Wobble to Death (16 page)

Thackeray remained bewildered.

‘It don’t make any sort of sense, to me, Sarge. If Monk didn’t kill Darrell—and we know that he couldn’t have— why should he take the blame on himself? He was so sure of himself that night when we saw him in the tent. He
knew
his bracer had been mixed right.’

‘Of course he did!’ said Cribb. ‘So he couldn’t have taken the blame. You’re right. But give a thought to the timing, man. There was a time when Monk would have had a guilty conscience.’

‘I still don’t—’

‘Before he knew it was strychnine that killed Darrell! What did they think it was at first?’

‘Tetanus, Sarge.’

‘Right. And how do you contract tetanus?’

‘Through getting something into a wound—like the cow-dung this place stinks of.’

‘Exactly. Well, there’s the point. Darrell ran barefoot on blistered feet that Monday night, and Monk didn’t stop him. Wouldn’t he feel responsible and write a note like this?’

‘You mean he planned to kill himself then, Sarge?’

‘I didn’t say that. But that’s when he wrote it.’

‘Who to?’

‘Ain’t that obvious?’

Thackeray was not sure that it was, but prudently nodded agreement.

Harvey re-entered the Hall carrying a paper parcel soon after eleven that evening. He was instantly recognised by the constable on duty at the Islington Green gate and hus-tled to the police office where Cribb and Thackeray were waiting.

‘Thought you’d walked out on us, Mr Harvey,’ Cribb began. ‘Couldn’t find you anywhere. Not like you to leave Captain Chadwick to his own devices.’

‘I had good reason,’ answered Harvey.

‘No doubt of that, no doubt at all. You know why we want to talk with you?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘I’ll not wrap it in fancy words then. You were seen leav-ing O’Flaherty’s hut this morning. Later on he pulled out of the race with sore feet. Crushed nut-shells. Do you admit putting them in his boots?’

Harvey was admirably calm.

‘I did it, yes.’

‘Why then?’

‘Ain’t you worked that out, Sergeant? I’m on Captain Chadwick’s side, in case you don’t remember.’

‘Don’t you play smart with me,’ warned Cribb. ‘You might be in a lot of trouble.’

‘What’s the charge, then?’ asked Harvey confidently. ‘Trespassing—or assault?’

‘Could be a double charge of murder,’ Cribb answered, and Harvey’s manner changed at once.

‘You think that I—because I got at O’Flaherty’s boots— oh no, Sergeant! That ain’t true!’

‘You’ve got a clearer motive for killing Darrell than any-one in this Hall,’ said Cribb. ‘Your actions confirm you’ll take big chances to see Chadwick win. You care nothing for O’Flaherty. You’d cripple him for Chadwick’s sake. Why shouldn’t you have poisoned Darrell? Could have slipped in more strychnine than you meant, of course. Murder is deliberate, with malice aforethought. Might make it manslaughter on the first charge, if you’ll cough the full story—’

‘Look, I’m no murderer!’ protested Harvey. ‘I know nothing about Darrell’s death, or Monk’s. I’ve admitted fix-ing the Irishman’s boots, but that don’t make me a killer.’

Cribb pressed his advantage.

‘You’d better talk pretty quick, then, Mr Harvey. I want to know all about you and your gaffer, and I want to know your movements last Monday night. You’d better remember it right too. I’ve been given several accounts of that night, and I know what happened most of the time.’

Harvey collected his thoughts. Last Monday seemed an age ago. Thackeray took out his notebook.

‘Far as I can recall,’ Harvey began, ‘I was by the track all evening, following the race. The Captain was behaving strange-like—he was running, you see. He has always walked his races, even when the articles allow mixing. But he fell badly behind Darrell that first day. Even some of the slow mob were ahead of him and by two in the afternoon he’d taken to running. Now I knew this running would give him no end of trouble—’

‘Why didn’t you stop it, then?’

‘Stop it? I can’t stop the Captain. He don’t take orders from me, or anyone, come to that. No, I just had to be around in case he went down with cramp. There was some bad collapses that first day. Once a man’s gone down it’s a sure bet that others will follow.’

‘So you waited for the collapse.’

‘Well, I kept near, in case. As it happened, he suffered a bit, but he didn’t go down. And he won back a lot of the ground. Darrell was in some kind of trouble with his feet, and that gave a fillip to the Captain. He kept going until Darrell came off at one, and then we both went into the tent.’

‘What sort of mental state was he in?’

‘Mental?’

‘His state of mind, man. Was he happy?’

‘Oh no. Far from it. He was suffering. Very sore, he was, and right low in spirits. Not like the Captain at all. He’s always enjoyed his walking, you know. But this time he was talking of giving up. After one day!’

‘Did he eat anything?’ asked Cribb.

Harvey tried to remember.

‘I don’t think so. He took his usual glass of claret, though, and then I left him.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘To the restaurant. I needed a drink, and there’s benches in there where a man can stretch out for a couple of hours.’ ‘And that’s what you did?’

‘Well,’ answered Harvey. ‘I didn’t get the drink. They’d had some kind of trouble in the kitchen—a fire, I think— and nobody was around to serve. So I found myself a corner and kipped for a bit. I finally got some coffee about three-thirty. Oh yes, and Monk came in.’

‘Monk? You’re sure of the time?’

‘Yes, about three-thirty. He sat with me. He must have just come in from outside because he was darned cold. Funny thing, he wanted to fix something up with me. He thought the pace was too warm. If I would hold the Captain back he’d tell Darrell to take things easy. I wouldn’t have it though. I can’t give orders to the Captain like some of them trainers do with their guv’nors. So it was no deal. And blow me, when they got back on track bloody Darrell set off like a hare before hounds.’

‘Full of strychnine,’ commented Cribb. ‘Did Monk say anything else?’

‘No. That was the lot,’ answered Harvey.

‘Right. Tell us about the Captain now. How long have you been with him?’

‘Must be ten years, at least. I served in India with him, you know. He wasn’t walking professional then, of course. Only started that when we got back home, about five years back. Then it was strictly private matches, on the road. Pretty soon he was taking on the best in England and show-ing them clean heels. He wanted to meet Darrell, of course, and that’s how he came to enlist in this tail-chasing squad. Darrell wouldn’t face him on the open road. Said he was prepared to take him on at Islington though. Then it was up to Herriott to arrange the twin tracks. My guv’nor wouldn’t risk his feet among that hob-nailed mob—not until he was forced to join ’em of course. He had no choice after Darrell was out.’

‘So I heard. But he’ll net a tidy sum in bets for his trou-bles.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that. He puts on his own money. He never discusses it with me.’

‘You’ve put something on the Captain yourself, I expect?’ suggested Cribb.

‘Yes, I got pretty fair odds on Monday from one of the bookies here.’

‘Wise man,’ said Cribb. ‘Wish I’d had the foresight to do the same. Now tell me about Wednesday night, will you?’

‘Wednesday?’ Harvey looked vacant.

‘The night Monk died. We’re interested in your move-ments. Remember?’

‘Oh. Wednesday. That was a grim enough evening, I can tell you. The Captain was as low in spirit as I’ve seen him. They’d given him a terrible buffeting on the outside track— he’d been forced to take his chances with them or retire from the race—and he was very short with me. But you’ve got to hand it to him. Come the time to get back on track there he was, ready to get among them again.’

‘He was well ahead at that stage,’ Cribb said in justification. ‘Ah, yes. But I doubted whether he’d keep on his feet till Saturday. And he couldn’t have thought so, either.’

‘So you were out there watching him every step of the way?’

‘I was, until one o’clock, when he came off.’

‘Did you see anything of Sam Monk that night?’ asked Cribb.

‘I don’t think I did.’

‘And when Captain Chadwick came into the tent at one what shape was he in?’

Harvey shook his head sadly at the recollection.

‘The poorest I’ve seen him. He could hardly move a mus-cle. He fell asleep while I was massaging him. I left him.’

‘Where did you sleep? In the restaurant?’

‘Yes. They haven’t provided much for us attendants. I’ve spent every night in there so far.’

‘See anyone else sleeping there?’

‘I was generally too dead beat to notice.’

‘All right,’ said Cribb. ‘Now Mr Harvey. One thing you haven’t explained. You spend all the week in constant atten-dance on your Captain. Then off you go today for a good four hours. What were you doing—trying to dodge me and my constables?’

Harvey smiled feebly.

‘Not really. I was collecting this. I wouldn’t stand a chance of getting one tomorrow. It was hard enough today.’ He was indicating the parcel he held in his lap.

‘Let’s have a look at it, then,’ suggested Cribb.

Slowly and carefully the contents were revealed.

‘What the devil!’ exclaimed Thackeray.

‘What is it then?’ asked Cribb.

‘Game pie,’ answered Harvey. ‘There’s only one estab-lishment in London that makes them like this, and the Captain will have no other. It’s for his victory feast tomor-row night.’

‘Hope it won’t be wasted then,’ commented Cribb. ‘All right, Mr Harvey. We’ll keep you no longer. That’s not to say I won’t be seeing you again.’

When Harvey had left, Cribb added, ‘Wouldn’t count on him being in very good shape when I do, though.’

The Pedestrian Contest at Islington

POSITIONS AT THE END OF THE FIFTH DAY

CHAPTER
16

Sergeant Cribb had left him in charge of the case.

‘Things to check,’ he had said cryptically. ‘People to see. I may be out all of Saturday morning. You must be here through the night. Watch for anything irregular. Now’s the time people start getting jumpy. Be on the alert, Thackeray.’ Like the experienced constable he was, Thackeray inter-preted this order to mean that he should be available and prepared to be roused from his sleep if anything happened. There was a duty constable in the Hall, and Thackeray ordered him in blunt terms to be faultlessly vigilant, and to wake him only for an extreme emergency or Sergeant Cribb’s return. Cynically he suspected that Cribb’s Saturday morning would be spent mainly in his own bed. Perhaps the Sergeant was justified in keeping his ‘movements’ to him-self; he would need to be at his sharpest to trap the killer in the remaining time.

Thackeray finished his drink, and gripped the empty mug in his hands until he was sure it retained no more warmth. Then he stretched his limbs painfully, unwrapped the coat from around him, yawned and stood upright. A glance in a small mirror confirmed that his beard needed no trimming. He tightened his necktie and bent to lace his boots. Then he took up the dozen or so reports delivered to the office since Cribb’s departure.

They were uniformly unhelpful. Where strychnine had been supplied the recipients were doctors whose names and addresses were provided and could be checked. The amounts were small, anyway. This line of inquiry had been totally without success. There were only hours remaining before the whole community that had pitched camp in the Hall broke up and scattered over the Metropolis. Nothing tangible had been found. They were still grappling with sus-picions. And Cribb was at home sleeping.

Thackeray left the office and walked over to the track. There was plenty of activity there already. Herriott stood among his officials holding forth about the arrangements for this final day. A few reporters had arrived earlier than usual and were badgering the competitors, walking along-side them, demanding statements. There were even some genuine paying spectators, insomniacs probably, who stood or sat apart from each other, studiously isolated.

O’Flaherty was shuffling round at an impressive rate, untroubled now by sore feet. He was swinging his arms with apparent zest, and steadily overtaking rivals, still, it seemed, believing he could cut back Chadwick’s lead.

You had to admire the Irishman’s gameness, thought Thackeray. He was striving until the very finish. That bloated money-grabber, Herriott, was the only one who would benefit by O’Flaherty making a race of it. A close contest was a crowd-puller, all right. There would be a capacity crowd in by early evening, hoping for a superhu-man exhibition from O’Flaherty. Yet anyone who had fol-lowed the race day by day knew well enough that there could be only one result. Even if the Irishman drew level with Chadwick, the Champion would step up his pace and win. It was evident to any discriminating spectator that he was holding something in reserve. He had not needed Harvey’s devious assistance.

Thackeray looked from man to man on the track, seeking out the stately gait of Erskine Chadwick. There was Reid, painfully limping, and Williams and Chalk, in conversation as usual; the two northerners were there, and the veteran who had shared Reid’s hut; and Mostyn-Smith was just coming off for one of his rest-periods. But Chadwick was not among them. No wonder O’Flaherty was going hell for leather!

It was even more worrying for Thackeray that no light was showing in Chadwick’s tent. He hurried across to it and pulled back the flap, uncertain what to expect.

The tent was empty. The bed had been cleared and the blankets folded in military style. The air inside was cold. There was no sign that anyone had been in there for hours.

Thackeray hurried over to Herriott, who now stood alone.

‘Have you seen Captain Chadwick, sir?’

‘Chadwick? Yes, I saw him late last night, before he went out.’

‘Out?’ repeated Thackeray. ‘Where to?’

‘Didn’t you hear? I thought you detectives knew every-thing that goes on here. He went off in a huff after Harvey failed to turn up to give him his massage last night.’

‘When was this?’

‘After one o’clock, when they all came off the track. There was no sign of Harvey, you see.’

‘But he was here!’ protested Thackeray. ‘We interviewed him not two hours before.’

‘I don’t know anything about that,’ said Herriott. ‘All I know is that he wasn’t about when Chadwick wanted him. The fellow came asking me if I’d seen Harvey. I told him I hadn’t. I could see he was needled all right. Long time since I heard such words from one of the gentry.’

‘Did he say where he was going?’ asked Thackeray, already dreading the prospect of explaining all this to his sergeant.

‘Yes. He was planning to spend the night in the Turkish bath at Islington Green—only ten minutes away. They say it’s a prime livener of the muscles.’

‘And he hasn’t been seen since?’ said Thackeray, more to himself than Herriott. ‘The race has been on an hour, and he hasn’t shown up!’

‘I shouldn’t concern yourself,’ Herriott advised. ‘He’ll be here any minute. He had a few miles in hand and he’s in far better shape than O’Flaherty. I shouldn’t wonder—why, there he is.’

There Chadwick unmistakably was, marching to his tent at the head of a gaggle of reporters. He wore an overcoat and muffler which he was removing even before he reached the tent. There was no sign of Harvey.

‘Where’s the trainer?’ Thackeray asked Herriott.

The promoter shrugged his shoulders.

‘No one’s seen him since last night. Hooked it, I should think, after you grilled him. Your sergeant has a way of put-ting the fear of Old Nick into a man.’

Thackeray needed no reminding of this. His own palms were sweating at the thought of Cribb’s return. Something had to be done. Harvey must be found.

He left Herriott and bore down rapidly on the police office, venting his fury on the duty constable.

‘You let Chadwick leave the Hall last night, and failed to report it to me! He’s been out all night, and only just got back. And Harvey, his trainer, has gone missing. I want him found, at once! Alert every bloody constable in the building. Get everywhere searched. I’m going to question Chadwick.’ He confronted the Captain as he was making his way to the starting line. The exchange was necessarily short.

‘I’ve got to find Mr Harvey, sir. Do you know his where-abouts?’

‘No.’

‘You haven’t seen him since last night?’

‘No. Out of my way, please.’

It was another hour before Harvey was found. The duty constable who brought the news to Thackeray was white-faced.

‘He’s in bad shape. They took him into a store-room by the main entrance and beat him about the head in there. When he fell they must have kicked his ribs for minutes on end.’

‘He’s too weak to talk, I suppose?’ Thackeray asked with-out much sympathy in his tone.

‘Hardly conscious at all. We’re moving him to the infir-mary as a matter of urgency. What bastards would have done this, do you think?’

‘That’s for you to find out,’ Thackeray told him. ‘My ser-geant won’t investigate, I can tell you. We’ve got our hands full enough. Harvey got what he asked for, anyway. You can’t go round nobbling the opposition and expect to get away with it.’

‘You think O’Flaherty’s cronies did him over?’

‘I’d start with them if there’s no other clues,’ suggested Thackeray. ‘But there’s other interests about—punters, book-ies and their mob. I’d try to get Harvey to talk if I was you. If he coughs anything useful to our inquiry you’ll let me know at once, or I’ll get you dismissed for incompetence.’

The news of the attack upon Harvey circulated quickly enough, but nobody except Chadwick seemed at all sur-prised or disturbed by the information. Rough tactics— boring and baulking, elbow-work and ankle-tapping—were accepted among these professionals, but Harvey’s trick offended their code. It was furtive and cowardly. He was a snake in the grass, and when you catch a snake you don’t toy with it.

Chadwick, deprived of his menial, had to adjust to new conditions—not easy in the final stages of a test of endurance. For the first time he appeared on the track unshaven. If he wanted water he would have to get it him-self from the communal tap by the huts. At dawn he had coped without using any, but at mid-day, when he usually stopped for lunch, he would face the fifty yard walk if he wanted refreshment. The position of his tent, for so long an advantage, had become a handicap.

But Chadwick’s visit to the Turkish bath had liberated his muscle-bound legs, and throughout the first two hours he was alternately running and walking, making up valuable yards on O’Flaherty, now reduced to a robot-like march. Although the Dublin Stag had won back nearly six miles during that first hour, and a close finish seemed in prospect, he looked a beaten man now.

The other sprightly performance on the track was Mostyn-Smith’s. He had taken on a positively aggressive gait, with a pronounced forward tilt from the hips, and arms working like piston-rods. His stride gained in speed rather than length, and he was still light of step. As he turned each time into the straight his spectacles flashed in a patch of light, demanding attention to his efforts. Behind them, no doubt, he was not seeing the amused spectators, but a news-paper advertisement for Dr Mostyn-Smith’s Remedy for all Disorders, tested in the Six-Day Endurance Contest at the Agricultural Hall by its Maker.

Billy Reid was ambling towards the end of his stint with the caustic old ped who had shared his hut. The veteran had modified his approach.

‘Take it nice and easy, young’un. No point in pushing it now. Save it up for the last hour or two. If you show you’re nippy on your pins tonight you’ll earn a shower of browns. They like a game fighter.’

Billy’s lacerated feet were dictating his pace. To ease up would be as painful as to accelerate. He smiled in vague appreciation of the advice.

‘There was a time—in the palmy days—when they’d have thrown sovereigns,’ the old man reminisced. ‘No chance of that tonight. They treat you according to pocket possibil-ities these days, and this ain’t the well-greased contingent. Now at Brompton, fifteen years back, they lined up their carriages and pairs along the trackside. They was the gentry then, that watched us—princes and peers. Old Deer-foot got himself invited to the University to dine with the Prince of Wales, did you know that? A bloody Red Indian sitting down with royalty.’

‘Don’t bother me who watches,’ said Reid, ‘long as they let me finish in me own way.’

‘They’ll do that, lad. No one’s going to stop a game boy—’ ‘They tried to stop the Irishman,’ said Reid.

‘O’Flaherty? Yes. The one that did that was paid out, though. Mind you play dumb when the bobbies come round. They’ll find there’s a lot of queer-sightedness among foot-racers. Nobody saw a bloody thing last night.’

It might have helped if one of the many reports that arrived during the morning at the police office had brought news of the source of strychnine. That might have curbed Cribb’s wrath. Thackeray hopefully examined every one; there was nothing of the least significance in any of them.

And there was another, worse setback to follow. Shortly after mid-day a constable arrived at the office with Sol Her-riott in tow. The promoter was in a state of great agitation. ‘You must
do
something,’ he yelled at Thackeray. ‘All the prize money—he’s taken it all. Everything! A thousand pounds, near enough. My race is in ruins—hopeless. They’ve been running for six days and I can’t pay them a penny. They’ll kill me when they find out.’

‘Someone’s robbed you, you mean?’ Thackeray struggled to assimilate this new information, scarcely believing his ill-luck. ‘Jacobson—my friend for years! Opened the safe and took out all the prize money—bank-notes. He must have left the Hall this half-hour. I was talking to him—’

‘Jacobson!’

The voice was angry. It was Cribb’s. He was standing at the door. He addressed the young duty constable.