Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

“I know. What’s the evidence? I’ll be straight with you, Lex. The office got a call to get out to Suffolk Downs. Anonymous, of course. It was right after that jockey, Bobby Pastore, took a fall. He was dead when the ambulance got to him. The caller said to check the stirrup strap on Pastore’s saddle. He told us where to find it. We got a search warrant for Fitz’s personal trunk in the stable tack room. We found the saddle and the strap under a pile of blankets. The left stirrup strap was cut with a knife three-quarters of the way through. It looks like it tore the rest of the way when the jockey put extra weight on it going into the first turn.”

“It could have been a plant.”

“It could. On the other hand, there’s more. We have a motive. The caller said that Pastore was blackmailing Fitz for something. We don’t know what just yet, but we will. We checked Pastore’s bank account and found deposits at the beginning of each of the last three months. They start at ten thousand dollars and climb about five thousand dollars each month.”

“And that’s your case?”

“It’s enough to get an indictment, Lex. I hate it worse than you do. Especially on this side of it. But I can’t duck it.”

“And have you thought of this, Patrick? Every time I’ve seen Fitz in the past few months he’s been more worried about losing the stable. He hit a stretch of bad racing luck. That race could have pulled him out of the hole — at least given him breathing space ahead of the creditors. Why would he kill the jockey that could have won it for him?”

“Because he could have it both ways. He had an entry. The other horse was supposed to win the race. By the time the jockey, Pastore, went over the side, his horse had already drawn out the other horses. I hate it when I’m this clever. Especially now.”

“Alright, Clarence Darrow, I’ve got one more. Pastore rode in other races today before that one. His saddle would have been in the hands of his valet or on another horse right up to the time for that race. When did he make the cut?”

“I guess you never went to the track with Fitz. It was the cowboy in him. He always did the saddling of his own horses for a race. He could have cut the stirrup strap up under the saddle where it wouldn’t show just before Pastore got on the horse.”

I missed the next part of the conversation because I grabbed Mike Hunter’s sleeve and whispered, “Mike, I have to see that saddle and strap.”

“Why so?”

“It’s a phoney. It’s planted. Mr. Fitz didn’t do this.”

Mike whispered, “How do you know?”

I gave him a look like, How could you think otherwise?

“You’d make a terrible lawyer, Billy. You’d be blindsided by half your clients.”

But he caught Mr. Devlin’s eye and passed the word. Mr. Devlin put his hand over the speakerphone and mouthed the word, “Why?”

Mike said, “Because Billy’s the only one of us who knows which side of a saddle you sit on.”

Mr. Devlin was back on the speakerphone. “Pat, I need a favor. It’s an easy one. I’m sending an investigator over right now. Billy O’Casey. I want you to let him see the saddle and strap.”

“Alright, Lex. You’d see it eventually. I shouldn’t say this, but half of me hopes he finds something.”

Michael greased our way through the district attorney’s suite of offices to the evidence room. The officer on duty brought out the saddle and handed me the stirrup strap. The cut three quarters of the way through was clear. It took me about four seconds to check it out, and we were out of there.

When we hit the street, I pulled Michael over to a quiet section of sidewalk.

“Mike, it’s a setup. I knew it before, but now I can prove it.”

He looked doubtful, but interested.

“That strap was a plant. It’s not the stirrup strap that was on Bobby’s saddle during the race.”

“How do you know?”

“Only another jockey would know this. Bobby rode ace-deuce. He always kept the left stirrup a couple of inches shorter than the right. It gave him extra leverage on the turns since they’re all to the left. Some of the jocks do it. It’s the kind of thing we talk about among ourselves.”

“And?”

“That strap is buckled to exactly the same length as the right side. Whoever planted it thought that’s how it should be.”

I checked my watch. It was a little after seven P.M.

“And that leads to another thought, Mike.”

“What’s that?”

I could see he was still weighing the effect of what I’d said.

“We need to go for a ride. Your car or mine?”

We got to the backside of the track at Suffolk Downs at about quarter of eight. The late spring sun was fading, and I knew we had to hustle to work in light. The maintenance crew had gone for the day, so we were able to drive right up to where they keep the track equipment.

“Leave your suit coat in the car and roll up your sleeves, Mike. This could be worse than mucking out stables.”

Mike Hunter looked squeamish about plodding his five hundred dollar Bally loafers through the soft dirt at the edge of the track, but by the time we got down on our knees to grovel in it, he chalked the whole outfit, shoes to tie, up to expenses.