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.
CHAPTER 11
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
“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.
CHAPTER 11
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
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