But Murray was destined to be disappointed in this, as well. For when he reached the Grange House, he was informed by the housekeeper that Mr. Pinkie Duncan had gone to London on business for the day, to return the next. She eyed his green-checked tweed suit and bowler approvingly and added that Mr. Angus Duncan was in the office at the stable, if the gentleman would care to step around.
Murray went into the stableyard and, after an inquiry, located the office. He opened the door, announcing himself. With a frown, Angus Duncan looked up from some race entry forms on which he was working, a mug of tea at his elbow and a pipe curling smoke around his head. Behind him on the wall was a telephone. Murray was not surprised. Most of the stables were finding it to their advantage to be connected by telephone with the various racecourses in order to obtain the latest word on the running of their horses-and sometimes to lay a very late bet or two. Between the newfangled race ticker and the telephone (new at least in the provincial towns), the bookies were sometimes hard pressed to know whether a last-minute bettor was honest or a cheat.
“Wot name did ye say?” Duncan asked, his leathery face creased in a frown.
“Jack Murray, sir,” Murray repeated humbly. “I’m assisting the investigation into the death of Alfred Day.”
Duncan ’s pale eyes narrowed. “Investigation? What investigation? Are ye from the police?”
“No, sir.” Murray spoke in a deferential tone. “This is a private investigation. I fear I’m not at liberty to tell you who has sponsored it. It is, however, being carried out in cooperation with the police.” He nodded at the telephone on the wall. “I’m sure Chief Constable Watson would be glad to vouch for me.”
Duncan considered this for a moment, then shook his head. “No need fer me t’call ’im, since I’ve nothin’ t’ tell. I’m sorry fer Badger,” he added. “ ’E’d ’ad some rough years, but ’e was honest, as bookies go. Which ain’t sayin’ much, o’ course.”
“The proprietor of the Great Horse believes that Jesse Clark may have had something to do with his murder,” Murray said in a tentative tone, watching Duncan ’s face. The morning was gloomy and the gas lamp had been lit, throwing a shadow that exaggerated the old man’s expression. “I don’t suppose you would care to venture an opinion on the subject.”
Duncan ’s mouth tightened. “ Clark, eh?” He cast his pencil onto the table with a grunt, perhaps of satisfaction. “Can’t say I’m much surprised.”
“And why is that, Mr. Duncan?” Murray asked respectfully.
“Because of wot Badger was up to.” The old man leaned back in his chair, picked up his mug of tea, and drank.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Murray frowned. “I’m afraid I must have missed something. What was he up to?”
Duncan wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, smiling contemptuously. “Ye’re an investigator and ye ’aven’t found out wot Badger wuz plannin’? Why, everybody in Newmarket knows ’ow ’e meant t’ wreck the Americans’ game.” He took a long pull on his pipe, removed it from his mouth, and glared at it.
Murray looked quizzical. “Their game? I’m afraid I don’t-”
“Do I ’ave to spell it out fer ye, man?” Duncan demanded sourly. “Their dopin’ game, that’s wot! They’ve been runnin” orses doped t’ win and takin’ a fortune out of the Ring. If they’re not stopped, every bookie in Britain will ’ave ’is pockets pulled inside-out. Badger’s tried more’n once t’ get the stewards to put an end t’it. Then ’e gave up on them and figured t’ do it ’imself, by organizing the Ring. ’E was goin’ t’ let the newspapers in on it, too.”
“Organizing the Ring, eh?” Murray asked. He put on a skeptical look. “I’d say that would be a hard thing to do.”
“Oh, ye would, would ye?” With a short laugh, Duncan leaned forward and tapped his pipe into a china ashtray already full to overflowing with pipe ash. “Well, I’d say ye didn’t know much about Badger, then, or the Ring, neither. Badger knew the bettin’ business, and ’e knew bookies. Wot’s more, the bookies knew Badger, big and lit’le. If anybody could pull ’em together, ’e was the one.” He opened the desk drawer and pulled out a tin of tobacco. “Reckon that’s why ’e wuz killed. That, and the newspapers.” In a tone of scornful rebuke, he added, “Reckon ye should ’ave figgered that out fer yerself, if ye wuz any kind of investigator.”
“I’m sure I should have,” Murray said apologetically. He cleared his throat. “I wonder, sir, while we’re on the subject, what you might think of Eddie Baggs as a possible killer. He was with Jesse Clark at the Great Horse and went out with him shortly after Mr. Day left. The proprietor seems to think-”
“Baggs?” Duncan, frowned. “Eddie Baggs wuz with Clark? Ye’re sure ye din’t get that wrong?”
“Well, I might have.” Murray gave him an uncertain look. “You don’t think they’d have been together?”
“I doubt it,” Duncan said firmly, tapping tobacco into his pipe. “Maybe it was ’appenstance, them comin’ in together. More like, Baggs wuz ’elping Badger organize the bookies. They been partners fer sev’ral years.”
“I’ve been trying to locate Mr. Baggs to clear up this point,” Murray said, “but his landlady says he’s left Newmarket. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find anyone with a notion as to where he might have gone. I don’t suppose you could help me?”
Duncan hesitated, pushing his lips in and out as if he were deciding whether or not to speak. At last, he said, “Well, ye might try ’is sister. She lives over Newnham way, in Cambridge. She’d know where ’e’s gone.”
“Thank you,” Murray said gratefully. He paused. “I’m sure it’s a great deal of trouble, but would you happen to know his sister’s name and where she might be found? I wouldn’t ask, but no one else seems to-”
“Thompson,” Duncan said. “Sally Thompson. She’s cook fer the Darwins, at Newnham Grange. She wuz married to my cousin, b’fore ’e died.”
“I’m very grateful, Mr. Duncan.” Murray half turned to go, then turned back. “Oh, there’s one thing more, if you wouldn’t mind. I wonder if there’s anything you can tell me about the connection between your nephew Pinkie Duncan and Mr. Clark.”
“Wot connection?” Duncan ’s seamy face darkened.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been able to discover that yet, Mr. Duncan,” Murray said contritely. “It seems that he was at the Great Horse with Mr. Clark and Mr. Baggs on Monday night, and that there was some sort of argument-a rather violent argument, or so it’s reported. He is said to have gone out with Clark and Baggs after Mr. Day left. There is some thought that he is connected with-”
“ ’E’s connected with nothin’,” the old man snapped. “ ’E’s a fool of a boy ’oo’s got ’isself into something ’e don’t understand.” He pressed his lips together, obviously having said more than he intended.
“I suppose you mean,” Murray said in a speculative tone, “that he’s fallen in with bad companions-the Americans, I assume. Of course, I wouldn’t know the truth of it,” he added, “but there’s talk that Pinkie will take over the stables here, upon your retirement. It is supposed that he would then adopt the Americans’ method of-”
“Rot!” the old man shouted, jumping to his feet. “If ye ’ear that kind of talk, Mr. Murray, ye can bloody well tell ’em to shove it up their arse. There’s going to be no American methods ’ere, not so long as I’m alive and kickin’! English way’s best. Allus ’as been, allus will be.”
“Admirable, sir, admirable!” Murray exclaimed. He added, humbly, “Then I suppose it must be true, as others have told me, that Pinkie will be moving to the Red House Stables and training with Clark and Wishard.”
The old man looked at him, struck silent. He sank back down in his chair. “It’s them damned Americans,” he whispered. “They’re the devil incarnate, and they’ve tempted Pinkie past ’is limits.” He dropped his face in his hands. “But it’s only dopin’, that’s all,” he whispered. “Not murder, not Pinkie. I swear it. Just dopin’.”