Read Online Reflex by Dick Francis - Free Book Online

of satisfaction. Not a smile, just an atmosphere.
    I opened a can of Coca-Cola and poured some into a glass.
    â€œDon’t you drink?” Victor Briggs asked.
    â€œChampagne,” Harold said. “That’s what he drinks, don’t you, Philip?” He was in great good humor, his voice and presence amplifying the warm russet colors of the room, resonant as brass.
    Harold’s reddish-brown hair sprang in wiry curls all over his head, as untamable as his nature. He was fifty-two at that time and looked ten years younger, a big burly six feet of active muscle commanded by a strong but ambiguous face, his features more rounded than hawkish.
    He switched on the video machine and sat back in his armchair to watch Daylight’s debacle in the Sandown Pattern ’Chase, as pleased as if he’d won the Grand National. A good job no stewards were peering in, I thought. There was no mistaking the trainer’s joy in his horse’s failure.
    The recording showed me on Daylight going down to the start, and lining up, and setting off: odds-on favorite at four to one on, said the commentator; only got to jump round to win. Immaculate leaps over the first two fences. Strong and steady up past the stands. Daylight just in the lead, dictating the pace, but all five runners closely bunched. Round the top bend, glued to the rails . . . faster downhill. The approach to the third fence . . . everything looking all right . . . and then the jump in the air and the stumbling landing, and the figure in red and blue silks going over the horse’s neck and down under the feet. A groaning roar from the crowd, and the commentator’s unemotional voice, “Daylight’s down at that fence, and now in the lead is Little Moth . . .”
    The rest of the race rolled on into a plodding undistinguished finish, and then came a rerun of Daylight’s fall, with afterthought remarks from the commentator. “You can see the horse try to put in an extra stride, throwingPhilip Nore forward. The horse’s head ducks on landing, giving his jockey no chance . . . poor Philip Nore clinging on . . . but hopeless . . . horse and jockey both unhurt.”
    Harold stood up and switched the machine off. “Artistic,” he said, beaming down. “I’ve run through it twenty times. It’s impossible to tell.”
    â€œNo one suspected,” Victor Briggs said. “One of the stewards said to me ‘what rotten bad luck.’ ” There was a laugh somewhere inside Briggs, a laugh not quite breaking the surface but quivering in the chest. He picked up a large envelope, which had lain beside his gin and tonic, and held it out to me. “Here’s my thank you, Philip.”
    I said matter-of-factly, “It’s kind of you, Mr. Briggs. But nothing’s changed. I don’t like to be paid for losing. I can’t help it.”
    Victor Briggs put the envelope down again without comment, and it wasn’t he who was immediately angry, but Harold.
    â€œPhilip,” he said loudly, towering above me. “Don’t be such a bloody prig. There’s a great deal of money in that envelope. Victor’s being very generous. Take it and thank him, and shut up.”
    â€œI’d . . . rather not.”
    â€œI don’t care what you’d bloody rather. You’re not so squeamish when it comes to committing the crime, are you, it’s just the thirty pieces of silver you turn your pious nose up at. You make me sick. And you’ll take that bloody money if I have to ram it down your throat.”
    â€œWell, you will,” I said.
    â€œI will what?”
    â€œHave to ram it down my throat.”
    Victor Briggs actually laughed, though when I glanced at him his mouth was tight shut as if the sound had escaped without his approval.
    â€œAnd,” I said slowly, “I don’t want to do it any