Dead Heat Part 26

'On the day of the bomb?' she asked.

'Yes,' I said. 'I was at the lunch.'

She looked at me closely. 'You were very lucky then.'

'Yes,' I agreed. I explained to her that I was staying in Chicago on business and had decided to come and see how Rolf was doing, now that he was home.

'How kind,' she said, somewhat despondently. 'But Rolf is not home here. He's still in the hospital in Milwaukee having treatment.'

'Oh,' I said. 'I'm so sorry. I thought I had heard that he was well enough to go home.'

'He was well enough to be flown back last week,' she said. 'But I'm afraid he's not very well at all.' She was having difficulty holding herself together. 'He has some kind of brain damage.' She swallowed. 'He just sits there staring into s.p.a.ce. He doesn't even recognize me. The doctors don't seem to know if he will ever recover.' She shook with sobs. 'What am I going to do?'

Caroline went across and sat next to Mrs Schumann. She put an arm around her shoulder.

'I'm sorry,' Dorothy said. She took a tissue from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes, smearing her makeup and causing her to cry even more.

'Come on,' said Caroline. 'Let's go and sort you out.'

Caroline almost pulled Mrs Schumann to her feet and guided her gently into the master bedroom suite, which, like in many modern American homes, was on the ground floor.

I looked around the drawing room. There were ma.s.ses of family photographs in silver frames sitting on a table near the window. I looked at the pictures of Rolf Schumann in happier times, many with a much healthier-looking Dorothy at his side. There were also images of him at dinners in black tie, and at a building site in a bright yellow hard hat and muddy steel-tipped boots. There were two of him dressed for polo, one of him mounted smiling broadly with his mallet in the air, and another dismounted receiving a silver trophy from a man who even I recognized as a senior American politician with presidential aspirations.

But there was little else in the room that could give me much insight into the man that Rolf Schumann used to be.

I opened a door on the far side of the room from where the women had disappeared and found myself in Rolf's study. In contrast to the brightness of the white-decorated drawing room, his study was dark with heavy wood panelling and a great oak desk in the centre. On one wall was a 'map' of Africa in which each of the countries was depicted by a different animal hide. Above and behind the desk, a huge stag's head leaned out from the wall with its magnificent multi-pointed antlers almost reaching up to the impressively high ceiling. There were more photographs here too: Rolf Schumann in a safari suit and wide-brimmed hat in the African bush with rifle in hand and his left foot resting on a huge downed elephant; Rolf Schumann in waist-high waders, with a fishing rod in one hand and a salmon held high in the other; Rolf Schumann in hunting pink jacket and hard hat on horseback, sipping a stirrup cup before the chase. Rolf Schumann was clearly a man of many sports, many blood sports. I felt slightly uneasy, and it wasn't solely due to the lifeless stag's gla.s.s eyes that I illogically sensed were somehow following me as I moved around the room.

I went back to the drawing room, and just in time. Mrs Schumann and Caroline came back from the makeup repairs as I sat down again on one of the green and white sofa.

'I'm so sorry,' Dorothy said to me. 'I don't seem to be myself at the moment.'

'That's quite all right,' I said. 'We shouldn't have disturbed you. I'm sorry to have caused you so much distress. We should go.' I stood up.

'No, no,' she said. 'It's nice to have some company. Please stay a little longer. You've come such a long way. And I would really like to hear more about what happened at the racetrack.'

I sat down again. I explained to her as much as I thought was prudent about the bombing at Newmarket, leaving out the gory details, and the blood. She sat bolt upright on the sofa, listening intently to every word. Once or twice the tears welled in her eyes but, this time, she was able to maintain her composure.

'Thank you for telling me,' she said. 'It has been very hard not knowing anything.'

'I'm so sorry,' I said. She smiled wanly at me and nodded.

'Will you have something to drink?' she said. 'I have some iced tea in the kitchen.'

I looked at my watch. It was just after twelve. 'We'd love some,' I said.

All three of us went through to her kitchen and Dorothy poured three tall gla.s.ses of golden liquid over slices of lemon. I had always preferred my tea hot but I had to admit that the iced version was tasty and very thirst quenching. Caroline and I sat on stools at what Dorothy called 'the bar'. The kitchen was spectacular, with a great view down to the lake and the 'city' beyond. The bar was, in fact, one side of a large island in the centre of the huge room.

'Dorothy,' I said. 'Can you think of any reason why Rolf would be a target for a bomber?'

She stopped in the middle of pouring more tea and looked at me. 'The local police told me that Rolf wasn't the target. They said he was bombed by mistake.'

'I know,' I said. 'But how about if they were wrong?'

Dorothy Schumann sat down heavily on one of the stools. 'Are you saying that someone may have tried to kill Rolf?'

'Yes,' I said. There was a long silence. 'Can you think of anyone who might want him dead?'

She laughed, just a single t.i.tter. 'Only about a thousand of the locals,' she said. 'They all got fired last winter. And they all seem to blame Rolf.'

'But surely...' I said.

'No, no,' she said. 'I'm not really serious.'

'But is there anyone else you could think of who might want to hurt him or damage his company?' I said.

She pursed her lips and gently shook her head.

'Do you know a man called Komarov?' I asked her.

'Of course,' she replied. 'I know Peter very well. He imports polo ponies. But you're not telling me that he has something to do with what happened to Rolf?'

'I don't know,' I said. 'I just wondered if you had heard of him.'

'He and his wife come and stay with us,' she said in a tone which implied that her house guests were beyond reproach. 'They are friends of ours.'

'Lots of people have been murdered by their friends,' I said.

Et tu, Brute?

'When exactly do the Komarovs stay with you?' I asked her.

'For the polo,' she said.

'At the Lake Country Polo Club?' I asked.

'Yes,' she said. 'Rolf is a vice-president.'

'Does Rolf have any polo ponies himself?' I asked her.

'Hundreds,' she said. 'I wish he would devote as much time to me as he does to his d.a.m.n polo.' She stopped suddenly and looked blankly out of the window. Life was going to be very different for her from now on.

'Is Peter Komarov anything to do with the polo club?' I asked her.

She turned back to face me. 'I don't think so,' she said. 'But I do know that all his horses go there for a few days when they first arrive in the country.'

'Where do the horses originally come from?' I asked.

'South America, I think,' she said. 'Argentina, Uruguay and Colombia mostly.'

'And where do they go after they leave the polo club?' I asked.

'All over the country,' she said. 'I have occasionally been to some of the sales with Rolf. You know, at Keeneland in Kentucky, and at Saratoga.'

I had heard of both of them. They were major bloodstock sales for Thoroughbreds. 'So they're not all polo ponies then?'

'Oh no,' she said. 'I think that most are, but there are definitely some racehorses as well.'

'Why do they all come here first then,' I said, 'to the polo club?'

'I don't really know,' she said. 'But I do know they arrive by plane at O'Hare, or at Milwaukee airport, and then they go to the club by horse-van. I've seen them being unloaded. Perhaps they need to get over the journey, like jet lag or something. I think they stay for up to a week before being shipped. Except the ones that Rolf keeps himself, of course.' She sighed and again the tears welled up in her eyes.

'Seems strange to me not to send the racehorses directly to where they'll be sold,' I said.

'Rolf says they have to be inspected by the vet,' she said. 'And he has to do something with the b.a.l.l.s.'

'The b.a.l.l.s?' I asked.

'Yes,' she said. 'The metal b.a.l.l.s. They're something to do with the journey. I don't really know what, but Rolf always has a big box full of them here a few days after the arrival of each planeload of ponies.'

'Do you have any of these b.a.l.l.s here at the moment?' I asked.

'I think there are a few in Rolf's desk,' she said.

She went out of the kitchen but soon returned with a shiny metal ball about the size of a golf ball. She placed it on the counter in front of me and I picked it up. I was expecting it to be heavy like a large ball-bearing, but it was surprisingly light and hollow.

'What are they for?' I asked her.

'I have no idea,' she said. 'But I think they might be also something to do with breeding the ponies.'

'Can I have this one?' I said.

'I don't think Rolf would be very pleased with me if I let it go,' she replied. 'He's always extremely careful to check he has the right number. He counts them over and over.'

'But it might help me find out why he was injured,' I said.

'Do you really think so?' said Dorothy, again looking so frail and forlorn.

'I don't know, but it might.'

'Well, I suppose just one will be all right,' she said. 'But you must promise to give it back after you have finished with it.'

I promised, and Caroline smiled at her.

We left the Schumann residence at five to two having been cajoled by Dorothy into staying for a ham and cheese sandwich lunch. We were late. I swung the Buick back on to I-94 and put its engine to the test. It was a hundred miles to Chicago and Caroline's rehearsal with the orchestra was at four o'clock. And she had to get to the hotel first to collect her dress for the evening and her beloved viola. It was going to be tight.

'So what do you think this is?' Caroline asked. She sat in the car's pa.s.senger seat and tossed the shiny metal ball from hand to hand.

'I have no idea what it's for,' I said. 'But if it has anything to do with Komarov, then I'm interested in finding out.' I accelerated past another huge eighteen-wheeler truck that was thundering along in the centre lane.

'Don't get a speeding ticket,' Caroline instructed.

'But you said ...' I tailed off. She had said that her a.r.s.e would get roasted if she was late.

'I know what I said.' She laughed. 'But don't get stopped or we really will be late.' I eased off the accelerator slightly and the speedometer came back within the limit. Well, it almost did.

'Something to do with polo ponies,' I said. 'That's what Mrs Schumann said.'

'Perhaps it's for table table polo.' She laughed out loud at her joke. It did look a bit like a metal table-tennis ball, but perhaps it was a fraction bigger than that. 'Does it open, I wonder?' she said. polo.' She laughed out loud at her joke. It did look a bit like a metal table-tennis ball, but perhaps it was a fraction bigger than that. 'Does it open, I wonder?' she said.

The ball had a slight seam around its equator and Caroline took it in both hands and tried to separate the two halves. She tried to prise it open by pushing her thumbnail in the seam but without success. She tried to twist one half off the other. In fact, it wasn't difficult at all, when you knew how. The two halves screwed together with an anti-clockwise thread.

I briefly looked at the two hemispheres sitting in Caroline's hands.

'I'm none the wiser,' I said. 'But I do know that it's not a toy. It's not easy to make those screw threads on a spherical object as thin as that. Especially one that fits so tightly together. Quite a piece of precision engineering is involved. If Mrs Schumann is right about Rolf having a big box full of them, then they must have cost a packet to produce.'

'But what are they for?' said Caroline.

'Perhaps they are to put something in that mustn't leak out,' I said. 'But I don't know what.'

We made it back to the hotel with five minutes to spare. Caroline grabbed her dress and viola and rushed away with a kiss. 'See you later,' she said. 'I'll leave a ticket at the box office.' She skipped out of the hotel and into the waiting bus taking the orchestra to the hall. The door closed behind her and off they went.

I stood in the lobby and felt lonely. Would I ever get used to saying goodbye to her even for just a few hours? While she had rushed off with such excitement at the prospect of rehearsal and then performance, I was left feeling abandoned and jealous. How could I be so green-eyed about a musical instrument? But I shivered at the thought of her wonderful long fingers caressing Viola's neck and plucking her strings when I wanted Caroline to do it to me. It was irrational, I knew, but it was real nevertheless.

'Pull yourself together,' I said to myself, and went in search of the concierge.

'Lake Country Polo Club?' he repeated as a question.

'Yes,' I said. 'I think it's near Delafield in Wisconsin.'

He tapped away on his computer for a while. 'Ah,' he said finally, 'here it is.'

His printer whirred and he handed me a sheet of paper with the directions. The club was about five miles nearer to Chicago than Delafield. In fact we had driven right past it twice today, as, according to the directions, it sat just off the interstate highway on Silvernail Road. I thanked him and arranged to keep the rental car for another day.

I thought the Thursday concert was even better than the previous evening. For a start I could see Caroline, and she knew it. The hall had been sold out completely with not so much as a spare stool for me to be found in the auditorium. When I arrived at the box office at seven o'clock, there wasn't a ticket for me, but there was a note.

'Come to the stage door and ask for Reggie,' it had said in Caroline's handwriting. So I had done just that.

'Right,' Reggie had said. 'So you're the English guy she's been yappin' about all week.' He was a big, burly black man and he spoke with a rhythmic lilt that made me want to boogie.

'You got it, man,' I replied, mimicking him.

He guffawed expansively, giving me a glimpse of a mouth full of gold-capped teeth. 'You're a dude,' he said. I wasn't sure whether it was a compliment or not, but he smiled broadly. 'I've got just the place for you. Come along with me.'

His place turned out to be a couple of metal chairs set out of sight of the audience behind black curtains in the wings of the stage. One of the chairs had a particularly fine view of the first desk of the viola section, a view of my Caroline. As I sat there, I could see her through the gap between the second violins and the French horns. In truth, I could only see the back of her shoulders and part of her right side, but it was enough.

On this occasion I quietly hummed my way through Nimrod Nimrod with hardly a tear. It still reminded me vividly of my father's funeral but I was now at peace with the mental image of that day, not that it didn't remain a poignant and emotional memory. with hardly a tear. It still reminded me vividly of my father's funeral but I was now at peace with the mental image of that day, not that it didn't remain a poignant and emotional memory.

Caroline came over and sat with me during the interval while the rest of the orchestra disappeared down some concrete steps at the back of the stage.