“Forget it. We’ve finally got a concrete lead, and believe me, we needed it. What impression did he make on you?”
“It’s a funny thing, Michael, it seemed to me he was trying to hide his identity by pretending to have more of an education than he actually did. Part of the time he seemed drunk, part of the time sober. Southern. Sure of himself and very anxious, by turns. This is all no help, I know.”
“Did you look up the apartment house?”
“The Belle Mark-yes, it’s on Ninety-sixth Street, in Miami Shores. I think that’s a high-rent district. I don’t know for sure.”
The trooper was looking for Shayne. He seemed surprised to find him talking on the phone in the back seat of the wrecked car.
“That’s fine, Miss Hamilton,” Shayne said, to let her know he was being overheard. “Do you remember the Mercedes you looked up for Tim?”
“Of course. Mrs. Domaine’s.”
“That’s a husband and wife operation. And didn’t Tim mention another name?”
“Paul Thorne?”
“Yeah. Go to the head of the class, angel. I want you to check with MacMaster. You’ve met him-the News city editor. See if he can dig up some pictures of those people, and get a shot of Dolan if they don’t have one already. Take the pictures to the apartment building and show them around. Spend some money if you have to.”
“Then should I come back to the office?”
“Call in first. I may be able to meet you there. If I can’t, I’ll leave a number with the answering service where you can reach me.”
“All right. And Michael, will you please be careful?”
“I sure as hell intend to try,” the redhead said, smiling, and put down the phone.
The cop said in a worried voice, “Seriously, Shayne-if somebody tried to kill you here, why not tell us about it? We might be able to do something.”
“The truckdriver had a good view. What does he think happened?”
The trooper shrugged. “The guy in the Ford cut in too soon, but as you say, maybe he got rattled. Nobody took his license number.”
“How about a wrecker for the Buick?”
“It’s on the way. And there’s somebody up there in a Cadillac wants to talk to you. He says his name is Larry Domaine.”
Shayne gave him a sharp look. “How long has he been there?”
“Just a couple of minutes. I’m supposed to tell you that because of the legal aspects, the thing for you to do is report in to the hospital and have them take a look at you. If you want to go in a private car, that’s up to you. A Cad’s more comfortable than an ambulance. We’ll look after your Buick for you. If you have anything valuable in the car, you’d better take it with you. It’ll be at Joe’s Auto Body, on One, just off Oakland Park Boulevard.”
Shayne thanked him.
“Hell,” the cop said gloomily, “so many of these things nowadays you get to know what to do. At least nobody was killed in this one. Honest to God, sometimes I think we ought to go back to the horse and buggy.”
He returned to the highway to continue with the post-accident routine. Shayne brushed sand off his clothes and ran his fingers through his bristling red hair. That was all he had time for. He looked at his watch. He had looked at it, he remembered, just before starting to go around the refrigerator truck. Twenty-five minutes had passed. He would be interested to find out how Mr. Larry Domaine had known what had happened so soon.
He climbed the embankment and stepped over the cables. A black, gleaming Cadillac of one of the vintage years waited across the road near an open-air stand selling seashell jewelry. Both lanes of the highway were working again. When a gap appeared, Shayne hurried across. A man stepped out of the Cadillac to meet him.
“You’re Mike Shayne, of course,” he said. “Thank God you weren’t hurt.”
He shook Shayne’s hand while the redhead looked him over curiously, matching him against his cool, lovely, blonde wife. He was in his fifties, thirty pounds overweight. His color was high, but not from being out of doors. He was wearing pince-nez, the first pair of those old-fashioned glasses Shayne had seen in years. His white hair was abundant and too long, especially over the ears. His clothes were very good: a black-and-white checked sports coat, fawn-colored slacks, beautifully polished Italian boots.
“I really goofed,” Domaine said regretfully. “If anything serious had happened to you, I would have been just about ready to give up. I’m responsible for this accident, Shayne. I can see I have some explaining to do.”
CHAPTER 10
“Nobody got the guy’s license number,” Shayne said. “You didn’t have to admit it.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Domaine said. “Get in and let me give you a drink.”
He opened the back door for Shayne, holding his hand under Shayne’s elbow in case he needed help. A woman in the front seat looked at the big redhead with unconcealed interest. Expensive tweeds hung loosely from her rangy frame. She was probably in her middle thirties, Shayne thought. She had too-bright lipstick and snapping black eyes. She was crackling with energy, much of it sexual.
“My friend, Mrs. Moon,” Domaine said, following Shayne in. “Mike Shayne, the Miami detective.”
She gave Shayne her left hand, amid a jangle of bracelets. “Larry tells me they’ve been trying to kill you. You look like a hard man to kill.”
“Molly, I must say,” Domaine said with disgust. “What a grotesque sense of humor. He might have been killed. It’s nothing to laugh about.”
Mrs. Moon went on laughing with genuine enjoyment, deep in her throat. Shayne smelled whiskey, and saw a folding aluminum cup on the ledge above the dashboard.
“Apologize to him, Larry, so we can go somewhere and do some civilized drinking.”
Domaine pressed a button on the back of the front seat and a flat shelf snapped down. From a compartment beneath it, he took two more aluminum cups, a container of ice and a bottle of bourbon.
“I talked to one of the troopers,” he said. “They aren’t planning to give you the drunk-test?”
“No, everybody agrees that I’m the victim,” Shayne said.
Domaine poured a slug of bourbon, and Shayne told him to forget the ice. Mrs. Moon raised her cup to Shayne.
“To the survival of the fittest.”
Shayne emptied the cup and Domaine refilled it. “I don’t know where to begin. First, do you mind telling me who you’re working for?”
“That’s confidential,” Shayne growled.
“I expected that,” Domaine said, wincing. He brought one fat thigh up on the seat and hooked his foot beneath his knee. “I suppose you’ve been brought in by the powers-that-be at the track, in one way or another, to find out if there’s going to be any hanky-panky on the program tonight. And I want to emphasize to you that, to my positive knowledge, there has been no tampering with horses, no bribery of any kind, nothing in any way illegal. The reason for all the hugger-mugger is simple and obvious-so too many people won’t hear about it and want to get in on it.”
“Do you know what these crazy Domaines are hoping to do?” Mrs. Moon said. “They think they’re going to abscond with half the twin-double pool. Did you ever hear anything like it?”
“Molly, please,” Domaine said. “If you keep interrupting, I can’t explain this in orderly sequence.” He turned back to the redhead. “Molly’s an innocent bystander. We’ve been looking at a horse of mine she’s thinking of buying. When I heard about the accident, I wanted to drop her at a bar, but she insisted on coming, to see what Michael Shayne looked like. Try to ignore her.”
“Are there any of your horses in the twin-double races tonight, Mrs. Moon?” Shayne said.
She gave another caw of laughter. “A lovely little filly named Fussbudget, in the ninth. I love Larry and Claire dearly, but if I can spoil things for them, I assure you I’ll take great delight in doing it. And you know, I just might!”
