Wobble to Death (13 page)

‘I counted nine of the poor perishers still on their feet,’ explained the sergeant. ‘I want to check that if any
have
dropped out it’s not with a knife between the shoulders.’

An empty twenty-six seater halted at the stop. The horses then pulled away at startling speed through the gathering mist.

‘She was lying, wasn’t she, Sarge?’ said Thackeray, when they had staggered to a front seat.

‘You think so? That’s something you’ll be checking for me tomorrow. Get to Highbury real early. I want you to see these Darby people before she does. Put the question carefully. Ask when they last saw her before today. They’re probably close friends, so don’t let ’em think it’s to her disadvantage.’

‘Right. I really meant, Sarge, that she was lying about not having a night visitor.’

Cribb clicked his tongue impatiently.

‘Won’t do, Constable. A bobby needs a better ear than that. You
were
listening?’

‘Why, yes.’

‘Should have noticed she didn’t deny it. Simply refused to answer the point.’

Thackeray nodded sheepishly.

‘No matter,’ said Cribb brightly, seeing that his criticism had been taken hard. ‘You think she had a visitor. That’s the main thing.’

Thackeray reacted at once.

‘Yes, and I fancy I know who it was.’

‘How’s that then?’

Cribb liked to affect ignorance with Thackeray. It brought out the constable’s best qualities, and often encour-aged a point worth taking up.

‘By deduction, Sarge.’

The back of Thackeray’s left hand, large and shaggy, appeared a foot in front of Cribb’s nose. Deduction meant points to Thackeray, and points required fingers.

‘Number one: the visitor comes at night between one and two and leaves two hours later. That looks heavy odds on someone from the race. Someone who had to leave when the runners took to bed and be back before they was off again.’

‘Good.’

‘Two: that don’t sound like a runner to me. Poor coves were too beat even on that first day to spend their rest hours visiting women. So it wouldn’t have been Darrell himself. Three: it must have been a trainer or a timekeeper. Everyone else could have taken other times off. Four: the timekeepers are too old for that kind of caper.’

‘You’re doing famously,’ admitted Cribb. ‘But you’ve only one finger left.’

‘Five: the one trainer connected with Cora was Monk. He showed her the tent that afternoon, and likely fixed the meeting then.’ He withdrew the fist triumphantly.

‘First-class,’ declared Cribb. ‘But tell me this. If Cora was sweet on Sam Monk why did she plan to sue? Long time since I saw a woman so roused against a man.’

Thackeray beamed in a superior fashion. Then he tapped his forehead.

‘The mind, Sarge. I fancy I knows a bit about the work-ings of a woman’s thoughts. Cora gets bored while Darrell trains, and looks about a bit. Probably takes a lover or two to while away the six weeks. Agrees to let Monk have his way on Monday night. Next day, Darrell drops dead. What’s a woman going to feel like? Feelings of guilt, I reckon, Sarge. That’s why she turned on Monk.’

‘Plausible,’ agreed Cribb, who had listened tolerantly.

The driver reined his horses. They were back in Liverpool Road, although it was barely recognisable in the conditions. In the street Cribb took up the conversation again.

‘I like your theory. Stands up well. Came to the same con-clusion myself. Different route though. Remember when we grilled Monk? He admitted he was with a lady that night. Must have been her.’

Thackeray snapped his fingers at this realisation, and the two detectives, confirmed in their conclusion, set their pow-ers of detection to finding the Hall entrance.

The contrast was extreme between the muffled trundling of carriage-wheels, ghost-like, in the foggy streets and the brassy din of the Hall band. The scene inside was highly animated. Most of the action, however, came from the bandleader and the crowd. The walkers— none of them could be described as anything else and sev-eral hardly merited that—moved mechanically around the circuit. The slightest alteration in the pace was at once taken up by sections of the crowd, who, amazingly, seemed entirely pleased with the entertainment. A trainer offering a sponge, or a competitor leaving the track for a few minutes produced gales of jeering and ribald com-ment. And the protagonists themselves moved on unper-turbed, incongruously drab beneath the flags and flickering chandeliers. Chadwick changed his clothes reg-ularly; the others too obviously ate and slept in their ‘rac-ing togs’, and had not used a razor or comb since they started.

There was noisy support for O’Flaherty, who had contin-ued with his extraordinary effort to overhaul Chadwick. The score-board, on which each man’s mileage was hung in numbered plates, now showed only four miles’ difference between them. Each time O’Flaherty overtook, the man concerned would move to his right, allowing the Dublin Stag to pass inside. Chadwick, of course, did not benefit from this assistance. In a day’s walking the ground gained in this way did not amount to much for O’Flaherty, but the annoyance that registered on Chadwick’s face from time to time was a great psychological fillip.

For a few minutes Cribb followed the race from the offi-cials’ entrance, with Thackeray yawning at his shoulder. Jacobson passed, and catching Cribb’s eye felt bound to speak.

‘It’s building up to a promising finish.’

‘Looks like it—if they make it.’

Jacobson chuckled.

‘Oh, they will now. Most of this bunch are old hands. They’re saving something for Saturday. They should sleep better tonight, because we’ve given them a hut each.’

‘Hm. Hope none of ’em leave the gas on.’

With a weak grin, Jacobson passed on through the crowd. Cribb addressed Thackeray, without looking away from the tired procession.

‘This goes on two more days, that’s all. Two days to find our killer. When this breaks up our chances are small.’

‘Nil, I’d say, Sarge.’

‘Got to narrow it down according to evidence. You know who we want, don’t you? Trouble is, fixing it in black and white for a judge and twelve. Tomorrow, Thackeray, I want you to check the Highbury business early. Then get every Force in London alerted. Every footloose copper. You know the routine. I want the poison books checked at each supplier in London. Get the instructions straight. Strychnine sold in any quantity this last six months. Must have a record of the name, date and amount. I need it by Saturday.’

The Pedestrian Contest at Islington

POSITIONS AT THE END OF THE FOURTH DAY

CHAPTER
13

He had not conclusively identified the murderer. That was more difficult than nominating a victim. He wondered about approaching the police officers with his information. In the morning they would be back in the Hall continuing their investigations. But something made him reluctant to do this. The sergeant in charge of the detective inquiry, the tall, sharp-eyed fellow, did not have the look of a sympa-thetic listener. His overweight assistant, who had been exhausted after that one lap of the track, might be more approachable, but probably lacked the intelligence to follow the argument. In all the circumstances it was best, Mostyn-Smith decided, to thwart the assassin himself. He would warn the victim.

O’Flaherty was soundly asleep, cooling his feet in Dublin Bay, when Mostyn-Smith entered his hut. When the reallo-cation of huts had been made at 1 a.m., O’Flaherty had agreed to move to the empty shack next to the one where Monk had been found. It was smaller than the other, but less draughty, and the bed was softer. The smell of carbolic was not so obvious, either. And Double-barrel had kept the hut at the opposite end of the row; he would have to find some-one else to pester.

It was 3.30 a.m. O’Flaherty was not one of those efficient sleepers who wake at precisely the required time. His brain was not attuned to regular sleep, and this may have accounted for it. But in one respect it was totally reliable; if anything should wake him before his chosen time he knew at once that he was being cheated of sleep.

‘O’Flaherty,’ Mostyn-Smith ventured in a whisper.

No movement.

‘O’Flaherty, old fellow!’ A voiced greeting, with a tap on the shoulder.

Complete absence of any reaction.

‘O’-Fla-her-ty!’ Four syllables mispronounced loudly six inches from the one visible ear.

The Stag was back from Dublin, and awake, but he refused to give any sign of it. Perhaps the voice would go away.

Jesus! What was that?

Mostyn-Smith had found a damp sponge and was squeez-ing it over the Irishman’s face. He jerked into a sitting posi-tion, grabbed Mostyn-Smith by the shoulders of his running-zephyr and yanked him off balance, so that he fell across the bed.

‘If you don’t bloody leave me alone, you little bugger, I’ll strangle you with these hands!’

Murder was exactly the matter Mostyn-Smith had come to discuss. But for the moment he was speechless, and sight-less, for his spectacles had been swept off his nose.

‘What is it this time?’ demanded O’Flaherty. He was an appalling sight, with bloodshot eyes bolting inside a frame of red hair and four days’ growth of beard. Fortunately per-haps, Mostyn-Smith was unable to see him. He groped fran-tically about the blankets for his glasses. The Irishman seriously began to suspect that Double-barrel was drunk. At last the glasses were found and planted on his face.

‘I should apologise—’ he began.

‘So you bloody well should!’

‘It is of the profoundest importance, I do assure you. You see, I had to speak with you before anyone else was awake.’ ‘You made sure of that. What’s the bloody time?’

‘Oh, it must be approaching a quarter to four. Now please listen to me. I am convinced that your life is in grave dan-ger, O’Flaherty.’

‘And what in God’s name makes you think that?’

Mostyn-Smith had recovered some of his poise with his glasses.

‘It is all a matter of deductive principles,’ he explained, but got no further.

‘Now hear this, Mister,’ growled O’Flaherty. ‘You’ve just destroyed a beautiful sleep, and, so help me, I’ve beaten men senseless for less. You come in here and tell me I’m going to be killed and then you blabber about principles. Father Almighty, if there’s killing to be done stay my hand now!’

‘I merely wanted—’

‘Just tell me, in simple words, why you won’t leave me alone.’ O’Flaherty’s mood was swinging from aggression to desperation. ‘I’m in danger, am I? Well tell me this. Have you seen a looney outside with a bloody sledge-hammer looking for me? If you haven’t I’m not interested.’

‘I’ll be brief,’ promised Mostyn-Smith. ‘Mr Darrell is dead, and Monk is dead. You must be the next.’

‘And why, in God’s name, should that be?’

‘Don’t you see? Somebody required Captain Chadwick to win the race. Therefore Darrell had to be stopped. They gave him poison hoping his death would appear to be due to tetanus. And when strychnine was found to be the cause they tried to make it appear that Monk had made a grievous error and then committed suicide. But the post-mortem examination proved that he, too, had been murdered.’

‘You said you’d be brief.’

‘And so I have been. Can’t you see that this homicidal ruf-fian, whoever he is, will not allow anyone to defeat Captain Chadwick? Your splendid efforts on the track have made you a serious contender, a rival to the Captain. You have become an unexpected obstacle to our murderer’s plan, and he will try to remove you, be sure of that.’

‘Thank you,’ said O’Flaherty, without much gratitude in the words. ‘So I’m next for the strychnine. And I’ll tell you something that might surprise you, Double-barrel. It’ll be a mercy to feel the spasms coming on—because I’ll know that in no time at all I’ll be free for ever from you and your bloody safety precautions! Now will you get out and leave me fifteen minutes’ rest before I go to the slaughter?’

Nodding appeasingly, Mostyn-Smith backed towards the door. The reception had not been exactly what he anticipated, but the Irishman was an irascible fellow, and might ponder the logic of the argument when he had controlled his temper. At least one could now return to one’s own endeavours with an unspotted conscience. None the less, he would keep a fatherly eye on the Irishman.

He had examined the case by every orthodox procedure: sus-pects, means and opportunity, and possible motives. The tim-ing of the crimes, he knew, was fundamental, but it was complicated by the nature of Darrell’s death. The act of mur-der had been committed not when Darrell breathed his last, nor when he first collapsed, but at some time before he drank the ‘bracer’ at 4 a.m. on Tuesday morning. Monk had made up the potion at his lodgings and brought it to the Hall with the other provisions on Sunday night. Some time in the next twenty-four hours the murderer had got into the tent, found the bottle and added the strychnine. If Monk were eliminated, as he had to be now, the possibility of the murderer adding the poison to the drink while Darrell was in the tent was remote. So it was probably done some time during Mon-day, when Monk and Darrell were occupied with the race.

Who had reasons for going into the tent? Darrell, Monk, Herriott—as promoter, Jacobson—as manager, Chadwick (possibly) as a fellow-competitor concerned about mutual facilities and Harvey for a similar reason. Cora, he knew from the newspapers, had been in the tent when she visited the Hall on Monday afternoon, but that was with Monk. Could she and Monk have arranged her husband’s death between them; and would she later have battered Monk to fake the suicide? It was conceivable, for the trainer was already in a stu-por and it would not need a powerful blow from one of those metal struts to see that he remained that way.

So up to five people could have entered the tent without being challenged. And then Cribb remembered. He delved thumb and forefinger into his fob and took out a crumpled piece of newspaper, the account of Monday’s events in the Hall. His thumb-nail settled below a particular sentence.

‘The dressing and feeding accommodation of Chadwick and Darrell contains every appliance for their comfort and convenience; your columnist examined the latter’s commodious tent and consid-ered it worthy of housing a campaigning monarch on some foreign field of battle.’

Cribb winced. The entire sporting Press had to be added to the list of those who could have got into the tent. Abandoning the matter for the moment, he walked over to Chadwick’s tent.

‘Mr Harvey?’

The trainer looked up from a newspaper. He was having a late breakfast of kidneys refused by the Captain that morning. ‘My name’s Cribb—Sergeant Cribb. You’ve probably seen me about the Hall these last few days. You look after Mr Chadwick, don’t you?’

‘Captain Chadwick.’

‘That’s right. Point is, I need to interview him. Straighten out some facts, you know. When’s he coming off the track?’ Harvey was dubious. ‘He comes off at noon, for about twenty minutes, but he won’t welcome questions. He needs all the time for his lunch.’

‘I understand. Shan’t keep him long. I’ll be here at twelve, then. Oh, and er—Mr Harvey.’

‘Yes?’

‘Once you’ve dished up the tripe and onions, be a stout fellow and leave me alone with the guv’nor, will you? Confidential questions, you know.’

There was resentment in Harvey’s nod of acquiescence.

Cribb was sitting opposite the Champion, who was eating hungrily, averting the sergeant’s keen gaze.

‘I need your help,’ Cribb repeated. ‘Comes a point when you’ve tried every deuced line of inquiry you know, and nothing’s come out of it. So I ask myself what’s to be done. And the answer comes back: get some help. Now you’re a man of education and a military expert too. Strikes me that if anything untoward happened in this arena it wouldn’t pass your notice. I’m right, sir, aren’t I?’

Chadwick sniffed, and took a mouthful of cold chicken. Cribb’s persuasive sallies rarely sank without trace. He was floundering now.

‘You’d have noticed the comings and goings at Darrell’s tent on Monday, for example?’

Another bite at the chicken leg.

Cribb persevered. ‘I believe the reporters were shown the living quarters, and later Mrs Darrell came to see the tent.’ Silence again.

At last Captain Chadwick lifted his napkin to his lips and moustache, wiped them and tossed it aside.

‘For your information—Sergeant’—and he spoke the rank as though he were addressing a crossing-sweeper—‘I am not in the pay of the constabulary, and I feel myself under no obligation to act as their informant. If you wish me to answer questions, then kindly put them in a civil fashion, and not in these obsequious subterfuges.’

‘Very well, sir. How many times have you raced against the late Charles Darrell?’

‘None before this event.’

‘You had not met him before Monday?’

‘We met to sign articles last week. It is the custom in two-man races,’ explained Chadwick, ‘and ours was a race within a race.’

‘Did you have any communication with him before then?’ ‘Merely through the medium of the newspaper that usu-ally arranges such events. He was not the class of man that I am accustomed to meeting with.’

‘And your trainer?’ Cribb continued. ‘Was he in touch with Darrell or his trainer?’

‘I had Darrell watched, if that is what you mean,’ answered Chadwick. ‘It is customary to study one’s adver-saries at their training—though I hardly know why, for my own strategy is unalterable.’

‘And Mr Harvey gave you reports on Darrell’s showing at Hackney?’ continued Cribb, ignoring the last remark. ‘Were they favourable?’

‘He showed promise of being a worthy opponent for a few days, at least. He prepared himself quite thoroughly, I believe.’

‘There was no arrangement between you and Darrell, or between the trainers, as to how the race should be con-ducted?’