‘That bloody horse.’ The bookie beetled his brows. ‘That’s the kind of thing gives us bookmakers all a bad name.’
‘But it’d cost you a nice packet, wouldn’t it, if somebody placed a whole lot of cash on a filly nobody else looks at?’
‘Yeah. But the public ain’t that smart, are they?’
‘The next time I want a little flutter, can I phone it in?’ Uncle Sal asked. ‘It’s hard to give up an arvo at the races, but if I say no to a day’s work, my daughter won’t let me hear the end of it.’
‘With some you can, with others, no.’
The man next to him broke his silence. ‘I like to see a face when I do business. You know, get a feel if a joker’s likely to bail out when he sees a man in uniform.’
‘It’s sad when it comes to painted horses in Adelaide.’ Uncle Sal sighed in his beer.
‘Next thing it’s the bloody mob. All these Italians and Irish, stands to reason if they go crook in America, they go crook here.’
‘Hey,’ Sal’s new friend said, offended. ‘My mum’s Italian, and she’s in and out of the church so much my dad barely sees her.’
‘I’m not saying it’s all of them,’ the other man said. ‘But it doesn’t take many rotten apples to spoil the barrels. Look at the Germans. I mean, there was a reason to lock so many up on Kangaroo Island when we were at war.’
‘Like my uncle, you mean?’ The third bookie slammed his hand on the bar counter.
Bluey left his table and planted himself on a bar stool.
Sal hastened to change the subject before a serious brawl broke out.
‘But you’d have noticed if there as anything up with the fillies,’ he said. ‘Nobody’d know better than you if something felt wrong.’
‘That’s right.’ The second bookie was calm again. ‘And I swear, there was nothing.’
‘What about the second race meeting of the year? When that mare cost us a few hundred quid each? Never won a race before, and then leaving the other nags standing?’ The first bookie snorted.
‘Probably a brown one, with no markings. I told you, they’re always in the money.’ Sal chuckled.
‘She had one white stocking.’
‘Then I wouldn’t have picked her. You didn’t have to fork out for that painted horse, did you?’ Sal swigged his beer.
The first bookie groaned. ‘Don’t mention it. There’s no proof the horse was a wrong ‘un, they said. Only the blacksmith’s word, and with him gone, we were proper in the soup.’
‘It must have been awful to find out you took a bet from a murderer,’ Sal said. ‘Did it give you the creeps when that young vet handed over his money? My grandmother always swore the hairs on her neck stood up when a bad one crossed her path. Had the second sight, my grandmother did.’
‘I never saw him.’ The first bookie looked at his mates. They both shook their heads.
Uncle Sal finished his beer. ‘See you around, gentlemen.’
He hunched up his shoulders as he shuffled away. The odds were slim the men would see him again, but he wouldn’t want even the smallest thing to connect the fictious Bernie with Salvatore Bernardo.
Bluey followed at a leisurely pace. He’d parked the Rover well-hidden from sight, and there was no-one around as he unlocked the door. Just in case he was mistaken he asked, ‘Can I give you a lift, mate?’
‘Thanks a million,’ Uncle Sal said as he climbed in. ‘You’re a real prince, you are.’
Chapter Sixteen
Uncle Sal all but danced into the Top Note. Bluey had a grin like the Cheshire Cat. Frances, who had been practicing her roller-skating around the tables with a grim determination, stopped so abruptly she had to steady herself by holding on to something. Or in this case, someone.
Jack staggered back as she grabbed his arm. He instinctively enclosed her in an embrace, to prevent her from falling. She stooped to take off the skates. ‘Tell me you’ve found out who did it,’ she said to Uncle Sal.
‘I wish. But we did find out a whole lot,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘Where’s Tony?’
‘He should be back soon,’ Jack said as he released Frances.
They filed into his office, so the main room could be readied for another night.
Tony came in a little later, his breath smelling of beer.
A lump formed in Frances’s throat. Tony hardly ever touched alcohol, especially not before he’d had his evening meal. A nerve twitched in his jaw.
‘How’s Rob?’ she asked. Her voice came out in a whisper.
Jack slung his arm around her and held her tight.
‘He’s good.’ Tony cleared his throat. ‘Really. All he cared about was that horse he’d treated, and to let you know you’re not to worry.’
‘Then why do you look as if you’ve seen your grandmother’s ghost?’ Uncle Sal asked.
Tony gave Frances a quick glance.
‘Whatever it is, you can say it,’ she said.
‘It’s just, we used to make up stories about the prison when we were boys. And today, seeing people stroll along North Terrace, when there are these poor sods locked up a few steps away …’ He shook himself. ‘I don’t make sense. But Rob is good.’
Jack took a bottle of brandy and a shot glass from a shelf. He poured Tony a small snifter. ‘This’ll help chase the ghosts away.’
‘Meanwhile Bluey and I have found a real clue,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘Unless there’s a lot of hopeless horses around who suddenly figure out how to run, we had a painted horse on our track in January. Second race day of the year. When Rob was with his family in Queensland.’
Frances eyes felt moist. ‘That proves it, doesn’t it? We should tell Phil.’
‘Not so fast.’ Jack handed her his tissue. ‘Even if we could show fraud, which we can’t, it doesn’t make it impossible in the eyes of the police for Rob to pull the same trick. But it gives us a lot of starting points, as soon as we identify that horse.’
‘Sal and I have been chewing on it,’ Bluey said. ‘All we need to do is send Marie to the newspaper office and have her look at the paper. It would have made a splash if an unknown racer wins.’
‘I could do it,’ Frances said.
Jack shook his head. ‘The less you’re seen as yourself or as Miss Whitford, the better. Marie will buy copies for the whole fortnight. We don’t want anyone to twig on to the fact we’re interested in the races at all.’
He gave Frances a quick smile. ‘There’s plenty to do for you.’
‘Mr Dunne? Mr Lucca?’ Frances knocked on the office door. There was no answer. She pressed on the door handle. As expected, the office was locked.
She strode towards the accountant’s office on the second floor. The rapid clacks of a mechanical calculator were the only sound inside. Frances gazed out of the window. Half a dozen men led horses around the green, probably in preparation for a final training. Would a jockey really not remember a horse, or would they keep quiet for fear of losing their job?
She knocked on this door as well.
‘Come in,’ a male voice said. She found the owner in a dim corner, a grey-haired man hunched over his machine. Green light filtered through drawn blinds. It gave the accountant a sickly face-colour.
Opposite him, a male typist about Frances’s own age attacked the keyboard with abandon. Since Frances hadn’t heard the typewriter before, she assumed the sudden outburst of activity had a lot to do with her appearance.’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ she said. ‘I’m Mr Sullivan’s secretary, and I wondered where we could make a few phone calls.’ She had expected to see a telephone in this office, but unless it was hidden away in the unopened section of the roll top desk on which the calculator stood, she’d been mistaken.
The accountant blinked at her. His eyes were rimmed with the pink caused by a sensitivity, which would explain the drawn blinds.
‘The Top Note? We have hired your facilities for a charity ball,’ Frances said.
The typist’s face lit up. ‘Smashing, e
h, Henry?’
‘It’s Mr Henry to you, thank you very much.’
The typist gave him a cheeky grin in reply.
Mr Henry ignored him studiously as he addressed Frances. ‘We currently only have the one apparatus available.’
The typist lifted a frayed cable off the floor. ‘Wiring’s got a bit haywire.’ He laughed at his own harmless pun.
A likeable lad, Frances decided, a bit like an overgrown puppy. Mr Henry was the same, more bark than bite.
‘And that one apparatus would be where?’ She tapped on her handbag, hoping to convey the notion that she had lots of important things to take care of.
‘The manager’s office,’ Mr Henry said.
‘Which was empty.’ She sighed.
The typist emphasised the mister as he said, ‘Mr Henry’s got a spare key.’
‘For emergencies only. Which this situation does not fall under. Mr Lucca’s out for today, but Mr Dunne should be here any moment.’ His tone implied that the case was closed.
Frances peered around. ‘Could I set up my typewriter here? I’d work downstairs, but it’s hard for the performers to concentrate when I’m typing letters.’
‘We have a spare machine you could use,’ Mr Henry said.
‘If you’re sure?’
‘Leave it to us, and we’ll see you right. After lunch?’
‘Thank you.’ Frances closed the door behind her and took a deep breath. That was easier than she’d expected.
She heard movement in the manager’s office and saw the top of a dark head through the transom window in the door. She rapped on the door and pressed the handle. It was still locked.
Dissonant whistles behind her back startled her. The doctor, she reckoned after a glimpse at well-scrubbed hands and a black medical bag, not unlike Rob’s.
Tony and Bluey heaved the grand piano onto the dais. The musicians would arrive at noon. Despite her preoccupation with her brother, Frances knocked on wood. This had to be the highlight of Adelaide’s events, for all their sakes.
Pauline gave her a finger wave, her wrists and ankles stuck in the holds Tony had created. Marie ran in circles, pushing Uncle Sal’s wheeled chair while counting under her breath to stick with the same speed.
Uncle Sal flung the theatrical knives with an easy flair, while Pauline tried hard not to flinch.
Tony gulped visibly.
Frances took pity on him. ‘It’s really safe,’ Frances said. ‘Even if Uncle Sal would miss, which he doesn’t. Ever.’
Tony wiped his brow. ‘She’d bite my head off if I said a word against it. I want Pauline to have fun, but it’s hard to relax with all this crazy stuff going on. What if the mur- ’
Frances clapped a hand over his mouth. ‘Quiet. You never know who listens.’ She looked around. ‘Where is Jack?’
‘He’s getting ready to go back to the Top Note with Marie.’ Tony winked at her. ‘About some paperwork.’
Jack came back together with the musicians. Jack pressed a handwritten list with a dozen names in Frances’s hand. ‘Those letters,’ he said in a tone that spoke of easy command. ‘I need them first thing.’
‘Yes, Mr Sullivan.’
Frances made her way upstairs. Mr Henry and the typist had been as good as their word. A portable Underwood and a stack of paper waited on a small table set against the wall.
She placed her notebook and a pencil on the desk and inserted a sheet of paper into the machine. Thankfully she’d learned how to type a few years ago, and after mastering the lightning-quick movements a switchboard operator needed, playing her role here should be easy.
She’d typed two letters and studied her fake shorthand in the notebook with as much concentration as she could without overdoing it, when Mr Henry finally declared it lunch time.
Frances inserted a fresh sheet.
‘Aren’t you coming?’ he asked.
She gazed up, seemingly lost in her work. ‘Oh. I’d rather finish my letters. They’re urgent, but, thank you.’
He held up his keychain.
The young typist tugged at Mr Henry’s sleeve. ‘It’ll be fine.’
Frances could have hugged him.
‘I promise I won’t leave the office unattended,’ she said.
Mr Henry gave in, as she’d hoped. ‘We’ll be back in half an hour.’
Frances waited until she heard them clatter down the stairs with their hobnailed shoes. She swiftly moved over to Mr Henry’s desk. An accountant should have the payroll, with the names of the employees.
He’d locked his desk. Frances fished in her handbag for the small velvet roll she kept her lock-picks in, to prevent their clinking.
Her pulse raced as she inserted the first hook in the lock. She forced herself to breathe in a steady, slow rhythm, the way Uncle Sal taught her. Faint movement in the lock rewarded her. She pushed the roll top up, as a soft cough outside the door alarmed her.
She dropped the roll top, slipped the lock-picks inside her blouse and kneeled on the floor.
‘What are you doing?’ Mr Henry asked. He trod softly towards her, so only the typist had tell-tale loud shoes.
‘You gave me a start there,’ she said and held out her hand. In her palm, she held a button she’d torn off her blouse cuff. ‘I must have caught it on the machine.’
He moved over to his desk. Frances told herself not to panic. He picked up a spectacle case. ‘The doctor said I should not go out in the sun without these.’
‘What are they?’
He snapped the case open. Inside lay a pair of spectacles with dark lenses.
‘Oh, sun shades,’ she said, ‘I’ve seen them in Everyone’s. But I mustn’t keep you.’ She cringed at her words. Would Miss Whitford, this epitome of efficency and business-sense read that magazine and look at the screen star section? Then again, why not?
Frances counted to one hundred after Mr Henry had left before she returned to burgling his desk.
Chapter Seventeen
The moment Mr Henry and the typist reappeared, Frances clutched her stack of letters and her handbag. ‘You’ve been most kind,’ she said as she stepped out of the office, a list of names secreted inside her bag.
She’d have to wait until they were safely back at the Top Note before they could use it, but she’d done it.
Now they only had one more trick to pull off.
While a trumpeter blew a solo in “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love”, Uncle Sal swept Pauline into his arms for a dance. One false step though, and he audibly gasped in pain.
‘What’s wrong?’ Pauline’s huge eyes and her trembling lips would have done any silent era actress proud, Frances thought.
‘It’s nothing.’ Uncle Sal clenched his teeth as he rubbed his ankle.
The musicians stopped.
‘Please, gentlemen, go on,’ Frances said, secretly pleased that none of them had made the connection between Signorina Francesca and the hitherto unknown Miss Whitford.
To Uncle Sal, she said, ‘I’ll take you to the doctor.’
Pauline had reluctantly agreed it would be better if Frances played that part too. At least she still had her starring role at the ball itself.
Uncle Sal limped so dramatically, Bluey half-carried him. Frances went ahead. The doctor’s door stood ajar.
‘Hello?’ she called out.
‘One moment,’ someone answered. A jockey with a pinched face and a bandaged wrist came out. He shot her a curious glance but lost interest half-way through giving her the once-over. The slight padding Pauline had added to Frances’s waist worked well in making her invisible.
Blue and Frances took a pale Uncle Sal inside.
The doctor, a middle-aged man with a red-veined nose, swivelled around on his desk chair. Flush against one wall stood a medicine cabinet with glass doors. The key stuck in the lock, A set of drawers labelled “Medical Instruments” and an examination bed half hidden by a folding screen completed the surgery set-up. ‘You one of those night-club fellows?’
Uncle Sal gave him a wan smile. ‘Salvatore Bernardo, at your service.’
‘It’s his ankle,’ Frances said. ‘He’s one of our main performers, and we need him back on both feet, Doctor.’
‘O’Leary.’ The doctor motioned Uncle Sal to walk around.
Uncle Sal’s stifled groans deserved a bigger audience, Frances thought.
‘Sit down and remove shoe and sock.’
Bluey hurried to help Uncle Sal.
Frances averted her gaze. The ankle was criss-crossed with scars, and lumpier than it should be thanks to the steel plate that held together once splintered bone. A boozy driver was responsible for that and the end of Uncle Sal’s stage career.
‘Can you circle the foot?’ the doctor asked.
Uncle Sal gripped the side of the bed as he tried to move his ankle. He gave up after two inches.
Dr O’Leary probed flesh and bones with his fingers. ‘Nothing dislocated, but with an injury this bad you will always be laid up a wee while after a wrong step.’ He unlocked the cabinet, took out a jar with an ointment reeking of eucalyptus and rubbed it on Uncle Sal’s ankle, before he bandaged it tightly.
‘I’ve strapped it up as much as possible. Any more, and it’ll cut off your blood circulation. If you stay off your feet for a day or two, you should see improvement. When’s your big day?’
‘In a week,’ Uncle Sal said.
‘That’ll do you easily.’ Dr O’Leary’s gaze shifted to a bottle at the back of the cabinet.
‘Do you have fixed hours?’ Bluey asked. ‘In case we have another accident.’
‘I’m here during training and races. If you come a cropper when I’m not here, send someone around. I live a few minutes up the road.’
He wrote an address and a telephone number on a piece of paper and handed it to Bluey.
Uncle Sal made a huge show of leaning on Bluey’s arm as he limped towards the car.
Pauline and Tony were already waiting. The musicians could rehearse on their own for a few hours.
Murder at the Races Page 11
