Uncle Sal appeared to notice her sudden fear. He stroked her hand. ‘No need for that,’ he said. ‘Bluey and I’ll drop into the tavern for another round or two. I’ll eat my hat if my new bookie friends don’t have the good oil on any horse trainer within a couple hundred miles. That is, if you can spare Bluey for a few hours.’
‘Please, Jack?’ Frances swallowed. ‘I wish I could go along, but they wouldn’t talk to me.’
‘Have you no faith in me?’ Uncle Sal twinkled at her. ‘I’ve never dropped my part yet. Which means, we should better rehearse our real act now, if I’m to toddle off with Bluey later.’
Jack nodded.
‘Anything more for me?’ Marie asked.
‘Could you phone up your aunt and ask for more information on Old Pom? And see if she can remember when Mrs Cowper’s daughter married her Italian. We might find the wedding notice in the papers.’
Marie wrinkled her nose doubtfully. ‘If she got the city right. But I’ll try.’
Frances’s mind whizzed away as she stepped into her roller skates. She was grateful for the distraction. Twirling Uncle Sal on his chair at exactly the right speed took all her concentration. Pauline waved at her as she stepped into her straps. This could all be heavenly, if only Rob were safe.
‘One, two, three,’ Uncle Sal sang out. She grasped the chair and set off, listening only to the rhythm of Uncle Sal’s counting. During the performance, one of the musicians would instead bang a timpani drum.
The first knife sliced through the air, sticking to the frame one inch from Pauline’s left shoulder.
Chapter Twenty-One
Uncle Sal shuffled into the tavern. Five o’clock, a full hour left for legal boozing. He hoped he’d calculated correctly, and his new mates would call in for a snifter or two.
Again, Bluey lounged in a corner, with a pint of Coopers in front of him and engrossed in the racing forms in the newspaper. No-one gave him a second glance.
Uncle Sal hid a grin as he spied one of the bookies at the bar. He took the stool next to him. ‘Join me in a tipple?’
For a moment, the bookie was taken aback, before he recognised Uncle Sal in his persona as the loquacious Bernie. ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he said. ‘Mine’s a West End.’
Uncle Sal signalled the bartender. ‘Make that two pints.’
He waited until the glasses stood on the counter. ‘The nags treating you right?’
‘Can’t complain,’ the bookie said. ‘Mind, it’s tough times for anyone.’
‘Don’t I just know it.’ Uncle Sal swigged his beer. ‘But with two days’ pay in my pocket, and a couple days promised, my daughter let me off the leash.’
‘Women,’ the bookie said with a grimace. ‘They can’t stop nagging a man.’
‘It’s in their blood,’ agreed Uncle Sal, silently adding that in his experience the naggers had a good reason, and he’d met a darn sight more whining from men than from the ladies. He leant closer and lowered his voice in a confidential tone. ‘A little bird whispered something in my ear, a tip straight from the horse’s mouth.’
‘You falling for that?’
‘Not me,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘Unless – that little bird said, this here trainer has a golden hand with the fillies.’ He slid the bookie a quick glance. ‘Not that I’d bet on them here at Morphettville. But there’s a race meeting coming up in Ballarat, where a mate of mine is going.’
‘Ballarat, eh? Not a bad course, but nothing beats us here. Not even Fremont.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ Uncle Sal raised is glass. ‘The trainer’s name is Parrett or Barrett, down Charleston way.’
‘Bartlett?’ The bookie scratched his head. ‘Bit of an odd duck, that one, but yeah, his horses seem to do alright lately.’
‘Odd duck?’
‘Keeps himself to himself and won’t have anyone watch him working with his racers. He’s only got three or four going, from what I’ve heard. Not that I’ve met that man.’
‘So, a little flutter on his charges wouldn’t be crazy?’
‘Not crazier than all the others.’ The bookie finished his beer and gazed longingly at the empty glass.
‘Another one?’ Uncle Sal held up two fingers for the bartender.
‘Two reclusive horse trainers.’ Frances mused as she sat with Uncle Sal. They’d retired to the lounge as soon as they’d finished the omelette he’d insisted on whipping up. The wireless ran in the background, more out of habit than anything else.
‘That can’t be a coincidence,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘And if you think about it, it’s perfect. You bring in one proven champion, fiddle with the papers, and out comes a novice who bags an unexpected win, while you’ve placed medium sized bets at a number of places. If that blacksmith hadn’t recognised the hoof, they’d have been safe, and he’d still be alive.’
‘They can’t have placed the bets in person, could they? But if they’d phoned them in, how do you collect your wins?’
Uncle Sal broke into a wide grin. ‘You’re brilliant. That’s a fair enough question. That means Jack’s old mates could have a chin-wag with their local bookies in the places where we’re sure there was something crooked.’
‘It all takes so long,’ Frances said. ‘I feel like we’re treading in place.’
Uncle Sal gave her an affectionate squeeze. ‘You worry too much. We’re getting close enough, don’t we? We’ve got the trainers, the link to Tasmania –’
‘And not a shred of proof.’
‘Not yet. But we will. And then it’ll all come right as rain.’
Frances shivered despite the warmth of the evening. She hadn’t told Uncle Sal how close she’d come to being caught picking the lock of the drawer. She hoped Dolores wouldn’t mention it either. Jack and Uncle Sal didn’t mind taking risks themselves. When it came to Frances, though, they became overprotective.
If only she hadn’t overlooked anything. Tomorrow, Mr Dunne would be back, and sneaking into the office would be next to impossible, now she’d made use of her one pretext.
Jack watched the revellers with a practised smile on his lips. It was hard to imagine the poverty in the streets and the number of people relying on the susso to keep their children from starving. Here, at the Top Note, champagne flowed, and at the few dining tables, steak and pies were staples. Nothing went to waste though. Leftover food was taken home by staff members or handed over to the soup kitchens the next morning.
Jack wondered if their quarry had at one time graced these very halls. Maybe he was here right now, dressed in tails and dancing by, an expensive sheila in his arms. Considering how lucrative the racket with the painted horses must be, it was highly likely.
‘White Jack Sullivan.’ Someone smote him on the back.
‘Councillor.’ Jack shook a plump, manicured hand. The councillor had had the good fortune to marry into money, added refinement included.
‘The missus is just freshening up,’ the councillor said unprompted. ‘And seeing you here all alone, I thought I’ll pop over for a sec.’ He broke off as Dolores entered the stage to thunderous applause. ‘Now that is a woman,’ he said.
‘One in a million,’ Jack agreed. He paused, wondering what the councillor wanted. Jack was known to support worthy causes, but he rarely received outright requests for favours.
‘The thing is,’ the councillor said, struggling to tear his gaze away from Dolores in her figure-hugging white dress, ‘the missus tried to get hold of a few tickets for your big do at Morphettville and couldn’t.’ He made a face. ‘You are popular, my friend.’
‘Not me, Dolores Barden is. And then of course, there’s the good feeling that you’re supporting out-of-work artists and orphans. Without the huge demand, we wouldn’t have moved the ball to the racecourse.’
‘You couldn’t squeeze us in, could you?’
‘Leave it to me. How many tickets shall I put you down for?’
The councillor silently counted on his fingers. ‘Make it ten, there’s a good chap.�
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‘Not a problem. You can sort out the payment before you go.’
Jack moved on, exchanging pleasantries while keeping a close eye on proceedings.
The Top Note had a reputation for clean, good fun, and he made sure it stayed that way. Intoxicated guests saw themselves sent home with their drivers or with a cabby, and drugs were a no.
He glanced at the stage. Dolores was in glowing form, but he detected a hint of sadness in her velvety voice. They needed to clear Rob for her sake too, before she missed Phil too much. Her detective boyfriend would attend the charity event, where he could easily mingle. Until then, there could be no open contact, for both his own career’s sake, and for their investigation. Their crooks mustn’t link them with police at all if they didn’t want to spook them.
‘Boss?’ Bluey handed him a cold soft drink. ‘Almost closing time.’
They had strict rules for weekdays. At one o’clock, the party was over. That also helped the cabbies who knew when to turn up for fares. Weekends were different, though, with the music playing until three. Female employees didn’t work that late. At midnight, they left together, to be driven home.
Jack rolled his aching shoulders. ‘Do we have enough people to take care of the show and keep the Top Note open for our regulars?’
‘She’ll be apples. And if not, Marie has enough people who’d drop everything to pitch in.’
‘Makes you wonder though, how large a crew it takes for our little spot of bother.’
‘I was thinking that too.’
Rob lay on his lumpy mattress, wondering about the same thing. The first shock and fear had passed, and now a strange detachment had gripped him. He could see his predicament, yet from a removed perspective, as if this body wasn’t really his and none of this existed outside his mind. It wasn’t denial, or fatalism, simply a nice level of disconnect allowing him to stay sane. He’d experienced a similar state once before, when he had flu and his mid floated on a cloud of serenity while the fever raged through his body.
He’d treat this like an academic puzzle. How many people did it take not just to make a switch possible, but profitable? And where would they need to be based?
It all had to start with the trainer, who knew which horse he could “paint” and pass off as an unexperienced nag only starting out on the racecourses. The owner didn’t necessarily have to be in on this.
The trainer might then be travelling with the horse, but would he risk openly betting high on the nag? Maybe with one bookie, Rob decided. But one bet wouldn’t be enough by far to make it all worthwhile. He’d lay a wager that every single bookie operating on the course was stung. That took either a number of people in each city, or one adept at changing his appearance. Someone like Uncle Sal.
Rob drifted off, oblivious to the heavy snores from the other cells.
Jack insisted on a proper breakfast for everyone. Or, more likely, Marie had suggested it, Frances thought as they tucked in. It gave them a chance to make sure everyone was coping, too, without being obvious.
Only Dolores was missing. She never rose early, and Jack would brief her on their way to the racecourse later in the day.
Jack gave Frances a quick grin as she helped herself to more bacon. For a few days, she’d hardly eaten, until he reminded her that it helped nobody if she made herself ill. This meant she could also truthfully tell her mother over the phone that everything was right as rain.
Mum knew better than to ask direct questions, aware as they all were of the possibilities of an operator listening in, but she worried.
Marie seemed fidgety, unlike her ordinary unflappable self.
Frances swallowed the last mouthful. Everyone else was finished too. Frances stacked her plate on top of Uncle Sal’s and moved around the table to help clear it.
Marie waved her off. ‘Someone else can take care of that later. We’ve got better things to do.’
Frances followed her to the office.
Pauline and Tony left reluctantly. They were expected at Dolores’, even if it meant missing out on possible developments.
The office was crowded enough without them. Frances sat on Uncle Sal’s armrest, while Jack gave his chair behind the desk up to Marie and leant with Bluey against the wall.
The clock struck ten. The phone rang. Marie picked up. Her eyes sparkled. ‘Thank you, operator,’ she said, which meant she must have prearranged the call. ‘My auntie,’ she mouthed.
Frances leant forward.
Marie shoved pen and paper towards her.
‘Good morning,’ she said into the receiver. ‘Yes, we’re all quite well.’ She listened for a moment. Her face lit up. ‘You do have more news for us?’
Marie signalled Frances to write down what she said. ‘The Italian worked at a restaurant in Melbourne,’ she said. ‘Something with – right, a foreign name.’
She nodded, although her aunt couldn’t possibly see her.
‘He was either a waiter, or a delivery driver and chauffeur. Yes, horse-drawn carriages, of course I remember.’
Horses! Frances pinched herself.
‘His mother-in-law wasn’t too impressed. She had no time for pretty young foreigners.’
Frances wrote as fast as she could.
‘What about Old Pom? I see.’ Marie grinned. ‘You’re a brick, Auntie. Wait.’
She looked up. ‘Do we have any more questions?’
Frances and Jack exchanged a glance. Frances shook her head.
‘Ask her to be available again tomorrow again,’ Jack said. ‘In case something crops up.’
Marie followed his instructions. ‘Bless her,’ she said as she ended the call. ‘She was getting worried about the costs for us.’
Frances checked her notes. ‘You said something about Old Pom.’
‘Oh yeah. My auntie remembers him as a handsome fella, who popped up about forty years ago. Always dapper and cheerful and a dab hand with the horses.’ Marie grinned at her stolid husband. ‘Almost as handsome as my Bluey.’
‘And?’ Jack prompted her.
‘It all went smoothly with him and Mrs Cowper until shortly before the war, when she caught him fiddling the till, so to speak. Forging invoices, altering feed bills and other stuff. He was a bit too fond of the cards, it seems. Pity. She kicked him out on his seat pants and withdrew from racing.’
‘Before the war,’ Frances said. ‘He’s probably too old now to be involved in this racket.’
Uncle Sal gave her a hurt look. ‘Us older folk can do lots of things.’
She pecked him on the cheek. ‘True.’
He ruffled her hair.
‘How can we identify our elusive Italian?’
‘There can’t have been that many restaurants with foreign names,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘And he probably had an accent. Tuscan, I’d say.’
They all gaped at him.
‘The name, Lucca. It’s a town. Birthplace of Puccini.’ Uncle Sal looked around. ‘The composer. Honestly, sometimes I wonder about this world.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Frances said. ‘So, you think he took on a false name?’
‘Much more likely that the immigration officer or the shipping office bungled it up on his ticket. It took me an hour to make them add the final letter to my name. If he was from Lucca, they could have used that.’
‘But who would be able to help us more than thirty years later?’
‘Never underestimate the veterans’ network,’ Jack said. ‘Bluey, you’ll take care of that while I keep the Top Note ticking over.’
Frances experienced a stab of disappointment, and guilt. This investigation proved costly and time-consuming enough for Jack, and still she’d hoped to have him around when they went to Morphettville.
‘If only I could get into that office again,’ she said out loud.
‘At the racecourse? Why?’ Jack asked.
‘It’s probably nothing, but I was wondering about the safe. Wouldn’t they have books for keeping track of their income? Like, where they had
their manipulated bets placed and for how much? Or payment to accomplices?’
‘No way. It’s too dangerous,’ Jack said. ‘If we have enough to go on, we’ll take this to our friends in the police force. I don’t think your brother would appreciate a family reunion behind bars.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
The rehearsals were in full swing as Bluey dropped Frances, or rather Miss Whitford, and Uncle Sal off. Dolores sat in her swing chair, radiant with joy, as Tony raised and lowered it and she used her legs to give to added momentum.
Pauline stood transfixed, beaming at her sweetheart and her much admired employer. She had been unable to resist dressing in her costume, in the hope Uncle Sal had recovered enough to practice his number with her.
She fluttered her lashes at Frances, who by now had grown used to her wig and the padded costume. ‘I was thinking, Miss Whitford, maybe you could fill in for Signorina Francesca?’
Frances hesitated. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself, which on roller skates was inevitable. On the other hand, it might establish them as two different women. ‘My pleasure,’ she said. ‘That is, if Doctor O’Leary declares Mr Bernardo well recovered enough.’
They’d taken the precaution to strap Uncle Sal’s ankle again. He pretended to groan as she took his arm.
Outside, three boys led prancing horses around the track. The sun glistened on their shiny coats, and Frances could see the muscles on their necks.
A dappled white flicked her tail over her back, to rid herself of flies and mosquitoes.
Uncle Sal stopped. ‘Now that’s a sight to behold.’
‘They are beauts,’ Frances agreed. ‘But –’
He grimaced. ‘No rest for us. I know.’
They waited outside the surgery while the doctor treated yet another jockey who left with a mutinous look on his face.
Doctor O’Leary shook his head as he ushered Uncle Sal and Frances in. ‘Young idiot,’ he said. ‘They all are. Banged up like billy-oh, and too stupid to see they can’t get in the saddle with three cracked ribs. One more tumble, and they’ll pierce his lung.’
Murder at the Races Page 14
