Brett Halliday - Nice Fillies Finish Last

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?”

“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.

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?”