Brett Halliday - Nice Fillies Finish Last

“Thorne’s in the number-three slot,” Granby said over the whir of the projector. “Driving Don J. A pretty horse, very spirited horse. Three-year-old, great blood line, he had all the makings of a free-for-aller. His best time for the mile was 2:04 on a half-mile track. He’s going in a Class A race here for the first time. He went away at three to one, as I recall. He’s fourth there at the turn. That’s Star Music, a Domaine horse, ahead of him.”

A new camera picked up the horses as they rounded into the backstretch. The tape’s fidelity was very good, but the total absence of sound made the action seem unreal. The accident happened at almost the exact second when the camera on the next tower took over. Star Music drifted away from the rail going into the turn. Thorne was using his whip as he tried to brush Don J. through on the inside, along the rail. Suddenly his horse veered sharply to the right. Star Music bounced and went into a gallop, and the inner wheel of Star Music’s sulky struck Don J. on the leg. There was a moment’s tangle and Don J. veered back, breaking clear, and went into the rail.

Granby stopped the tape and reversed it. The horses and sulkies retreated around the track in a rapid blur.

“I’ll go through it again in slow motion,” he said. “We understood that Thorne was underinsured on the horse. He didn’t put in any complaints of dirty driving. Accidents do happen and we came to the conclusion that this was one of them, though we’ve learned to give anything involving Thorne an especially close look. After Star Music broke there’s too much dust to see clearly. We lose the continuity when we switch cameras.” The horses were moving back in the right direction again, slowly and painfully. “What apparently happened, as we reconstructed it, was that a shaft buckle broke as Thorne went for the opening. The shaft dug into the dirt and pitched the horse to the outside. The Domaines had had trouble with Star Music breaking. Brossard was driving him. An excellent man, one of our veterans, but he couldn’t hold him. The shaft broke as Don J. hit the rail. You can see the end for a second. There.” He stopped the projector. Thorne’s horse froze on the screen at the moment of impact. The broken shaft could be seen beneath the rail. “Then the splintered end whipped up and went into the horse’s belly. That might have been enough. He also broke both front legs. Thorne broke three ribs, cut open his head to the bone and damaged his spleen. We noticed a falloff in attendance while he was in the hospital. Frankly, he’s one of our biggest drawing cards, which is why he only pulled a three-week suspension this last time. I thought he ought to be set down for good. The stewards didn’t see fit to agree with me. Do you want me to run it through again?”

“You don’t have any pictures of what happened after he went through the rail?”

“No, the cameras follow the race. I don’t get you. Thorne was out cold.”

“Could the shaft have been cut or weakened in some way before the race?”

“Possibly,” Granby said guardedly. “It was examined, of course, but it was pretty well smashed up.”

Shayne looked closely at the screen. “Let me see the next couple of frames.”

Granby advanced the tape slowly, in short jerks, watching the detective. Shayne held up his hand and stared at the screen. Several figures were running toward the track from the backstretch. The one in the lead had a short goatee. Joey Dolan had worn a goatee, Shayne had been told.

He moved his hand and the tape resumed. After a moment he stood up, partially blocking the screen, on which the remaining horses moved slowly around into the home stretch.

“Thanks,” he said. “You’ve been a great help. I’ll let you know if there’s anything else.”

“Do that.”

Shayne left him rewinding the tape, his face carefully impassive.

The first race was half over. Unlike the one Shayne had just watched, this was taking place at normal speed, to the accompaniment of a deafening din from the stands. Ignoring the straining horses, the big redhead pushed through the crowd, aiming at the ramps leading to the clubhouse. Suddenly his eye was caught by a white turban in the throng pressing against the low fence, on the asphalt apron at the far end of the grandstand. The horses thundered past while a powerful voice on the public-address amplifier called the order of finish. A fat man next to Shayne bounced up and down, waving both arms and yipping with excitement.

“Thirty to one! Look at those figures. Look at that payoff, will you? And the only reason I had him, he’s got the same first name I do, Ronald. What do you think of that?”

“I think it’s great,” Shayne said. “Do you mind if I borrow your binoculars for a minute?”

The fat man whipped the strap over his head. “You can borrow my pants if you have any use for them, buddy. He pulled out ahead the second you stopped here. I don’t claim you did it all by yourself, but you helped.”

Shayne steadied the binoculars and brought up the focus. The white turban he had spotted in the crowd turned into a head bandage. The nose unquestionably belonged to Tim Rourke. What in God’s name was he doing here?

He handed the binoculars back to their owner and returned to the apron in front of the stand, keeping his eye on Rourke’s bandage, which had begun to move toward the lower betting level. He overtook his friend at the edge of the seats.

“Tim!”

Rourke turned. Miss Mallinson was with him, looking as supple and radiant in a sweater and skirt as she had in a nurse’s uniform.

“Been looking for you, Mike,” Rourke said briskly. “How many redheaded racing fans do you think there are here? Thousands.”

“Tim, my God, why aren’t you in bed?”

“I had a little nap, I feel greatly refreshed. I didn’t feel like waiting for the regular discharge, so I went over the goddamned wall. Sandra helped me.”

“Not willingly,” she said. “I practically had to carry him.”

“Only at first,” Rourke insisted. Wobbling suddenly, he sat down in an empty seat. “I can’t convince Sandra I deserve a Tom Collins. Somebody has to hold the damn glass for me, and she won’t. Get me one, will you, Mike?”

“A Tom Collins!” the nurse said helplessly. “Mr. Shayne, do you know any secret way to handle him?”

Rourke grinned up at his big friend. “Mike, sit down. I’ve got something important to tell you.”

Shayne moved a program to the next seat and sat down beside him. The reporter said, “Win Thorne, that’s Paul Thorne’s wife, was hinting around that her wandering husband had something going with a nurses’ aide at the hospital. Well, there was I, flat on my back. They were putting in stitches and slapping on butterfly bandages, but I didn’t let it stop me. I found out-”

Shayne broke in, “That Mrs. Domaine is a nurse’s aide. That’s yesterday’s news, Tim. Now you can go back to bed.”

“I told you he knew,” the nurse said.

Rourke’s face, or as much of it as was showing, fell. “Damn it,” he muttered. “One of these days I’m going to get somewhere ahead of you. Not by staying in bed all afternoon, I admit. Well, so long as I’m here, I think I’ll take a crack at the twin double. How about you?”

“First I’m going to take a crack at Mr. and Mrs. Domaine. Will you be serious for a minute? How do you really feel?”

“I really feel lousy,” Rourke admitted with a growling half-laugh. “They stuffed my head with cotton before they fastened the top back on. Sandra’s going to take care of me, aren’t you, baby?” He put one hand, with its great gauze mitten, clumsily about her waist. “She’s never seen a harness race, can you imagine? She’s not only one of the swingingest dolls in the place, she keeps taking my pulse. I think that shows she likes me.”