The horse moved so well that Bond glanced across at the board and was not surprised to see his price come quickly back to 173, then i6s. Bond went on watching the board. In a minute the big money would go on (all except the remains of Bond’s $1000 which would stay in his pocket) and the price would come down with a run. The loudspeaker was announcing the race. Away to the left the horses were being marshalled behind the starting-gate. Ping, ping, ping, the lights opposite Noio on the board started to wink and flash-15, 14, 12, u, and finally 9 to i. Then the lights stopped talking and the tote was closed. And how many more thousands had gone away by Western Union to harmless telegraphic addresses in Detroit, Chicago, New York, Miami, San Francisco and a dozen more off-the-course books throughout the States?
A handbell clanged sharply. There was an electric smell in the air, and a muting of the noise of the crowds. Then down thundered the ragged charging line towards the grandstand and past and away in a scud of hooves and flying eardi and tanbark. There was a glimpse of sharp, pale faces half-hidden by goggles, a stream of pounding shoulders and hindquarters, a flash of wild white eyes and a confusion of numbers amongst which Bond caught only the vital Noio well to the fore and close in to the rails. And then the dust was settling and the brown-black mass was at the first corner and slowly streaming round the bottom straight and Bond felt the glasses slip in the sweat round his eyes.
No5, a black outsider, was leading by a length. Was this some unknown horse that was going to steal the show? But then there was No1 level with him and then No3. And No10 half a length behind the leaders. Just these four out in front and the rest bunched three lengths away. Round the corner and now No1 was in the lead. The Whitney black. And No10 was fourth. Down the long straight opposite and No3 was moving up-with Tingaling Bell on the chestnut at his heels. They both passed No5 and were well up with No1 who was still leading by half a length. And then the first top bend and the top straight, and No3 was leading with Shy Smile second and No1 a length behind. And Shy Smile was coming up level with the leader. He was level, and they were coming into the final corner. Bond held his breath. Now! Now! He could almost hear the whirr of the concealed camera in the big white post. No10 was ahead, right on the bend, but No3 was inside on the rails. And the crowd was howling for the favourite. Now Bell was inching towards the grey, his head well down on his horse’s neck on the outside, so that he could pretend that he couldn’t see the grey horse on the rails. Inch by inch the horses drew closer and, suddenly, Shy Smile’s head hid No3’s head, then his quarters were in front and, yes, Pray Action’s boy suddenly stood right up in his stirrups, forced to take-up by the foul, and at once Shy Smile was a length ahead.
There was an angry roar from the crowd. Bond lowered his glasses and sat back and watched as the foam-flecked chestnut thundered past the post below him with Pray Action five lengths behind and Come Again just failing to beat him into second place.
Not bad, thought Bond, as the crowd howled around him. Not bad at all.
And how brilliantly the jockey had done it! His head so well down that even Pissaro would have to admit Bell couldn’t see the other horse. The natural curve-in for the final straight. The head still well down as he passed the post and the whip flailing for the last few lengths as if Tingaling still thought himself only half a length ahead of No3.
Bond watched for the results to be posted. There was a chorus of whistles and cat-calls. ‘No10, Shy Smile, five lengths. No3, Pray Action, 1/2 length. No1, Come Again, three lengths. No7, Pirandello, three lengths.’