df.theedge-第18部分

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ng　event　of　The　Great　Transcontinental　Mystery　Race　Train's　journey。　Race　Train　Day；　they　economically　said。　There　was　a　splendid　colour　photograph　of　a　train　crossing　a　prairie　on　the　race…card's　cover。　There　were　stalls　selling　red　and　white　Race　Train　T…shirts；　with　a　horse　face　to　face　with　a　lootive　across　the　chest。　There　were　Race　Train　flags　and　scarves　and　baseball　caps；　and　a　scatter　of　young　ladies　with　Support　Canadian　Racing　sashes　across　their　bosoms　were　handing　out　information　leaflets。　The　PR　firm；　I　thought　with　amusement；　were　leaving　no　one　in　any　doubt。
　　I　didn't　see　Filmer　until　just　before　the　Race　Train's　special　race；　which　had　been　named　without　subtlety　The　Jockey　Club　Race　Train　Stakes　at　Woodbine。　I'd　spent　some　of　the　afternoon　reading　the　information　in　the　race…card　about　the　owners　and　their　horses　and　had　seen　that　whereas　all　the　owners　were　on　the　train's　passenger　list；　none　of　the　horses　were。　We　would　be　taking　fresh　animals　to　Winnipeg　and　Vancouver
　　Filmer　wasn't　on　the　race…card　as　an　owner；　but　Mrs　Daffodil　Quentin　was；　and　when　she　came　down　to　see　the　saddling　of　her　runner；　Filmer　was　with　her；　assiduous　and　smiling。
　　Daffodil　Quentin　had　a　big　puff…ball　hair　arrangement　of　blonde　curls　above　a　middle…aged　face　with　intense　shiny　red　lipstick。　She　wore　a　black　dress　with　a　striped　chinchilla　coat　over　it：　too　much　fur；　I　briefly　thought；　for　the　warmth　of　the　afternoon　sun。
　　There　was　hardly　time　to　identify　all　the　other　owners　as　the　pre…race　formalities　were　over　much　more　quickly　than　in　England；　but　I　did　particularly　look　for　and　sort　out　Mercer　Lorrimore。
　　Mercer　Lorrimore；　darling　of　the　glossy　mags；　was　running　two　horses　in　the　race；　giving　it　his　loyal　support。　He　was　a　man　of　average　height；　average　build；　average　weight；　and　was　distinguishable　chiefly　because　of　his　well…cut；　well…brushed　full　head　of　white　hair。　His　expression　looked　reasonable　and　pleasant；　and　he　was　being　nice　to　his　trainer。
　　Beside　him　was　a　thin　well…groomed　woman　whom　I　supposed　to　be　his　wife；　Bambi　and　in　attendance　were　a　supercilious…looking　young　man　and　a　sulking　teenage　girl。　Son　and　daughter；　Sheridan　and　Xanthe；　no　doubt。
　　The　jockeys　were　thrown　up　like　rainbow　thistledown　on　to　the　tiny　saddles　and　let　their　skinny　bodies　move　to　the　fluid　rhythm　of　the　walking　thoroughbreds。　Out　on　the　track　with　the　horses'　gait　breaking　into　a　trot　or　canter　they　would　be　more　fortable　standing　up　in　the　stirrups　to　let　the　bumpier　rhythms　flow　beneath　them；　but　on　the　way　out　from　the　parade　ring　they　swayed　languorously　like　a　camel　train。　I　loved　to　watch　them：　never　grew　tired　of　it。　I　loved　the　big　beautiful　animals　with　their　tiny　brains　and　their　overwhelming　instincts　and　I'd　always；　all　over　the　world；　felt　at　home　tending　them；　riding　them　and　watching　them　wake　up　and　perform。
　　The　Lorrimore　colours　were　truly　Canadian；　bright　red　and　white　like　the　maple　leaf　flag。　Daffodil　Quentin's　colours　weren't　daffodil　yellow　but　pale　blue　and　dark　green；　a　lot　more　subdued　than　the　lady。
　　She　and　Filmer　and　all　the　other　owners　disappeared　upstairs　behind　glass　to　watch　the　race；　and　I　went　down　towards　the　track　to　wait　and　watch　from　near　where　the　lucky　owner　would　e　down　to　greet　his　winner。
　　There　were　fourteen　runners　for　the　mile…and…a…half　race　and　I　knew　nothing　about　the　form　of　any　of　them　except　for　the　information　on　the　race…card。　In　England　I　knew　the　current　scene　like　a　magnified　city　map；　knew　the　thoroughfares；　the　back　alleys；　the　small　turnings。　Knew　who　people　knew；　who　they　would　turn　to　and　turn　away　from；　who　they　lusted　after。　In　Canada；　I　was　without　radar　and　felt　blind。
　　The　Race　Train　Stakes　at　Woodbine；　turning　out　to　be　hot　enough　in　the　homestretch　to　delight　the　Ontario　Jockey　Club's　heart；　was　greeted　with　roars　and　screams　of　encouragement　from　the　stands。　Lorrimore's　scarlet…and…white　favourite　was　beaten　in　the　last　stride　by　a　streak　in　pale　blue　and　dark　green　and　a　good　many　of　the　cheers　turned　to　groans。
　　Daffodil　Quentin　came　down　and　passed　close　by　me　in　clouds　of　chinchilla；　excitement　and　a　musky　scent。　She　preened　coquettishly；　receiving　pliments　and　the　trophy；　and　Filmer；　ever　at　her　side；　gallantly　kissed　her　hand。
　　A　let…off　murderer；　I　thought；　kissing　an　unproven　insurance　swindler。　How　very　nice。　Television　cameras　whirred　and　flash　photographers　outdid　the　sun。
　　I　caught　sight　of　Bill　Baudelaire　scowling；　and　I　knew　what　John　Millington　would　have　said。
　　It　was　enough　to　make　you　sick。
　　
　　
　　　Chapter　Six
　　
　　On　Saturday　evening　and　early　Sunday　morning　I　packed　two　bags；　the　new　suitcase　from　England　and　a　softer　holdall　bought　in　Toronto。
　　Into　the　first　I　put　the　rich　young　owner's　suit；　cashmere　pullover　and　showy　shirts　and　into　the　second　the　new　younger…looking　clothes　for　off…duty　Tommy；　jeans；　sweatshirts；　woolly　hat　and　trainers。　I　packed　the　Scandinavian　jersey　I'd　worn　at　Woodbine　into　the　suitcase　just　in　case　it　jogged　anyone's　memory；　and　got　dressed　in　dark　trousers；　open…necked　shirt　and　a　short　zipped　navy　jacket　with　lighter　blue　bands　round　waist　and　wrists。
　　The　rich　young　owner's　expensive　brown　shoes　went　away。　Tommy；　following　instructions　from　the　uniform　department；　had　shiny　new　black　ones；　with　black　socks。
　　Into　Tommy's　holdall　went　the　binoculars…camera　and　the　hair　curler　（one　never　knew）；　and　I　had　the　cigarette　lighter…camera　as　always　in　my　pocket。　Tommy　also　had　the　rich　young　owner's　razor　and　toothbrush；　along　with　his　underclothes；　pyjamas　and　stock　of　fresh　films。　The　suitcase；　which　held　my　passport；　had　a　Merry　&　Co　label　on　it　addressed　to　the　Vancouver　Four　Seasons　Hotel；　the　holdall　had　no　identification　at　all。
　　With　everything　ready；　I　telephoned　Brigadier　Catto　in　England　and　told　him　about　Daffodil　Quentin　and　the　touching　little　scene　in　the　winners'　circle。
　　'Damn！'　he　said。　'Why　does　that　sort　of　thing　always　happen？　Absolutely　the　wrong　person　winning。'
　　The　general　public　didn't　seem　to　mind。　The　horse　was　third　favourite；　quite　well　backed。　Daffodil　Quentin　seems　to　be　acceptable　to　the　other　owners；　who　of　course　probably　don't　know　about　her　three　dead　horses。　They're　bound　to　take　to　Filmer　too；　you　know　how　civilized　he　can　seem；　and　I　don't　suppose　news　of　the　trial　got　muchattention　here　since　it　collapsed　almost　before　it　began。　Anyway；　Filmer　and　Daffodil　left　the　races　together　in　what　looked　like　her　own　car；　with　a　chauffeur。'
　　'Pity　you　couldn't　follow　them。'
　　'Well；　I　did　actually；　in　a　hired　car。　They　went　to　the　hotel；　where　Filmer　and　the　other　owners　from　the　train　are　staying；　and　they　went　into　the　bar　for　a　drink。　After　that；　Daffodil　left　in　her　Rolls　and　Filmer　went　upstairs。　Nothing　of　note。　He　looked　relaxed。'
　　The　Brigadier　said；　'You're　sure　they　didn't　spot　you　at　the　hotel？'
　　'Quite　sure。　The　entrance　hall　of　the　hotel　was　a　big　as　a　railway　station　itself。　There　were　dozens　of　people　sitting　around　waiting　for　other　people。　It　was　easy。'
　　It　had　even　been　easy　following　them　from　the　racecourse；　as　when　I　went　out　to　where　my　driver　had　parked　his　car　I　had　a　clear　view　from　a　distance　of　Daffodil　at　the　exit　gate　being　spooned　into　a　royal　blue　Rolls…Royce　by　Filmer　and　her　chauffeur。　My　driver；　with　raised　eyebrows　but　without　spoken　question；　agreed　to　keep　the　Rolls　in　sight　for　as　long　as　possible；　which　he　did　without　trouble　all　the　way　back　to　the　city。　At　the　hotel　I　paid　him　in　cash　with　a　bonus　and　sent　him　on　his　way；　and　was　in　time　to　see　Filmer's　backview　receding　into　a　dark…looking　bar　as　I　walked　into　the　big　central　hall　lobby。
　　It　had　been　an　exercise　without　much　in　the　way　of　results；　but　then　many　of　my　days　were　like　that；　and　it　was　only　by　knowing　the　normal　that　the　abnormal；　when　it　happened；　could　be　spotted。
　　'Would　you　mind　telling　me；'　I　said　diffidently　to　the　Brigadier；　'whether　Filmer　has　made　a　positive　threat　to　disrupt　this　train？'
　　There　was　a　silence；　then；　'Why　do　you　ask？'
　　'Something　Bill　Baudelaire　said。'
　　After　a　pause　he　answered；　'Filmer　was　seething　with　anger。　He　said　the　world's