Shadow Roll (23 page)

Too bad.  What had to be, had to be.  If I got caught, it was me against Hank.  If it came to that, well, it came to that.

I was in the room.  Nothing to it.  I’d been quiet as—not a mouse.  Mice could make a hell of a racket, skittering about, gnawing things, squeaking.  I’d been as quiet as Sam Russo going hand over hand down the side of his “home” to listen to
Amos ‘n’ Andy
.

No gun in my pocket.  A good thing because the last thing I wanted to do was shoot an old friend.  It didn’t matter what he’d done.  And a bad thing because my old friend might have a gun in his pocket, or a hypodermic needle full of something that could fell a musk ox.  Right there I realized there was no need for a “big man” to overpower McBartle or Walker or, most especially, Duffy.  All it took was them trusting him and his bringing along a nice little needle.

There was no point in doing what I was doing slowly.  Best to get it done as fast as possible.  I was by the side of Hank’s bed, gathering up Jane, tucking her and all her bandages into the hay bag, then just as quickly draping the strap of the bag over my head so it wouldn’t fall off my shoulder.

I was halfway back to the window when the door opened.  I froze, leg in the air.

“What are you doing, Sam?”

“Saving my dog.”

“You can’t save your dog.  You’re not a vet.”

We were both talking double time and double talk.  I was moving again as fast as I could, climbing out his window.  He was also moving, coming just as fast across the short expanse of his bedroom.  No time to feel around for the feed bucket.  It was hold Jane close and jump or Hank’d have a chance to grab the hay bag.  Or better still, stick the needle he was holding into me.  Then simply shoot me full of whatever was in it.

“You’ll kill her, Sam.  She can’t take the jolt when you land.  And you won’t land well.”

He was right.  I probably couldn’t take it either.  So I’d be doing his job for him, plus breaking a leg or two.

“Thanks for your help, Hank.  The check’s in the mail.”

And then I jumped.

Chapter 43

I didn’t drop her and I didn’t fall.  I did hurt my back but so?  I was on the ground and running, it didn’t matter where just so long as Hank couldn’t follow.

But he wouldn’t follow.

The horses were waking up.  Saratoga Race Track was coming alive on Travers Day.  How would it look to have Hank Hanson, track veterinarian, chasing me and my mummified dog, yelling, “Come back!  You both need a nice little shot!  Won’t hurt at all!”

I knew where I was going.  I was going to find Mrs. Willingford.  If anyone could put Jane somewhere Hank would never find her—or if he did find her, he couldn’t get into the place—it was Mrs. Joker Willingford.  I also had a lot to tell her.  I doubt she’d believe me—who could believe me?  Hank Hanson, all around good guy, a cold blooded murderer?

But she would believe me, eventually.  First, of course, it would help if I believed me.  I think I did.  I didn’t want to, but the terrible truth was, I did believe me.

Once all that was done, I had to figure out what to do about it.  Not to mention answering another burning question.

Did Hank Hanson kill Carroll Goose after Goose failed to dope Ace Admiral?

Hank couldn’t of.  Right about the time Goose was getting himself throttled, Hank Hanson was either with Maisie tending to Max, the gelding with Rotation, or tending to the sapped groom.

So who hired Carroll Goose to dope Ace Admiral and when Carroll failed, who killed him and hid the body?

Christ on a cracker.  There were two killers at Saratoga Race track.

One last twister for my poor overworked brain.  If Hank Hanson killed those three young jockeys—and he did—
why
?

I hadn’t a clue.  Well, I had a clue and its name was Jane.  But Jane could only tell me what she knew about Babe.  The other deaths and all three motives were pure supposition.  As I’d already figured out, I had no case even if Jane, once again feeling her oats, bit Hank.  What did it prove?  Animals loved Hank.  What it proved was that Jane was crackers.

I hadn’t sat through all those movies and eaten all that popcorn for nothing.  Unless my old friend Hank was as fruity as a nut cake, he must of had a motive.  But so far only he knew what it was.  I was supposed to be a private investigator.  But all I really had to do was find out who did it.  Why was someone else’s problem.

Wasn’t it?

I didn’t know.  And it was killing me.

But before I ran around messing with any of that, I ducked into an empty stall of sweet smelling hay.  I wanted to see Jane, to feel her breath on my hand, to know she was still alive.

Aces!  My dog was not only alive, she was awake.  Not only was she awake, she was struggling in her swaddling.

“Jane, hey Jane,” I said.  I didn’t know what else to say.  I’d spoken to a lotta horses, some who listened, some who didn’t, and some who bit me once they understood what I meant.  Exercising all those two-year-olds, a man could get pretty raw—in more ways than one.  But before Jane, dogs and I were not on speaking terms.  A kid doesn’t grow up in the “Home” surrounded by pets.  Unless he counted the rats and the cockroaches.

“It’s Sam, Jane.  You remember me?”

I got stared at for a moment, and then she opened her mouth and from it came a small yodel.  And then another.  And another.  And then she tried to lick me again.

Not counting my weep for Hank, for the third time in less than a month, I came close to bawling like a baby.

Would Bogie cry?  Would Cagney?  Would Mitchum?  Maybe not.  But would Russo?  He would.  He had.  And he did.

It was time to be up and doing.  Who knew if Hank had another jock in his sights.

“We’ll have you talking and biting in no time,” I said, touching her gently on her nose.

Then I hung her once again round my neck in her hay bag and we were on our way to the one place I knew I’d find Mrs. Willingford.  If she wasn’t there yet, she would be.

Until then, Jane and I would wait with Fleeting Fancy.

Turns out, we didn’t have to wait for anyone.  Scratch Mason, Fancy’s trainer, made his entrance before us.  I’d heard him from a shed row away swearing at his exercise rider, tossing oats around, kicking up straw, and all the while keeping up a loud and colorful commentary about “fucking owners.”

As for Fancy, you’d think she was a member of
Our Gang. 
She was snorting and curling her upper lip and tossing her head.  No doubt she’d seen Scratch like this before and would see him like it again.  As her trainer kicked her straw around, she reached out and snipped off a thick thatch of his hair as gently as a good barber.  Scratch was too outraged to notice.  But he would.  That much hair?  He would.

The fucking owner in question, Mrs. Willingford, was also already there.  Dressed for a swell day at the races, including a hat shaped like an orange waffle iron stuck to the side of her head, she’d turned out the groom and was currying Fancy all by herself.  The way she was going about it said something was on her mind and that something was supremely irritating.

I said, “Mrs. Willingford?”

And the way she spun away from Fleeting Fancy and towards me, made me think it might be me.  Holding Jane close, I backed up.

“Ah, Russo.  Guess what that ass of a Jockey Club bozo said to me.  Go on, guess.”

“Something along the lines of what Scratch is saying?”

“What Scratch is— ?  Forget Scratch.  He’s not important.”

“Forget Whitman.  He’s not important.  We have to talk.”

“Forget Whitman!  What the hell is that hanging round your neck?  Have you stolen a baby?”

“It’s Jane.  Shut up and come over here.”

“Shut— ?”

“—up.  You heard me.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Willingford was sitting on the edge of the feed trough in Fancy’s stall.  I was sitting on a bale of hay.  Scratch had taken Fancy out for an early morning workout mostly to keep her from biting off any more of his hair.  Jane was in my arms taking some sort of meaty gruel from some sort of bottle thing orphaned foals fed from.

Mrs. Willingford had listened to me without a word.  That in itself surprised me.  Now she was thinking without a word.  Watching her think was kind of interesting.  She made no sound, yet her painted mouth moved constantly.

She spoke.  She said, “But I was
sure
it was— ”

“You and me both.  But it wasn’t.  Not the jockeys anyway.”

“But that’s why I hired his damn jockey.  So he’d be close all the time and maybe I could find some sort of proof.  And that’s why I scratched Fancy.  So he wouldn’t profit by what he’d done.”

“He didn’t kill those kids.”

“Right.  So fuck me.  How do I make it up to him?  Both of them?”

“Both of them?”

“Of course.  Toby Tyrrell just lost the mount.  He’s only just up from a bug boy.  It was his big break as a real jock.”

“Give him Fancy’s next race.  Tell everyone.  He’ll be in demand just for you and Joker using him.  It’ll season ‘im.”

She gave me a look I hadn’t caught from her before.  I took it as a compliment.

I said, “As for his agent, he’s not in the clear.  Not in my book.”

“But if he didn’t kill the jockeys— ?”

“He did something.  I just have to work out what that was and how it all connects.”

“What is it you think he did?”

“Who tried to dope Ace Admiral?”

“Oh, that’s right.  Who did?”

“This is the part I haven’t told you yet.”

“My god, there’s more?”

“Oh yeah.  Lots more.  Carroll Goose tried to get at the horse.  But we ruined that by turning up, thanks to you— ”

She patted my knee.  It was a long cry from what we’d done at the Grand Union Hotel.

“So he ran.  By the time I caught up with him, he was dead.”

“You’re not serious?  An accident?”

“You’re kidding?”

“Only hoping.”

“You can forget hope.  Hope is for suckers.  He got strangled.  After that, whoever strangled him, hid the body.”

“And you found it.  Aren’t you clever.”

I gave her a look like the kind she was usually dishing out.  For once, it worked.  She lowered her eyes.  And then she raised them, full of her usual fire.

“Hand Jane over.  I’ll send for a groom to bring a platoon of grooms.  She’ll be going somewhere no one will ever guess or get to.  I’ll call our personal vet.  As for you— ”

“As for me?”

“As for you, from this minute on you work for me and Joker.  Don’t tell me what you cost.  I don’t give a good goddamn.  All I care about is it’s your job to prove all this.”

She was right.  It was.  Great.

As I walked out into the sweet morning of a great racetrack, I left behind the scent of gardenias and musk.  Mixed in with hay and horseshit and a smallish dog.

Chapter 44

I had about as much idea how to prove Hank Hanson killed three young jockeys as I knew how to crochet doilies.  As for
why
he killed ‘em, that was a real stumper.  Why made as much sense as a doily or one of Mrs. Willingford’s hats.  But I knew
how
he killed them.  No need to be big or tall to overpower any of ‘em.  He had his little syringe and he had their trust.  He was Hank Hanson, the track veterinarian.  Who would fear him?

All he needed was to get close enough, then the tiniest prick of a needle—they were out for as long as he wanted ‘em to be.  Which was, apparently, forever.

Manny Walker didn’t even need the needle.  He’d already rendered himself senseless.  Just a matter of slipping into the jockey’s doss house when all the rest were asleep, slinging a drunk as small as a big kid over a shoulder, grabbing his swim trunks, then draping him over the back of a horse.  After that, it was a nice dark ride to the lake.  One way for Walker.

A few days later, over at the Grand Union Hotel, Matt McBartle was probably sound asleep.  Even that late, finding Hank at his door would ring no bells.  Hiya Hank, he might of said, bit late to come calling.  And Hank would say whatever Hank had planned on saying—probably some baloney about a horse he was meant to ride getting sick—and in went the needle at precisely the right time.  In his case, Hank needed him to be able to walk, so the dose had to be smaller.  He’d half carried the second jock out of the hotel in the dead of night, Hank wearing a pair of ridiculous shoes that were bound to distract any witnesses, get the doped jock into his nice new car, and drive him towards Mrs. Willingford’s hangout,
Haven’s Inn
.  This one took a little risk.  Hank had to be sure of two things.  One, that McBartle would die.  And two, that the car would hit hard enough to look like the crash killed him.  If I were Hank—which sadly wasn’t all that hard to imagine; a war could do that to a guy—what I’d do is kill McBartle before the crash, hit him with something where it would look like the crash did it.  Then drive into the tree myself.  I’d really hit the pedal, get up speed, then jump the hell out at the perfect moment.  Or prop the gas pedal to the floor at low speed and jump out.  Only had to gather up McBartle’s body and arrange it in the driver’s seat, and fix the gas pedal.

From there it was only about a two mile walk back to the track.

Then came Babe Duffy.  This was the one where Hank made his big mistake.  He killed Duffy with his dog there.  Strolling up in broad daylight, saying hi or whatever, probably getting asked to have a sit while Babe ate his lunch.  Then, again timing the moment, out with the needle, followed by the unpleasant matter of stuffing the ham sandwich down Babe’s throat.  He’d of choked drugged or not.  Trouble with that one was, Jane got to Hank.

Didn’t save Babe Duffy though.  Hank should of killed Jane then and there while he had the chance.  But Hank loved animals.

As for the other little problem, I knew exactly why Carroll Goose was killed.  Basically, Carroll Goose couldn’t keep his trap shut and the guy who hired him to dope Ace Admiral knew it too.  The plan’d been simple.  It was based on the laws of chance.  Fancy was a great filly.  She was aces.  On her best day she could beat anything.  But as Paul and I were always saying, along with everyone else who hung around the ponies, she could just as easily lose.  There was no telling how a horse would run from race to race.  Win once as a huge long shot, lose the next as the chalk.  Chalk, like I’d said to the guy with teeth like piano keys, meant the favorite.  It came from back when bookies chalked up the changing odds on black boards.  So the plan was to reduce the odds by making sure the chalk, which happened to be Ace Admiral, was so doped up he couldn’t win a race with one of Mark Twain’s frogs.  But thanks to chance or bad luck or some sort of hoodoo voodoo the plan flopped because the surprising Mrs. Willingford suspected this might happen to Ace Admiral.  Being Mrs. Willingford, she acted on her hunch.  And me being me, I got dragged along.  Which meant we arrived just after Goose sapped the groom, but before he could inject the horse with some sort of tranquilizer.  Phenothiazine.  Lots of horse racing crooks had gone down for phenothiazine.