“You probably know quite a bit of this by now,” Domaine said to Shayne. “My wife makes the odds calculations in the family, and she’s actually become pretty good at it. Her theory is that it’s the one way left to beat the income tax. Winnings are supposed to be reported to the government, but in practice, of course, they hardly ever are. And why should they be? Taxes have already taken out an immense percentage. The money that comes out of the machines on one race, or most of it, goes back in on the next, and Uncle Sam takes that tax nibble every time. Excuse me—this is a mania of mine. She’s developed quite a shrewd streak, Claire. My horsemen don’t think she’s quite as naive as they did at first. To me beating the machines has always been an intellectual matter, like a chess problem. To her it has become a passion.”
“How rich are you, Mr. Domaine?” Shayne said.
Mrs. Moon laughed. “Now you’ve embarrassed him.”
Domaine took a sip of his whiskey and said stiffly, “I have a fairish amount of money.”
“Did Mrs. Domaine have property in her own name before you married her?”
Some of Domaine’s good humor left him. “No.” He removed his pince-nez. They were trembling. The dents remained on his nose. “After having your car shot out from under you, you are entitled to one or two rude questions. You have now used up your quota. My financial standing, or my wife’s before or after marriage, has nothing to do with any of this. Will we go on relief if we fail to win the twin double? No.”
“To say the least,” Mrs. Moon put in.
“My God,” Domaine said desperately. “Here I’ve decided to make a full disclosure of our plans for tonight, and nobody wants to listen! We have a mare named My Treat, Mr. Shayne. For various reasons, some of them accidental, some carefully contrived, she is faster than her classification. She won’t be a champion, she’s unlikely to win any great sum in purses, but she’s going against slower horses tonight in the ninth, and, all things being equal, we think she’ll win.”
“Unless Fussbudget beats her out,” Mrs. Moon offered.
“I’ll make you a small side bet on that,” Domaine said. “Shut up now, Molly.” To Shayne: “Paul Thorne thinks he has a winner in the sixth. He’s driving a poorly behaved trotter, potentially very fast, which has broken gait and finished out of the money, well out, in five out of his last six races. Few people are likely to bet on him. Thorne has made some equipment change, some change in his training technique, and he’s confident that tonight he can keep the horse at the trot for the full mile. One of our stablemen spotted the improvement during the early-morning workouts and told my wife.”
“Would that man’s name be Dolan?” Shayne asked.
Domaine’s eyebrows rose. “You’re better informed than I thought. Dolan, yes, not that it matters. Very well. A horse in the sixth and one in the ninth—that gave Claire her inspiration. It meant combining with Thorne, and I was of two minds about that. In some ways the man is a menace.”
“Attractive as sin,” Mrs. Moon said.
“Do you think so?” Domaine said coldly. “A bit too much on the surface, I would have thought. Of course, Claire couldn’t confer with him in public. It would have been foolish to have him at our house. She decided to rent a motel room, a method she has used before, though never with Thorne. This worried me. I know him, you see; he used to drive for me. He’s quick, violent, conceited. I came close to forbidding it, or trying to forbid it—it’s not all that easy to stop Claire when her mind’s set on something. I decided to deal with the problem in another way. I have a driver named Franklin Brossard. You know him, Molly. He’s not in the first flush of youth, but he’s strong and reckless, and I’d back him against Paul Thorne any day. I sent him to the motel, without Claire’s knowledge. He was parked there when she arrived. After Thorne appeared and went to her room, Brossard loitered outside the door. Those motels are constructed of matchboard—if she’d had any trouble, Brossard would have heard it. But nothing happened. Thorne drove off. Claire’s car wouldn’t start. A large, rugged-looking redheaded individual—Brossard had seen him doing something to the motor earlier—got in with her. After a brief conversation, Claire ordered him to get out and leave her alone. Apparently the man refused. At this point Brossard phoned me for instructions. We assumed, you see, and I think the assumption was reasonable, that some gambler had got wind of the twin-double coup and was trying to hector Claire into giving him the details. I was dismayed. When Brossard offered to give the man a scare, I regret to say that I told him to go ahead. I had second thoughts at once, but there was no way I could call him back. As soon as Claire could get to a phone, she called to say that she’d had an encounter with a private detective named Michael Shayne. That frightened me more than a little. I don’t know if you’re married, Shayne?”
“No.”
“One of the first things you learn, if you want to make a success of marriage, is to temporize. When your wife puts this much thought and time and money into something, let’s hope, for the sake of domestic tranquility, that it bears fruit. I shouldn’t have allowed this to go this far. I’m sorry.”
“What does Claire do when she loses?” Mrs. Moon asked curiously. “Stamp and scream?”
“Certainly not,” Domaine said testily. “But ordinary conversation becomes difficult and I have to walk around the house on tiptoe, which I don’t enjoy. I didn’t intend to have this accident happen, Shayne; that’s all I can say. Neither did Brossard, actually.”
“The hell he didn’t,” Shayne said with a short laugh.
“No,” Domaine insisted. “He called me immediately. He was afraid someone had taken down his license number. I said I’d drive over at once and see what was required. Are you covered by insurance?”
“Car insurance,” Shayne said. “Nobody’s been willing to write me any life insurance yet.”
“From what I hear of your operations,” Domaine said, “I’d say that was a sensible precaution. I’m trying to convince you that there’s no point in telling the police the name of the other driver. As a matter of cold fact, Brossard would deny it. So would I, I suppose. But I want to make up for this stupid blunder by helping in any way I can. Let me loan you this car, for example.”
“And you do realize, don’t you,” Mrs. Moon said, “that, by giving you a winner in the sixth and the ninth, he’s offering to let you in on the twin double?”
“Molly, you have no subtlety,” Domaine said. “Putting it that way turns it into a different kind of offer.” He poured Shayne more bourbon. “Needless to say, Shayne, I know I owe you something. Whatever you decide, I’m sure I can weather it, but if you find it necessary to mention Brossard’s name to the police, Claire will know I have given her a bodyguard. I would suffer for it. She often makes the point that she is a grown-up girl.”
Shayne drank slowly while the others watched him.
After a moment Domaine said, “You are somewhat irked, naturally. If this had happened to me, I know I’d be boiling. If you have any questions—”
“All right, let’s try a few,” Shayne said. “What happened when Thorne stopped driving for your stable? Did you fire him or did he quit?”
Domaine leaned forward slightly, to emphasize his willingness to cooperate. “We were getting ready to fire him. There was never any question about his ability, he was a natural winner. But we felt he was giving the stable the wrong kind of following. One day soon, I was sure he would do something really outrageous and irrevocable. Violence in Thorne is never far below the surface. I kept postponing a decision, as I didn’t want to give him any real cause for resentment. I was relieved when he told me he wanted to go off on his own. I even loaned him some money, which I never really expect to see again.”
“How much?”
“A few thousand. I’ve never pressed him for it. The truth is, the fewer dealings I have with that man the better I’ll like it.”
“Did you consider telling your wife to stay out of the twin-double deal with him?”
&n
bsp; “Let’s say I considered it,” he said with a smile.
“How many other people are involved in it?”
A tiny frown appeared on Domaine’s forehead. “What do you mean by ‘involved’?”
“You know what I mean. Together you control two horses in the sixth and two in the ninth. Is that enough?”
“Not enough to be certain, of course. But that’s not the point. I think I’d know if Claire had made arrangements with any other owners or drivers, not that she tells me everything she does. I’ve made it clear that I don’t think of myself in that kind of role.”
“Thorne’s financing his share with loan-shark money,” Shayne said. “He can’t be as casual about losing as you can.”
Domaine’s frown deepened. “If he’s tried to bribe anybody or bring anybody else in on it, I pray he’s been careful. I don’t give a hang what happens to him, but this is precisely what I’ve been concerned about—by combining with him, to a certain extent Claire put herself in his hands.”
“What about Fussbudget, Mrs. Moon?” Shayne said.
The abrupt question made her jump. “Oh, hell. I was just needling Larry. My head trainer said she was feeling frisky this morning. That’s really all I know.”
“Is Brossard driving My Treat tonight?” Shayne asked Domaine.
“Yes, and that’s another reason I don’t want him arrested.”
“Does he know you want him to win the ninth and Thorne’s trotter to win the sixth?”
“He gets his instructions tonight. His post position in the ninth is number two. He’ll be told to tuck in behind the number-one horse at the first turn. There’s one other horse Claire is worried about—not Fussbudget, Molly. When that horse begins to make its move, Thorne expects to be in a position where he can move at the same time and carry him out. Brossard should take the lead at the five-eighths pole, and lead the rest of the way. I don’t know if he’ll be betting on himself. Probably.”
He waited for Shayne’s next question.
After finishing his drink, the redhead said, “All right, I accept your apology, Mr. Domaine, and I think I’ll take you up on the loan of your car. I have to make a quick stop in Lauderdale, and then get back to Miami.”
“This is generous of you, Larry,” Mrs. Moon said ironically, “and what do we do, hitchhike?”
“We take a taxi,” Domaine said. He put a warm hand on Shayne’s knee. “I’m glad you’ve decided to do it like this, Shayne. Will you be back this evening?”
“Sure.”
“I’m meeting Mrs. Domaine in the clubhouse for drinks at seven, if you’d care to join us.”
“All right, if I can.”
“I’ll be there,” Mrs. Moon said. “Maybe you can help me pick a few winners.”
She gave him a look that was frankly speculative. He returned it with one of his own, and was rewarded by a small stir of discomfort from Domaine. A few pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place.
CHAPTER 11
IN FORT LAUDERDALE, Shayne dropped Domaine and Mrs. Moon at a cab stand, then found the hospital and parked.
A bosomy woman in a large hat presided at a desk in the reception room. By keeping her hat on, she showed that this wasn’t what she did for a living, in fact that she didn’t have to work at all unless she felt like it. She had a small card file, which she fingered when Shayne told her he had come to see Timothy Rourke. She said brightly, “No visitors, I’m sorry.”
“He’s seeing visitors,” Shayne said. “I talked to him on the phone a half hour ago, and he said to come over. Will you call the floor and find out?”
She gave him a quick scrutiny. Clearly he couldn’t be made to go away by pretending he wasn’t there.
“I hate to,” she said. “The nurses just about take your head off, which is funny considering that we’re only trying to help.” She picked up the phone and asked for the nurses’ station on the third floor. “Reception,” she said firmly. “An inquiry about the patient in 325, Timothy Rourke. He’s listed on my card as a No-Visitors, but someone here insists that’s a mistake.”
She listened, said, “I see,” and hung up. She reported to Shayne: “The patient’s asleep at the moment. If you’d care to take a seat, and if he wakes up before visiting hours are over—”
“Who’s his doctor?”
She glanced at the card. “Dr. Greenberg, but doctors are even harder to get hold of than nurses. You can try at the desk.”
The switchboard girl tried to locate Dr. Greenberg for him, and told him presently, “He’s not in the hospital at the moment, but if you’d take a seat—”
Shayne’s face was grim. He went back outside and around a corner to the emergency entrance, large double doors opening onto a low dock. They were marked NO ADMITTANCE. He pushed them open and walked in. Finding the fire stairs, he went up to the third floor. In 325, a private room, a heavily bandaged patient was sound asleep, propped up on two pillows and snoring peacefully. Shayne recognized his friend by his long nose, almost the only feature not covered with bandages. His hands were concealed inside great gauze mittens.
“Come on, boy, wake up,” Shayne said. “Tim!”
He shook the reporter’s shoulder. Rourke’s long snore turned into a half-growl and a whistle. He exhaled violently, making a sound like a honking goose, then the snoring resumed.
“Goddamn it!” Shayne said, shaking him hard. “Wake up!”
“Just what do you think you’re up to?” an icy voice demanded from the door.
Shayne turned. A trim, green-eyed nurse was regarding him furiously. Shayne snapped his fingers, trying to remember the name Rourke had mentioned on the phone.
“Miss Mallinson.”
“Yes, and what do you mean by barging in here and manhandling my patient?”
“I’m just trying to wake him up. What kind of shot did you give him, anyway?”
Advancing, she drove him away from the bed. After adjusting the sheet over Rourke’s chest, she listened approvingly to his snores, as though admiring their musical quality.
“He needs that sleep badly,” she said. “We didn’t have to give him anything. He fell asleep by himself.”
“I want to talk to him for a minute. He can go back to sleep afterward. He won’t object.”
He tried to get around her.
“Keep this up,” she said pleasantly, “and you’re going to hear a scream that’ll raise the hair on your head.”
“Fine. That might wake him up.”
“We have five male nurses on this floor. Together they might be able to handle you. You’re Mr. Shayne, aren’t you? Well, seriously. This kind of sudden deep sleep is the usual reaction after an accident like his. I know he was rattling away like a machine gun when you talked to him, but he was exhausted. He lost pints and pints of blood, and anybody as skinny as that doesn’t have it to spare. We persuaded him to eat something, which neutralized the alcohol, and he went off like that.” She snapped her fingers. “I was just as glad, to tell you the truth. He’d been keeping me on my toes. He’s impossible, isn’t he?”
“Didn’t the bandages slow him down?”
“Not as much as you’d think. I tried to keep out of reach, but he’s sneaky.”
She blushed slightly, and Shayne tried a different approach. “If he calls you after the bandages are off and asks you to have dinner with him, will you go?”
She evaded his eyes. “Oh, people act a certain way in the hospital, but when they get out it’s different. I don’t think he’ll call me. I’d go, certainly. I wanted to be mad at him but I couldn’t, he was so funny. And I liked the way he behaved when the doctor was sewing him up.”
Shayne absentmindedly poked a cigarette into his mouth, taking it out again when she looked at him severely. He leaned on the foot of the bed and looked at his sleeping friend.
“Tim and I have known each other a long time, Miss Mallinson. He was on a story when he got hurt. It may turn out to be a big one. He wouldn’t fall asleep
in the middle of it, regardless of how much blood he’d lost, or how many stitches he’d had taken. Reporting isn’t just a business with him. It’s the way he exists.”
Suddenly, trying to explain why the Tim Rourke he knew so well couldn’t have fallen asleep at a time like this unless he had been drugged, Shayne realized what the reporter had meant when he said Dolan couldn’t have drunk wood alcohol. It wasn’t in character. Shayne’s cigarette came out again. He put it between his lips without lighting it.
“It’s more than a newspaper story,” he went on. “A friend of his has been killed. This is tied in with some harness races tonight, and if we can’t find out who did it before the races are over, I don’t think anybody ever will. When Tim talked to me on the phone, he said he had something to tell me. He knew I was on my way. He wouldn’t go to sleep when he was expecting me any minute. I mean it.”
“To my certain knowledge,” she said firmly, “he took four aspirins and nothing else. Dr. Greenberg doesn’t believe in anything but local anesthesia for minor surgery unless a patient insists, and Tim’s insisting was all in the opposite direction.”
“If that’s so, there won’t be any harm in waking him up. He talked to a man before he was hurt. I need to know what he found out. He wanted me to get him out of the hospital, but I’ll discourage that. I can see he’s in no shape to be turned loose.”
She hesitated, and Shayne went on, “And if you do yell for those male nurses, I can guarantee that Tim will be disgusted with you when he hears about it.”
“The rules say specifically—”
“Tim Rourke doesn’t believe in that kind of rules and I doubt if you really do either.”
“Well, if somebody’s been killed,” she said miserably, “I suppose that would make it an emergency. I just hope this isn’t a trick.” She turned toward the bed, adding, “Anyway, those male nurses are never around when you need them.”
She tapped the side of Rourke’s nose smartly with two fingers. “Tim. Tim Rourke. Wake up.”
His next snore broke into three snorts. His eyes stayed closed. She took his shoulders in both hands and gave him a hard shake. He groaned, and at the end of the breath it turned into another snore. She looked across the bed at Shayne.
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