been replaced by a seven feet tall wooden circle, with metal straps to hold Frances’s hands and feet in place. The circle wouldn’t spin, but even this should be enough for the thrill seekers.

  Jack wiped his brow with a handkerchief. They day was hot already, and soon the huge ceiling fans would blast.

  Dolores didn’t like them on when she rehearsed, although the whirr should be faint enough to be inaudible over the music.

  High heels clacked on the floor in a rhythm he’d recognise anywhere. He slowly turned around, to see Frances’s worried face before him. Uncle Sal too appeared drawn and tired. For the first time since he met him, the entertainer showed every year of his age.

  ‘Do you have any news?’ Frances asked.

  ‘Soon.’

  The orchestra picked up its first tune, one unfamiliar to Jack. That must be the number Dolores had fallen in love with.

  Uncle Sal tapped his feet.

  ‘We should watch her,’ Jack said. ‘Then we can talk.’

  Frances did her best to hide her disappointment, but gave in. ‘Sure,’ she said.

  They sat down on some of the chairs at the back of the room.

  Dolores swept onto the stage, a spotlight trained on the microphone and her face. Her dark eyes lit up as she saw Jack and she started to sing, ‘Dream A Little Dream Of Me’.

  Frances swayed in rhythm with the music.

  Jack made a mental note to purchase a recording of the song for his apartment. His supplier had a standing order to deliver all the latest music from the United States and Great Britain to Dolores, but Jack rarely bought them for himself. If he felt like listening to someone apart from Dolores, he could always knock on her door. That is, until lately. He’d arranged for a discreet signal when Dolores had a visitor. Since Phil’s arrival, the potted cactus on a two-tiered shelf next to her door sat on the lower shelf at least twice a week.

  Chapter Nine

  In Ballarat, veteran Arthur Dowling sniffed the pungent air. Horse sweat and jacaranda, mixed with fresh hay and baked soil might not be to everyone’s liking. For Arthur, they smelt sweeter than his old lady’s perfume.

  He lingered in the entrance to the boxes where he’d find his mate Curly. Nobody remembered his real name, thanks to his almost complete baldness as soon as he hit twenty. Curly had been a jockey when the war broke out. He’d planned on enlisting like the rest of them, when he took a tumble that broke his shoulder in enough places to leave him with a slightly stiff arm. Ever since, he’d worked as a stable lad for the Ballarat Turf Club.

  The rhythmic scrape of a horse brush told Art which box Curly worked in. He rapped softly on the wooden door, careful not to alarm the beautiful bay mare. She seemed calm enough, but one never could be sure with turf horses. Some lived on nerves and speed. Others were as placid as work horses.

  Arthur had worked alongside Curly once, for three glorious years. Nowadays he counted himself lucky to deliver groceries for a store twice a week.

  ‘Hiya, mate,’ he said. ‘That’s a real beauty you’re having there.’

  Curly twisted his neck without interrupting the brushing. ‘Art. What brings you here?’

  ‘I haven’t seen you for a while, and I kind of missed being around the horses. You know how it is.’ With the stable lad having been forced to spend the war at home, Arthur had no intention to bring up Bluey or Captain Jack.

  He held out his hand for the horse. She moved closer and rubbed her soft nose in his skin. ‘Is she racing?’

  ‘Why? You planning on having a flutter on the fillies?’ The mare neighed. Curly patted her neck. ‘Although this one is a proper racer.’

  ‘I would if I could be sure it’s all a fair go.’ Arthur shrugged. ‘Gets you thinking, this business in Adelaide.’

  ‘Too right it does.’ Curly put away the brush and replaced it with a hoof scraper. He lifted one hoof up on his knee, his stiff shoulder for one moment causing him to wince.

  ‘Can you imagine waltzing out of one arvo’s racing with your pockets full of cash?’

  ‘That’d be the day.’

  ‘Yeah. Not likely, is it.’ Arthur paused, to give Curly a pause for thought. It worked, because Curly said, ‘Mind you, there was this one race, on cup week, when that little brown mare came flying out of nowhere on the last few furlongs and left all the favourites in the dust. Odds of 85 to two, she paid.’ Curly had finished with the first hoof and lifted the second one.

  ‘Cup week, eh?’ That made sense, Arthur thought. Although Ballarat was more than one hundred miles away from Melbourne, the Ballarat Cup attracted every man and his dog. ‘Remember her name? In case she’s running when I’m off to see my brother in Geelong.’

  ‘Something boring, they’d called her. Lady Lilly or something like that. Not like his one.’ He set down the hoof.

  Arthur peered on the blackboard at the side of the box. ‘Mistral. Sounds nice.’

  ‘Yeah. It does.’

  ‘Which reminds me. My brother is mad keen on old racing programmes. Reads them like the bible. You wouldn’t be able to put your mitts on some?’

  ‘That shouldn’t be too hard.’ Curly gave him a sly glance. ‘I could bring some along to the pub tonight.’

  ‘Cheers, mate. Beer’s on me.’

  Arthur hurried to the post office. He had to be careful with his pennies, but Bluey had promised that Captain Jack would see them right, and he never broke a promise. If he had played his hand right with Curly, he’d also be able to send the material they were needing in Adelaide. That, together with the titbit about Lady Lilly, would go a long ways to pay back Captain Jack for saving Arthur’s life in January 1918, when he’d brought him down just as Arthur was going to leave the trench. He’d landed flat on his face, breathing in stinking mud, while bullets soared overhead.

  Marie whistled through her teeth as she typed out the notes from the three phone calls she’d received. That done, she slipped two pound-notes each in an envelope, addressed to her callers via their local post offices. She didn’t dare leave her post, so instead she’d entrust her oldest daughter, who dropped in after school for a chat and afternoon tea before going home, with posting them. Sophie loved the Top Note as much as her parents did, and if Marie had allowed it, all the staff would have spoilt her rotten. The post office was only a few minutes away, and everyone in the neighbourhood knew Sophie. She’d be safe with the money.

  When Sophie popped in, Marie put her typed notes away. Her daughter was the most level-headed nine-year old imaginable, but there was no need for her to know anything about fraud and murder and the fact that her parents had any part in playing sleuths. Sophie’s favourite book was the Hardy Boys’ mystery Captain Jack had given her for her birthday, but at her age, the excitement should be limited to fiction.

  ‘No cake today?’ Sophie fluttered her eyelashes at her mother as she placed her school bag in the corner. Her big blue eyes looked so much like her father’s that Marie had to smile.

  ‘There should be an apple crumble in the kitchen, all waiting for us. Can you please fetch it? And see if Daddy’s back?’

  ‘Right-oh.’ Sophie skipped t
hrough the door. Marie thought of Frances’s brother and his family. How terrified they must be. She could only hope and pray the answer to their troubles could be found in the information they were collecting.

  An hour later, Sophie was on her way home, and they held their first proper meeting. Frances held up well, Marie thought, considering the circumstances. She’d used powder to cover the dark smudges under her eyes, but she was calm and composed as she sat framed by Uncle Sal and Captain Jack.

  Bluey stood beside the map, pins at the ready.

  ‘We’ve heard back from Ballarat, Yarra Glen and Fremantle,’ Marie said. ‘The stories all sound the same. Unknown horses, with long odds and total winnings of a few thousand pounds each time.’

  ‘Since when?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Since the Easter races last year at the least.’

  ‘So, my contact in Melbourne was right,’ Frances said. ‘Something weird is going on at the racecourses.’

  ‘I guess they thought their old vet would become suspicious. That’s why they hired your brother instead. The blacksmith only came to Morphettville as a last-minute substitute.’ Jack flicked through Marie’s notes. ‘Yarra Glen is where he met your brother, and where he says the painted horse ran. Only it wasn’t called Alfie back then.’

  ‘Who could pull off this kind of fraud?’ Uncle Sal asked. ‘The trainer? The owner? The jockey?’

  Bluey cleared his throat.

  Jack give his right-hand man an encouraging nod.

  ‘From what I’ve learned, it depends,’ he said. ‘A trainer would see what filly has potential, but unless he travels along, there’s no way of telling if someone switched papers when they list them.’

  ‘Wouldn’t they see in which races the horse ran?’ Frances sat up a little straighter, Jack noticed with satisfaction. She’d always be a fighter,

  ‘Yes and no. My mate says it’s not too hard to say, the horse was off its feed or something and had to be scratched. The same goes for the owner. And the jockeys are lucky if they ride the same horse in more than a few races.’ Bluey gave Jack an apologetic look.