Knock Down - By Dick Francis Page 0,2

not put the same sort of hustle on and seemed delighted when I suggested Ascot Sales. Which was, of course, before she went there.

No one buys the perfect novice steeplechaser for seven thousand dollars. Most of my time since Monday had been taken both by persuading her to settle for a fifty per cent reduction on perfection and by searching through the Ascot catalogue for a cut-price paragon. I had come up finally with Hearse Puller, knowing that she would object to the name. It had no breeding to speak of but I had seen it race and knew it had guts, which was half the battle, and it was trained by a nervy trainer which meant it might do better somewhere more relaxed.

I felt the Hearse Puller legs and peered at the tonsils and went back and told Kerry Sanders that her money was on the way.

‘You think we’ll get him, then?’ she asked.

‘As long as no one else wants him very badly.’

‘Do you think they will?’

‘Can’t tell,’ I said, and wondered how many times every year I had this same conversation. Nothing warned me there was anything different this time.

The rain had slackened to drizzle by the time we went over to the ring but even so it was difficult to find room for Kerry Sanders in a dry spot. No one in the rain-coated assembly looked much except miserable. They stood with hunched shoulders, coat collars turned up, hands in pockets, the usual collection of bloodstock agents, racehorse trainers, breeders and hopeful would-be purchasers all out on the same trail of winners and loot.

Lot 122, a sad looking chestnut, plodded round the asphalt path and failed to reach his reserve despite the auctioneer’s cajoling. I told Kerry Sanders I would be back in a minute, and went to watch 126 being led round in the collecting ring as he waited his turn. He carried himself well enough but he looked a little too excited and I thought that the rain was probably hiding the fact that he was sweating.

‘You interested in that black peacock?’ said a voice at my shoulder, and there again was Jiminy Bell, following the direction of my eyes and giving me the benefit of the treble brandy at close quarters.

‘Not specially,’ I said, and knew he couldn’t have read anything from my face. Nothing like bloodstock dealing for encouraging an expression to make poker players look indiscreet.

Hearse Puller pranced past and I switched my attention to 127 coming along next.

‘Now that one,’ Jiminy said approvingly. ‘Bit of class there.’

I grunted noncommittally and turned towards him. He made way for me with a half-aggressive half-ingratiating smile, a short man with greying hair, deeply wrinkled skin, and teeth too good to be true. Four or five years out of the saddle had put weight on him like a padded coat and all his past pride in being able to do a job well had evaporated from his general carriage and the way he held his head. But feel sorry for him as I might, I had no intention of telling him in advance in which direction my interest lay: he was well into the stage of trotting off with the news to the vendor and asking a commission for bidding the price up high.

‘I’m waiting for number one four two,’ I said, and as soon as I walked off he started busily looking it up in the catalogue. When I glanced briefly back he was staring after me in amazement so I looked up 142 out of curiosity and found it was a crib-biting point-to-pointer still a maiden at ten.

Laughing inwardly I rejoined Kerry Sanders and watched the determined auctioneer wring twelve hundred pounds out of the U.K. Bloodstock Agency for the sinewy chestnut mare who was Lot 125. As she was led out I felt Kerry Sanders stir beside me with her intentions showing to all and sundry like a flourish of trumpets. Inexperienced customers always did this if they came to the sales and it cost them a good deal of money.

Hearse Puller was led into the ring and the auctioneer checked his number against his notes.

‘Bit on the leg,’ a man behind us said disparagingly.

‘Is that bad?’ Kerry Sanders asked anxiously, overhearing.

‘It means his legs are long in proportion to his body. It’s not ideal, but some good chasers are like that.’

‘Oh.’

Hearse Puller tossed his head and regarded the scene with eyes filled with alarm, a sign of waywardness which made me