Admirers of Dick Francis don't read him for his plots. We read him for his precise use of the language, for rounded characters, for his skill at suspense and for the authentic trip he gives us through the world of steeplechase racing. When he gives us an outstanding story line, as in Blood Sport, Odds Against, In the Frame, etc., it is a bonus. Usually it isn't the plot that keeps us reading long into the night.

In Bolt, unfortunately, Francis finally uses a plot so flawed that it ruins the book.

We deal here with a cast even more aristocratic than usual in the expensive world of horses that Francis likes to explore. Roland de Brescou, the target of the dastardly deeds, is half owner of the French industrial conglomerate which bears his family's name. He is husband of Princess Casalia. Prince Listi is wooing his niece. And as Prince Listi reminds us, one of the useful things about being so well connected "is that if one seriously asks, one is seldom refused. Another is that one knows and has met a great many people in useful positions." Such powerful folks can "simply set a few wheels in motion." Yet in Bolt we must believe that such powerful people can't get police action even when a roomful of them witness a felony.

A Frenchman named Nanterre owns the other half of de Brescou's industry. He wants to enter the armaments business and needs de Brescou's signature on pertinent papers. De Brescou considers the venture dishonorable. Nanterre storms past his butler into his parlor, makes threats and finally, "produced a black and businesslike pistol. With a gliding step he reached the princess and pressed the end of the barrel against her temple, standing behind her and holding her head firmly with his left hand under the chin.

'Now,' he said gratingly to de Brescou, 'sign the form.'"

This assault is done before the eyes of four witnesses, three of whom are hostile to the culprit. Do these people, all of whom have the power "to set a few wheels in motion," have Nanterre arrested, prosecuted and deported? Nope, They call upon Kit Fielding, who rides for the Princess. Why don't they call the police?

It seems Princess Casalia's lawyer had called the police earlier after Nanterre had threatened her at the track. No crime had been committed so the police weren't interested. But now (on page 53) we have felonious assault with threats of more to come. For the next 250 pages Bolt struggles under the burden of our impatience, and it increases as the Princess's horses are slaughtered and an attempt is made on the Prince's life. Even prose as clean as Francis' can't hold us when we're wondering why these dolts don't go to the police and sign a complaint.

Bolt asks us to suspend more disbelief than we can manage. But it also contains some of the skill that earned the author fame. The relationship between the lovelorn Fielding and a girl having second thoughts about their involvement is handled with artistry. Aware he is losing her, not knowing why, Fielding leaves her at her bedroom door, remembering a goodnight kiss which "had again been a defense, not a promise." When he finally blurts out the question of what's gone wrong, he instantly withdraws it and scrambles out of his car to avoid the answer. The answer, typically of Francis, is exactly right. The racing scenes which Francis uses to illuminate the character of his rider/hero are tense and lyrical as always. Fielding is perfectly drawn as a decent man who loves what he does, and the animals he rides. Here he is by the body of a horse that had gallantly recovered from a stumble in an earlier race.

"I put a hand down to touch Col's foreleg, and felt its rigidity, its chill. The foreleg that had saved us from disaster at Ascot, that had borne all his weight."

If you haven't read Francis, do so. But don't begin with Bolt.