snapped his fingers at two detectives, who closed in on Castle and made it an official arrest.
Chapter 19
Painter dropped back to get in step with Shayne.
“I didn’t get all of that. Geary was stealing?”
“I guess you could call it that,” Shayne said wearily. “First I want to see about Frieda, and then I’ll meet you in the control room and we’ll check on something.”
Passing under the first of the hanging screens, he looked up and saw himself and Painter, at the foot of the grandstand. Most of the customers from the theater had drained back, and were swirling about on the lawn and the track, in a threatening mood. The foam truck, trying to get back to the kennel, was blocked. “Let it burn!” someone shouted.
Painter said uneasily, “This could get out of hand. A lot of whiskey and beer has been sold here tonight. Maybe you’d better get back on the PA and tell them what’s happening.”
A group of dissatisfied bettors had surrounded an usher, shouting. He wasn’t much of a symbol, but he was all they had. A plastic chair sailed out of the grandstand. Two security guards rescued the usher, and then were surrounded themselves. A fat drunk began hitting one of the guards with his program.
Shayne’s stride lengthened. He pushed to the escalators and walked them upstairs. Another crowd, equally ugly, had gathered at the foot of the escalator to the tower deck. The security man was fingering the flap of his holster.
“Keep that gun out of sight,” Shayne snapped.
In the control room, he told Dave to throw the tote board onto the screens. He picked up the mike.
“This is Shayne again. Some of you may have missed what happened. Tony Castle has been arrested. A couple of things haven’t been explained. One of them is who murdered Max Geary.”
The word “murder” caught the crowd, and they began to come about. The noise subsided. Shayne glanced at the closed-circuit monitors, and saw the same thing happening inside. He switched off the mike momentarily and spoke to Dave. The big film-patrol camera came all the way around to point to the control room window, where Shayne was standing. When he had that image in the console, Dave put it on the feed to the screens.
“There’s an idea up here,” Shayne continued, “that it may be risky to blow this open. If you find out how you’ve been robbed over the years, you’ll tear the place apart and trample people. But think about it. How many people here tonight are regulars? Audience participation time. Hold up your hands.”
He nodded to Dave, who threw one closed-circuit picture after another onto the outgoing feed.
“Now,” Shayne said, “how many ended up last season ahead of the machine?”
He laughed as the hands came down. “Right. This isn’t a place to win money. You come to get out of the house and have a few beers. I’ve spotted a few winners, but they weren’t betting from form charts. Max Geary was one. The kennelmaster, Dee Wynn, was another, and that’s another murder we’ve got to explain. You saw Ricardo Sanchez with the needle. I located his betting agent, and I’m glad to say I managed to get some money down. How much did those tickets of mine pay, Tim?”
“Fifty-eight hundred.”
“Fifty-eight hundred,” Shayne repeated into the microphone, “and that looks like the only money I’m going to clear out of this. I took it away from those of you who bet on one of the other seven dogs. Don’t throw chairs, please. You’ve been taken, as usual.”
A beer can came flying up out of the crowd and rattled against the control room window. Painter said uneasily, “Shayne-”
“But tonight we gave you your money’s worth. An explosion and fire. Dogs burned to death. You saw a chase with a foam truck, which I think is a first. In a minute I’m going to give you an explanation of a mammoth swindle, and who knows, there may even be more action. Now I’m going to demonstrate something. Watch the tote board. Those of you who are inside, stay where you are and we’ll put the board on the screens for you. I want every seller in order, starting at the north window, to unlock his machine and punch out ten tickets.”
He looked at the betting hall monitors. “First window at the north end, the ten-dollar quinella. I want ten tickets on the one-two combination. Go.”
The seller at that window activated his machine. He punched the ten button, the one and the two. The tickets spewed out. The house had now accepted a $100 bet that the two inside dogs in the next race would finish either first or second, it didn’t matter in what order. On the big board across the infield, the odds changed in the quinella pool.
“That machine is working,” Shayne said, and called the next.
Again the figures jumped. Shayne worked down the row. Coming to the first window in the $10 win series, he called for another ten tickets. Nothing changed on the board.
“That may be the one we’re looking for,” Shayne said. “Seller, is your machine producing tickets?” On the monitor, the seller gave an affirmative wave. “Now try ten more.”
Again, no change. The crowd murmured.
“You’re getting the idea,” Shayne said. “Two hundred dollars just came in that window. Twenty tickets went out. But nothing registered on the board. Ordinarily, with all the windows working at once, you’d never see it. It’s a simple scheme. Any pari-mutuel track can work it. Geary did the wiring when the track was renovated. All he had to do was cut into the line from that one ten-dollar window to the main circuit, and install an on-off switch. The switch could be anywhere in the building, built into an ordinary light switch, a TV set, a telephone. Pick up that telephone, and one ten-dollar window would cut out of the pool totals. The money would keep coming in, the tickets would keep going out, but as long as the switch was off, none of the transactions would be included in the total handle. He was careful about it. I’ve heard the figure six thousand a night. The window machines, individually, would all tally. As soon as the sellers checked their receipts against their own machine totals, they’d clear the machines and go home. The only people who knew the track had a surplus were the three who handled the main count. Max Geary. Fitzhugh, the racing secretary. Lou Liebler, the state’s tax man. Now Dave, if you’ll swing that camera a couple of degrees to the north, we’ll see that sterling police officer, Chief of Detectives Peter Painter, entering the judges’ box to make a double arrest.”
Painter straightened his necktie and went out.
Shayne went on talking while the camera moved to the next window. Liebler and Fitzhugh were conferring in the back of the brightly lighted box.
“I can’t give you the dialogue,” Shayne said as Painter entered. “‘Fitzhugh? Liebler? You’re under arrest.’ That’s about it, unless they try to shoot their way out. No, they’re white-collar people. Incidentally, if Linda Geary is listening, will you come to the control room, please? Now we’ll continue. What Geary was doing, in effect, was adding one point to the regular seventeen-percent bite. He kept his two collaborators on fees. He was the only one who knew the location of that switch. When he died, they tried to find it. They had wiring diagrams, and Liebler had been keeping a minute-to-minute schedule of where Geary was and exactly what he was doing during betting hours. They narrowed it down to the VIP lounge, but they still couldn’t find it. We’re going down there now. When we walk in, we’ll be picked up by a closed-circuit monitor. This is an extra one I installed last night, behind a two-way mirror. There won’t be any sound, but I’ll come back and explain. Don’t throw any chairs while I’m gone.”
Painter, after playing his TV scene, had given the prisoners to his detectives for processing. Shayne, passing, took a sour look from Liebler.
“How in God’s name-I pulled that place to pieces.”
“Careful, Lou.”
“I’m not worried. I’d like to see you prove anything.”
Linda was coming up the escalator. Shayne met her at the top.
“Linda, what’s that room on the ground floor down from the PR office? I saw you coming out of it.”
“Room? Oh, that’s all storage. Trash, old programs, tickets.”
“Let me have one of your hands.”
She started to extend a hand, but thought better of it and put it behind her.
“I won’t wrestle you,” Shayne said. “I just thought it might smell of gas.”
