Dick Francis's Gamble - Felix Francis [62]
“Hello, yes?” he said, this time more alert.
“Sorry to wake you,” I said. “This is Nicholas Foxton.”
“Just resting my eyes,” he said. “How can I help you?”
“I think it’s me who’s going to help you,” I said. “Herb Kovak’s sister has turned up.”
“Really,” he said. “When?”
“Well, actually, on Thursday morning, not long after you’d left his flat. But so much has been happening since then, I forgot to tell you.”
“Yes,” he said. “I did hear that you’ve been kept rather busy.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Thank you for giving me an alibi.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I simply told them there was no way, short of using a helicopter, that anyone could travel the seventy miles from Baydon to Hendon in fifty-five minutes at that time of day. Especially someone who’d just had an ingrown toenail removed. I could hardly walk with mine for weeks.”
I stifled a laugh. Good old Mrs. McDowd and her fertile imagination.
“Well, thank you nevertheless,” I said. “Now, I have some other information for you.”
“Yes?” he said.
“I think I may have solved the riddle of the credit cards.”
“Go on,” he said.
“I think that Herb Kovak was allowing other people to use his credit card accounts to gamble on the Internet, probably fellow Americans because it’s illegal to gamble in most states over there.”
“What evidence do you have?” he asked.
“Not much,” I said. “But I think I’m right. There are five hundred and twelve different entries on those statements. But there aren’t five hundred and twelve different individuals because many of them bet or play on more than one Internet site.”
“Do you have any idea who these people are?”
“No,” I said. “But we do have ninety-seven different sets of initials. They’re on those sheets you showed me. I think they refer to ninety-seven different people.”
“So you’re saying that you think ninety-seven different people, who all live somewhere in the United States, were using Herb Kovak’s credit card accounts to bet on the Internet.”
“Yes,” I said. “And to play in online casinos. I found some MoneyHome receipts that show Herb collected large amounts of cash during the week before he died. I believe that cash was to pay off some of the credit card debts.”
“And are you telling me this has something to do with why he was killed?”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “I have no idea why he was killed. I thought that was your job.”
He didn’t rise to my bait. There was just silence from his end.
“I’ve been trying to cancel the credit cards,” I said finally, “but they all need an original death certificate. Can you get me some? I’ll need at least twenty-two.”
“No death certificate has been issued as yet,” he said. “All unnatural deaths are subject to an inquest, and that would usually follow any criminal trial. The death certificate would be issued only after the inquest was complete.”
“But that will be months, if not years, away,” I said with a degree of exasperation. “There must be some official piece of paper that shows that he’s dead. I need something to show the damn credit card companies.”
“As his executor, you can apply for probate before the death certificate is issued.”
“How?” I said. “I’ve got nothing to show he’s even dead.”
“The inquest was opened and adjourned last Tuesday,” he said. “The Liverpool Coroner will issue you with a letter. I’ll arrange it.”
“Thank you.”
“So where can I find Mr. Kovak’s sister?” the chief inspector asked.
“At his flat, I think. She was there on Friday afternoon.”
“Right,” he said. “Does she know her brother was murdered?”
“Yes,” I said. “I told her.”
“Good. I’ll be in touch so she can make an official identification.” Poor girl, I thought. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” I said. “Have you any idea who killed him?”
“Not as yet,” he said.
“Any leads at all?”
“No. None. The gunman seems to have disappeared completely.”
At least he was honest.
“How about the note I found in Herb’s coat pocket?” I asked.
“Nothing to go on,” he said. “The paper was just common copy paper available from any stationer or office supply store, and the only discernible