df.theedge-第8部分

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o　my　own　which　was　parked　strategically；　as　ever；　near　the　gate　to　the　road；　for　making　quick　following　getaways。　I　memorized　their　number　plate　in　case　I　later　lost　them：　and　out　on　the　road；　fortably　falling　into　place　behind　them；　I　telephoned　Millington。
　　I　told　him　about　the　briefcase　and　read　him　the　number　plate　still　ahead　in　my　sight。
　　'The　car's　going　north；　though；'　I　said。　'How　far　do　you　want　me　to　go？'
　　'What　time's　your　flight　tomorrow？'
　　'Noon；　from　Heathrow。　But　I　have　to　go　home　first　to　pick　up　my　gear　and　passport。'
　　He　thought　for　a　few　moments。　'You'd　better　decide　for　yourself。　If　he　gets　on　the　motorway　to　Scotland。。。　well；　don't　go。'
　　'All　right。'
　　'Very　interesting；'　Millington　said；　'that　he　didn't　want　to　be　seen　in　public　accepting　that　briefcase。'
　　'Very。'
　　'Anything　special　about　it？'
　　'As　far　as　I　could　see；'　I　said；　'it　was　black；　polished；　possibly　crocodile；　with　gold　clasps。'
　　'Well；　well；'　Millington　said　vaguely。　'I'll　get　back　to　you　with　that　car　number。'
　　The　thin　man's　car　aimed　unerringly　for　the　motorway　in　the　direction　of　Scotland。　I　decided　to　keep　on　going　at　least　until　Millington　called　back；　which　he　did　with　impressive　speed；　telling　me　that　my　quarry　was　registered　to　I。　J。　Horfitz；　resident　of　Doncaster；　address　supplied。
　　'All　right；'　I　said；　'I'll　go　to　Doncaster。'　An　hour　and　a　bit　ahead；　I　thought；　with　plenty　of　time　to　return。
　　'Does　that　name　Horfitz　ring　any　bells　with　you？'　Millington　asked。
　　'None　at　all；'　I　said　positively。　'And　by　the　way；　you　know　that　promising　young　apprentice　of　Pete　Shaw's？　All　that　talent？　The　silly　young　fool　passed　some　verbal　info　to　a　new　character　on　the　racecourse　who　turned　out　to　be　writing　the　book　for　Collie　Goodboy。　Collie　Goodboy　thought　it　good　news。'
　　'What　was　it；　do　you　know？'
　　'Pete　Shaw　had　a　runner　in　the　second　race；　third　favourite；　finished　nearly　last。　The　apprentice　knew　the　score；　though　he　wasn't　riding　it。'
　　'Huh；'　Millington　said。　'I'll　put　the　fear　of　God　into　the　lot　of　them；　Pete　Shaw；　the　owner；　the　jockey；　the　apprentice　and　Collie　Goodboy。　Stir　them　up　and　warn　them。　I　suppose；'　he　said　as　an　afterthought；　'you　didn't　get　any　photos？　We　haven't　any　actual　proof？'
　　'Not　really。　I　took　one　shot　of　the　apprentice　talking　to　Collie's　man；　but　they　had　their　backs　to　me。　One　of　Collie's　man　with。　One　of　Collie　s　board　with　the　generous　odds。'
　　'Better　than　nothing；'　he　said　judiciously　'It'll　give　them　all　an　unholy　fright。　The　innocent　ones　will　be　livid　and　sack　the　guilty；　like　they　usually　do。　Clean　their　own　house。　Save　us　a　job。　And　we'll　keep　a　permanent　eye　on　that　stupid　apprentice。　Ring　me　when　you　get　to　Doncaster　'
　　'OK。　And　I　took　some　more　photos　One　of　the　nervous　young　man　with　the　briefcase；　one　of　him　with　the　thin　man。。　er。。。　I。　J。　Horfitz　possibly；　I　suppose；　and　one　of　Filmer　with　the　briefcase；　though　I'm　not　sure　if　that　one　will　be　very　clear；　I　had　almost　no　time　and　I　was　quite　far　away；　and　I　was　using　the　cigarette　lighter　camera；　it's　less　conspicuous。'
　　'All　right。　We　need　that　film　before　you　go。　Um。。。　er　。。。　you'd　better　give　me　a　ring　when　you're　on　the　way　back；　and　I'll　have　thought　of　somewhere　we　can　meet　tonight。　Right？'
　　'Yes；　'I　said。　'Right。'
　　'This　Horfitz　person；　what　did　he　look　like？'
　　'Thin；　elderly；　wore　a　dark　overcoat　and　a　black　trilby；　and　glasses。　Looked　ready　for　a　funeral；　not　the　races。'
　　Millington　grunted　in　what　seemed　to　me　to　be　recognition。
　　'Do　you　know　him？'　I　asked。
　　'He　was　before　your　time。　But　yes；　I　know　him。　Ivor　Horfitz。　It　must　be　him。　We　got　him　warned　off　for　life　five　years　ago。'
　　'What　for？'
　　'It's　a　long　story。　I'll　tell　you　later。　And　I　don't　think　after　all　you　need　to　spend　all　that　time　going　to　Doncaster。　We　can　always　find　him；　if　we　want　to。　Turn　round　at　the　next　exit　and　e　back　to　London；　and　I'll　meet　you　in　that　pub　at　Victoria。　Not　the　snack…bar；　the　pub。'
　　'Yes；　right。　See　you　in　about。。。　um。。。　two　and　a　half　hours；　with　luck。'
　　Two　and　a　half　hours　later；　beer　and　pork　pie　time　in　a　dark　far　corner　in　a　noisy　bar；　Millington's　preferred　sort　of　habitat。
　　I　gave　him　the　exposed　but　undeveloped　film；　which　he　put　in　his　pocket　saying；　'Eyes　in　the　back　of　my　head；'　with　conspicuous　satisfaction。
　　'Who　is　Horfitz？'　I　said；　quenching　the　long　drive's　thirst　in　a　half…pint　of　draught。　'Did　you　know　he　knew　Filmer？'
　　'No；'　he　said；　answering　the　second　question　first。　'And　Filmer　wouldn't　want　to　be　seen　with　him；　nor　to　be　seen　in　any　sort　of　contact。'
　　'What　you're　saying；'　I　said　slowly；　'is　that　the　messenger；　the　nervous　young　man；　is　also　known　by　sight　to　the　stewards。。。　to　you　yourself　probably。。。　because　if　he　were　an　unidentifiable　stranger；　why　should　Filmer　react　so　violently　to　being　seen　with　him；　to　being　seen　accepting　something　from　him？'
　　Millington　gave　me　a　sideways　look。　'You've　learned　a　thing　or　two；　haven't　you；　since　you　started。'　He　patted　the　pocket　containing　the　film。　'This　will　tell　us　if　we　know　him。　What　did　he　look　like？'
　　'Fairly　plump；　fairly　gormless。　Sweaty。　Unhappy。　A　worm　between　two　hawks。'
　　Millington　shook　his　head。　'Might　be　anyone；'　he　said。
　　'What　did　Horfitz　do？'　I　asked。
　　Millington　bit　into　pork　pie　and　took　his　time；　speaking　eventually　round　escaping　crumbs　of　pastry。
　　'He　owned　a　small　stableful　of　horses　in　Newmarket　and　employed　his　own　trainer　for　them；　who　naturally　did　what　he　was　told。　Very　successful　little　stable　in　a　quiet　way。　Amazing　results；　but　there　you　are；　some　owners　are　always　lucky。　Then　the　trainer　got　cold　feet　because　he　thought　we　were　on　to　him；　which　we　actually　weren't；　we'd　never　reckoned　him　for　a　villain。　Anyway；　he　blew　the　whistle　on　the　operation；　saying　the　strain　was　getting　too　much　for　him。　He　said　all　the　horses　in　the　yard　were　as　good　as　interchangeable。　They　ran　in　whatever　races　he　and　Horfitz　thought　they　could　win。　Three…year…olds　in　two…year…old　races；　past　winners　in　maidens…at…starting；　any　old　thing。　Horfitz　bought　and　sold　horses　continually　so　the　yard　never　looked　the　same　from　week　to　week；　and　the　stable　lads　came　and　went　like　yo…yos；　like　they　do　pretty　much　anyway。　They　employed　all　sorts　of　different　jockeys。　No　one　cottoned　on。　Horfitz　had　some　nice　long…priced　winners　but　no　bookmakers　hollered　foul。　It　was　a　small　unfashionable　stable；　see？　Never　in　the　newspapers。　Because　they　didn't　run　in　big　races；　just　small　ones　at　tracks　the　press　don't　go　to；　but　you　can　win　as　much　by　betting　on　those　as　on　any　others。　It　was　all　pretty　low　key；　but　we　found　out　that　Horfitz　had　made　literally　hundreds　of　thousands；　not　just　by　betting　but　by　selling　his　winners。　Only　he　always　sold　the　real　horses　which　fitted　the　names　on　the　race…card；　not　the　horses　that　had　actually　run。　He　kept　those　and　ran　them　again；　and　sold　the　horses　in　whose　names　they'd　run；　and　so　on　and　so　on。　Audacious　little　fiddle；　the　whole　thing。'
　　'Yes；'　I　agreed；　and　felt　a　certain　amount　of　awe　at　the　energy　and　organization　put　into　the　enterprise。
　　'So　when　the　trainer　ratted　we　set　a　few　traps　with　his　help　and　caught　Horfitz　with　his　pants　down；　so　to　speak。　He　got　warned　off　for　life　and　swore　to　kill　his　trainer；　which　he　hasn't　done　so　far。　The　trainer　was　warned　off　for　three　years　with　a　severe　caution；　but　he　got　his　licence　back　two　years　ago。　Part　of　the　bargain。　So　he's　in　business　again　in　a　small　way　but　we　keep　his　runners　under　a　microscope；　checking　their　passports　every　time　they　run。　We're　a　lot　hotter　at　checking　passports　randomly　all　over　the　place　now；　as　of　course　you　know。'
　　I　nodded。
　　Then　Millington's　jaw　literally　dropped。　I　looked　at　the　classic　sign　of　astonishment　and　said；　'What's　the　matter？'
　　'Gawd；'　he　said。　'What　a　turn　up。　Can　you　believe　it？　Paul　Shacklebury；　that　murdered　stable　lad；　he　was　working　for　Horfitz's　old　trainer。'
　　I　left　Millington　frowning　with　concentration　over　a　replenished　pint　while　he　tried　to　work　out　the　significance　of　Horfitz's　old　trainer　employing　a　lad　who　was　murdered　for　knowing　too　much　about　Filmer。　What　had　Paul　Shacklebury　known；　Millington　demanded　rhetorically　for　the　hundredth　time。　And；　more　to　the　minute；　what　was　in　the　briefcase；　and　why　was　Horfitz　giving　it　to　Filmer？
　　'Work　on　the　sweating　messenger；'　I　suggested；　getting　up　to　go。　'He　might　crack　open　like　the　trainer。　You　never　know。'
　　'Maybe　we　will；'　Millington　said。　'And　Tor。。。　look　out　for　yourself　on　the　train。'
　　He　could　be　quite　human　sometimes；　I　thought。
　　I　flew　to　Ottawa　the　next　day　and　gave　in　to　temptation　at　Heathrow　to　the　extent　of　changing　my　ticket　from　knees…against…chest　economy　to　full…stretch…out　first　class。　I　also　asked　the　Ottawa　taxi　driver　who　took　me　into　the　city　from　the　airport　to　find　me　a　decent　hotel；　he　cast　a　rapid　eye　over　my　clothes　and　the　new　suitcase　and　said　the　Four　Seasons　should　suit。
　　It　suited。　They　gave　me　a　small　pleasant　suite　and　I　telephoned　straight　away　to　the　number　I'd　been　given　for　Bill　Baudelaire。　He　answered　himself　at　the　first　ring；　rather　to　my　surprise；　and　said