Brett Halliday: Nice Fillies Finish Last

“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.

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 stablemen 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.