Straight by Dick Francis

you the number. And would you ask for Mrs. Annette Adams? She was Greville’s second-in-command.”
    He could hardly say he wouldn’t, so I read out the number and he repeated it as he wrote it down.
    “Don’t forget, though, that there’s only a month left of the Flat season,” he said. “They’ll probably run only once more each. Two at the very most. Then I’ll sell them for you, that would be best. No problem. Leave it to me.”
    He was right, logically, but I still illogically disliked his haste.
    “As executor, I’d have to approve any sale,” I said, hoping I was right. “In advance.”
    “Yes, yes, of course.” Reassuring heartiness. “Your injury,” he said, “what exactly is it?”
    “Busted ankle.”
    “Ah. Bad luck. Getting on well, I hope?” The sympathy sounded more like relief to me than anything else, and again I couldn’t think why.
    “Getting on,” I said.
    “Good, good. Goodbye then. The York race should be on the television on Saturday. I expect you’ll watch it?”
    “I expect so.”
    “Fine.” He put down his receiver in great good humor and left me wondering what I’d missed.
    Greville’s telephone rang again immediately, and it was Brad to tell me that he had returned from his day’s visit to an obscure aunt in Walthamstow and was downstairs in the front hall; all he actually said was, “I’m back.”
    “Great. I won’t be long.”
    I got a click in reply. End of conversation.
    I did mean to leave almost at once but there were two more phone calls in fairly quick succession. The first was from a man introducing himself as Elliot Trelawney, a colleague of Greville’s from the West London Magistrates Court. He was extremely sorry, he said, to hear about his death, and he truly sounded it. A positive voice, used to attention: a touch of plummy accent.
    “Also,” he said, “I’d like to talk to you about some projects Greville and I were working on. I’d like to have his notes.”
    I said rather blankly, “What projects? What notes?”
    “I could explain better face to face,” he said. “Could I ask you to meet me? Say tomorrow, early evening, over a drink? You know that pub just round the. corner from Greville’s house? The Rook and the Castle? There. He and I often met there. Five-thirty, six, either of those suit you?”
    “Five-thirty,” I said obligingly.
    “How shall I know you?”
    “By my crutches.”
    It silenced him momentarily. I let him off embarrassment.
    “They’re temporary,” I said.
    “Er, fine, then. Until tomorrow.”
    He cut himself off, and I asked Annette if she knew him, Elliot Trelawney? She shook her head. She couldn’t honestly say she knew anyone outside the office who was known to Greville personally. Unless you counted Prospero Jenks, she said doubtfully. And even then, she herself had never really met him, only talked to him frequently on the telephone.
    “Prospero Jenks... alias Fabergé?”
    “That’s the one.”
    I thought a bit. “Would you mind phoning him now?” I said. “Tell him about Greville and ask if I can go to see him to discuss the future. Just say I’m Greville’s brother, nothing else.”
    She grinned. “No horses? Pas de gee-gees?”
    Annette, I thought in amusement, was definitely loosening up.
    “No horses,” I agreed.
    She made the call but without results. Prospero Jenks wouldn’t be reachable until morning. She would try then, she said.
    I levered myself upright and said I’d see her tomorrow. She nodded, taking it for granted that I would be there. The quicksand was winning, I thought. I was less and less able to get out.
    Going down the passage, I stopped to look in on Alfie, whose day’s work stood in columns of loaded cardboard boxes waiting to be entrusted to the mail.
    “How many do you send out every day?” I asked, gesturing to them.
    He looked up briefly from stretching sticky tape round yet another parcel. “About twenty, twenty-five regular, but more from August to