Wobble to Death (14 page)

Chadwick inhaled loudly and ominously. He did not like the implication in the question.

‘Sergeant, I have no need of prior arrangements with pedestrians who challenge me. I am a serious athlete. However, I believe that my man Harvey mentioned an approach being made by Darrell’s trainer early on Tuesday morning. You will have to ask Harvey about that.’

‘Thank you. I shall.’

‘Is that all then? I
am
at present trying to engage in a race, you know.’

‘Two other questions, sir. Do you by any chance take any form of stimulant to aid your performance?’

‘If you are asking whether I am in the practice of swal-lowing strychnine, the answer is no. The only chemical that you will find in that cupboard—and you may look if you wish—is a Seidlitz powder, which I imagine even you may find a necessary aperient on occasions. What is your other question?’

‘A personal one, sir. It’s important I know the answer, though. If you win this race you take the prize of five hun-dred pounds. But as a man of fortune you’ll have staked some money on the result, I expect. How much will you col-lect on Saturday, sir?’

Chadwick was on the point of refusing to answer, but Cribb’s final sentence, with its dismissal of the threat from O’Flaherty, was a disarming touch.

‘I don’t see how it affects your investigation. However, the answer is eleven thousand pounds.’

Mostyn-Smith had spent the morning devising, and dis-missing, theories. They had so preoccupied him that he walked for six minutes longer than his schedule allowed, time that he could ill-afford. He had decided, in his thoughtful circumambulations, to sacrifice a portion of his next rest-period and examine O’Flaherty’s new hut. There, surely, was where the murderer would bait his trap. The Irishman had not left the track for lunch before one o’clock on any of the previous days, so it should be possible to make a careful inspection without being disturbed.

He permitted himself twenty minutes in his own hut, resting his legs and eating fruit and honey. This was not a rest-period when he planned to sleep.

By now he had decided that the method would have to be some form of poisoning, after all. Strychnine, of course, was unlikely, but there were so many alternative methods. It was essential to get into O’Flaherty’s hut and examine every-thing that was consumable. His training in medicine had taught him that most known poisons were detectable, by smell or because they were not completely soluble. Any food or drink that appeared at all doubtful he would destroy. The Irishman might not thank him for doing it, but his con-science would at least be clear.

It was time. He wrapped the apple-peelings and core in paper that he kept for the purpose, straightened the bedding and left the hut. Then he dropped the refuse into a bin out-side, noting that it had not been emptied for twenty-four hours. He walked to the back of the huts, towards the ablu-tions area, taking care that anyone watching would not guess at his intentions. When he was quite sure everything was quiet he moved round O’Flaherty’s hut towards the front. At the corner of the building he stopped short. The door was opening from the inside. And O’Flaherty was still on the track.

Mostyn-Smith backed out of sight. Furtively, the tres-passer quit the hut, and moved away at speed towards the arena. There was no mistaking who it was.

‘You’ve got the search organised for the chemist?’ Cribb inquired.

‘The order’s been passed round, Sarge. The operation should be fully under way by now. The fog won’t help us, though. It’s a job getting any sort of message through in this.’

‘Quite so. How d’you get on at Highbury?’

‘Now that’s really going to interest you,’ said Thackeray confidently. ‘They was nice people. Honest folk, I’d judge, but they’d cover up for Mrs D. if they thought she was in trouble.’

‘You didn’t give ’em that impression, I hope.’

‘I did not.’ Thackeray was slightly affronted. ‘I estab-lished that she was with them yesterday afternoon, and then I inquired when they had seen her previous to that. They was both quite firm about it—man and wife, middle-aged couple. They hadn’t seen Cora since the week before, on Thursday. It’s a weekly arrangement.’

‘Is it, by Jove? Nice work! You asked about Monday evening?’

‘Yes. They was at the Lyceum, watching Irving in some play about Venice.’

‘She lied then. Why should she have done that? Wonder where she really got to that evening.’

CHAPTER
14

Cribb’s announcement at first depressed Thackeray, who did not usually fast on Fridays, or any other day. But he brightened when the proposal became clearer. They were to discuss their findings over battered fish in the Hall restaurant.

It was nearly two o’clock, so they had the room almost to themselves.

‘Trouble with this lot,’ said Cribb, ‘is the lies.’ His usual staccato utterances were separated by periods of chewing. ‘Too many folk with things to hide.’

‘Mrs Darrell, you mean, Sarge?’

‘Her, yes. And Monk, when he was alive.’ He scooped more cod into his mouth. ‘Chadwick, too. Makes out he’s confident. Poor bastard’s terrified of losing to a scrubber.’

Thackeray took up the theme.

‘Come to that, Herriott’s not all lavender. He grew a trifle warm when it looked like we’d have to call off the race, didn’t he?’ ‘Hm. There’s Jacobson as well. Halfway up Carey Street if my bookie friend’s right.’ Cribb put down his fork. ‘Point is, Thackeray, can you call any of these a motive for two murders? You don’t think so? I don’t. We’re looking for something else. Maybe someone else.’

‘Possibly one of the runners, Sarge. That doctor bloke could get his hands on strychnine without being asked any questions.’

Cribb was dubious.

‘What does he gain from killing off Darrell and Monk? Stands no chance of winning.’

‘Ah,’ said Thackeray, brandishing a knife authoritatively, ‘but who
does
now? O’Flaherty could very well beat Chadwick tomorrow. He’s been gaining for days. One thing I’ve noticed is that nobody takes more interest in that Irishman than the little doctor.’

‘So Mostyn-Smith takes a cut from Paddy’s winnings? It’s plausible, Thackeray, it’s plausible. Far as I can discover, it was Mostyn-Smith that got the tetanus scare started.’

The constable nodded sagely. The more they considered it, the better his theory seemed.

‘Two things don’t fit,’ said Cribb. ‘If the Doc killed Monk why crack him on the head? Too crude for a medical man. And if it was O’Flaherty that clonked him, why report the gas escape?’

‘That’s the cunning of the Irish, Sarge.’

Cribb shook his head.

‘Not for my money. Nothing deep about our Dublin friend. No, Thackeray. Time we finished with theories. Let’s stick to facts.’

The constable returned to his meal. If Cribb wanted to work with facts that was his business. But Thackeray was privately convinced that the same facts would lead them to his own two suspects.

‘Take Darrell’s murder first,’ Cribb went on. ‘We agree someone fixed the bracer after Monk brought it here. Must have got into the tent. Right. Tent’s in full view of every-body. Couldn’t be more central. So what time’s the best?’

‘When there’s no crowd, Sarge.’

‘Correct. Now, right from the start the Press are about. Crowd begins arriving at first light. Eyes on the tents all the time, you see. People come and go, too, looking in the tent. Herriott and the Press. Cora Darrell and Monk. When’s our poisoner going to get in there?’

Thackeray saw the point.

‘He must have waited till near midnight, when the crowd had left, but while Darrell was still on the track. The light would be poorer then, too.’

‘Fine. All he has to look out for is Monk. Now suppose Monk goes off for a drink. He liked his liquor. Our poisoner gets into the tent with time to do what he wants. Poor per-ishers on the track wouldn’t notice much. He can slip in when Darrell’s round the other side of the track.’

‘That lets out Mrs Darrell, don’t it?’

‘Not really,’ said Cribb. ‘But if she puts in the crystals it’s done in the afternoon. Monk has to be an accomplice. Motive’s there, of course. Kill the old man and make off with your lover.’

‘I’d have gone for that until Monk was killed,’ reflected Thackeray. ‘But that changed everything. She wouldn’t want to fix Monk.’

‘Except when she knew they’d both swing for it,’ said Cribb caustically. ‘I wouldn’t count her out yet.’ He pushed away the now-empty plate. ‘Now let’s talk about Monk’s murder. When was he bashed, d’you think?’

‘Wednesday night—’ Thackeray’s eyes widened in reali-sation. ‘About midnight, Sarge. The same blinking time!’

Cribb received this observation with a patient nod.

‘May be significant. May not. Now what I need to know—What’s that?’

Shouts were coming from the main Hall, shouts that were loud to penetrate to where they were. And these were not jeers or roars of encouragement. There were voices raised in alarm, and screams.

‘Someone’s in trouble!’

Cribb jerked to attention, and the chair behind him over-turned with the vigour of his movement. He stood listening. A voice in the Hall clearly called, ‘Get a doctor!’

The sergeant moved at an astonishing rate. He had cursed himself the day before for being out of the Hall when Monk was murdered. If another crime had been committed . . . He ran from the restaurant, and the door swung into Thackeray as he lumbered after.

The Hall was not very full, but it rang with shouts—of concern, anger, panic. The uproar was directed at a small group on the opposite side of the track. Dodging between passing competitors, Cribb sprinted across the centre, and forced his way through the close-packed officials.

Mostyn-Smith was kneeling by the jack-knifed body of O’Flaherty, who lay groaning in obvious distress. Timekeep-ers, reporters and others leaned over them, demanding infor-mation, urging advice. Cribb acted decisively.

‘Police!’ he shouted in a voice that silenced even the Press. ‘Doctor, can this man be moved?’

Mostyn-Smith spoke without looking up.

‘He is trying to speak. I cannot help him unless I can hear what he says. Will you all kindly go away?’

The request was futile, and Cribb realised it. Already the babel around O’Flaherty had restarted. The sergeant touched the arms of two burly officials.

‘Help us get him to that tent.’

He yanked Mostyn-Smith to his feet and to one side as though he were a straying child. Then he stooped to O’Flaherty and with the help of Thackeray and the others lifted him to the tent that Darrell had used when he was alive. When the still-groaning Irishman was deposited on the mattress inside, Cribb waved out the others and instructed Thackeray to stand guard.

‘You can let the Doc in. No one else.’

Mostyn-Smith was admitted. His face was eloquent of affronted dignity, but his generous shorts over legs like lamp-standards rather undermined the effect. He ignored Cribb, and went to the patient. O’Flaherty was speaking:

‘Couldn’t go on. My feet . . . burning. Can’t understand it. Never had trouble like this.’

Mostyn-Smith unlaced the boots, pulled off the socks and examined the runner’s feet. They were red and swollen, but so were his own, as anyone’s would be after five days of walking.

‘Do you have any additional pains? Are your muscles at all troublesome?’

‘Not really. I’m stiff, but I expect to be. It’s the bloody feet. God in Heaven, what’s happening to them?’

Cribb was examining one of the discarded boots, feeling inside it.

‘Got another pair of boots, have you?’

‘Yes,’ answered O’Flaherty.

‘And socks?’

‘I think so.’

‘Good. I’m no doctor but I’ll give you my advice. Soak your feet in salt water. Get on those other socks and boots, and double back to the track. You’re losing all the ground you gained.’

‘I must protest!’ Mostyn-Smith rounded on Cribb. ‘You have no authority whatsoever to over-ride me in this way. I am a qualified practitioner and I intend to examine this man with the professional expertise—’

‘Please yourself,’ snapped Cribb. ‘It’ll save you both a bit of time if you take my advice. Look at this.’

He up-ended the boot that he was holding. A spray of sand-like grains flowed from it into his cupped right hand. ‘There’s your irritant. You’ve been nobbled, my friend. Some party slipped this inside your boots.’

O’Flaherty sat up, suddenly rallied.

‘Let me see.’

Cribb tipped some of the substance into the Irishman’s palm. He examined it, turning it over with his finger-tips.

‘By Jesus! I know what this is!’ blurted O’Flaherty, sud-denly on his feet.

‘Sit down, man!’ ordered Cribb, pushing him in the chest, so that he sank back on to the bed. ‘You’ll still have some embedded in your soles.’

‘Crushed walnut shells!’ exclaimed the disgusted pedes-trian. ‘The oldest bloody trick going, and I fell for it. Who would have done this?’

‘Anyone who didn’t want you to win,’ Cribb answered drily.

Mostyn-Smith was suddenly too interested to continue his display of pique.

‘May I see this? You say that it is manufactured by crush-ing walnut shells?’

As Mostyn-Smith peered at the tiny fragments which had been handed over, O’Flaherty jerked at Thackeray’s sleeve. ‘Do me a favour, bobby. Ask one of those reporters to bring me a bucket of water. I’ve got to get back.’

Cribb nodded his approval of this arrangement.

‘If the doctor doesn’t mind?’

‘No, no,’ concurred Mostyn-Smith. ‘Please carry on. This abrasive is unquestionably responsible for your col-lapse, O’Flaherty.’

The Irishman treated the diagnosis with contempt. He was preoccupied in extracting minute chips of shell from his inflamed soles. But at Cribb’s voice he looked up.

‘When did you put these boots on?’

‘One o’clock. I had a bite, and changed my footgear. I keep a spare pair, you see.’

‘You don’t share a hut now, do you?’

‘No. I’ve one to myself.’

‘Anyone else been in there?’

‘If I found anyone there, I’d—’ His eyes lighted on Mostyn-Smith. ‘You were there! You came into my hut, waking me up this morning. This is the bloody man, Sergeant! Take him away and lock him up! Saints in Heaven, I’ve been sleeping with a murderer!’

‘One moment,’ began Mostyn-Smith. ‘I can assure—’

‘Take a look at that portmanteau in his hut!’ O’Flaherty continued. ‘It’s stuffed full of bottles and boxes. Strychnine you’re looking for? It’s there, I’ll stake my soul on it! Take him away, Sergeant. No man’s safe while he’s at liberty.’

Thackeray’s eyes were gaping at this tirade. If the Irishman’s accusations were true, then his own suspicions about Mostyn-Smith were justified. But his theory had not included an attempt to cripple O’Flaherty.

Cribb addressed Mostyn-Smith.

‘Is this right? Did you go to this man’s hut this morning?’ Mostyn-Smith’s indignation was such that he found diffi-culty in expressing himself.

‘I did—that is to say—Sergeant—you cannot believe—’ ‘What did you want with Mr O’Flaherty, sir?’

He took a deep breath, visibly taking control of his emo-tions. ‘I felt that it was my duty to warn him of possible dan-gers. He is not a percipient individual, Sergeant—’

‘You—’ O’Flaherty made a grab for Mostyn-Smith which Cribb sharply repulsed with a downward thrust of his arm. ‘Keep out of this!’

Distraction was provided at that moment. Thackeray took in the bucket of water from outside. It was placed in front of O’Flaherty and he sulkily planted a foot inside it, and began massaging the toes under the water.

Mostyn-Smith resumed his explanation.

‘I felt obliged to warn him of the dangers to which he was exposed, as the only possible rival to Captain Chadwick. I reasoned that whoever had killed poor Darrell would not balk at murdering anyone else who threatened to overtake the Captain. I therefore approached this—man to acquaint him with my fears. I roused him before four o’clock and we conversed about the matter.’

Cribb turned to O’Flaherty.

‘Is this true?’

O’Flaherty nodded morosely. Cribb turned back to Mostyn-Smith.

‘You didn’t touch the boots?’

‘I do not even remember seeing them.’

‘And you didn’t go into the hut again, after Mr O’Flaherty had left for the track?’

There was the slightest hesitation before he answered firmly, ‘I did not.’

Cribb did not let it pass.

‘You planned to go there?’

‘Yes—to check that nobody had tampered with his food and drink, but I changed my mind.’

‘Why was that?’

Another pause.

‘It might have seemed like trespassing.’

Cribb turned to another point.

‘This portmanteau—’

‘I thought you would want to know about that. I freely admit that it contains a number of bottles, phials and boxes of pills. These are my personal needs, Sergeant. You may certainly have them analysed if you wish, but I must warn you that if you choose to take them away from me at this stage I shall require substantial compensation.’

Cribb was puzzled.

‘I don’t follow you.’

The little man took on a superior air.

‘That is understandable, Sergeant. My appearance in this endurance contest has been much commented on in the popular journals. People are curious to know why an edu-cated person should engage in a pedestrian contest against the dubious fraternity who make a living out of such affairs. I make no claims to athletic prowess. Before last August I had not walked more than five miles at one stretch in my life. You see, Sergeant, I am interested in physiological research. You might say that my participation is in the nature of an experiment.’

‘What are you proving?’ asked Cribb sceptically.

‘Ah! That is the explanation of my portmanteau. Inside it are more than fifty healthful foods and drinks of my own concoction. They, with an occasional fruit, are all that I con-sume on my journey. They banish the effect of fatigue entirely, by nourishing the system, recharging the natural—’ ‘And you plan to sell them under an advertisement of yourself in running-costume,’ Cribb broke in, cutting short the explanation. ‘Neat idea, if you do any good in the race.’ ‘I shall, if I am permitted to continue,’ said Mostyn-Smith.

‘And you shall!’ announced Cribb, to O’Flaherty’s undis-guised fury. ‘I’ll take a look at these bottles, if you don’t object, but we’ll leave them in your hut. A piece of advice, though. Say nothing about the walnut shell. Keep away from this man, and if you have any suspicions tell ’em to us.’ ‘I shall indeed,’ Mostyn-Smith readily pledged. He delved into his shorts and from somewhere produced a gold watch. ‘I have lost some twenty-five minutes. May I now return to the track?’