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

I heard a laugh from the inner sanctum, and a minute later I was ushered in. The man behind the desk was not what I expected. He was not fat and dressed in Irish wools and chewing a cigar. He was in fact lean and athletic-looking. His suit was fine Italian wool, and there was not a trace of smoke in the room. His facial features could be considered handsome when at rest with a smile, but I had a sense that they could snap into the look of a stalking wolf in an instant of displeasure.

“Mr. Doyle, my name’s O’Casey.”

“I know it is. Billy O’Casey. You’ve got good hands, Billy. I’ve seen you ride.”

I figured we could hang out swapping compliments or I could get to the point.

“I’ve got a message from Mr. Fitzroy. He wants to deal.”

“Ah, you’ve seen Fitz. How is he?”

I looked around at the three figures standing against the wall behind me. They seemed a cut above the five outside in terms of the gift of brains, but again, any one of them was big enough to eat me for lunch. I looked back at Doyle.

“Don’t let the boys bother you. They know my business.” He looked over my shoulder. “Boys, relax. Listen and see how business is done. Now, Billy. Tell me about Fitz.”

“He’s curious. He wants to know if you have enough sporting blood to make one last deal.”

Doyle grinned and looked over to the three “boys.” It was just what I’d hoped for. He was playing to an audience.

“What deal is that, Billy?”

“All or nothing. He has Trumpeter Swan entered in the Fox Handicap at Suffolk in two days. He’ll put it all on the line. If Swan loses, the stable’s yours. If he wins, all debts are canceled. That’s it.”

Doyle eased back in his chair. The grin on his face spread till it lit up his eyes. He was savoring the sure thing that had just dropped into his lap and playing the big shot for the three musketeers behind me. I let him have his fun. We both knew he’d snap it up as soon as he heard it, so I could wait.

“Sporting blood, is it, Billy O’Casey? There’s never been a lack of it in this body.”

He leaned over the desk with his hand extended. I shook hands with the devil and made a mental note to wash with Lysol. I knew he couldn’t go back on the deal because he had grandstanded in front of his men.

As I headed out the door, Doyle said, “Billy.”

I turned around.

“Like I said, you can ride. Maybe someday you’ll be riding for me.”

I smiled back and winked at him. “When pigs fly, Mr. Doyle.”

The afternoon before the Fox Handicap, I got back home from the track about six P.M. There was a message on my phone recorder from Manny. In a sheepish voice, he told me that Marty had given the order to give Trumpeter Swan a heavy gallop at two in the morning.

Manny left a number. I called back and told him to follow the order. Do it just like I told him. Then clean him up well before putting him back in the stall.

At quarter of two that morning, I was standing in the dark beside the outside rail of the first turn. There was just enough light from the outlying buildings to make out figures. I saw Manny ride the big black colt onto the track. He warmed him up and then put him to a gallop that would have worn out Secretariat. He walked him a lap around the track and took him back to the stables.

During the gallop, I could just make out a faint glint of light high up in the grandstand. My guess was that it was the reflection off of binoculars in the hands of Marty Trait. He wanted to be sure that Manny carried out his orders, but the last thing he wanted was to be seen supervising it.

By post time for the Fox Handicap the track was lightning fast. With Bobby out, I was up on Trumpeter Swan. Marty had given me instructions during the saddle-up, but it didn’t matter. This was between Swan and me.

When the starter’s bell rang and that gate banged open, I gave him his head. He sprang like a pent-up lightning bolt. The horses on either side of him challenged for the first lead, but he would not be denied. We took the rail at the head of the pack going into the first turn. I could feel every muscle driving to set more and more distance between him and the followers. I checked him back slightly with pressure on the bit, not enough to break the momentum, just enough to save something for the distance.

I whispered into the ear that flicked back as if to get the signal. “Not yet, Swan. We’ll get ’em. Just cruise.”

Around the turn and through the back stretch he held the lead against the challenges of horses that would usually be frontrunners. He settled into a steady rhythm that ate up distance at a rate that took my breath away.

We went into the far turn a half-length ahead, but I could sense the challenge of the late closers that were coming fast around the outside. I leaned low and close to that flicking ear and gave him the word I think he wanted to hear. “Now, Swan. Show ’em what you got.”