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A nervous bay came chassying into the ring with the number 201 pasted carelessly on his rump. The harsh chant began. ‘I’m bid six thousand now seven thousand will yer? I’m bid seven thousand and three and four and five only seven and a half for this good-looking colt by Tehran, eight thousand thank you sir and nine will yer do it? Eight thousand five hundred I am bid will yer give me nine eight five will yer give me nine and six and seven and who’ll bid the big figure?’
A pause, a bang of the hammer, a look of sincere reproach towards the ringside seats where the big money sat. ‘Folks, this two-year-old is too cheap. I’m selling more wi
And the heads turned round and craned and the woman looked bored and said something to the man beside her who shrugged his shoulders.
And 201, ‘A Bay Colt’, was led from the ring and 202 came sidling in to stand for a moment trembling with the shock of the lights, and the wall of unknown faces, and the fog of strange smells.
And there was a movement in the row of seats behind Bond, and Leiter’s face came forward alongside his and Leiter’s mouth said into his ear, ‘It’s done. It’s cost three thousand bucks but he’ll play the double-cross. Foul riding in the last furlong just as he’s due to make his wi
12 | THE PERPETUITIES
Bond sat high up in the grandstand and through hired glasses watched ‘Shy Smile’s’ owner eating soft-shell crabs.
The gangster was sitting in the restaurant enclosure four rows below Bond. Opposite him sat Rosy Budd forking down frankfurters and sauerkraut and drinking beer out of a stein. Although most of the other luncheon tables were occupied, there were two waiters hovering round this one and the maître d’hotel made frequent visits to see that all was going well.
Pissaro looked like a gangster in a horror-comic. He had a round bladder-like head in the middle of which the features were crowded together – two pin-point eyes, two black nostrils, a pursed wet pink mouth above the hint of a chin, and a fat body in a brown suit and a white shirt with a long-pointed collar and a figured chocolate bow tie. He paid no attention to the preparations for the first race but concentrated on his food, occasionally glancing across at his companion’s plate as if he might reach across and fork something off it for himself.
Rosy Budd was broad and hard-looking, with a square immobile poker player’s face in which pale eyes were buried deep under thin fair eyebrows. He was wearing a striped seersucker suit and a dark blue tie. He ate slowly and rarely looked up from his plate. When he had finished, he picked up a race programme and studied it, turning over the pages carefully. Without looking up, he gave a curt shake of the head when the maître d’hotel offered him the menu.
Pissaro picked his teeth until a mound of ice cream arrived, and then he bent his head again and started spooning the ice cream rapidly up into his small mouth.
Through his glasses, Bond examined the two men and wondered about them. What did these people amount to? Bond remembered cold, dedicated, chess-playing Russians; brilliant, neurotic Germans; silent, deadly, anonymous men from Central Europe; the people in his own Service – the double-firsts, the gay soldiers of fortune, the men who counted life well lost for a thousand a year. Compared with such men, Bond decided, these people were just teenage pillow-fantasies.
The results went up for the third race, and now there was only half an hour to go before The Perpetuities. Bond put down his glasses and picked up his programme, waiting for the big board on the other side of the track to start flickering as the money went on the tote and the odds began to move.
He took a final look at the details. ‘Second Day. August 4’, said the programme. ‘The Perpetuities Stakes. $25,000 added. 52nd Ru
The joint favourites, No. 1, Mr C. V. Whitney’s ‘Come Again’, and No. 3, Mr William Woodward’s ‘Pray Action’, were both forecast at six to four on. Mr P. Pissaro’s ‘Shy Smile’, trainer R. Budd, jockey T. Bell, was forecast at 15 to 1, the bottom horse in the betting. His number was 10.
Bond turned his glasses on the restaurant enclosure. The two men had gone. Bond’s eyes followed on across the track to where the lights were flashing on the big board. The favourite was now No. 3, at 2 to 1 on. ‘Come Again’ had gone out to evens. ‘Shy Smile’ was quoted at 20 to 1, but he went down to 18s as Bond watched the board.
Another quarter of an hour to go. Bond sat back and lit a cigarette, going over again in his mind what Leiter had told him, wondering if it was going to work.
Leiter had tracked the jockey down to his rooming house and had flashed his private detective’s licence at him. And then he had quite calmly blackmailed him into throwing the race. If ‘Shy Smile’ won, Leiter would go to the Stewards, expose the Ringer, and Tingaling Bell would never ride again. But there was one chance for the jockey to save himself. If he took it, Leiter promised to say nothing about the Ringer. ‘Shy Smile’ must win the race but be disqualified. This could be achieved if, in the final sprint, the jockey interfered with the ru
And Bell had bought it. Without any hesitation. And he had asked for the $2000 to be passed to him after the day’s racing in the ‘Acme Mud and Sulphur Baths’ where he went every evening to take a mud bath to keep his weight down. Six o’clock. And Leiter had promised that this would be done. And Bond now had the $2000 in his pocket and he had reluctantly agreed to help Leiter out by going to the Acme Baths to make the pay-off if ‘Shy Smile’ failed to win the race.