Nice Fillies Finish Last ms-52

by Brett Halliday

  MacMaster took his mangled cigar out of his mouth and looked at it for a moment. “Unless what Dolan found out would get them in legal trouble, or in trouble with the track. It’s worth a try. How are you coming with your picks for tonight, Kimball?”

  “I’m down to the ninth race, and that’s the tough one.”

  “Look at those last four races again with Tim’s theory in mind,” MacMaster said. “Dolan went to sleep in the Domaine barn, and let’s assume that the Domaine horses figure in it, whatever it is. I admit the chronology is a bit muddy, but if he climbed in the window at two and climbed out again at two-thirty to call Tim in Miami, he probably didn’t have a sudden inspiration as he was falling asleep. He must have seen something, or heard something, or somebody told him something.”

  Kimball shrugged. “Just remember I’m no clairvoyant.” Seating himself on the corner of the desk, he began studying the entries. After a moment Rourke could see that he was becoming interested. He looked up a point in the Trotting Association Year Book.

  “Christ, there are millions of possibilities. The Domaine stable has horses entered in the sixth and the ninth. Both of them raced at Yonkers last summer, and I’d better check the Yonkers programs to see what I can find. In the ninth they’ve got a mare, My Treat, an in-and-outer. She’s always had good potential, but she’s never delivered. If those are the crucial races, the sixth and the ninth, there’s one overlap. It wouldn’t strike you unless you were looking for something like it. A guy named Paul Thorne is driving in both races, and he used to work for the Domaines.”

  “What do you know about him?” Rourke said.

  “He’s young, tough, probably a little crazy, very competitive. He’s number two in the driver standings. The fans love him, because he always gives the impression of being out to win, and he doesn’t care how he does it, ethically or otherwise. He has a few horses of his own, but he’ll drive for any stable that pays his fee. Some people have started betting on him every time he goes out, which drives down the odds on his horses, and he’s been having trouble getting work. He’s always in hot water with the stewards, who want drivers to be gentlemen and move over when somebody wants to get by. He’s just waited out a fifteen-day suspension. If you want me to do some guessing, I’d guess he might be open to a deal.”

  “Good,” MacMaster said. “That’s where you’d better start, Tim. Now what about these Domaines? What are they, husband and wife?”

  “Yeah, and they’re in a different category from Thorne. It’s a big stable, with plenty of money behind it. There’s a stud farm and a training stable, and they’ve turned out a few champions, big money-winners. It’s a racing outfit, not a betting outfit.”

  “I’ve never known a rich man who minded getting richer,” Rourke said.

  “You’ve got a point,” Kimball admitted. “I don’t know Larry Domaine, but I know people in his tax bracket. They wouldn’t turn down a chance at a big win, and especially if the Internal Revenue Bureau didn’t know about it. But would they take any real risks, like murdering somebody? You can look him up in the clips, Tim. I think he won a chess tournament last year. He’s a cold fish, from his looks. The wife is gorgeous. You see her picture every now and then.”

  Mehlmann, the reporter who had the desk next to Rourke’s, called, “Phone, Tim.”

  “That may be Shayne,” Rourke said. “He knows about this, Mac, and there may be too many angles for me to check out by myself in one afternoon. Would the paper put up a small retainer, if I can get him?”

  MacMaster considered briefly. “OK, up to two hundred bucks.”

  Rourke returned to his own desk and picked up the open phone. “Rourke.”

  Shayne’s voice said, “Lucy told me to call you.”

  “Mike, listen. Joey Dolan’s been found dead. Naturally I feel lousy about it. I’m going up to the track to see what I can find out.”

  “What did he die of?” Shayne said.

  Rourke related what he knew about Dolan’s death, and his suspicions about how and why it had happened. Shayne listened quietly.

  “Ad Kimball’s just been handicapping those races,” Rourke went on, “and we’ve got a good jumping-off point. Dolan used the ninth race as an example when he was talking to me, and the Domaines have horses going in the ninth and the sixth. A driver named Paul Thorne, who used to work for them, is driving both races. We’re wondering if the deal is for Thorne to win one and the Domaine horse the other. What I plan to do is barge in and ask a few questions and see how they react. The Mike Shayne technique, in short. I’m going to start with Thorne. But Kimball says he’s a menace, if not slightly out of his head, and I doubt if I can handle him if he doesn’t want to be handled. Would you be able to come along, Mike? After we see Thorne, we can split up. There’s a lot of ground to cover and not much time. MacMaster says he’ll give you a retainer. I won’t mention the figure. It’s small. But maybe in the process we can come up with a couple of winners.”

  “Afraid I can’t help you, Tim,” Shayne said. “I have people to see myself.”

  “Hell!” Rourke said; he had been counting on Shayne. “Couldn’t you postpone it?”

  “Can’t be done. I’ve been called in on that jewel robbery in the Fontainebleau last month. Diamonds insured at a hundred thousand, and I get fifteen percent if I can turn them in. As of this moment, it looks easy.”

  “Of course,” Rourke said. “MacMaster’s only authorizing two hundred bucks, and compared to fifteen G’s that’s nowhere.”

  “Yeah, there’s quite a difference,” Shayne said. “Something like fourteen thousand eight hundred.”

  “And who is Joey Dolan, after all? A wino. A bum. He couldn’t find a niche for himself in the affluent society, and who cares?”

  “That won’t get you anywhere, Tim,” Shayne said mildly. “After thinking about it, I can see how a smart manipulator might think he could beat the twin double. But murder doesn’t make sense.”

  “We don’t know enough to say! As far as the cops are concerned, I know he’s already a statistic. They’d be surprised to hear that only yesterday he was a human being. But I happen to know that Joey never drank anything but sherry. It was his way of protecting himself. He would no more take a drink of wood alcohol than you would, Mike. I mean it. It would have to be at least half sherry, camouflaged in a sherry bottle. That means that whoever gave it to him knew his habits.”

  Shayne said, “Maybe he stuck to sherry when you were around, but you know drunks as well as I do. You’ve got a rosy-tinted picture of the life this guy led-no office hours, no rent to pay, no butt-kissing, hundreds of friends. But be realistic, Tim. The happy-go-lucky bum is a myth.”

  “I liked him, goddamn it.”

  “Sure. Just don’t turn him into a hero or a saint. Even if you’re right about what happened, you know you’ll have a hell of a time proving anything, don’t you? I’ve got to go now, Tim. I have a date with a guy who’s going to put me in touch with somebody who knows what the boys are asking for the diamonds. If I don’t show up, he’s going to look for some other go-between. I don’t feel like throwing away fifteen thousand bucks because you’ve been kidding yourself about some picturesque rummy.”

  Trying to keep his temper, Rourke commented that Shayne would have taken a different attitude when he was starting out in business. In those days he hadn’t looked for easy jobs, and the wealthier his clients were, the less time he had for them. Shayne answered sharply and the reporter blew up. Ever since he had heard about Dolan’s death, he had been spoiling for trouble.

  “If that’s the way you want it, Mike,” he said. “From now on let’s assume we don’t know each other.”

  He slammed down the phone and felt for cigarettes. He didn’t need any help from Mike Shayne. He could get along perfectly well by himself.

  CHAPTER 4

  Only one of the horses Paul Thorne owned was in its stall, and Thorne himself, Rourke was told, was rarely around at this time of day. All the stablem
en had different ideas of where to start looking for him. Maybe the racing secretary’s office.

  Thorne wasn’t there. A driver who was waiting in the anteroom thought he might be at the smithy. The blacksmith reported to Rourke that Thorne had been there and gone. If he wasn’t at the vet’s or in the driver’s shed or out timing a horse on one of the training tracks, Rourke had better ask his wife. If he left the track on a day when he was scheduled to race, he usually told her where he could be reached.

  Rourke was given directions to the Thornes’ trailer, in a large, disorderly trailer park beyond the double-decked bunkhouses. He knocked on the door, waited, knocked again, and was about to give up when the door opened and a pretty young woman looked out. Her hair was in curlers, and Rourke’s first impression was that she was naked. With a spurt of relief, he saw that she was wearing a bikini. Without 20/20 vision he might not have been able to find it.

  “Looking for somebody?” she said in a high voice.

  Rourke pulled himself together. “You must be Mrs. Thorne. My name’s Tim Rourke, and I’m from the Miami News. We want to do a picture story on one of the two or three top drivers here, to give the public an idea of what goes on behind the scenes. Your husband’s the obvious choice, but I’ve got to clear up a few things before I can give it the go-ahead. I’m supposed to phone the paper and let them know right away.”

  “Golly,” she said, impressed. “He had to go downtown and I don’t expect him back before like five. If there’s anything I could do?”

  She let the door swing open a little more. She was holding a martini. All in all, she was one of the most pleasant sights Rourke had seen in weeks. Probably he wasn’t in as much of a hurry as he had supposed. He quieted his conscience by telling it that she would undoubtedly allow herself to be pumped about her husband. She might even tell him more than Thorne would himself.

  “Maybe you could give me some background, at that.”

  She gave a little giggle as he stepped into the darkened interior of the trailer. It seemed very crowded. Every flat surface had something on it-pots of African violets, copies of Better Homes and Gardens, china dogs. Rourke told himself to be careful not to make any sudden moves or he would be sure to break something.

  “You’ll have to excuse the way the place looks,” she said. “On a hot day I just let the dirt collect. Why not start right off by calling me Win, Mr. O’Rourke?”

  “Rourke, without the O,” he said. “My friends call me Tim, and I know we’re going to be friends. You’re sure I’m not interrupting anything?”

  “What’s there to interrupt? This is the quiet time of the day, not that the joint ever really swings, and I was sitting around doing my nails and relaxing with a weak martini. I think there’s one more in the pitcher if you’re interested. What the hell? Live dangerously. I get more compliments on my martinis.”

  Rourke told her he never turned down an offer of a martini, and watched her pour. She was in her middle twenties, with slanting blue eyes and a mouth that had been made up recently, probably while she was deciding whether to let him in. She was a little plump, but Rourke, still dazzled by all the pink and brown flesh-tones, didn’t feel critical. She had a mole on one side of her navel, a surgical scar on the other; both, he thought, were equally attractive.

  “Isn’t it hot?” she said.

  She waved him to a couch. As he sat down it moved unsteadily beneath him. Probably it changed into a double bed at night. She had tilted the slats of the Venetian blinds to keep out the sun. A small refrigerator purred quietly in one corner. She gave him a martini and frowned down at herself.

  “Gee, on second thoughts, I get so used to padding around with next to nothing on I forget how it looks. I’ve got a terrible reputation with the neighbors already, but what I tell Paul is, if a bikini’s OK on the beach with thousands and thousands of people, what’s wrong with it at home? But I mean, I don’t know you, do I? I think I better put something else on. You know, I stood there at the window for the longest time? I couldn’t decide to go to the door or not. Paul has these rules about letting in salesmen when I’m alone in the house, but I didn’t think you looked like a salesman. It’s all right to let reporters in. What the sports pages say about a driver is important, money-wise. You can’t stay in the business and not cooperate with the press. Right at this point Paul’s career could use a good write-up, believe me.”

  She opened a narrow metal closet, still talking, took out a flowered dressing gown and shrugged it on, belting it in tightly at the waist. “And these things in my hair. Ghastly. That was the real reason I didn’t let you in right away, after I decided you weren’t peddling vacuum cleaners, probably.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Rourke said. “I’ve seen women in curlers before.”

  “I bet you have. You’re not married, are you?”

  “No.”

  “I can almost always tell.” She drained her martini, crunching a piece of ice between her strong white teeth. “People think eating ice cubes is a disgusting habit, but I like to. They have that nice potent flavor.”

  Unfastening the scarf around her head, she began to strip out pins and rollers. “Finish your drink, it’s mainly ice water. I’ll make us another batch as soon as I get myself looking human.”

  The ice-cold martini got to Rourke very fast. One of the things that made him a good reporter was an ability to listen while people talked, and with Win Thorne he could see that all he had to do was hope that the gin held out.

  She was humming the title of a popular song while she brushed her shoulder-length black hair.

  “Now I feel better,” she said, turning. “I’m going to take the bull by the horns. Paul’s just right for this story. He looks great in photographs. I don’t want to tell you your business or anything, this is only a suggestion, but what you could do is go to the film patrol-they take movies of every race-and look at some of the highlights of his best drives. Even when you know they turned out OK, they can still make the hair stand up on your head. He’s a lunatic sometimes! I think I know what’s bothering you, though. That last suspension.”

  “It’s been bothering me a little,” Rourke said.

  “I knew it! Paul doesn’t mind all the trouble he gets into for rough driving. The slobs who bet on the driver and not the horse, they like to think he’s going to break his neck, if he has to, to get home in the money. Horserace bettors as a class, Tim, you can have them. He gets suspended for bumping and fighting in the paddock or interference, and it’s all to the good. But this fifteen-day rap was for betting against himself. That harms him with the fans, and I hope you won’t have to mention it in the story. You understand that everybody does it, because why should you pass up a race when you’re driving a dog yourself that doesn’t have a chance, and there’s a stick-out horse going against you, maybe at a good price? But the stewards take this holier-than-thou attitude.”

  Meanwhile, she was making more martinis, measuring by eye and going light on the vermouth. “Besides,” she added, “he never admitted it. They don’t have to prove anything. They just get a report from somebody who doesn’t like him, and there are lots of drivers who don’t like him because they’re scared of him. And snick”-she made a throat-cutting gesture-“out of competition for fifteen days.”

  Rourke held out his glass and she filled it, smiling. She brushed back her hair with the hand that held her glass.

  “One thing about these trailers, they’re the right size for two people if they like each other. If they don’t, it’s murder.” She touched the dial of a small radio. “Do we want some music? No,” she decided.

  “Didn’t Paul start out driving for the Domaines?” Rourke said.

  There was a slight check to her movements. She returned the pitcher to the top of the refrigerator. She sat down, crossed her bare legs, and arranged the wrapper carefully.

  “Why, yes. Sure. But you know how they make you do when you drive for one stable. They have these plans for the horses and t
hey tell the driver, certain ways to rate the horse, where they want him to make his move. And you know that didn’t sit so hot with Paul. He has to be in charge all the way. And like every big stable, they’ve got their share of dogmeat horses, and he had to take what they gave him. That hurt him in the standings. He thought he’d do better as a catch driver. And he did do better. For a while he did fine. He bought a few horses. There was one big roan gelding, Don J. Oh, what a lot of horse! Earned nearly twenty thousand for us, let alone what we made betting on him, and I began to think in terms of having a few dollars in the checking account for a cushion. We put a down payment on a house in town, a quarter acre with our own dock, and then Don J. went into the rail and we had to shoot him. And Paul had forgotten to send in the insurance! He’d bought a couple of weanlings from the Domaines’ farm, cost an arm and a leg, and all they’ve done since is eat and take medicine. I personally think Domaine stuck him. Then a couple of bets went sour, and that’s why we’re still living out of a trailer. This last fifteen days without a cent coming in-”

  She shuddered and took a long swallow of her martini, to kill the taste of being out of money.

  “I suppose he’ll have to be careful about what he bets on for a while,” Rourke suggested.

  “He better be careful, or I’ll pick him apart with my fingernails.” She touched the radio dial again, pulling her hand back without turning it on. “I’m not going to tell you he’s stopped betting, because that wouldn’t be human nature.”

  “Off the record,” Rourke said. “About all I know about harness horses is which end you feed them at. Granted that Paul’s an expert, and if he’s driving in a race himself, he has something to do with how it turns out, but how can he be sure?”