Rat Race Part 8

'Awfully nice chap, my uncle,' he said.

'Unusually thoughtful,' I agreed.

'Soft, my mother says,' he said dispa.s.sionately. 'He's her brother. They don't get along very well.'

'What a pity.'

'Oh, I don't know. If they were frightfully chummy she would always be wanting to come with me when I go to stay with him. As it is, I go on my own, and we have some fantastic times, him and me. That's how I know how super he is.' He paused. 'Lots of people think he's terribly thick, I don't know why.' There was a shade of anxiety in his young voice. 'He's really awfully kind.'

I rea.s.sured him. 'I only met him this morning, but I think he's very nice.'

His brow cleared. 'You do? Oh, good.'

The Duke was knee deep in cronies all armed with gla.s.ses of champagne. His nephew disappeared from my side, dived through the throng, and reappeared tugging at his uncle's arm.

'What?' The kind brown eyes looked round; saw me. 'Oh yes.' He bent down to talk, and presently the boy came back.

'Champagne or coffee?'

'Coffee, please.'

'I'll get it for you.'

'I'll get it,' I suggested.

'No. Let me. Do let me. Uncle gave me the money.' He marched off to the far end of the counter and ordered a cup of coffee and two rounds of smoked salmon sandwiches, and paid for them with a well crushed pound note.

'There,' he said triumphantly. 'How's that?'

'Fine,' I said. 'Terrific. Have a sandwich.'

'All right.'

We munched companionably.

'I say,' he said, 'Look at that man over there, he looks like a ghost.'

I turned my head. Big blond man with very pale skin. Pair of clumsy crutches. Large plaster cast. Acey Jones.

Not so noisy today. Drinking beer very quietly in a far corner with a nondescript friend.

'He fell down some steps and broke his ankle and collected a thousand pounds from an insurance policy,' I said.

'Golly,' said the boy. 'Almost worth it.'

'He thinks so, too.'

'Uncle has something to do with insurance. Don't know what, though.'

'An underwriter?' I suggested.

'What's that?'

'Someone who invests money in insurance companies, in a special sort of way.'

'He talks about Lloyds, sometimes. Is it something to do with Lloyds?'

'That's right.'

He nodded and looked wistfully at the sandwiches.

'Have another,' I suggested.

'They're yours, really.'

'Go on. I'd like you to.'

He gave me a quick bright glance and bit into number two.

'My name's Matthew,' he said.

I laughed. 'So is mine.'

'Is it really? Do you really mean it?'

'Yes.'

'Wow.'

There was a step behind me and the deep Eton-sounding voice said, 'Is Matthew looking after you all right?'

'Great sir, thank you,' I said.

'His name is Matthew too,' said the boy.

The Duke looked from one of us to the other. 'A couple of Matts, eh? Don't let too many people wipe their feet on you.'

Matthew thought it a great joke but the touch of sadness in the voice was revealing. He was dimly aware that despite his ancestry and position, one or two sharper minds had wiped their feet on him him.

I began to like the Duke.

'Well done with Rudiments, sir,' I said.

His face lit up. 'Splendid, wasn't it? Absolutely splendid. Nothing on earth gives me more pleasure than seeing my horses win.'

I went back to the Cherokee just before the last race and found the chauffeur safe and sound and reading Doctor Zhivago. He stretched, reported nothing doing, and ambled off.

All the same I checked the aircraft inch by inch inside and even unscrewed the panel to the aft baggage compartment so that I could see into the rear part of the fuselage, right back to the tail. Nothing there that shouldn't be. I screwed the panel on again.

Outside the aircraft, I started in the same way. Started only: because when I was examining every hinge in the tail plane I heard a shout from the next aircraft.

I looked round curiously but without much haste.

Against that side of the Polyplane which faced away from the stands, two large men were laying into Kenny Bayst.

CHAPTER SIX.

The pilot of the Polyplane was standing aside and watching. I reached him in six strides.

'For G.o.d's sake,' I said. 'Come and help him.'

He gave me a cold stolid stare. 'I've got my medical tomorrow. Do it yourself.'

In three more steps I caught one of the men by the fist as he lifted it high to smash into the crumpling Kenny, bent his arm savagely backwards and kicked him hard in the left hamstring. He fell over on his back with a shout of mixed anger, surprise, and pain, closely echoed in both emotion and volume by his colleague, who receive the toe of my shoe very solidly at the base of his spine.

Bashing people was their sort of business, not mine, and Kenny hadn't enough strength left to stand up, let alone fight back, so that I got knocked about a bit here and there. But I imagined that they hadn't expected any serious opposition, and it must have been clear to them from the beginning that I didn't play their rules.

They had big fists all threateningly bunched and the hard round sort of toecaps which cowards hide behind. I kicked their knees with vigour, stuck my fingers out straight and hard towards their eyes, and chopped the sides of my palms at their throats.

I'd had enough of it before they had. Still, I outlasted them for determination, because I really did not want to fall down and have their boots bust my kidneys. They got tired in the end and limped away quite suddenly, as if called off by a whistle. They took with them some damaged knee cartilage, aching larynxes, and one badly scratched eye; and they left behind a ringing head and a set of sore ribs.

I leaned against the aeroplane getting my breath back and looking down at Kenny where he sat on the gra.s.s. There was a good deal of blood on his face. His nose was bleeding, and he had tried to wipe it with the back of his hand.

I bent down presently and helped him up. He came to his feet without any of the terrible slowness of the severely injured and there was nothing wrong with his voice.

'Thanks, sport.' He squinted at me. 'Those sods said they were going to fix me so my riding days were over... G.o.d... I feel crook... here, have you got any whisky... aah... Jesus...' He bent double and vomited rakingly onto the turf.

Straightening up afterwards he dragged a large handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his mouth, looking in dismay at the resulting red stains.

'I'm bleeding...'

'It's your nose, that's all.'

'Oh...' He coughed weakly. 'Look, sport, thanks. I guess thanks isn't enough...' His gaze sharpened on the Polyplane pilot still standing aloof a little way off. 'That b.a.s.t.a.r.d didn't lift a finger... they'd have crippled me and he wouldn't come... I shouted.'

'He's got his medical tomorrow,' I said.

'Sod his b.l.o.o.d.y medical...'

'If you don't pa.s.s your medical every six months, you get grounded. If you get grounded for long in the taxi business you lose either your whole job or at least half your income...'

'Yeah,' he said. 'And your own medical, when does that come up?'

'Not for two months.'

He laughed a hollow, sick sounding laugh. Swallowed. Swayed. Looked suddenly very small and vulnerable.

'You'd better go over and see the doctor,' I suggested.

'Maybe... but I've got the ride on Volume Ten on Monday... big race... opportunity if I do well of a better job than I've had with Annie Villars... don't want to miss it...' He smiled twistedly. 'Doesn't do jockeys any good to be grounded either, sport.'

'You're not in very good shape.'

'I'll be all right. Nothing broken... except maybe my nose. That won't matter; done it before.' He coughed again. 'Hot bath. Spell in the sauna. Good as new by Monday. Thanks to you.'

'How about telling the police?'

'Yeah. Great idea.' He was sarcastic. 'Just imagine their sort of questions. "Why was anyone trying to cripple you, Mr Bayst?" "Well, officer, I'd promised to fiddle their races see, and this sod Goldenberg, I beg his pardon, gentleman, Mr Eric Goldenberg, sticks these two heavies on to me to get his own back for all the lolly he had to cough up when I won..." "And why did you promise to fiddle the race Mr Bayst?" "Well officer I done it before you see and made a handy bit on the side..."' He gave me a flickering glance and decided he'd said enough. 'Guess I'll see how it looks tomorrow. If I'm in shape to ride Monday I'll just forget it happened.'

'Suppose they try again?'

'No.' He shook his head a fraction. 'They don't do it twice.'

He picked himself off the side of the fuselage and looked at his reflection in the Polyplane's window, licked his handkerchief and wiped most of the blood off his face.

The nose had stopped bleeding. He felt it gingerly between thumb and forefinger.

'It isn't moving. Can't feel it grate. It did, when I broke it.'

Without the blood he looked pale under the red hair but not leaden. 'Guess I'll be all right. Think I'll get into the plane and sit down, though... Came in it, see...'

I helped him in. He sagged down weakly in his seat and didn't look like someone who would be fit to ride a racehorse in forty-six hours.

'Hey,' he said, 'I never asked you... are you O.K. yourself?'

'Yes... Look, I'll get your pilot to fetch you some whisky.'

His reaction showed how unsettled he still felt. 'That would be... fair d.i.n.k.u.m. He won't go though.'

'He will,' I said.

He did. British aviation was a small world. Everyone knew someone who knew someone else. News of certain sorts travelled slowly but surely outwards and tended to follow one around. He got the message. He also agreed to buy the whisky himself.

By the time he came back, bearing a full quarter bottle and a scowl, the last race was over and the pa.s.sengers for all the aeroplanes were turning up in little groups. Kenny began to look less shaky, and when two other jockeys arrived with exclamations and consolations, I went back to the Cherokee.

Annie Villars was waiting, not noticeably elated by her win with Rudiments.

'I thought you said you were going to stay with the plane,' she said. Ice crackled in her voice.

'Didn't take my eyes off it.'

She snorted. I did a quick double check inside, just to be sure, but no one had stored anything aboard since my last search. The external check I did more slowly and more thoroughly. Still nothing.