Free Nice Fillies Finish Last by Brett Halliday Page B

see you with baseball bats. One of those people.”
    “You followed him?”
    “A red convertible with the top down is easy to follow.”
    She went on drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. “Exactly what are you proposing?”
    “I want to know the names of all the horses, all the drivers, how much money is tied up in it, and the terms of the split. I have enough of a handle now so I think you have to tell me. I can go to the racing secretary with what I have—the loan-shark transaction by itself might be enough—and he can either scratch a few horses, beginning with all of yours and Thorne’s, and give Thorne a twenty-four-hour suspension. Or he can let it go ahead and, after it’s over, give every horse a thorough going-over, and look hard at all the people who show up at the mutuels office with winning twin-double tickets. That way he may be able to come up with some permanent suspensions and maybe a criminal prosecution.”
    She sighed. “Perhaps we’d better take you in, Mr. Shayne, but you’ll have to be satisfied with a single ticket. At a guess, it might bring you in about four thousand dollars, if everything goes according to plan.”
    “How many people would have to approve it?” Shayne said. “You can use the phone in my car.”
    “I wouldn’t dream of using the phone in your car,” she said. “Give me an hour or two, tell me where I can reach you, and I’ll phone you the combination we recommend.”
    “That’s not enough,” Shayne said stubbornly. “How could I be sure it was the real combination? I want some facts I can check.”
    She shook her head firmly. “No, that would be unwise. You’ll have to take a chance, along with the rest of us. I can’t guarantee anything. I really don’t think you’ll go to the racing secretary and talk yourself out of four thousand dollars. I have to go now. Give me your phone number.”
    Shayne weighed the ignition key in one hand. “Do you know a stableman named Joey Dolan, Mrs. Domaine?”
    “Yes. We’re good friends.”
    “Has anybody told you he’s dead?”
    That jarred her. Shayne had broken news of this kind to enough people over the years so he could be fairly sure that her surprise and shock were real. She pressed her knuckles against her mouth and shook her head slowly. “Oh, God. When?”
    “He was found in a doorway in Miami this morning. They did an autopsy on him. He’d been drinking wood alcohol.”
    “Joey wouldn’t drink wood alcohol!” she said sharply. “I saw him last night when he came in from walking one of our horses. He was the same as he always was. Exactly the same.” She checked herself abruptly. “Are you a policeman?”
    “I’m a private detective,” Shayne said.
    “Oh, that Mike Shayne. I would have expected you to be more—” She checked herself again. “Did you know Joey?”
    “A friend of mine did, and he doesn’t believe Joey would drink wood alcohol either, unless somebody who knew him laced his bottle of sherry. We think Joey found out about this twin-double swindle, but why that meant he had to be killed we don’t know. It would have been simpler to buy him off with a winning ticket. Any comment, Mrs. Domaine?”
    She breathed in and out slowly, her eyes moving. “I think I’ll stop talking now, if it’s not already too late. You’re a clever man, Mr. Shayne. Please get out.”
    Shayne reached over to the steering post and inserted the ignition key. “I’d like to think of a way to put some pressure on you. Does your husband know about this motel setup?”
    “You’ll have to ask him.”
    “I suppose that means he does know. Give me time, I’ll think of something else.”
    He went back to his Buick. Mrs. Domaine looked across at him through the lowered window, her eyes unfriendly.
    “Did you sabotage my motor so it wouldn’t start?”
    “What do you think?”
    She turned the key, came back with a jerk, reversed and joined the stream of traffic heading for Fort Lauderdale. Shayne