Shattered by Dick Francis Read Free Book Online Page A

muscle man in sight. It wasn’t so much as a chauffeur that I now valued Worthington at my elbow, but as a prospective bodyguard. The Elvis lookalike had radiated latent menace at an intensity that I hadn’t met before and didn’t like; and for a detonator there was fierce, thorny Rose, and it was with her in mind that I casually asked Worthington if he’d ever placed a bet at the races with Arthur Robins, Est. 1894.
    â€œFor a start,” he said with sarcasm, fastening his seat belt as if keeping to the law were routine, “the Robins family don’t exist. That bunch of swindlers known as Arthur Robins are mostly Veritys and Webbers, with a couple of Browns thrown in. There hasn’t been a bona fide Arthur Robins ever. It’s just a pretty name.”
    Eyebrows raised in surprise, I asked, “How do you know all that?”
    â€œMy old man ran a book,” he said. “Fasten your seat belt, Gerard, the cops in this town would put eagles out of business. Like I said, my old man was a bookmaker, he taught me the trade. You’ve got to be real sharp at figures, though, to make a profit, and I never got quick enough. But Arthur Robins, that’s the front name for some whizzers of speed merchants. Don’t bet with them, that’s my advice.”
    I said, “Do you know that Eddie Payne, Martin’s valet, has a daughter called Rose who says her last name is Robins and who’s on cuddling terms with an Elvis Presley lookalike taking bets for Arthur Robins?”
    Worthington, who had been about to start the car outside Logan Glass to drive us to Bon-Bon, sat back in his seat, letting his hands fall laxly on his thighs.
    â€œNo,” he said thoughtfully, “I didn’t know that.” He thought for a while, his forehead troubled. “That Elvis fellow,” he said finally, “that’s Norman Osprey. You don’t want to mix with him.”
    â€œAnd Rose?”
    Worthington shook his head. “I don’t know her. I’ll ask around.” He roused himself and started the car.
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    By Thursday, the day of Martin’s funeral, the police as predicted hadn’t found one identifiable videotape in a country awash with them.
    On the day before the funeral a young woman on a motorbike—huge helmet, black leather jacket, matching pants, heavy boots—steered into one of the five parking spaces at the front of Logan Glass. Outside in the January chill she pulled off the helmet and shook free a cap of fair fine hair before walking without swagger into the gallery and showroom as if she knew the way well.
    I was putting the pre-annealing final touches to a vase, with Pamela Jane telling a group of American tourists how it was done, but there was something attention-claiming about the motorcyclist, and as soon as I thought of her in terms of glass, I knew her infallibly.
    â€œCatherine Dodd,” I said.
    â€œMost people don’t recognize me.” She was amused, not piqued.
    With interest I watched the tourists pack somewhat closer together as if to elbow out the stranger in threatening clothes.
    Pamela Jane finished her spiel and one of the American men said the vases were too expensive, even if they were handmade and handsome. He collected nods and all-around agreement, and there was relief in the speed with which the tourists settled instead on simple dolphins and little dishes. While Hickory wrapped the parcels and wrote out bills, I asked the motorcyclist if there were any news of my lost tape.
    She watched me handle the vase in heatproof fiber and put it to cool in the annealing oven.
    â€œI’m afraid,” said Detective Constable Dodd in plain—well, plainer—clothes, “your tape is gone for good.”
    I told her it held a secret.
    â€œWhat secret?”
    â€œThat’s the point, I don’t know. Martin Stukely told his wife he was giving me a secret on tape for