Takk for a Dead Rider

By R.Z. Sheppard

SLAYRIDE

by DICK FRANCIS 219 pages. Harper & Row. $5.95.

What is the best kind of book to read while waiting in line for a ration of gasoline? Poetry requires an atmosphere of reverential calm not found among a herd of tethered horsepower; humor is not likely to be funny enough to offset a stalled driver's realization that he is the butt of a Third World joke; the novel of ideas requires too much concentration. An unpretentious, skillfully written detective novel, however, seems ideally suited to the anxious occasion. Aside from the undemanding carrot-and-stick mechanics of the plot, the clever mystery is likely to offer an empathetic situation. Both reader and detective are searching for the guilty party who has caused them considerable inconvenience.

In his latest mystery, England's writing jockey (Dead Cert, Nerve) Dick Francis introduces a hero who thrives on inconvenience. David Cleveland, 33-year-old investigator for the English Jockey Club, must begin his case by swimming two miles to shore after his dinghy is purposely rammed by a speedboat. Cleveland holds a psychology degree from Cambridge and also appears to have taken a correspondence course at the Colombo College of Investigation. "I don't often look for things," says Cleveland, "I look at what's there."

Author Francis complements his sleuth's leisurely pace by sending him to easygoing Norway where "Takk" means "Thank you" and the residents seem to have perfected the art of being genuinely friendly and remote at the same time. Alas, Cleveland is not a sociologist. His business in Norway is to investigate the disappearance of an English steeplechase jockey named Bob Sherman. The rider is suspected of having absconded with 16,000 kroner (about $2,800) in track receipts--an amount that does not seem worth the cost of ruining a promising career. This reasonable conclusion is confirmed when Sherman's body is discovered in the hedges behind the grandstand. Cleveland demonstrates considerable compassion and ingenuity when he consoles Sherman's pregnant widow and foils a number of assassination attempts by a pair of Norwegian hit men (an inconceivable job category if there ever was one).

The author overrides such hurdles of disbelief by demonstrating his jockey's instinct for making the right move at the right time. For a wonder, Francis does not include his usual horse race in Slayride. The book, in fact, is not about horse racing but about the international oil business. Cleveland discovers that the dead jockey has been used and discarded in a corporate espionage plot involving information about North Sea oil deposits. About the same time (Francis is a brisk writer), the reader may discover that the needle of his fuel gauge is shivering on "Empty" and that petroleum may indeed be worth killing for.

R.Z. Sheppard

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