“ ‘I am calling for Mr.… Mr.…’ I must have a name,” he thought. “One worthy of such an occasion. I believe I’ll be Dutch … yes, that’ll be just fine. I’ll say I’m from the Dutch West Indies. What’s the name of that Dutch island off the coast of Venezuela? Curaçao, that’s it. Now for my name. I’ll call myself Van Oss … yes, I like that. I like it very much. ‘Hello. Hello. I am calling for Mr. Henry Van Oss of Curaçao.’ Umm. Hm. Very good.”
Jay saw the drug store on the corner just ahead. Surely he’d find a public telephone there. “Driver,” he called, “stop here a moment. I want to make a call.”
A little later Jay returned to the taxi, very pleased with his telephone conversation with Mr. Garcia-Pena, Race Secretary of El Dorado Park. Mr. Garcia-Pena had been most gracious. He was awaiting Mr. Van Oss of Curaçao with the utmost pleasure, eager to assist him in every way possible, whatever his wishes might be.
Jay smiled as the taxi moved on again. Whatever his wishes might be. Little did Mr. Garcia-Pena realize what Mr. Van Oss would ask of him!
“Sir …” the driver began, turning his head around so he could look at Jay.
They almost collided with a passing car, and Jay said quickly, “Please keep your eyes on the road!”
Chastened, the driver obeyed. Then, without taking his eyes off the boulevard, he said, “May I ask if you’re an owner of a horse in tomorrow’s great race?”
“In a sense,” Jay answered, enjoying the man’s deference. “Yes, I suppose you might call me a part-owner. Although we’re undecided about starting tomorrow. I’ve only just arrived.”
“The fifty-thousand-dollar purse would decide me pretty quick about starting,” the driver said, laughing.
“Yes,” Jay admitted, “it is an impressive purse.”
“I guess everybody’s figuring on Kingfisher taking it home with him.”
“Kingfisher?” Jay asked.
“Sure … the big horse from the United States. He’s handicap champion there, as I guess you know.”
“No, I didn’t know,” Jay answered. “I haven’t kept in touch with races in the United States. You said his name is Kingfisher?”
“Yes,” the driver said. “It’s a good name, don’t you think?”
“Kingfisher,” Jay repeated. “Yes, the name appeals to me, too.”
“Then you like him for the big race, sir?”
“I like anything that has to do with birds,” Jay answered quietly.
The man glanced back at him. “What have birds got to do with it?”
“Watch the road, please,” Jay repeated nervously. “Nothing, I suppose … except that kingfisher is also the name of a bird.”
“It’s an easy name to remember.”
“Yes,” Jay said thoughtfully. “But come to think of it, it’s strange that they should give such a name to a horse. A kingfisher has very weak feet, and I’m sure you’re acquainted with the old saying, ‘No feet, no horse.’ ”
“You don’t have to worry about his feet, sir. They’ve carried him a long way. He’s six years old now and hasn’t been beaten since he was three.”
“I’m surprised,” Jay said. “A kingfisher’s feet just don’t stand up under hard going for a very long time.”
Bewildered, the driver looked back at his passenger again. “This Kingfisher’s a horse,” he said.
Jay said nothing more for the main entrance to El Dorado Park and the high fence surrounding it were directly ahead. He settled back in his seat, concerned now only with Mr. Garcia-Pena and all that he had to say to him.
They passed through the gate, and Jay wouldn’t let himself look at the gigantic grandstand and clubhouse or, a little later, at the horses being walked beside the stable sheds. He shut his ears, too, to the loud voices of caretakers calling to each other and the neighs and nickering of the horses.
Oh, he wanted so very much to look, to listen, for he had waited a terribly long time to enjoy once more the activity of a racetrack. But today was not the day. Tomorrow, yes, but not today. He must think only of his coming session with Mr. Garcia-Pena. He must be fully prepared to outwit the Race Secretary no matter how formidable an opponent Mr. Garcia-Pena might turn out to be. He must not return to Steve with anything but the happiest news, that Flame would be going to the post tomorrow. Nothing less would do, so every move, every remark, must be well planned. He must not let Mr. Garcia-Pena put him on the defensive at any time.
“Sir, are you not getting out?”
Jay glanced at the driver, then with further surprise he saw that the taxi was parked in front of a low building. He wondered how many minutes they’d been parked there.
“Why, yes … yes, of course,” he answered, a little flustered. He got out of the taxi, furious with himself for his hesitancy and embarrassment. This wouldn’t do at all. This was not a good start for what he had to do.
Lifting his cane deftly with a quick, confident snap of the wrist, he told the driver to wait, and then walked into the building.
THE INVITATION
14
Jay did not have long to wait for the Race Secretary to see him. And as he waited he was thoroughly at ease and, indeed, nonchalant, sitting comfortably in a deep leather chair with his legs crossed and his fine black homburg balanced on one knee. His long fingers drummed the silver head of his cane but not impatiently … or so it would have seemed to an onlooker.
In a little while a girl emerged from the inner office, smiled and said that Mr. Garcia-Pena would see him. Jay did not leave his chair, but smiled graciously in return and waited for Mr. Garcia-Pena to appear and escort him inside. There was an uneasy moment or two, then the girl disappeared within the office and seconds later a small dark-haired man stood in the doorway.
“Mr. Van Oss?” the Race Secretary asked, smiling.
Jay rose to his feet, nodding graciously but not smiling. “Mr. Garcia-Pena?” He waited until the man crossed the floor to greet him, and then they went into the office.
For a few minutes more Jay allowed Mr. Garcia-Pena to scrutinize him while they discussed the unusually hot day, the lack of a breeze and the little rain there had been.
“Of course,” and Mr. Garcia-Pena smiled, “we would not like to have it rain tomorrow. We’re expecting a tremendous crowd for the International.”
“Naturally,” Jay returned, still aloof and unsmiling. He recrossed his knees, fingering the knife-edged crease of his trousers.
“If you don’t mind my saying so,” the Race Secretary continued, “you speak beautiful Spanish, Mr. Van Oss. It is most unusual to hear, for most of our visitors’ Spanish is not … well, shall I say not very well spoken?”
“Thank you,” Jay said, turning abruptly from the man to look at the portraits of horses on the walls.
There was a long moment of strained silence, then the Race Secretary moved some papers on his desk and said, “You didn’t mention the purpose of your visit over the phone, Mr. Van Oss.”
“No, I thought it best to wait,” Jay said, “since it could only be done here, and will take but a few minutes of your time. I have a horse that I wish to enter in the International.”
In the pause that followed, the smile that had been forming at the corners of the Race Secretary’s mouth died. He looked straight into his visitor’s eyes, and found himself thinking of his children … or, rather, of the glass marbles with which they played. This man’s eyes had the same cloudy, agate-like quality and still they were clear. Colorless, yet with thin bands of color running through them; again, like the glass marbles. Uneasy, Mr. Garcia-Pena turned back to his papers.
As if from a distance he heard his visitor say, “The horse’s name is Flame. I suppose you’ll want that for the program.”
Mr. Garcia-Pena looked up to find the man’s cane raised and then drumming the carpet lightly. He chose to stare at the cane rather than to meet those eyes again. Somehow, just looking into them made it very difficult for him to concentrate.
“If the
re is an entry fee, I’ll pay it now,” Jay said. “So if you will tell me the amount …”
Mr. Garcia-Pena continued staring at the cane. “Five hundred dollars is the fee to start, but …” He had never seen such beautiful, highly polished silver as that on the cane’s head. It seemed almost to glow with life … and so soft that it looked molten. His eyes were playing tricks on him, he decided. No metal was so pliable that it could be manipulated with the fingers, as seemed to be the case here.
Mr. Garcia-Pena smiled at his thoughts. He was being very silly. “I’m afraid, Mr. Van Oss, that what you ask is out of the question,” he said graciously.
His visitor acted as if he had not heard, for he began taking money out of his wallet.
“This will cover the entry fee,” Jay said, placing the bills on the desk. “Now if you’ll just tell me the time we go to the post …”
Mr. Garcia-Pena was no longer smiling. “Please sit down again, Mr. Van Oss. You see …”
“I’m sorry but I have an appointment,” Jay said urgently. “You have the entrance money, paid in full. There is nothing else required by the conditions of the race as advertised.” He pushed the bills toward the center of the desk, hoping Mr. Garcia-Pena would at least look at them.
But the Race Secretary, ignoring the money, had turned and pressed a button on the office intercom. “Dora,” he said to his secretary, “have Mario come in immediately.” Then, to his visitor, “Please sit down,” he repeated. “You see, Mr. Van Oss, what you’re asking is ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?” Jay’s tone of voice matched the sudden sternness of his face. “Are you or are you not running the International Race tomorrow?”
“Of course, of course. But you see …”
Jay drew his head up scornfully. “I see nothing, Mr. Garcia-Pena, except my entry fee on your desk.”
The man’s eyes implored him to sit down, to listen, but Jay turned toward the door. “If you won’t tell me what time they go to the post, I’ll get the information from your secretary,” he said curtly.
“But this race is by invitation only,” the man said.
Jay didn’t answer, and kept moving toward the door. He was reaching for the knob when the door opened and a tall young man entered.
“Ah, Mario,” Mr. Garcia-Pena said, “just in time. I want you to meet Mr. Van Oss, from Curaçao. He’s a little confused over the conditions of the race tomorrow and I thought you could help me straighten him out.” Then, to Jay, “This is Mr. Santos, Mr. Van Oss. He’s our Publicity Director.”
Mr. Santos held out his hand, and Jay shook it without returning the man’s brisk smile. He felt confident that he could handle Mr. Santos. Except for his high-sounding title, there was nothing about him that commanded respect.
Jay could see at a glance that Mr. Santos was ambitious. Eager and enterprising, he would not be aloof to a suggestion or two that might take him a step closer to whatever goal he had in mind. As Jay took in the mustache that Mr. Santos was beginning to grow, he wondered if this young man’s ambition was to sit behind Mr. Garcia-Pena’s luxurious desk.
“Please sit down,” the Race Secretary urged Jay again.
Jay smiled understandingly and shrugged his shoulders. “If you will not waste time then, Mr. Garcia-Pena.”
“This will take only a few minutes,” the Race Secretary said placatingly. “Mario, will you please take the chair next to Mr. Van Oss? I may need your help to explain matters fully.”
“There should be little to explain,” Jay said abruptly. “The race is tomorrow, and the entry fee has been paid. You have it there on your desk. I don’t see …”
Mr. Garcia-Pena picked up the bills. “But again I’d like to say that our race is by invitation only. After all, Mr. Van Oss, we just couldn’t allow any horse to …” He paused and smiled sheepishly.
There was no answering smile from Jay. “Your posters made no mention of that condition,” he said sternly. “No mention that you’d invited only the horses you wanted to race in the International. You advised the public that the International Race was Open to the World.”
The Race Secretary turned to Mr. Santos, seeking assistance, but the Publicity Director avoided his gaze and continued looking at their visitor. “Well, in a sense it is open to the world,” the Secretary said awkwardly, “but by invitation only.”
Jay uncrossed his knees, stomping his cane hard on the floor. “You can’t have it both ways,” he said. “My attorneys will …” He rose quickly to his feet and, just as he had hoped and had rather expected, the Publicity Director rose, too.
“Mr. Van Oss, please …,” Mr. Santos said. “I’m certain we can handle this without any, ah, legal difficulties.”
Jay studied the man’s large frame that was so sparingly covered with flesh. It made him think of a heron, especially since Mr. Santos had the kind of head that perfected the illusion. It was very large, and his nose was long and beaked. Jay was staring at the man’s high forehead with the brown, well-groomed hair growing above it when Mr. Santos graciously placed a hand on his arm.
“Please sit down, Mr. Van Oss,” the Publicity Director said, his voice as polished as his hair. “We, of course, had no idea that anyone would object to the conditions of our race. We simply sent invitations to the owners of the world’s fastest horses, hoping they’d accept. Fortunately eight of them did, and we have a field tomorrow that will make racing history for Cuba.”
“And for El Dorado Park,” Mr. Garcia-Pena interrupted. “The race will be featured in every newspaper in the world.”
“Naturally,” the Publicity Director said. “It’s what I counted on after all my work.”
Jay allowed himself to be seated in the big chair again. “Then you have no objection to my horse racing?” he asked insistently, meeting the Race Secretary’s gaze.
Once more Mr. Garcia-Pena turned helplessly to his Publicity Director.
This time the Publicity Director was ready with a suggestion. “Could we not issue another invitation … one to Mr. Van Oss, Eduardo?”
The Race Secretary rose to his feet, then quickly sat down again. “The United States Jockey Club wouldn’t like it, Mario! You know that as well as I do. After all, we have two horses here from the States, and if we issue a last-minute invitation such as you’re suggesting, why …”
“The United States Jockey Club is not running this race,” the Publicity Director returned quietly. “I see no reason why we can’t invite any horse we please, providing …”
There was a moment of heavy silence and then Jay turned to him. “Providing what, Mr. Santos?”
His face cupped in his hands, chin outthrust, Mr. Santos was staring into space thoughtfully. “Providing, Mr. Van Oss, that you have a horse that will not embarrass us.”
“Embarrass?” Jay repeated.
The Publicity Director’s eyes were beginning to shine with excitement. “We must be sure, Mr. Van Oss, that your horse will give a creditable performance … if not in the race at least during the post parade. He must compliment our field, for the world will be watching.”
Once more the Race Secretary rose to his feet, his face angry now. “You mean, Mario, you’d go along with this? What Mr. Van Oss has asked is impossible! We’ll be the laughingstock of the world. How do we know what he’d send onto the track? A burro, maybe, that would bray in our faces!”
“That, Eduardo, we must find out, of course,” the Publicity Director returned quietly. “But I’ve been thinking of all the publicity that we might obtain from this late entry of Mr. Van Oss’s. After all, we did announce that our race is open to the world, as Mr. Van Oss has reminded us. What objection could anyone have to our acceptance of his horse, even at this late date, since he is willing to pay five hundred dollars to start?
“Better still, don’t you know what such startling news will do for us? Can’t you see it in every paper tomorrow? It will make headlines, Eduardo! It will have an air of mystery that we’ll do our best to maintain. Through
the press services we’ll announce to the world that an unexpected entry from …”
The Publicity Director turned eagerly to Jay. “From where, Mr. Van Oss? Where is your horse from?”
Jay smiled, enthusiastically going along with the Director’s plan. “Wouldn’t the Windward Islands be enough?” he asked. “It would add to the mystery.”
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Santos agreed excitedly. “From the Windward Islands, from the area of the Caribbean Sea!” Then, to the Race Secretary, “We can say that he is our representative in the International, since we have no other. I assure you we’ll get publicity such as we’ve never had before! An unknown Island horse meeting the champions of the world! Think of it, Eduardo!”
The Race Secretary went to the window. “You’re being ridiculous, Mario. You’re making a farce out of a race among the world’s fastest horses. Isn’t it enough that we have managed to get them together without all this?”
The Publicity Director went hurriedly after him and placed an arm about his friend’s shoulders. “Eduardo, you don’t understand,” he said quietly. “The race itself will be the finest ever run. And you have arranged it … you and you alone. But please remember that even the greatest races are made more memorable by unusual stories that are written in advance. Have you forgotten how much publicity we received as a result of my suggestion that the purse money be hung from the finish wire?”
Jay saw the Race Secretary nod his head in answer, and his own interest quickened. “Did I understand you to say you’re hanging the money from the finish wire?” he asked.
The Publicity Director turned to him. “You must have read about that, Mr. Van Oss. It was in every newspaper….”
“No,” Jay said, “I haven’t seen a paper in some time. Tell me about it.”