The Edge

It was the Unwins, in the stratosphere of ecstasy, who led Upper Gumtree into the winners' circle. The Unwins from Australia who were hugging and kissing everyone near enough (including the horse). The Unwins who had their photographs taken each side of their panting winner, now covered across the shoulders by a long, triumphant blanket of flowers. The Unwins who received the trophy, the cheque and the speeches from the President of the racecourse and the top brass of the Jockey Club; whose memories of the day would be the sweetest.

Feeling pleased for them, I lowered the binoculars through which I'd been able to see even the tears on Mrs Unwin's cheeks, and there below me and in front of the grandstand was the man with the gaunt face looking up towards the Clubhouse windows.

Almost trembling with haste, I put the binoculars up again, found him, activated the automatic focus, pressed the button, heard the quiet click of the shutter: had him in the bag.

It had been my only chance. Even before the film had wound on, he'd looked down and away, so that I could see only his forehead and his grey hair; and within two seconds, he'd walked towards the grandstand and out of my line of vision.

I had no idea how long he'd been standing there. I'd been too diverted by the Unwins' rejoicings. I went down from the upper grandstand as fast as I could, which was far too slowly because everyone else was doing the same thing.

Down on ground level again, I couldn't see gaunt-face anywhere. The whole crowd was on the move: one could get no length of view. The Race Train event had been the climax of the programme and although there was one more race on the card, no one seemed to be much interested. A great many red and white rosettes, baseball caps, T-shirts and balloons were on their way out of the gates.

The Unwins' entourage was disappearing into the Clubhouse entrance, no doubt for more champagne and Press interviews, and probably all the other owners would be in there with them. If gaunt-face had been looking up at the Clubroom windows in the hope of seeing Filmer-or of Filmer seeing him-maybe Filmer would come down to talk to him and maybe I could photograph them both together, which might one day prove useful. If I simply waited, it might happen.

I simply waited.

Filmer did eventually come down, but with Daffodil. They weren't approached by gaunt-face They climbed into their chauffeured car and were whisked away to heaven knew where, and I thought frustratedly about time and the little of it there was left in Winnipeg. It was already nearly six o'clock, and I wouldn't be able to find a one-hour photo lab open anywhere that evening; and I had to return to the Sheraton to collect my bag, and be back on the train by seven-thirty or soon after.

I retreated to the men's room and took the film out of the binoculars-camera, and wrote a short note to go with it. Then I twisted the film and note together into a paper towel and went out to try to find Bill Baudelaire, reckoning it might be all right to speak to him casually down on ground level since Filmer wasn't there to see. I'd caught sight of him in the distance from time to time all afternoon, but now when I wanted him his red hair wasn't anywhere around.

Zak came up to me with Donna and offered me a lift back to the city in their bus, and at that exact moment I saw not Bill Baudelaire himself but someone who might go among the owners, where Tommy couldn't.

'When does the bus go?' I asked Zak rapidly, preparing to leave him.

'Twenty minutes… out front. It's got a banner on.'

'I'll come… thanks.'

I covered a good deal of ground rapidly but not running and caught up with the shapely backview of a dark-haired girl in a red coat with a wide gold and white studded belt.

' Nancy?' I said from behind her.

She turned, surprised, and looked at me enquiringly.

'Er…' I said, 'yesterday you collected some thirst quenchers from me for Bill Baudelaire's daughter.'

'Oh, yes.' She recognized me belatedly.

'Do you happen to know where I could find him now?’

'He's up on the Clubhouse, drinking with the winners.'

'Could you… could you possibly deliver something else to him?'

She wrinkled her freckled teenage nose. 'I just came down, for some fresh air.' She sighed. 'Oh, all right. I guess he'd want me to, if you asked. You seem to be OK with him. What do you want me to give him this time?'

I passed over the paper-towel bundle.

'Instructions?' she asked.

'There's a note inside.'

'Real cloak and dagger goings-on.'

'Thanks, truly, and… er… give it to him quietly.'

'What's in it?' she asked.

'A film, with photos of today's events.'

She didn't know whether or not to be disappointed.

'Don't lose it,' I said.

She seemed to be more pleased with that, and flashing me a grin from over her shoulder went off towards the Clubhouse entrance. I hoped she wouldn't make a big production out of the delivery upstairs, but just in case she did I thought I wouldn't go anywhere where she could see me and point me out to any of the owners, so I left through the front exit gates and found the actors' bus with its Mystery Race Train banner and faded inside into the reassembling troupe.

In general, the cast had backed Premiere (what else?) but were contented to have been interviewed on television at some length. A lot of Winnipeg 's race crowd, Zak said, had asked how they could get on the train. 'I must say,' he said, yawning, 'with all the publicity it's had, it's really caught on.'

In the publicity and the success, I thought, lay the danger. The more the eyes of Canada and Australia and England were directed to the train, the more Filmer might want to discredit it. Might… might. I was guarding a moving shadow; trying to prevent something that might not happen, searching for the intention so as to stop it occurring.

The bus letting me off a convenient corner in the city, I walked to the Sheraton and from a telephone there spoke to Mrs Baudelaire.

'Bill called me ten minutes ago from the track,' she said. 'He said you sent him a film and you didn't say where you wanted the pictures sent.'

'Is he calling you back?' I asked.

'Yes, I told him I'd be speaking to you soon.'

'Right, well, there's only one picture on the film. The rest is blank. Please tell Bill the man in the photo is the ally of our quarry. His ally on the train. Would you ask if Bill knows him? Ask if anyone knows him. And if there's something about him that would be useful if I knew, please will he tell you, to tell me.'

'Heavens,' she said. 'Let me get that straight.' She paused, writing. 'Basically, who is he, what does he do, and is what he does likely to be of help.'

'Yes,' I said.

'And do you want a copy of the photo?'

'Yes, please. Ask if there's any chance of his getting it to Nell Richmond at Chateau Lake Louise by tomorrow night or the next morning.'

'Difficult,' she commented. 'The mail is impossible.'

'Well, someone might be flying to Calgary tomorrow morning,' I suggested. 'They might even meet our train there. We get there at twelve-forty, leave at one-thirty. I suppose the time's too tight, but if it's possible, get Bill to address the envelope to the Conductor of the train, George Burley. I'll tell George it might come.'

'Dear young man,' she said, 'let me write it all down.'

I waited while she did it.

'Let me check,' she said. 'Either George Burley on the train or Nell Richmond at Chateau Lake Louise.'

'Right. I'll call you soon.'

'Don't go,' she said. 'I have a message for you from Val Catto.'

'Oh good.'

'He said… now these are his exact words… "Stolen evidence cannot be used in court but facts learned can be verified. "' The understanding amusement was light in her voice. 'What he means is, have a looksee but hands off.'

'Yes.'

'And he said to tell you to remember his motto.'

'OK, 'I said.

'What is his motto?' she asked curiously, obviously longing to know.