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.”
“It shows I don’t think you’re well enough to be out of bed,” she said severely.
“Maybe we could arrange something,” he said with a leer. He lowered his voice and asked Shayne seriously, “How’s it coming?”
“It’s coming,” Shayne said shortly. “Things are beginning to make sense, but proving anything is going to be tough. One of the toughest. Somebody gave Dolan a bottle of sherry, but how are we going to get an admission that there was wood alcohol in it? Well, it’s possible, but it’s going to take a lot of manipulating. You sit here and I’ll be back in an hour or so. If you see anybody you know with a pair of binoculars, borrow them.”
“I’ve got a pair in the car,” Rourke said. “I’ll send Sandra for them, if I can get her to stop taking my pulse.”
A flamboyant young woman separated herself from the crowd going up the aisles and bent down to take a closer look at Rourke. She was wearing a tight striped dress, slashed low in front. Shayne had seen her before, wearing a flowered wrapper, in the doorway of Paul Thorne’s trailer.
“Cut yourself?” she inquired pleasantly. “What I’ve got to do, if people keep dropping in for cocktails, is put a back door in that trailer.”
Rourke made no move to introduce her. “Hi. Nice to see you again. He didn’t knock out any teeth?”
“Don’t remind me.” She waggled her lower jaw, to make sure that everything worked, and gave a little giggle. “I ought to be sore at you. I don’t mind about the broken window, we’re covered, but all those little pots of cactus. No kidding, I grew those plants from seed, you may not believe it, and pow! I don’t see how you squeezed through, frankly, unless you used a shoehorn. All that stuff about doing a feature story for the paper-that was a load of crap, wasn’t it?”
“Not really,” Rourke said weakly.
“Oh, I don’t blame you! One excuse is as good as another. I thought it was kind of sweet.”
She fluttered her fingers at him, smiled at Sandra and Shayne, and walked away.
“Be in this general area so I’ll know where to find you, Tim,” Shayne said hurriedly, and went after her.
Behind him he could hear Rourke beginning to explain to Sandra that the girl was wrong about his motives. She had thought he was interested in her, but he had really been working on a story.
“I’m sure,” Sandra said skeptically.
Shayne overtook Mrs. Thorne at the rail. She looked up at him questioningly.
“You remember me,” he said. “I didn’t think Tim would want to have it get around that he’d been thrown through a window by a jealous husband. I told the cop he was a burglar.”
“Oh, sure. I’m a little nearsighted. Paul didn’t throw him out, he dived.”
“Even so,” Shayne said. “Let me buy you a drink.”
“I’d like a drink,” she said. “But I’m under strict orders from Paul since this afternoon. Don’t talk to anybody I don’t know.” She gave him a slanting look. “And I don’t know you, do I?”
“Sure you do,” Shayne said easily. “I’m an old family friend.”
“Oh, yes, now I remember. But I’d better take a rain check on the drink. I don’t want to forget what horses I’m supposed to be betting on.”
The drivers for the second race were now parading their horses while the public-address announcer called their names.
“There’s Paul now,” she said. “I know he can’t pick me out of the crowd, even with his marvelous eyesight. Boy, did I have a hard time getting him to say he was sorry he socked me.” She gave Shayne another quick slanting look. “I don’t know what Rourke told you was going on when Paul walked in-”
“Tim’s a very discreet guy.”
“Well, nothing really was, no matter what Paul thought. I guess you’d better run along now, though, because every time I open my mouth I put my foot in it; Paul’s definitely got a point there. If he’d tell me the whole thing, I
