By Felix Francis
One of many youngest winners of the Grand nationwide, Nick “Foxy” Foxton suffered a near-fatal harm that minimize brief his profession. Years later, he’s out for an afternoon on the Grand nationwide races while his colleague, Herb Kovack, is shot at point-blank variety correct in entrance of him. just like the police, Nick is baffled: Why could somebody kill such an it seems that light soul?
Then Nick unearths a threatening be aware within the useless man’s coat, and he starts to doubt how good he rather knew his pal. And on researching that Herb named him beneficiary in his will, Nick wonders why he’s been entrusted with the legacy. is that this a beneficiant reward from a chum, or is it, in reality, a poisoned chalice?
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Additional info for Dick Francis's Gamble
I do not understand why I have been given a prognostic gift vivid enough to make me feel morally obliged to prevent a foreseen evil—but not clear enough to allow me to act at once with force and conviction. Because of the disturbing supernatural aspects of my life and because the weight of my unusual responsibilities outweighs my power to fulﬁll them, I risk being crushed by stress. Consequently, I have kept the nonsupernatural part of my life simple. As few possessions as possible. No obligations like a mortgage or a car payment to worry about.
Perhaps it contained maintenance supplies. Or interred in the chest might have been the shrunken remains of the pier master’s poor wife, Lorraine, who perhaps had been murdered twenty years ago when she complained once too often about a lingering creosote smell in his work clothes. My eager imagination might have worked up a hair-raising image of Lorraine’s shriveled cadaver, pickled in creosote, if I had been able to believe there was actually such a position as a pier master. I don’t know where the name Lorraine came from.
The fairy light teased ﬁtfully across the shape before me, but then revealed a rat sitting precisely where the two beams joined. I am not afraid of rats. Neither am I so tolerant that I would welcome a swarm of them into my home in a spirit of interspecies brotherhood. The rat was paralyzed by the sight of me looming over it. If I advanced another step, it had three routes by which it could ﬂee to safety. In moments of stress, my imagination can be as ornate as a carousel of grotesque beasts, standing on end like a Ferris wheel, spinning like a coin, casting off kaleidoscopic visions of ludicrous fates and droll deaths.