Murder at the Races

by Carmen Radtke

  Mike Dunne had welcomed them and handed them over to his Italian assistant, Pete Lucca. Apart from his jet-black hair and pencil-thin moustache and a penchant for natty clothes, Mr Lucca looked no different from his Anglo-Saxon counterparts. Uncle Sal tried a few Italian phrases that Pete didn’t understand. His parents had done their best to become proper Australians. Making sure their children spoke only English was part of that plan.

  He burst with energy as he took Jack and Frances on another tour of the rooms they would use, and other rooms off-limits to them. Since these were only maintenance and tack rooms, apart from the stable blocks, Frances didn’t mind.

  ‘Here’s our doctor’s practice.’ Pete knocked on a wooden door with a hard-worn rush mat outside it. When no answer came, he said, ‘Our doc spends most hours with the jockeys. One or two of them always manage to bust themselves up.’

  ‘Is he only working days?’ Jack scratched his chin. ‘We can’t afford anyone to take a tumble and no doctor around. I’ll have to bring one from town, then.’

  ‘No need for that. If he has a patient who needs more than a bandage and an aspirin, he stays overnight. If you offer him a few quid, he’ll be all yours.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ Jack said. ‘Are you here every day?’

  ‘The boss is doing a lot of business in town, and he travels a lot,’ Pete said. ‘Do you have any idea how many racing and turf clubs there are in Australia? Hundreds.’

  Jack whistled through his teeth. ‘And they all work together?’

  ‘Depends on who and where, but, yeah, it’s a big job. And our cup alone is one of Australia’s biggest race days. We’re not Fremont in Melbourne, but we’re holding our own.’

  They trotted back to the ball room, Frances a step behind the men in her role as overlooked woman.

  ‘Pity when there’s a whiff of scandal,’ Jack said. ‘Or is it good for business?’

  Did Pete stiffen for a heartbeat?

  ‘Nothing has been proven about the horse, if that’s what you’re driving at,’ he said. ‘Morphettville has one of the cleanest records everywhere.’

  ‘I think it’s amazing how you tell all these horses apart.’ Frances lowered her voice by half an octave.

  ‘There are records for every single racer, with their age, height, colours and so on. But of course, it’s impossible to make sure there is no fraud attempt at all. Same as you can’t be sure about humans.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Jack said. ‘Back in ’19, there was one woman who cashed in from the Repat for three injured sons. They’d all looked alike, apart from the odd difference. No-one doubted her until a clever bloke took a close look at the files and wondered about them all losing the right leg and catching a lung full of gas.’

  ‘Despicable,’ Pete said. He unlocked the office door. ‘Give me a shout if you need anything.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Jack said.

  Bluey and Tony were almost finished.

  Pauline and Uncle Sal put the wheeled chair together. They’d built a second one, because at Morphettville, they would rehearse without Signorina Francesca as target. Playing one role would be difficult enough, and Frances needed to be around as Jack’s secretary.

  They’d rehearse with her back at the Top Note.

  ‘What do you say?’ Tony stepped back to show them his layout. The dais would be high enough to allow an observer to keep an eye out for anyone passing by, on their way to and from the office. ‘Good enough for Miss Whitford to sit and take notes?’

  Jack lifted Frances in the air, taking her by surprise. ‘This is about the height we could achieve without being obvious,’ he said.

  She peered through the transom window. Lucky for them, Morphettville had sprung for clear glass. At the right angle she could see enough of the hallway to cover that approach to the office. If someone came along using the back entrance, they needed another observation spot.

  ‘It works,’ she said. ‘But only for this side.’

  Jack gently lowered her again. ‘We’re having the cloak room scrubbed and manned. Tony’ll do it once we’ve set up here.’

  ‘Tony?’ Pauline stared at her fiancé. ‘Maybe I should do it.’

  He grinned at her. ‘With all these men running around, I don’t think so. Besides, Rob’s my mate too.’

  ‘It would be good to know how many staff we’re talking about,’ Jack said. ‘The kitchen team should have an idea.’

  ‘Marie will take care of that,’ Bluey said. He pushed himself into an upright position and wiped the chalk off his hands. ‘She can get anyone to talk, that woman can.’

  ‘True.’ Jack pointed at Bluey’s knees. ‘You better dust yourself off before you pick her up.’

  Bluey patted a cloud of chalk dust off his clothes.

  They’d hired a delivery van to transport props, instruments and, once the set-up was complete, the musicians.

  Currently it stood outside the entrance, with a grand piano and a drum set yet to be brought in. Once that was done, Bluey would return to town to fetch Marie for a quick run-through. They’d agreed to leave her at home or at the Top Note as much as possible. Apart from minding her children, even with the aid of parents, there was also the day to day business of the club, and Dolores needed company as well, to keep her thoughts off everything that could go wrong.

  Realistically, they all couldn’t afford to spend more than a few hours a day at Morphettville, so they had to be creative.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Marie appeared as Jack and Uncle Sal nailed the last boards for the dais into place. All they needed now was three steps leading up to it. It made it easier for the musicians to climb up, and it allowed Dolores a dramatic moment when she would shimmy up to the microphone and down again.

  The swing chair would be tested at the Top Note and brought over at a later date. Pauline had volunteered to try it out, in case something went wrong. If Dolores so much as twisted an ankle, they’d be in trouble.

  Marie brought cold pies and salads, which she dished up before she sought out the kitchen to make tea, a cloth-covered basket in her hand. Frances went along, to help. She hoped for a quiet moment to chat. She practiced Miss Whitford’s voice, and her walk as well, and using it on Marie would be as good as a dress rehearsal.

  One rosy-cheeked cook and her elderly helper, a former jockey judging by his diminutive stature and slight whiff of stable, prepared food in the kitchen. The cook stirred a stew, and the man peeled potatoes.

  Frances knocked on the open door, to announce them.

  ‘Hello?’ Marie beamed at the kitchen staff. ‘That smells bonzer.’

  The cook inhaled the stew fragrance. ‘Not bad, if I say so myself. You with the fancy outfit?’

  ‘I promise we’ll do out best not to get in the way,’ Frances said. ‘We were hoping to boil the kettle, that’s all.’

  ‘And to introduce ourselves.’ Marie lifted the cloth off the basket. ‘I’ve brought sponge cake and a fruit loaf.’

  The helper’s gaze fell greedily upon the offerings.

  The cook caught his interest and guffawed. ‘Look at that poor toad. Twenty years of hardly a morsel, and he’s still making up for it.’

  ‘As long as he can appreciate his food now.’ Marie twinkled at them both as she and Frances set their offerings on the work bench. She filled a kettle and put it on a small stove away from the big range the cook was using. ‘It must be hard to serve up a stew like this, and no-one allowed to enjoy it the way he would.’

  ‘Too right it is. But at least there’s some having more than one bite.’ The cook wiped her hands on her apron and took a knife out of a drawer. With deft movements, she sliced the fruit loaf into even pieces of about an inch.

  ‘I hope I’ve made enough for everyone,’ Marie said.

  Frances forgot to breathe while she waited for the answer.

  ‘That’ll do us for sure,’ the cook said. ‘Like I said, the jockeys don’t eat much, for fear they’ll get too heavy, and then there’s
only a dozen stable lads and trainers, the doctor, and the office staff who eat cake.’ She patted her stomach. ‘It’ll go down a treat if it’s half as good as it looks.’

  ‘I’ve met Mr Dunne and Mr Lucca,’ Frances said. ‘Do they have lots of assistants?’

  ‘One typist, and an accountant,’ the cook said. ‘And occasionally we have additional typists coming from the employment agencies to help with the busiest times, like Christmas.’

  The kettle boiled. Marie filled the two thermos canisters she’d brought in the basket. ‘I hope you don’t mind us popping in now and then.’

  ‘You’re always welcome,’ the cook said. ‘Nice to have new people to chat with.’ She lowered her voice. ‘It’s not easy as the only female around, believe me.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ Marie smiled as Frances took the basket.

  Frances had to remind herself to keep up Miss Whitford’s brisk, efficient gait. Inwardly, she felt like skipping. She’d feared a list of staff a mile long. Instead, they had less than twenty names they needed to find out. If they had those, they could start whittling them down once the racing programmes from Jack and Bluey’s connections arrived.

  She paused.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Marie gave her a concerned look.

  ‘The colicky horse,’ Frances said. ‘Rob was worried sick about him.’

  ‘Leave it to me.’ Marie deposited the thermos canisters in the basket and hurried to the kitchen.

  ‘It’s me again,’ Frances heard her say. ‘I’ve got a cousin in the country whose horse got into the apple orchard. That can be dangerous for an animal, right?’

  Frances didn’t hear the answer, because it would have looked too peculiar to stand like a statue in the hallway, the basket in her hand.

  Marie took only a few moments to follow her.

  ‘Smoke-oh,’ Marie called out as soon as they were back. She set out cups and saucers and filled them with strong tea.

  ‘What did the cook say?’ Frances asked.

  ‘The horse is fine. They haven’t had an animal die since one of them broke a leg on the home stretch.’

  ‘That’s good.’ A little of the tension in Frances’s stomach melted away. Knowing he’d saved his patient would cheer Rob up. Tony would see him in the afternoon, when Bluey would take them all home.

  ‘How does it work?’ Frances asked as she removed her wig. Her own hair was matted underneath and sticky with sweat.

  ‘How does what work?’ Jack slip open a thick brown envelope and shook it. Out fell a wad of racing programmes.

  ‘That.’ Frances picked up the first one. Fremont racecourse, Easter 1930. A note in pencil said, winner race five, day one, odds 125 to two. ‘The betting. Do you have to be there in person, or can you phone up, or send a note?’

  ‘In which case you wouldn’t have to be there.’ Jack gave her a quick kiss, something he didn’t do too often in public.

  ‘On the other hand, if you have to be there, the bookie who sold the betting slip planted in Rob’s room, would recognise him.’ She massaged her scalp. She needed a shower, after she’d finished her meandering train of thoughts.

  ‘Because no-one could claim he’d have risked sending another person in his stead, especially since they all thought he was a newcomer to Adelaide.’ Jack’s eyes sparkled. ‘You’re absolutely right.’

  Uncle Sal had listened in silence. Now he chimed in. ‘If the slip is real, and not a fake.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Frances said.

  ‘Well, as soon as the hullaballoo started, people would look dodgy with those huge wins on a nag that should have come in last. You’d throw them away, wouldn’t you? Or tear ‘em up or burn ‘em.’ Uncle Sal’s gaze travelled from Frances to Jack. ‘It would be good to have a gander at that slip, or Tony could ask Rob if he remembers which bookie it was from. It would also be good to have an idea which bookies sold bets on the painted horse.’

  Frances hugged Uncle Sal. ‘You’re the smartest, most wonderful man in the world.’

  Uncle Sal winked at Jack. ‘Don’t you forget that when these young fellows come along.’

  ‘I’m no match for you,’ Jack said. ‘The question is, who do we sound out, without setting off alarm-bells?’

  ‘I wish the police would do their job.’ Frances stuck out her bottom lip. It might be unfair to Phil, but he could have done more.

  ‘Who would a bookmaker talk to?’ she asked.

  ‘Not the police, or any busybody.’ Jack waved Bluey closer. ‘There must be a place where they go for a snort or two on race days. Probably a hotel with a licence.’ Since bona fide travellers could in certain establishments still legally drink alcohol after six o’clock, the number of travellers had exploded.

  ‘I could suss them out,’ Bluey said.

  ‘You’re too well known, and too easily recognisable,’ Jack said.

  Frances agreed. At over six foot, with a boxer’s physique and his red thatch, Bluey stood out in any crowd.

  ‘Uncle Sal on the other hand is a master of disguise. How good are you as an actor?’

  Uncle Sal hunched his shoulders and took a little bow. His voice took on a lilting quality as he said, ‘Top of the morning to you.’

  ‘An Irish-man.’ Jack nodded his approval.

  ‘Doon Connemara way, with t’ gift of the gab.’ Uncle Sal smoothed his salt-and-pepper hair. ‘A boy of grey powder and rubber inlays for my cheeks, and you won’t know me from Adam.’

  ‘Bluey will sit in a quiet corner, to keep an eye on you,’ Jack said. ‘We only have eight days left until the ball.’

  Eight days! An iron fist clenched Frances’s heart.

  Uncle Sal gave her a comforting back rub. ‘I’m sorry you can’t come along, my darling.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ Frances forced herself to say. ‘I’ll search through the programmes while you’re gone.’

  ‘Until then, how about we rehearse our number before Pauline needs to assist Dolores?’ Uncle Sal whispered into Frances’s ear. ‘It’s hard, but we need to keep the show going, or Jack will lose his customers.’

  Frances looked at him in a slight shock. She hadn’t even thought of that. Of course, the Top Note would only be closed for the night of their ball at the racecourse. They had to fit in their investigation with the rehearsals and the day-to-day running of their ordinary affairs. Frances could count herself lucky to have these days off. Her friends didn’t have that luxury.

  ‘I’ll get changed,’ she said. She needed to be in her full gear, otherwise Uncle Sal couldn’t take the size of her blonde wig and her dress in account when he flung his knives.

  Pauline strapped her roller skates to her feet. Her eyes glittered with excitement. Her friend lived for these moments in the limelight, Frances thought with a pang.

  ‘Uncle Sal?’

  ‘Yes, my darling?’

  ‘If I would swap places with Pauline -’ She couldn’t finish her sentence because Pauline squeezed her so tight, she could barely breathe.

  ‘Please, please, please say yes, Uncle Sal.’ Pauline had stars in her eyes as she eased her death-grip on Frances. Tony’s jaw dropped for an instant, although he recovered remarkably well.

  ‘You understand it’s a bit risky?’ Uncle Sal asked.

  ‘Not if you use these.’ Jack grabbed a knife from the table and threw it at Uncle Sal. The old man ducked, and the knife landed in the wall.

  Frances gasped.

  Uncle Sal pulled the knife out of the wall. Miraculously, it had left no marks. He tested it with his thumb. The gleaming blade slipped back into the hilt.

  ‘Theatrical props,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘I haven’t seen this quality since the London Palladium.’

  ‘They only arrived this morning. Can you use them?’

  ‘Oh yes, my boy. I’ll make it look just as good as if I used the real ones.’

  Pauline looked doubtful. Tony let out a big sigh of relief.

  ‘That’s sorted,’ Jack said. ‘Ready to go to pri
son, Tony?’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Uncle Sal shuffled into the tavern. An oversized shabby jacket, a soft cap and a little make-up had transformed him from a dapper gentleman into an ageing worker, like thousands of others. He blended in with the surroundings, where people came for a quick snort to celebrate or to commiserate, while constantly on the look-out for police.

  The path to the backdoor was kept clear and could be reached within seconds from the rough-hewn tables and the proper bar.

  Bluey had his head buried in a racing programme, and a soft hat covered his hair. He’d ordered a pint of beer as well as a pint of lemonade which gave him a cover should an officer of the law turn up.

  Uncle Sal sat on a bar stool next to a trio of slick coves. At least two of them were bookies, because they congratulated themselves on making good money on favourites who’d lost by a nose.

  Uncle Sal liked to hear that. Losing by a few inches was impossible to calculate. He’d read enough about thrown races in the United States to hope this kind of crime wouldn’t catch in Australia. Painted horses were bad enough, but organised crime would be the end of horse-racing.

  He lifted his glass and managed to accidentally elbow the fellow next to him.

  ‘Watch it.’ The man glared at him, more out of habit than annoyance. It had been a gentle touch, with no harm done.

  ‘Sorry,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘What a clumsy chap I am.’ He threw a handful of money n the counter. ‘A round of the same for these gentlemen.’

  ‘Well, I’m not saying no to that,’ the bookie next to Uncle Sal said. ‘That’s mighty generous of you.’

  Sal swigged his beer and wiped his mouth. His chin sprouted convincing white stubbles, thanks to his experience on the stage. ‘I had me a bit of good luck with the nags, and why not spread the cheer while we can, eh?’

  ‘I drink to that,’ his new friend that.

  ‘I wish I’d been at the races last week, but there you are. I missed that excitement. I’d had an eye on that gelding myself. Plain brown ones without any markings have always been good to old Bernie.’ Uncle Sal chuckled to himself.