“It’s complicated, isn’t it?” Miss Mallinson said.
“It’s not complicated at all!” Rourke insisted. “What the hell, I’ll explain it again. Thorne’s trotter was Number Three. We combined Number Three with every horse in the seventh-eight separate tickets at two bucks apiece. But that would only give us one live ticket at the end of the half, to turn in for our pick, in the eighth and ninth. So we bet that same combination sixteen times. Cost $256. What’s hard to understand about that? The Number Two horse won the seventh. All right, we had sixteen tickets that said Number Three and Number Two, and we traded those in for two sets of tickets combining My Treat, the Domaine horse in the ninth, with all the horses in the eighth. The Number One horse just won the eighth. So now we have two tickets that are still live-Number One in the eighth and Number Four in the ninth, and if Number Four comes in, baby, we’ve cracked the twin double!”
“I’ll believe it when it happens, Tim. You know it isn’t good for you to get excited.”
“One ticket is yours and one’s mine. How can you be so calm?”
Shayne swung the binoculars toward the clubhouse, thumbing the focusing knob as he hunted for the Domaines.
“Too bad I couldn’t bring you up to date before you spent all that money, Tim,” he remarked. “One or two things have changed.”
“I knew it!” Rourke exclaimed after a stunned silence. “My Treat isn’t going to win.”
“Let’s say I wouldn’t bet any money on it.”
“But I already have!”
The nurse stroked his shoulder, as though gentling an excited horse. “It’s only money, Tim.”
“Only!” he said, outraged.
Shayne picked up Larry Domaine’s table. The crowd shifted and he saw Claire, as lovely as ever, her face composed and self-assured, showing nothing but pleasure in her youth and good looks and good fortune. She didn’t look like the same person who had been on the bed with Shayne at the motel. Shayne’s arm was joggled and he lost her briefly. She was smiling at her husband when he picked her up again. Domaine turned his head. Shayne might have missed it if he had been half a dozen tables away, but through the binoculars there was no mistaking the fact that Domaine was angry. The painful little line over the bridge of his nose gave him away, and there was a sparkle in his mild pale eyes.
Moving the binoculars, Shayne saw Mrs. Moon at the same table. She was talking to people nearby, laughing in her usual glittering way.
After a brief fanfare, the hard metallic voice of the public address called out, “The pacers for the ninth race are on the track.”
Shayne turned to watch them pass the grandstand. The horse Paul Thorne was driving, Famous Son, was small and shaggy, with a mean look, and didn’t seem fast. Thorne was applauded; in addition to winning with his own trotter, he had had another first and a third. My Treat, the Domaine mare being driven by Brossard, had a long, pretty stride. Mrs. Moon’s Fussbudget, a medium-sized, undistinguished-looking roan, was listed at eighteen to one on the board. The lights blinked as more money was bet on the other horses, and the odds on Fussbudget lengthened to twenty. Famous Son was the favorite, at five to two. My Treat was getting new backing from people who went by a horse’s looks rather than its record. It was now fourteen to one.
“I’m going to use the glasses to watch the clubhouse,” Shayne said. “You watch the race and tell me what’s happening. I’ll see how they react. Keep an eye on Fussbudget.”
“This is one hell of a time to tell me to keep an eye on Fussbudget,” Rourke said. “We could have protected ourselves by taking one ticket on her and one on My Treat. I’ll have to report back to the hospital when this is over. I’m in agony.”
“I don’t think you’re in agony at all,” Miss Mallinson said. “I think you’re enjoying every minute of it.”
The public address cried, “The marshals call the pacers!” Two girls on ponies, in fake cowgirl outfits, began lining up the sulkies in the back stretch behind the starting car, a long white convertible supporting a wide folding gate. As the car moved toward the turn at ten miles an hour, the drivers brought their horses’ heads up to the gate and the announcer called, “The field is in the hands of the starter.”
A moment later: “The field is in motion!”
The car gained speed gradually. Bettors hurried back from the galleries. A yell arose, the starter shouted “Go!”, the gate folded in and the car swooped away. Shayne checked the final odds and swung his binoculars to the clubhouse.
Excited people lined the railing. Everybody who had stayed for the last race had money on it, and a handful still held valid tickets in the twin double. This group was close to hysteria, seeing visions of one of the rich payoffs that had been making headlines lately. The Domaines and Mrs. Moon had risen, Domaine between the two women. Claire’s clenched fists were pressed hard against her breast as she watched the rush for the turn. It was obvious to Shayne that she thought the whole course of her life would be determined by the outcome of the race.
“It’s Speedy Lad at the turn,” the announcer called. “Famous Son is second, Hurricane Edna on the rail, Painted Lady is fourth, then it’s My Treat, Fussbudget. Fussbudget moving up. Now it’s Speedy Lad, Famous Son-”
Rourke said prayerfully, “Come on, My Treat. Move.”
“Don’t talk to the horses, talk to me,” Shayne told him.
Of the three people he was watching, Mrs. Moon was screaming advice to her horse, Claire stood rigid and silent, Domaine watched the track with a faint smile. He glanced down at his left hand, where he held a stopwatch. Without hurrying, he took off his pince-nez and raised his binoculars to watch the horses go into the turn coming out of the backstretch.
“My Treat’s got an opening,” Rourke said. “There’s a cranny there she can get through. She’s coming out. She’s going to take that next horse. There she goes.”
Shayne heard the rattle of hoofs through the crowd-roar and turned to watch the horses come past the grandstand. Thorne had lost his cap. His long black hair was flying in the breeze. He was using his whip. The head of his horse, Famous Son, came abreast of the leading driver. The horse in first place was beginning to fade.
The announcer called, “And now it’s Speedy Lad, it’s Famous Son, Painted Lady is third-
Claire was pressing her fingertips against her temples. Domaine still had his binoculars up. He was no longer smiling.
“I can’t stand it,” Rourke moaned. “What’s the matter with that driver? Come on, My Treat! Get going, will you, Brossard? He’s relaxed! He doesn’t care if he wins or not! Well, finally. He’s brushing her now. That’s right, sweetheart, go. No-Painted Lady’s carrying her out, Mike! The driver’s lost a rein.” He howled. “She squeaked past, My Treat barely squeaked past. That was nice driving, but God it was close.”
In the clubhouse, Domaine had taken the binoculars down and snapped his pince-nez back on. His eyes were narrow. Mrs. Moon seized his arm in her excitement.
The announcer called, “Going into the back-stretch, it’s Famous Son first, then it’s Speedy Lad-”
“My Treat’s fourth,” Rourke said, “coming up fast on the outside. Fussbudget’s still hanging in there, damn her. It’s those four horses. Hey! Hurricane Edna broke. Pulled to the outside. Thorne’s whipping Famous Son again.” He said suddenly, “They bumped! Thorne wobbled, collided with Speedy Lad-I don’t know what happened. Maybe he did it deliberately to let My Treat through-”
The crowd was roaring insanely. Claire had her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide, but Shayne couldn’t see enough of her face to gauge the expression. Domaine was smiling again.
Rourke said, “They’re both out of the race. That was a rough piece of driving, Mike. Thorne and the other horse are out of it, their equipment is jammed together. And there goes My Treat!”
The announcer: “Now it’s My Treat first as they come into the stretch, it’s Fussbudget, it’s Painted Lady third by two lengths-”
“Thorne’s out of his sulky,” Rourke said. “His horse is dragging him.”
Domaine’s binoculars, Shayne saw, weren’t aimed at the front-running horses, but at Thorne. His front teeth were bared.
“Brossard’s trying,” Rourke said. “I’ll say that for him. He’s whipping his horse. Fussbudget’s coming up fast. My Treat is tiring. Now they’re neck and neck. Mike, we’re going to lose! Fussbudget’s past. Running strong. My Treat’s all done. She’s laboring.”
The announcer: “And now in the stretch it’s Fussbudget by a length, it’s My Treat second, it’s Painted Lady. Coming down to the wire it’s Fussbudget, it’s Painted Lady, it’s My Treat. Fussbudget wins it by two lengths,
