It's interesting how some authors have an optimum length, like some runners have an optimum distance. Some authors produce lyric poems, some produce epic series, and some produce medium-length standalone novels. Dick Francis belongs to the last class: his best mid-length standalone novels (he never really got into the long-running series the way many mystery authors did) were perfectly paced and plotted.
Given how spare his writing could be, one might expect him to excel at the genre of short story, but reading these stories made me feel that they were a little *too* short, a little *too* spare.
Which is not to say that these stories are bad. They're quite enjoyable, and most authors would claim them with pride. They retain the twists and turns and nasty villains one would expect from a Francis tale. What they're lacking in is details, the kinds of descriptive details that Francis in his best works knew how to drop in at just the right moment. Authors these days are all in a rage to cut as much as they can from their works, and one certainly does need to trim from time to time, but if you cut away too much, you're left with nothing at all. The missing details are what elevate Francis's best books above the run of the mill mystery; aspiring authors would do well to compare these short stories with some of his masterpieces such as Hot Money, Straight, or Longshot, and see if they can find the difference between good stories, competently written, and that special something that makes a book more than just marks on paper.