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Chapter Four

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The ‘Sport of Kings’, in crisp autumnal sunshine at Brighton the following afternoon, seemed much more royal and exhilarating than in the seedy London betting shop. Ruth had won five pounds at the Tote and was in high spirits. So engrossed had she become in the colourful spectacle around her that the object of their journey – the search for Curly – had very nearly slipped her mind. She was to be forgiven, however, for it was her first visit to a large race-track.

Holt was content to let her display her enthusiasm, for her genuine interest in the races served to disguise his own preoccupation. They had dressed in sporty tweeds and Holt wore a powerful pair of field-glasses slung around his neck in addition to his usual photographic equipment. Ostensibly he used the binoculars to follow the horses as they rounded distant bends in the track, but in fact he more often trained them on the faces of the crowd in the Grandstand and the various enclosures. And although he went to the paddock at the beginning of each race, apparently to form an opinion of the runners, he spent more time glancing idly at the spectators than in appraising horse or jockey.

It was just after the start of the fourth race that he announced suddenly in a low, tense murmur, ‘Got him!’

‘Where?’ asked Ruth without taking her eyes off the horses as they swept in a tight pack into the first bend.

‘The last place you’d expect. He must have come into money recently. He’s sitting in the Grandstand – fairly high, near the back – at about two o’clock from the centre. Here, take my glasses.’

Ruth adjusted the binoculars and scanned the Grandstand slowly. Her heart gave a queer leap as the dull white expanse of Curly’s head swam into focus. Suddenly he turned and his pale eyes seemed to stare straight at her. Startled, she lowered the binoculars and pretended to engage Holt in lively conversation. It was ridiculous – he was at least five hundred yards away – and yet she had the uncanny feeling that those great eyes were boring into the back of her neck.

‘What do we do now?’ she whispered.

‘We watch the race,’ replied Holt calmly, retrieving the binoculars. ‘I’ve placed two pounds for you on a French nag. It’s an outsider, but I liked the look of it in the paddock. Number Seven. There she goes, look – moving up on the inside rail!’

Ruth was drawn back into the surging excitement of the race. Order was emerging from the confusion of brilliant jockey colours, flying hooves, the gleam of equine muscle strained to the uttermost. Three runners began to press to the front of the tight field, and the crowd rose with a mounting wave of excitement. Ruth found herself waving and shouting for Number Seven. The horses thundered round the final bend and down the home stretch. Number Seven inched forward – first a nose, then a neck, then half a length, and by the time it had flashed past the finishing post it was showing a wild pair of heels to its two nearest rivals.

‘Philip, you’re fantastic!’ Ruth cried, quite forgetting herself and throwing her arms round his neck. ‘You must have a nose for winners! How much is my booty?’

‘Something in the neighbourhood of forty pounds, I think. And what’s more,’ he added, turning from the Grandstand and lowering his glasses, ‘Curly’s looking pleased with himself too. I think this is the right moment for us to get chummy! Let’s get your money and then we’ll seek him out.’

They jostled their way through the crowd towards the Totalisator and stood in the queue at one of the windows. They had barely reached the head of the queue and collected Ruth’s winnings when Holt stiffened, gave a tense, silent nod of the head, and broke from the line.

‘Philip, wait for me!’ Ruth wailed, scurrying after him.

‘Come on! I’ve just spotted Curly!’

Holt was tall enough to keep his target in sight as they weaved through the crowd, but for Ruth it was simply a question of hanging on to her boss’s sleeve.

‘Hold it! He’s stopping. Don’t let him see us!’ Holt rapped out urgently.

They took cover in the lee of a programme seller as Curly went up to a thin, raffish-looking man somehow clearly stamped with the hallmark of a bookmaker. Reluctantly the bookie produced his wallet and took out several five-pound notes. Curly’s great hand closed over the money like a bulldozer’s grab. For a few moments the two men remained in conversation, just out of earshot, and Holt discreetly slipped his Olympus Pen F camera from his pocket and took a snap of the couple; then Curly slapped the bookie on the back, glanced furtively around him, and strode with giant steps into the crowd where only the putty-coloured dome of his head remained visible.

‘Where’s he going, I wonder?’ Holt set off in pusuit. ‘This isn’t the way back to the Grandstand.’

‘As far as I can see it’ll take us to the car park.’

It was indeed the car park for which Curly was aiming. Had he won such a large sum on the last race that he was content for the day? What if he drove off before they could pin him down?… Holt quickened his pace – only to realise with sudden dismay that Curly was no longer in sight. One moment he had been there, towering above the ranks of parked cars, and the next instant he had vanished.

‘Now how the hell did that happen! Hyde said he was as slippery as a weasel, but that beats everything!’

Ruth shook her head in bewilderment. ‘What do we do now?’

From the distance came the excited roar of the crowd at the race-course, but in the vast car park there was not a soul to be seen.

Despondently they stared around them and discussed the situation, reaching no decision. Holt lit a cigarette, without protest from Ruth. He threw away the match and thrust his hands deep into his coat pockets …

‘Lookin’ for someone?’ a deep voice growled from behind them.

They whirled round. Ten paces away, leaning nonchalantly against a mini-bus, stood Curly with a gun in his hand.

Ruth choked back a cry of alarm.

Holt gripped her elbow and said coolly, ‘Yes, Curly. We were looking for you.’

‘Thought so. Smelt it yesterday, when you was nosin’ round Tottenham Court Road. A couple o’ phonies, that’s what you are!’

‘Go on, Curly.’

‘Just a couple o’ phonies,’ he repeated. ‘You should ’ave kept yer mouth shut, mate, when that cabbie knocked the paper out yer ’and – you should ’ave kept yer mouth shut.’

‘Thanks for the advice. I’ll be more careful next time.’

‘If there is a next time. Get in!’ He jerked the muzzle of the gun towards the mini-bus.

‘Oh, are we – er – going somewhere?’ Holt appeared more self-possessed than he felt as he steered Ruth towards the bus.

‘S’right, mate! You said you was lookin’ for me, didn’t you? You and me and the bird ’ere’s going for a little ride. – Ah no, not that side, matey! You get in behind the wheel with the bird beside yer. I’m lazy, see? I prefer to sit in the back and watch while you keep yer mind on the traffic.’

‘Driving with a gun in my back is liable to make me nervous,’ Holt said.

‘I dare say. But don’t worry, chum,’ Curly replied, slipping the gun into his raincoat pocket.

‘I wasn’t plannin’ to wave it at them fancy coppers on the Royal Parade.’ Idly he picked up a thick piece of wood that lay on the ground. It was a sawn-off stump as thick as a fence-post. ‘Shouldn’t think it’ll be necessary, would you?’ he said, snapping the stump with his enormous hands as though it were a twig. Then he slid into the mini-bus behind Holt and rested his arms along the back of the driver’s seat with the huge hands clearly in view. They got the point.

Holt started the engine and backed carefully.

Once out of the car park Curly gave clear instructions for the route he wanted to take. Holt said nothing, giving all his attention to getting the feel of the vehicle. It might prove useful to be able to handle her well, in the event of a chance of getting rid of Curly. Driving the mini-bus was not quite like handling the controls of the Mustang, but the brakes seemed good and the second gear unusually powerful.

Curly obviously knew Brighton like the back of his hand. He seemed anxious to get clear of the centre of the town as quickly as possible. They soon found themselves on the high cliff road out of Brighton that led eastward towards Newhaven. On a long, lonely stretch with green turf to their left, and on their right frequent glimpses of steep white cliffs dropping vertically to the sea, Curly gave the order to halt. He sat back and produced his revolver, evidently considering Holt a potential danger now that he was no longer occupied with the wheel.

‘All right, out with it! What is it yer want?’

‘Just a little information, Curly.’

‘Such as?’

‘What you know about the Vance Scranton murder.’

Holt was watching him in the rear-view mirror. Curly was a poor actor. He turned even paler than normal, licked his flabby lips with a dry tongue, then struggled to assume a truculent air. ‘Sorry, mate! You’re on the wrong number.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Dead sure.’

‘And if I offer to buy the information?’

‘I tell yer, you got the wrong number! I ain’t got nothin’ to sell.’

‘Would forty pounds make you change your mind?’

Curly gave a hollow laugh. ‘Made more’n that on the fourth race this afternoon. Anyway, I got nothin’ to sell. My ’ands is clean.’

‘Nobody’s accusing you of murder, Curly. We just want a tip as to where to start looking, that’s all.’

‘I don’t know nothin’, mate.’

‘But it’s true, isn’t it, that you were in the neighbourhood on the night this American student was murdered? – No, don’t bother to stall, Curly, we’ve got our information from top sources. Inspector Hyde sends his regards, by the way.’

‘So that’s who you’re workin’ for. Well you can just tell ’im from me that I ain’t—’

‘Let me bring you up to date, Curly. It’s Mr and Mrs Robert Scranton that I’m working for – the murdered boy’s parents. They’re rich Americans and they’ll pay a good price to anyone who’s helpful. They’ve asked me to investigate their son’s death.’

‘’Fraid you’ve taken on a very nasty job, mate.’

‘I thought you said you knew nothing about it!’ Holt put in swiftly.

A slow smile spread over the ex-convict’s features. ‘So I did … Pretty quick, aren’t yer?… Well, you might prove a bit too quick for your own good one o’ these days. Take my advice and keep out o’ this Scranton business. From what I’ve ’eard it’s not the sort of thing for a toff like you to get mixed up in. And you wouldn’t want this little bird of yours to get hurt neither, now would you?’

‘I’m not so fragile,’ Ruth retorted. ‘Listen, Curly, aren’t you forgetting something?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Muswell Hill – six years ago?’

‘What … what the hell’s Muswell Hill got to do with it?’

Holt said, bitingly, ‘Inspector Hyde leaned over backwards to help you then, because he thought you’d had a hard break. I think he saved you about four years in clink, didn’t he?’

Curly was silent.

‘Have you forgotten, Curly?’ Ruth insisted. ‘I don’t think you have.’

‘What you drivin’ at?’

‘It’s perfectly simple,’ she said briskly. ‘Now’s your chance to pay back that favour.’

‘Why don’t he ask me hisself?’

‘Because he knows you wouldn’t be seen dead talking to him! He’s had to ask you through us.’

Curly’s Adam’s apple worked convulsively and his hulking body seemed to screw itself into knots as he fought a battle with his conscience. Then a curtain of fear seemed to draw over his eyes and his voice was harsh as he declared, ‘We’re wastin’ time! Let’s get back to the nags, shall we? You got nothin’ for me, an’ I got nothin for you – nor Inspector Hyde neither. So let’s just part friends, shall we?’

Holt began to protest but Curly cut him short. ‘Turn ’er round and drive back! And look sharp!’

There seemed no point in arguing; Curly was flourishing the revolver in an ugly manner. Holt started up the engine again. He glanced in the rear mirror and waited for a small delivery van to overtake him, experiencing a motorist’s twinge of annoyance at the way it crawled past. When it had gone the path was clear for Holt to swing in a U-turn to the other side of the road.

Curly had not seen the van; he had been busy stuffing the gun into his raincoat pocket. He looked up just as Holt was pulling out of the turn. Instantly, he hurled himself over the back of the seat, swearing vehemently, and peered out of the rear window. ‘Look out – he’s stopping!… He’s goin’ into a turn!… For Christ’s sake step on it!’

Holt slipped into second gear and thrust his foot down, uncomprehending, but recognising fear in Curly’s voice. In the rear mirror he saw the van swing into a U-turn just as he had done. A second later it was in swift pursuit and, judging by the speed at which it began to catch up with them, this was no ordinary delivery van but a harmless looking exterior containing a hotted-up engine.

‘What’s all this about, Curly?’ Holt shouted.

‘Keep yer ’ead down! Just keep yer bloody ’ead down!’ came the hoarse reply.

Ruth was scrambling over the seat, clutching Holt’s pocket camera. A great hand flattened her to the floor. ‘Lie flat, you little idiot! D’you want to get killed?’

Dead to the World: Based on Paul Temple and the Jonathan Mystery

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