The Edge (11 page)

‘Comfortable?’ my helper asked.

‘Very.’

‘Don’t vary the uniform at all,’ he said. ‘Any variation would mark you out straight away as an actor.’

‘Thank you.’

‘This uniform,’ he said, ‘trousers, shirt, tie and vest, is worn by all male service attendants and assistant service attendants when on duty. That’s to say, the sleeping car attendants and the-dining car staff, except that sometimes they wear aprons in the dining car.’

‘Thank you,’ I said again.

‘The chief service attendant, who is in charge of the dining car, wears a grey suit, not a vest or an apron. That’s how you’ll know him.’

‘Right.’

He smiled. ‘They’ll teach you what to do. Now, we’ll lend you a locker for these clothes until Sunday morning. Collect the clothes and put them on in the changing room here before boarding, and take your own clothes with you onto the train. When you’ve finished with the VIA uniform, please see that we get it back.’

‘Right,’ I said again.

When I’d put my own clothes on once more, he took me along a few passages into a room with ultra-narrow lockers into which Tommy’s clothes barely slotted. He locked the metal door, gave me the key, showed me the way back into the Great Hall and smiled briefly.

‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘Don’t spill anything.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘very much.’

I went back to the hotel and had them arrange a car with a driver to take me to Woodbine, wait through the afternoon and bring me back. No trouble at all, they said, so as it was a nice bright autumn day with no forecast of rain I curled my hair and put on some sunglasses and a Scandinavian patterned sweater to merge into the crowd at the races.

It actually isn’t easy to remember a stranger’s face after a fleeting meeting unless one has a special reason for doing so, or unless there is something wholly distinctive about it, and I was reasonably certain no one going on the train would know me again even if I inadvertently
stood next to them on the stands. I had spectacular proof of this, in fact, almost as soon as I’d paid my way into the paddock, because Bill Baudelaire was standing nearby, watching the throng coming in, and his eyes paused on me for a brief second and slid away. With his carroty hair and the acne scars, I thought,
he
would have trouble getting lost in a crowd.

I walked over to him and said, ‘Could you tell me the time, sir, please?’

He glanced at his watch but hardly at me and said, ‘One twenty-five,’ in his gravelly voice, and looked over my shoulder towards the gate.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m Tor Kelsey.’

His gaze sharpened abruptly on my face and he almost laughed.

‘When Val told me about this I scarcely believed him.’

‘Is Filmer here?’ I asked.

‘Yes. He arrived for the lunch.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Thanks again.’ I nodded and walked on past him and bought a race-card, and when in a moment or two I looked back, he had gone.

The racecourse was packed with people and there were banners everywhere announcing that this was the opening event of The Great Transcontinental Mystery Race Train’s journey. Race Train Day, they economically said. There was a splendid colour photograph of a train crossing a prairie on the race-card’s cover. There were stalls selling red and white Race Train T-shirts, with a horse face to face with a locomotive across the chest. There were Race Train flags and scarves and baseball caps; and a scatter of young ladies with Support Canadian Racing sashes across their bosoms were handing out information leaflets. The PR firm, I thought with amusement, were leaving no one in any doubt.

I didn’t see Filmer until just before the Race Train’s special race, which had been named without subtlety The Jockey Club Race Train Stakes at Woodbine. I’d spent some of the afternoon reading the information in the race-card about the owners and their horses and had seen that whereas all the owners were on the train’s passenger list, none of the horses were. We would be taking fresh animals to Winnipeg and Vancouver.

Filmer wasn’t on the race-card as an owner, but Mrs Daffodil Quentin was, and when she came down to see the saddling of her runner, Filmer was with her, assiduous and smiling.

Daffodil Quentin had a big puff-ball hair arrangement of blonde
curls above a middle-aged face with intense shiny red lipstick. She wore a black dress with a striped chinchilla coat over it: too much fur, I briefly thought, for the warmth of the afternoon sun.

There was hardly time to identify all the other owners as the pre-race formalities were over much more quickly than in England, but I did particularly look for and sort out Mercer Lorrimore.

Mercer Lorrimore, darling of the glossy mags, was running two horses in the race, giving it his loyal support. He was a man of average height, average build, average weight, and was distinguishable chiefly because of his well-cut, well-brushed full head of white hair. His expression looked reasonable and pleasant, and he was being nice to his trainer.

Beside him was a thin well-groomed woman whom I supposed to be his wife, Bambi: and in attendance were a supercilious looking young man and a sulking teenage girl. Son and daughter, Sheridan and Xanthe, no doubt.

The jockeys were thrown up like rainbow thistledown onto the tiny saddles and let their skinny bodies move to the fluid rhythm of the walking thoroughbreds. Out on the track with the horses’ gait breaking into a trot or canter they would be more comfortable standing up in the stirrups to let the bumpier rhythms flow beneath them, but on the way out from the parade ring they swayed languorously like a camel train. I loved to watch them: never grew tired of it. I loved the big beautiful animals with their tiny brains and their overwhelming instincts and I’d always, all over the world, felt at home tending them, riding them and watching them wake up and perform.

The Lorrimore colours were truly Canadian, bright red and white like the maple leaf flag. Daffodil Quentin’s colours weren’t daffodil yellow but pale blue and dark green, a lot more subdued than the lady.

She and Filmer and all the other owners disappeared upstairs behind glass to watch the race, and I went down towards the track to wait and watch from near where the lucky owner would come down to greet his winner.

There were fourteen runners for the mile-and-a-half race and I knew nothing about the form of any of them except for the information on the race-card. In England I knew the current scene like a magnified city map, knew the thoroughfares, the back alleys, the small turnings. Knew who people knew, who they would turn to and turn away from, who they lusted after. In Canada, I was without radar and felt blind.

The Race Train Stakes at Woodbine, turning out to be hot enough
in the homestretch to delight the Ontario Jockey Club’s heart, was greeted with roars and screams of encouragement from the stands. Lorrimore’s scarlet-and-white favourite was beaten in the last stride by a streak in pale blue-and-dark green and a good many of the cheers turned to groans.

Daffodil Quentin came down and passed close by me in clouds of chinchilla, excitement and a musky scent. She preened coquettishly, receiving compliments and the trophy, and Filmer, ever at her side, gallantly kissed her hand.

A let-off murderer, I thought, kissing an unproven insurance swindler. How very nice. Television cameras whirred and flash photographers outdid the sun.

I caught sight of Bill Baudelaire scowling, and I knew what John Millington would have said.

It was enough to make you sick.

On Saturday evening and early Sunday morning I packed two bags, the new suitcase from England and a softer holdall bought in Toronto.

Into the first I put the rich young owner’s suit, cashmere pullover and snowy shirts and into the second, the new younger-looking clothes for off-duty Tommy, jeans, sweatshirts, woolly hat and trainers. I packed the Scandinavian jersey I’d worn at Woodbine into the suitcase just in case it jogged anyone’s memory, and got dressed in dark trousers, open-necked shirt and a short zipped navy jacket with lighter blue bands round waist and wrists.

The rich young owner’s expensive brown shoes went away. Tommy, following instructions from the uniform department, had shiny new black ones, with black socks.

Into Tommy’s holdall went the binoculars-camera and the hair curler (one never knew), and I had the cigarette lighter camera as always in my pocket. Tommy also had the rich young owner’s razor and toothbrush, along with his underclothes, pyjamas and stock of fresh films. The suitcase, which held my passport, had a Merry & Co label on it addressed to the Vancouver Four Seasons Hotel; the holdall had no identification at all.

With everything ready, I telephoned Brigadier Catto in England and told him about Daffodil Quentin and the touching little scene in the winners’ circle.

‘Damn!’ he said. ‘Why does that sort of thing always happen? Absolutely the wrong person winning.’

‘The general public didn’t seem to mind. The horse was third favourite, quite well backed. Daffodil Quentin seems to be acceptable to the other owners, who of course probably don’t know about her three dead horses. They’re bound to take to Filmer too, you know how civilised he can seem, and I don’t suppose news of the trial got much attention here since it collapsed almost before it began. Anyway, Filmer and Daffodil left the races together in what looked like her own car, with a chauffeur.’

‘Pity you couldn’t follow them.’

‘Well, I did actually, in a hired car. They went to the hotel, where Filmer and the other owners from the train are staying, and they went into the bar for a drink. After that, Daffodil left in her Rolls and Filmer went upstairs. Nothing of note. He looked relaxed.’

The Brigadier said, ‘You’re sure they didn’t spot you at the hotel?’

‘Quite sure. The entrance hall of the hotel was as big as a railway station itself. There were dozens of people sitting around waiting for other people. It was easy.’

It had even been easy following them from the racecourse, as when I went out to where my driver had parked his car I had a clear view from a distance of Daffodil at the exit gate being spooned into a royal blue Rolls-Royce by Filmer and her chauffeur. My driver, with raised eyebrows but without spoken question, agreed to keep the Rolls in sight for as long as possible, which he did without trouble all the way back to the city. At the hotel I paid him in cash with a bonus and sent him on his way, and was in time to see Filmer’s backview receding into a dark-looking bar as I walked into the big central hall lobby.

It had been an exercise without much in the way of results, but then many of my days were like that, and it was only by knowing the normal that the abnormal, when it happened, could be spotted.

‘Would you mind telling me,’ I said diffidently to the Brigadier, ‘whether Filmer has made a positive threat to disrupt this train?’

There was a silence, then, ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Something Bill Baudelaire said.’

After a pause he answered, ‘Filmer was seething with anger. He said the world’s racing authorities could persecute him all they liked but he would find a spanner to throw in their works, and they’d regret it.’

‘When did he say that?’ I asked. ‘And why … and who to?’

‘Well … er …’ He hesitated and sighed. ‘Things go wrong, you know. After the acquittal, the Disciplinary Committee of the Jockey Club called Filmer to Portman Square to warn him as to his future behaviour, and Filmer said they couldn’t touch him, and was generally unbearably arrogant. As a result, one of the committee lost his temper and told Filmer he was the scum of the earth and no one in racing would sleep well until he was warned off, which was the number one priority of the world’s racing authorities.’

‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration,’ I commented, sighing in my turn. ‘I suppose you were there?’

‘Yes. You could have cut the fury on both sides with a knife. Very vicious, all of it.’

‘So,’ I said regretfully, ‘Filmer might indeed see the train as a target.’

‘He might.’

The trouble and expense he had gone to to get himself on board looked increasingly ominous, I thought.

‘There’s one other thing you might care to know,’ the Brigadier said. ‘John saw Ivor Horfitz’s son Jason hanging around outside the weighing-room at Newmarket yesterday and had a word with him.’

When Millington had a word with people they could take days to recover. In his own way, he could be as frightening as Derry Welfram or Filmer himself.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘John spoke to him about the inadvisability of running errands on racecourses for his warned-off father, and said that if Jason had any information, he should pass it on to him, John Millington. And apparently Jason Horfitz then said he wouldn’t be passing on the information he had to anybody else as he didn’t want to end up in a ditch.’

‘What?’
I said.

‘John Millington pounced on that but he couldn’t get another word out of the wretched Jason. He turned to jelly and literally ran away, John says.’

‘Does Jason really know,’ I said slowly, ‘what Paul Shacklebury knew? Did he
tell
Paul Shacklebury whatever it was he knew? Or was it just a figure of speech?’

‘God knows. John’s working on it.’

‘Did he ask Jason what was in the briefcase?’

‘Yes, he did, but Jason either didn’t know or was too frightened to speak. John says he was terrified that we even knew about the briefcase. He couldn’t believe we knew.’

‘I wonder if he’ll tell his father.’

‘Not if he has any sense.’

He hadn’t any sense, I thought, but he did have fear, which was almost as good a life preserver.

‘If I hear anything more,’ the Brigadier said, ‘I’ll leave a message with …’ his voice still disapproved ‘… with Mrs Baudelaire senior. Apart from that … good luck.’

I thanked him and hung up, and with considerable contentment took my two bags in a taxi to Union Station.