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$1000 which would stay in his pocket) and the price would come down with a run. The
loudspeaker was announcing the race. Away to the left the horses were being
marshalled behind the starting-gate. Ping, ping, ping, the lights opposite Noio on the
board started to wink and flash 15, 14, 12, u, and finally 9 to i. Then the lights stopped
talking and the tote was closed. And how many more thousands had gone away by
Western Union to harmless telegraphic addresses in Detroit, Chicago, New York,
Miami, San Francisco and a dozen more off-the-course books throughout the States?
A handbell clanged sharply. There was an electric smell in the air, and a muting of the
noise of the crowds. Then down thundered the ragged charging line towards the
grandstand and past and away in a scud of hooves and flying eardi and tanbark. There
was a glimpse of sharp, pale faces half-hidden by goggles, a stream of pounding
shoulders and hindquarters, a flash of wild white eyes and a confusion of numbers
amongst which Bond caught only the vital Noio well to the fore and close in to the rails.
And then the dust was settling and the brown-black mass was at the first corner and
slowly streaming round the bottom straight and Bond felt the glasses slip in the sweat
round his eyes.
No5, a black outsider, was leading by a length. Was this some unknown horse that
was going to steal the show? But then there was No1 level with him and then No3. And
No10 half a length behind the leaders. Just these four out in front and the rest bunched
three lengths away. Round the corner and now No1 was in the lead. The Whitney
black. And No10 was fourth. Down the long straight opposite and No3 was moving up
with Tingaling Bell on the chestnut at his heels. They both passed No5 and were well
up with No1 who was still leading by half a length. And then the first top bend and the
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top straight, and No3 was leading with Shy Smile second and No1 a length behind. And
Shy Smile was coming up level with the leader. He was level, and they were coming
into the final corner. Bond held his breath. Now! Now! He could almost hear the whirr of
the concealed camera in the big white post. No10 was ahead, right on the bend, but
No3 was inside on the rails. And the crowd was howling for the favourite. Now Bell was
inching towards the grey, his head well down on his horse's neck on the outside, so that
he could pretend that he couldn't see the grey horse on the rails. Inch by inch the
horses drew closer and, suddenly, Shy Smile's head hid No3's head, then his quarters
were in front and, yes, Pray Action's boy suddenly stood right up in his stirrups, forced
to take-up by the foul, and at once Shy Smile was a length ahead.
There was an angry roar from the crowd. Bond lowered his glasses and sat back and
watched as the foam-flecked chestnut thundered past the post below him with Pray
Action five lengths behind and Come Again just failing to beat him into second place.
Not bad, thought Bond, as the crowd howled around him. Not bad at all.
And how brilliantly the jockey had done it! His head so well down that even Pissaro
would have to admit Bell couldn't see the other horse. The natural curve-in for the final
straight. The head still well down as he passed the post and the whip flailing for the last
few lengths as if Tingaling still thought himself only half a length ahead of No3.
Bond watched for the results to be posted. There was a chorus of whistles and cat-
calls. 'No10, Shy Smile, five lengths. No3, Pray Action, 1/2 length. No1, Come Again,
three lengths. No7, Pirandello, three lengths.'
And the horses came cantering back for the weighing-in, and the crowd yelled for
blood as Tingaling Bell, grinning all over his face, threw his whip to the valet and
slipped off the sweating chestnut and carried his saddle to the scales.
And then there was a great burst of cheering. Opposite the name of Shy Smile the
word OBJECTION, white on black, had been slipped in, and the loudspeaker was
saying: "Attention please. In this race there has been an objection lodged by Jockey T.
Lucky on No3, Pray Action, against the riding of Jockey T. Bell on No10, Shy Smile. Do
not destroy your tickets. I repeat, Do not destroy your tickets."
Bond took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands. He could imagine the scene in
the projection room behind the judges' box. Now they would be examining the film. Bell
would be standing there looking hurt, and, beside him, No1's jockey looking still more
hurt. Would the owners be there? Would the sweat be running down Pissaro's fat jowls
into his collar? Would some of the other owners be there, pale and angry?
And then came the loudspeaker again and the voice saying:
"Attention please. In this race, No10, Shy Smile, has been disqualified and No3, Pray
Action, has been declared the winner. The result is now official."
Amidst the thunder of the crowd, Bond got stiffly up from his seat and walked off in
the direction of the bar. And now for the payoff. Perhaps a Bourbon and branch-water
would give him some ideas about getting the money to Tingaling Bell. He was uneasy
about it. And yet the Acme Baths sounded an easy enough place. Nobody knew him in
Saratoga. But after that he would have to stop working for Pinkertons. Call up Shady
Tree and complain about not getting his five thousand. Worry him about his own payoff.
It had been fun helping Leiter push these people around. Next would come Bond's turn,
He pushed his way into the crowded bar.
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