A Stone's Throw by James Ziskin (best sci fi novels of all time .TXT) 📕

late-night telephone conversation with the victim’s father. The details of that call provided the most stunning revelations of my investigation to date. He had, after all, corroborated the ubiquitous rumors of Johnny’s involvement with gamblers by establishing the connection between his son and the woman suspected of having died alongside him. To wit, Vivian Coleman/McLaglen.

And I’d written a second story on the missing Micheline Charbonneau. I handed it to Norma, who read it in a trice. Without actually naming Micheline as a girl for hire, I gave the facts. She’d accompanied Johnny Dornan to dinner after the races on Friday evening and hadn’t been seen since about 10:00 p.m. at Mrs. Russell’s Boarding House in Ballston Spa. I was sure the cantankerous landlady would be furious about the publicity, but you can’t always change names to protect the innocent. Or the wretched, for that matter. I quoted Micheline’s friends Joyce and Brenda as saying she’d gone to Montreal, but I left Jimmy Burgh’s name out of it altogether.

Norma glanced at her wristwatch. A couple of minutes past ten. “I think we can still get these into this afternoon’s paper if we hurry.”

“Yes,” I said, picking up the phone and asking the switchboard for Charlie Reese’s line. “But Charlie’s going to have to go to the mat for me on this. Artie Short will swallow his cigar at the cost of redoing the front page.”

Charlie said Artie was out of town, and he approved the stories immediately. He sent my copy down to the typesetter via Norm Belcher, who glowered at me when Charlie wasn’t looking. Earlier that morning, I’d thumbtacked eight-by-tens of his sweet little derrière throughout the office. I’d heard several bouts of raucous laughter coming from the coffee urn and the watercooler before the lummox was put wise and ripped them all down. My pal Bobby Thompson from the photo lab—no relation to the Giant great, and his name was spelled differently to boot—had kindly provided me with four sets of prints, and I planned on exhibiting them in the weeks to come.

“That’s some fine work, Ellie,” said Charlie once Norm had picked up his charm and dragged it out of the room.

“You won’t catch any flak from Artie Short for redoing the front page at the last minute?”

“I can handle him. He’s always harping on about losing circulation to Schenectady. I’ll remind him that Saratoga is a rival, too.”

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to feeling flattered. But then Charlie burst my bubble the next moment when he mentioned my society piece on the Saratoga fundraiser.

“I liked it so much I want you to do more of that kind of thing. The social angle is popular with our female readers. Gives them something to aspire to.”

“Charlie,” I whined. “I just handed you a major scoop on the Tempesta murders, and you want to send me back to covering tea and cucumber sandwiches?”

He looked stunned. A little hurt, even. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I only meant you’d done a fine job.”

I caught Fadge as he stepped out of the store. The guilty expression on his face told me half of what I needed to know. The keys in his hand told the other half.

“Please say you’re not locking the door,” I said.

“It’s just for a couple of hours.”

“Fadge, you’ve got a problem.”

“No. Zeke is the solution to my problem. He’s tied up today till three, but starting tomorrow, I’m all set.”

“That’s not what I meant. You’ve got to take care of your business.”

“It’s a couple of hours, El. Zeke will be here by three fifteen. He’s a good kid. Doing a great job. I should’ve hired him years ago.”

“He’s fourteen.”

“Gotta run.”

“Wait,” I called after him. “I need to get that thing I gave you out of the safe and turn it over to the sheriff.”

“No time. I’m late as it is.”

I sighed. “I’m coming with you. I’ve got some business at the track.”

“How’s the Johnny Dornan story going?” asked Fadge as he sped along Route 67.

“His real name is John Sprague. It appears he was riding down in Maryland or Kentucky about nine or ten years ago.”

“Johnny Sprague?” he asked. “That sounds familiar. But he would’ve been pretty young back then, wouldn’t he?”

I shrugged. “Eighteen. Maybe nineteen.”

“Then I doubt he was riding at Pimlico or Keeneland. Certainly not Churchill Downs. Too inexperienced. Must’ve been one of the smaller courses.”

“Hagerstown maybe?”

Fadge threw a surprised look in my direction. “Sounds about right. How do you know about an out-of-the-way track like Hagerstown?”

“A girl has her secrets.”

When we arrived around one thirty, Fadge made a beeline to the racecourse. I wandered across Union Avenue to the Oklahoma training track, looking for Mike the jockey. As promised, I had some nice shots of him and Purgatorio to deliver. A stableboy at the horse barns told me the place was closed. But he assured me that Mike would get the photos.

“Is this where the Harlequin horses are stabled?” I asked.

“Over there,” he said, pointing down the row of barns.

After a few minutes of searching and a couple of inquiries of various grooms and stableboys, I found a magnificent stallion biding his time quietly in a shed. Someone had scrawled “Purgatorio” in white chalk across the bottom half of the Dutch door. My favorite Thoroughbred was alone, with an empty stall on either side of his, presumably to isolate him from the other horses. He stood still, facing the wall in the back.

“Tory,” I called to him through the door. His long ears swiveled, and he turned his head to see me. “Come here, boy.”

Motes of dust hung in the warm August air, swimming slowly, as if alive, out of the shadows into the light that streamed through the gap between two planks in the wall. The thick smell of horse leather, sweat, hay, and manure overwhelmed me, but not in an unpleasant way. The place smelled like a barn, of course. All was quiet except