Nice Fillies Finish Last by Brett Halliday Page A

“How many vehicles do you have in this?”
    “Just the two, yours and the semi.”
    “No black four-door Ford sedan, a couple of years old, Florida plates?”
    “No. What did he do, cut in on you?”
    “Yeah, he thought he had time to get back, but at the last minute I guess he got rattled. It wasn’t the truck-driver’s fault.”
    “In other words,” the cop said carefully, “and I’m only asking because I know what the lieutenant’s going to want to know, nobody tried to pile you up?”
    Shayne shrugged. “I never saw the driver before. About fifty, short grayish hair, a nice tan. There won’t be any marks on his car.”
    “It’s not much,” the cop said, “but I’d better call it in.
    He went up the embankment. A small man with a mustache, carrying a briefcase, edged up to Shayne.
    “My name’s Ross Gilmore,” he said. “Attorney-at-law. I happened to see this, and you’ve got a sweet liability action here against that truckdriver for tailgaiting. Now’s the time to line up your witnesses. I’m prepared to—”
    “Get lost,” Shayne said.
    The man recoiled a step, but he went on trying. “It’s no skin off him, you realize—the insurance company will have to pay it.”
    Shayne gave him a look that sent him back up to the highway. An intern from the ambulance was looking around for bodies. A second police cruiser arrived, and the cops who came in it began to get the traffic moving. A phone seemed to be ringing somewhere. Shayne was returning to normal slowly, but he still had a considerable distance to go. After the fifth or sixth ring, he realized that the sound was coming from his wrecked Buick.
    His front door was jammed. To reach the phone he had to go in through the back, while the ringing continued. Finally he succeeded in snatching it up.
    “Yeah?”
    “Michael!” his secretary, Lucy Hamilton, said. “I was about to give up. What does that guarded ‘yeah’ mean? Is somebody with you?”
    “Wait a minute.” Shayne’s head was hammering. He sank back into the rear seat, which was canted upward at a sharp angle, and waited till his breathing was more regular. “Go ahead, angel.”
    “Do I hear a siren?” she said, alarmed. “Michael Shayne, tell me what’s happening!”
    “What makes you think anything is?”
    “When I hear a siren and you’re around, nine times out of ten it has something to do with you. Are those waves?”
    “Those are waves, and I’ve just been in wading with my shoes on. All right, angel, I’ll stop being mysterious. I just smashed up the Buick. No, I’m OK,” he said as she started to speak. “I landed in some nice soft sand, and so far the cops are being friendly. Nobody’s offered me a drink yet, though,” he added.
    “Where are you?” she demanded urgently.
    “North of Lauderdale, but I really am OK. A sore shoulder’s about all. A guy knocked me off the highway with a piece of very damn good driving. He had everything figured to the inch. It was like a harness race for a minute. He didn’t wait around to be congratulated, but I think I’ll know him when I see him again. Which I have a feeling I will.”
    “Is he the same one who put Tim in the hospital?”
    “No, but it’s connected. I don’t know how or why. Tim’s been right about everything so far. He was right about the twin double and right about Joey Dolan. I’m beginning to take more of a personal interest in how this turns out.”
    “Michael!” she wailed. “It scares me when you get that note in your voice. I suppose there’s no use asking you to be careful.”
    “I’m always careful,” Shayne said, grinning.
    “You are? Well, I’ve had two phone calls. Do you want me to tell you about them now, or wait till you recover?”
    “I’m recovered. I can’t go anywhere until the cops are finished with me.”
    “The first was from the insurance company you’re supposed to be working for. I did what you told me to. I said I didn’t know where you were, which