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

I could feel those pulsing muscles strain with a new wellspring of power. His ears were straight back now. Playtime was over. The burst of speed around the turn carried him to the center of the track, but it didn’t matter. He owned every inch of the distance that lay ahead of him.

He came off the turn three lengths ahead and the lead kept growing. I could just sense Marty in the stands waiting for the exhaustion of the night gallop to bring him down. He must have been close to panic, because the Swan just kept bringing it on. Seventy yards to go and the lead was up to six lengths and climbing.

When we crossed the finish line, I couldn’t even hear the horses behind me. I stood straight up in the irons and yelled my lungs out. The Swan sensed the victory and eased off slightly, but he covered another half mile before he slowed to a canter.

We were both panting when we rode into the winner’s circle. I waved my whip to the empty box where Mr. Fitz should have been and prayed that he could feel some of this moment.

We stood as still as the Swan could for the picture. He pranced in place like he wanted to do it all over again.

There was no Marty in the winner’s circle to meet us. I saw Michael working his way through the crowd to the rail. He yelled up to me, “Meet us at the outside gate as soon as you can.”

I waved back to him and jumped off Swan. I took the saddle and went through the required weighing out at double speed. This was my last race for the day, so I could leave the jockeys’ area.

I ran to the front entrance gate of the track. There was a small cluster of people off to the side. Michael had passed on everything we knew to Pat O’Connor and asked him to meet us there. Michael was with them, as was Marty Trait in handcuffs, standing beside a police officer.

Mr. O’Connor saw me and said, “We found your friend here leaving early. I wonder why.”

I walked up next to Marty so I could look him eye to eye, with a good bit of head-tilting on my part. I could feel the heat seething out of his pores.

“How about that Swan, Marty? You must be thrilled. Or maybe just shocked after his midnight gallop.”

Marty just glared. He looked like he could spit nails, but he didn’t trust himself to open his mouth. I answered the question that must have been eating him up.

“Actually there was no midnight gallop. Not for Swan anyway. That was Fair Dawn you saw Manny working this morning. I figured you couldn’t tell the difference in the dark.”

That did nothing to cool his anger. Michael stepped in.

“No comment, Mr. Trait? Well, that’s all right. That’s just race fixing. That’s peanuts compared to planting evidence of the murder of Bobby Pastore on Mr. Fitzroy.”

That brought his head around. I couldn’t resist.

“But you blew it, Marty. You planted the wrong strap. You never knew that Bobby rode ace-deuce. That means if Mr. Fitz didn’t cut that strap, it had to be you. Only four people had a chance to do it after Bobby’s previous race. Mr. Fitz, you, Bobby, and his valet. No one’s pointing fingers at the valet, and I don’t think Bobby did it.”

That bit of logic got absolutely nothing but glares out of Marty. I could see he was digging in. I decided to fire my last best shot.

“You made that anonymous call to the D.A., didn’t you, Marty? Only you twisted the facts. Bobby wasn’t blackmailing Mr. Fitz. I figure he was squeezing hush money out of the one who had him fixing races. That was you, Marty. You couldn’t let the word get out until Mr. Fitz lost the stable. That’d spoil the plan of the one who was pulling your strings. Bobby, the poor sap, didn’t know he was playing with Seamus Doyle.”

That did it. He went rigid when I mentioned Doyle’s name. The arrogance and anger turned to something that looked like terror. I knew then that we had the can opener. Michael did the follow-up.

“If you confess now, Trait, you might get a deal from the D.A. for less than the death penalty for giving up Doyle.”

I could see the thought of crossing Seamus Doyle nearly put him in a box. He was still tight as a clam. I had an idea. I asked Michael and Mr. O’Connor to let me have a word with Marty alone. They all stepped off to the side.

“I’ll be seeing Seamus Doyle tonight, Marty. We have some business to finish. My guess is he’ll be wondering what went wrong. He could be curious about how you let Trumpeter Swan win that race. It cost him the whole Fitzroy stable and a bundle of money besides. It could put him out of sorts. And it wouldn’t be hard to drop the suggestion that you double-crossed him.”

It could have been a mistake for me to talk to him alone. He could look down on the top of my head, and it gave him enough confidence to get arrogant. He whispered words that came out like venom.

“It’ll be a cold day in hell when a little punk like you does business with Seamus Doyle. You’re all bluff, you little bum.”

I stepped in close to him and dropped my voice.

“You ever been in Seamus Doyle’s office, Marty?”