Comeback by Dick Francis Page B

himself back into control, but the pale blue eyes were halfway to panic.
    “It’s the Vernonside Stud,” he said. “They’ve a broodmare with colic. The stud groom’s been walking her round but she’s getting worse. I’ll have to go.”
    “Send someone else,” I suggested.
    “How can I? If I send someone else I’ve as good as resigned.”
    He gave me the wild unseeing stare of a courage-racking dilemma and, as if he indeed had no choice, unhesitatingly went down the passage and into the drugs room, where he rapidly gathered an armful of bottles, syringes and other equipment to take out to his car. His fingers trembled. He dropped nothing.
    “I’ll be gone an hour at least,” he said, “that’s if I’ m lucky.” He gave me a brief glance. “Do you mind staying here? It’s a bit of an imposition ... I hardly know you, really.”
    “I’ll stay,” I said.
    “Phone the police if anything happens.”
    He set off fast along the passage in the direction of the coats-on-pegs and over his shoulder told me that I’d get no incoming calls to worry about because they’d be rerouted in the exchange to his own portable phone. Always their system for whoever was on duty at night.
    “You can make calls out,” he said, taking down an anorak, shaking off his shoes and sliding into wellies. “You’d better have my keys.” He threw me the heavy bunch. “See you.”
    He sped out of the far door, letting its latch lock with a click behind him, and within seconds I heard his car start up and drive away.
    When I couldn’t hear him any longer I tried on the remaining olive green anorak, but it would have fitted a small woman like Belinda and I couldn’t get it on. I settled for a blanket from the X-ray room and, wrapped to the chin, sat on the padded chair in the office, put my feet up on the desk and read an article in a veterinary journal about oocyte transfers from infertile mares into other mares for gestation, and the possible repercussions in the thoroughbred stud book.
    This was not, one might say, riveting entertainment.
    A couple of times I made the rounds again, but I no longer expected or feared to find a new little bonfire. I did go on wondering whether the office building had been torched or not, but realized that it was only because of Ken’s general troubles that arson had seemed possible.
    I read another article, this time about enzyme-linked immunosorbent assay, a fast antibody test for drugs in racehorses. It was the only reading matter of any sort in sight. I had a readaholic friend who would read bus timetables if all else failed. Hewett and Partners didn’t use buses.
    I eyed the telephone. Who could I call for a chat at three in the morning? It would be nine o’ clock at night in Mexico City. A good time for the parents. Better not.
    I dozed over an account of 3-D computer scanning of bone-stress factors in hocks and awoke with a start to hear someone rapping on the window with something hard, like a coin.
    A face accompanied the hand, coming close to the glass, and a voice shouted, “Let me in.”
    He pointed vigorously in the direction of the rear door and as I went along the passage I remembered that he was the one who’d been kicking the coffee machine and so could be presumed to be on the side of the angels.
    He came in stamping his feet and complaining of the cold. He held two large Thermos flasks and explained that in the rush he’d forgotten his keys.
    “But not to worry, Ken said you were here.”
    “Ken?” I asked.
    He nodded. “He’s on his way back here with the mare.” He thrust the Thermos flasks into my grasp and kicked off his boots, reaching up for a pair of indoor shoes on the shelf above the pegs. Slipping his feet into those, he took off his padded jacket. Then he said, “God, it’s freezing in here,” and put it on again. “Ken’s phoning Belinda, and I’m to get the theater ready.”
    He was moving as he talked. “I hate these middle-of-the-night