This is easily the darkest, and probably one of the handful of best Dick Francis. What kills me on top, it still has a modern, a relevant feel, even though by now a lot of it is hopelessly dated: no mobiles, airports after 9/11, feminism in Italy, no more Yugoslavia. Instead now this book reads like an excellent historical, with the author commenting on the present through the past. I guess this has to be the ultimate test of an excellent genre book: the test of time and being as relevant now as fifty years ago.

Fabulous.

Vivid characters and strong, engrossing detail about a world most of us know nothing about, horse transport by air. The story is technologically dated, but that only makes it feel like a slice of history, a window into the Cold War as seen by someone who only casually gave it thought--until people he cared about started disappearing. The opening paragraph hooks the reader with strong foreshadowing. This, and other similar, casually tossed off asides are instrumental in keeping us intrigued as the mystery builds until Henry finally begins to peel back the curtain. Francis is terrific and juxtaposing the normal and ordinary--an unhappy, socially awkward young man discovering love and fulfillment--with raw terror and moral bankruptcy. My only quibble is the book ended about 2-3 pages too soon. We're left to guess--with fairly strong pointers, to be sure--about some important outcomes. Not a book to easily put down, especially in the last third.

Seriously dated mystery thriller that has very little to do with race horses. The protagonist is hard to emphasise with. Apparantly there were no lip tattoos for thoroughbreds in England during the late 1960s, although they were already being used in countries like America. I tried to look up a history of lip tattoos for race horses in the UK but could not find anything.

I always wince whenever I read about horses flying on a airplane. It usually means at least one of the horses is going to be dead before the plane lands. This seems to be a cliche in fiction, but this novel might be the earliest reference to having a kill a horse during flight.

[7 / 10] I'm a big fan of the author, and this book is in line with his usual output, a little too much so. There's the usual quiet, but secretly strong hero, getting mixed up with crooks and finding love along the way, also having his ass kicked by the bad guys but getting the better of them through sheer perseverance and endurance. Mr Francis hit on a winning formula and this book is a simple permutation of the successful elements deployed in the previous books. I just felt there's not enough sparkle to raise it above the norm.

I devoured most of Dick Francis' thrillers in my teens and have re-read them many times since, so it's always a treat to come across an unfamiliar title. All the elements that make for cracking storytelling are here, in characterisation, pace and an unfussy, effective writing style together with an inclusion of the horse world. It was also a fascinating glimpse into the attitudes and politics of England and Europe nearly 60 years ago. A compelling and thoroughly enjoyable read.

3.5 stars. I'm still calibrating my Francis reviews.

Henry Grey is an earl's son, but in the sixties, all that means is that he has a manor home that's falling apart, a lot of assumption that he's stuck-up and useless, and a few good connections. At the start of the novel, Henry decides to start trying to live the life he wants. He quits his desk job and takes a much more physical one instead, overseeing the air transport of horses.

Henry is an unusual character and a little hard to warm up to at first. He admits himself that he's standoffish and doesn't give people much of a chance to get to know him or like him, partly--it emerges--because he reflexively assumes that if they did like him, it would only be because of his title, which is what he likes least about himself. He wants to be appreciated for his competence, and he is, in fact, highly but believably competent: he's a skilled amateur steeplechase jockey and a skilled amateur pilot, so you can see why he'd like this new job, even though the pay is terrible. It also explains why he spends so much time putting up with Billy, another hand on the job who does everything he can to make Henry's life difficult and painful: Billy hates Henry's position so much that Henry would only be giving him satisfaction by proving that he can't take his incessant awfulness.

It takes a little while for the plot to get going, but soon Henry clues in: there's something Yardman Transport is doing that isn't on the up-and-up. And there's the fact that his predecessors and coworkers keep going missing...

Tie in a little bit of romance, a frankly adorable international birth control smuggling ring, some immensely clever plotting, and one of the best action sequences I've ever read, and you have Flying Finish. It falters only in getting a little too hung up on some technical details and in the unavoidable, unfortunate fact that part of its plot has become history that no longer seems quite as shocking, but if that irks at all, there's always that incredible action sequence and a network of people passing on birth control for free to people who need it. Francis has a smooth style and pretty flawless plotting, and a sense of respect and sympathy for his characters that makes everyone involved feel human and striking. Once again, great fun.

― Eşti un ticălos răsfăţat şi irascibil, zise sora mea şi mă împinse pe un drum unde era să-mi găsesc moartea.

I-am luat cu mine mutra furioasă şi antipatică, până jos în staţie, apoi, în compartimentul plin de proasta dispoziţie proprie zilei de luni şi de cuvinte încrucişate pe jumătate rezolvate, traversând Londra până la biroul meu nesuferit.

Ticălos nu eram: părinţii mei fuseseră cununaţi de episcop, cu jumătate din familiile Debrett şi Burke în strane[1] Iar dacă eram răsfăţat, ei mi-o făcuseră, ca moştenire pentru un urmaş născut accidental în ultimul moment posibil, după ce sarcinile intenţionate dinainte produseseră cinci fete.

Firavul meu tată de şaizeci şi opt de ani, ajuns la a doua tinereţe, mă vedea mai mult ca pe mijlocul prin care un văr detestat urma să rămână fără titlul de conte la care râvnise: tata era încântat de existenţa mea, iar pentru el am rămas un simbol.

Mama avusese patruzeci şi şapte de ani când m-a născut, iar acum avea şaptezeci şi trei. Cu o minte care încetase să mai evolueze, din toate punctele de vedere, cam pe la Ziua Armistiţiului din 1918, era complet sărită de pe fix, de când o ştiam. Excentrică, spuneau mai binevoitoare cunoştinţele ei.

Oricum, unul dintre primele lucruri pe care le-am învăţat în viaţa mea a fost că vârsta nu are nicio legătură cu înţelepciunea.

Prea bătrâni ca să-şi mai dorească un copil în preajmă, m-au crescut şi educat ţinându-mă la distanţă ― la pension, la şcoala pregătitoare şi la Eton ― regretând, din câte am auzit, că vacanţele erau atât de lungi.

Aveam o relaţie de politeţe şi de simţ al datoriei, dar lipsită de afecţiune. Pe atunci, nici măcar nu se aşteptau să-i iubesc, şi nici n-o făceam. Nu iubeam pe nimeni. Nu aveam practică.

Am ajuns primul la birou, ca de obicei. Mi-am luat cheia din ghereta îngrijitorului, am străbătut fără grabă holul prelung, am urcat scara de piatră afumată, printr-un culoar strâmt şi întunecos, iar în capătul acestuia am descuiat uşa masivă, vopsită în maro, a firmei Anglia Bloodstock Agency.

Înăuntru, caracteristic pentru vechiul tip de edificii administrative londoneze, ca nişte catacombe, confortul era inspirat din cazărmi.

Cele câteva camere din stânga şi din dreapta coridorului aveau uşi albe, cu numele ocupanţilor scrise ordonat în caractere negre.

Birourile îşi permiteau extravaganţe ca tăbliile capitonate cu piele încrustată, iar pe pereţi erau imagini sportive. Eu, însă, nu ajunsesem încă la acest nivel al succesului.

Sometimes it feels so good to re-read an old favorite!

Circling back to a couple of early Dick Francis thrillers I seemed to have missed - this is from 1966 and is #38 Francis which I have read. Did not feel dated at all and read it one sitting - as usual written with great pace with a strong central character facing up to adversity. And a great ending.

Dick Francis' novels always involve the British horseracing world, sometimes in unusual ways. This one involves the air transport business of horses, all over the world. I never thought about that and the ingenious ways someone might think up to cheat the system somehow. This is one of Francis' older novels that I finally ran down and of course it did not fail to deliver! This one was a little slower to come together and less time was spent on the track turf, but the ending was a slambang winner.

It's been many years since I first read Dick Francis and proceeded to devour his writing. His writing has held up very well for me. I enjoyed the characters, the settings, and the fast paced story line immensely and I will be revisiting his other works again.

See James Thane and Stephanie's reviews.

But WHAT ABOUT THE HORSES? Doesn't he even CARE what happens to them? Doesn't he give any of them a friendly pat? Not even the ones he rides? When he's landing the DC-9, by himself (which I found fascinating) doesn't he worry about the mares, and who will give birth, or not, in the back of the plane?

Given his perhaps autistic personality(?) it's very good book. The ending left me hanging a little bit, but maybe not . . .