Wobble to Death (15 page)

Cribb gave his assent, and the doctor-detective pocketed the watch and scuttled like the March Hare through the flap that Thackeray held open.

‘That’s a murderer!’ O’Flaherty blurted out. ‘He tried to poison me—’

‘You didn’t say that,’ snapped Cribb. ‘Did he give you any food or drink?’

‘Well, no.’

‘Did he warn you of possible danger?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Hold your tongue, then!’ snapped Cribb. ‘You’ll need all the strength you’ve got left to catch Chadwick. Thackeray, fetch his spare boots and socks. They’re lying somewhere in the hut, are they? We’ll check them before he puts ’em on. And for God’s sake, O’Flaherty, take care what you eat and drink.’

As Thackeray left there was a general move from the bystanders to gain admittance. Cribb stood squarely at the entrance and addressed them.

‘If you’ll be silent, gentlemen? Thank you. Mr O’Flaherty will shortly return to the track. He stopped because his feet were inflamed. They’ve now been soaked and he’s in better shape. In justice, gentlemen, let him get back to the track as soon as possible. He hasn’t the time to answer questions.’

The bubble had been pricked. In disappointment, the reporters began to disperse. Several hopefully questioned Cribb on the murder, but he declined to comment. Inside the tent O’Flaherty hastily prepared to set off again after Chadwick. Thackeray soon returned with the boots and socks and without more words being spoken the Stag put them on and quit the tent.

‘Probably scotched any chance he had,’ commented Cribb, as they watched him set off again. ‘Walnut shells! We’ve picked up a wrinkle or two these last few days.’

‘He’ll never catch Chadwick now,’ agreed Thackeray. ‘Been going like a three year old this last hour. They might as well hand him the prize tonight, and then everyone could get home for a decent sleep.’

‘Leaving us without our killer,’ Cribb added sardonically.

‘Do you reckon the walnut-shell merchant is the same one?’ asked Thackeray.

‘Could be. It lets out Cora Darrell if that’s the case. She’s not been in here since the night Monk was killed. May be a false trail, though. Mustn’t lose sight of the real matter—the killings.’

‘Don’t you think it’s worth finding out who nobbled O’Flaherty, Sarge?’

Cribb breathed out noisily in some impatience.

‘I thought I’d made it clear. We’re on the look-out for a killer. Not a bloody fixer of races. If it turns out to be the same party, that’s fine. But I’m not cutting into a murder inquiry to chase a nut-cracking oddboy. Understand?’

Thackeray understood. None the less he was personally convinced that there was a better chance of clearing up the main case if they could solve this lesser mystery. Sergeant Cribb was well known for the number of successful inquiries he had conducted, yet there
had
been occasions when he had acted precipitately. But for these blemishes on an impressive record he might have risen higher by now . . . Mindful of his own rank, Thackeray kept his thoughts to himself.

The detectives walked back towards the track in silence. Thackeray had needled Cribb. He knew that nothing he said would help matters until the mood passed. Cribb, in turn, was laconic; not because he was studying Thackeray. He was mentally re-examining each suspect, searching for the motive he felt certain was waiting to be detected.

The silence was disturbed by a third person. As they waited indecisively at the track edge, watching O’Flaherty’s new display of energy, Mostyn-Smith reappeared a little breathlessly at their side.

‘You will forgive me, gentlemen? There is something else that I should tell you. I hesitated about mentioning the mat-ter when our Irish friend was present, because I seriously feared that he might be incited to violence.’

He peered about him, ensuring that he could not be over-heard. As they were inside the ropes at the end of the track farthest from the timekeepers there was no fear of eaves-droppers.

‘I believe that I know who tampered with O’Flaherty’s boots,’ he muttered confidentially. ‘At about mid-day—or twenty-seven minutes past to be specific—I approached his hut with a view to checking that his food and drink had not been poisoned. I had deduced that the murderer would attack O’Flaherty next, you understand, and it seemed to me obvious that he would employ some form of poisoning again. I approached the hut from the rear, and as I turned from the side of the building I saw someone come out of the hut, and move quickly away to the track.’

‘You recognised him?’

‘Most certainly. It was that trainer-fellow who works for Captain Chadwick.’

‘Harvey?’

‘That’s correct. He is plainly the perpetrator of these crimes.’

CHAPTER
15

In fact, the scenes on this Friday evening were less dis-tressing than they had been on the previous Monday, before an altogether smaller audience. Those remaining on the track were mostly experienced pedestrians, the ‘distance brigade,’ veterans of many campaigns. But in the race’s early stages there were novices to this type of race. Their greenness had been painfully evident after only a few hours. The one notable ‘tenderfoot’ to keep going was Billy Reid. By now he was half a day’s walking down on the leaders, but his spirit was indomitable.

‘A bloody sight pluckier than most lads,’ was Chalk’s comment, as he and Williams watched Billy hobbling back to the track from the tents. ‘When I’m done with this caper, and sets up as trainer, that’s the mettle of lad I want. ’E’s the wrong shape for a stayer, of course. You can’t carry too much top ’amper for very long. But blimey, ’e’s no namby-pamby.’

‘That’s true,’ agreed the Half-breed. ‘See some of them characters weeping buckets after only ten hours? Don’t mat-ter ’ow pretty a man’s shape is. You can’t do nothing with a party that pipes ’is eye.’

‘Beats me ’ow ’e does it, with that brother of ’is badger-ing ’im all bloody day. ’E give him an ’ot bath this morning to liven him up. Fairly made the boy sing out, that did. If any bloody trainer tried that with me I’d land one on ’im, I tell you.’

‘Never agreed with bathin’ meself,’ Williams confided. ‘Softens the soles of your feet, that does.’

The main interest on the track that evening was provided by Chadwick and O’Flaherty, who moved at a positive trot, the Irishman within a yard of the Captain. But the pace was being set, surprisingly, by Mostyn-Smith, determined to win back his lost time. This trio remained locked for lap upon lap, and the crowd urged them noisily to go faster, desperately hoping that one of the two leaders, both heavily backed, would crack. For the first of the field it was a chal-lenge to keep upright, mobile and awake. None had the strength or inclination to ‘mix’.

‘Nippy on his feet for a nark,’ Williams remarked, indicating Mostyn-Smith. ‘ ’E’ll bloody lick us on this showing. What’s ’e going full bat for? Still another ruddy day to go.’

‘ ’E’s no nark,’ Chalk corrected him contemptuously. ‘Bloody crank. That’s what ’e is.’

‘I seen ’im talking with the Law,’ maintained Williams. ‘That’s no ped. I never saw ’im on a track before in my life.’ ‘You ask Feargus about ’im, mate. ’E reckons Double-barrel fixed Charlie Darrell and Sam Monk, and ’ad a go at ’im.’

‘Feargus!’ Williams spat generously over his shoulder, not bothering to see who was following. ‘Squint-eyed bloody Irishman! Thinks anyone that comes near ’im’s after ’is blood.’

‘Come off it. O’Flaherty’s pretty near ’im right now. ’E don’t mind using ’im as pacemaker.’

‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Williams. ‘Only one reason why Feargus keeps close behind Double-barrel. Makes sure that way ’e won’t get stabbed in the back!’

They trudged on, amused, but a shade embittered by their colleague’s single-minded efforts. Earlier they had enjoyed delaying Chadwick so that O’Flaherty could gain ground. Now that the Irishman aspired to honours they felt resentful without admitting it to each other.

There were hoots of delighted derision from the stands as a portly figure in an overcoat joined the leading trio. It was Thackeray, as unmistakable a member of the Force as one of
Punch
’s plain-clothes constables. He had been instructed to talk with Chadwick, and since Chadwick had no intention of leaving the track, Thackeray had to conduct another inter-view in motion, only in less discreet circumstances than his last one. He could scarcely make himself audible above the whistles and mock applause as he lengthened his stride to keep pace with the leaders. A well-aimed apple dislodged his bowler and he snatched vainly in the air for it as it fell to the track. He decided to keep going without it.

‘Mr—Captain Chadwick, sir.’

Chadwick inclined his head towards him, but said nothing.

‘I’m Constable Thackeray, sir, of the detective police.’

There was no comment, so he went on, between gasps for breath.

‘I think—you may be able—to assist us, sir.’

Chadwick did not look as though he intended to.

‘Your trainer—’

‘I do not employ a trainer,’ Chadwick observed icily. ‘I presume that you mean my assistant.’

‘Mr Harvey, sir.’

‘Yes.’

‘We can’t find him—sir. The Sergeant—wants to— question him.’

‘Isn’t he in my tent?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then I cannot help you. I have no idea where he can be. I am not a detective.’

Thackeray drew up, and the crowd feigned a unified howl of disappointment. He ignored them, and walked back to retrieve his hat before it was trampled upon.

Sergeant Cribb had denied himself a second look at Thackeray in action. Time was desperately short, so he had sought out Sol Herriott while Thackeray performed for the crowd. The promoter was in his office with Jacobson, checking the previous day’s takings.

‘You don’t mind, sir?’ Cribb asked Jacobson. ‘A few dis-creet inquiries, you understand.’ He was already on his way out, characteristically withdrawing at the first opportunity. He nodded at Cribb, and left.

‘Doing well, sir?’ Cribb asked.

Herriott replaced the coin-bags in the safe, turned his ample frame and faced the sergeant. On the wall behind him were oleographs of Smithfield prize fatstock.

‘Yes, all things considered,’ he cautiously replied.

‘Good crowd in there tonight. Best yet.’

‘So I believe.’

‘Funny really, you know. Got a killer loose in there some-where but it don’t keep the crowd away.’

‘Evidently not,’ said Herriott. ‘Do you smoke?’

Cribb did not, except as a tactical gesture.

‘Thanks. I wanted to get my mind clear about last Monday,’ he said. ‘Thought if I came to see you I’d get a good account of what people were doing the evening before Darrell was killed.’

‘I’ll try to help.’

‘Fine. Chadwick first. I suppose he was on the track all the time.’

‘Oh yes,’ Herriott remembered. ‘And he was running, to everyone’s surprise. He has always walked every yard of the way before.’

‘He kept going till one o’clock?’

‘Yes. I’m sure of that. Darrell went to his tent at the same time.’

‘Good. Now Harvey, the trainer. What was he doing?’

‘Ah. He would have been attending Chadwick. He doesn’t often leave his side. He’s probably under orders to be constantly in attendance. A soldier has to take his orders seriously.’

‘He wasn’t in the tent, then?’

‘I don’t think so. He followed the race closely from the trackside.’

Cribb tapped his cigar on the silver ash-tray on Herriott’s desk.

‘Now what about Mr Jacobson, sir? Where was he?’

Herriott reflected. His waistcoat front started quivering over his belly at some amusing recollection.

‘Poor old Walter! Yes, he was here, Sergeant.’

‘What’s amusing you?’

‘Well, I dined out earlier in the evening, and left Jacobson in charge. He’s not exactly a man who welcomes responsibil-ity, you know. Before I left I jokingly told him what to do if a fire started. Damned if we didn’t get one in the kitchen! Small affair, but it ruined his evening—and his suit, I may say.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Ten o’clock, approximately.’

‘And you returned . . . ?’

‘A few minutes after midnight.’

‘Where did you have your dinner, sir? Pardon the ques-tion. I must know everyone’s whereabouts.’

‘At my club—the London Sporting.’

‘And you dined alone?’

‘Yes.’

Cribb turned to another matter.

‘I’d like to ask you about the way this race was first arranged, sir.’

‘Certainly,’ beamed Herriott. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Well, sir.’ Cribb drew deeply on the cigar, and extin-guished it with great thoroughness before going on. ‘What interests me is that you are not known as a promoter of foot-races. You’re more of a turf man, I believe.’

‘That’s so.’

‘It must have meant quite a gamble, organising this affair.’

‘In a way, yes,’ Herriott agreed. ‘But I’m a gambling man, too, you know. And, of course, this isn’t the first six-day race. It has been done very successfully before.’

‘What puzzles me, Mr Herriott, is why you employed a man like Jacobson as your manager. I hear that he knows no more about pedestrianism than you do. Why didn’t you take on a man who knows the game?’

‘Aren’t you impressed with my manager?’ Herriott asked, with a smile. ‘Now, Sergeant, you mustn’t take my earlier remarks about him too seriously. Walter’s a competent fel-low. Just a little reserved.’

‘You’ve employed him before, have you?’

‘Oh yes, in a similar capacity, a long while back. But really, you know, the job’s a sinecure. I do most of the man-aging myself, as you may have observed.’

‘Why take on Jacobson at all, then?’

Herriott shrugged.

‘I need to get away occasionally, Sergeant, and there must be somebody in attendance throughout. It’s the kind of post that one gives to an old friend.’

‘—who’s fallen on hard times?’

‘Did I imply that?’ asked Herriott. ‘Well, one likes to offer help where one can.’

‘You know Mr Jacobson is in debt, then?’

Herriott sighed.

‘I had a shrewd suspicion that he was in financial trouble. I didn’t inquire about it. One doesn’t, unless the information is volunteered.’

‘Quite so.’

‘I ought to say,’ Herriott added, ‘that both Jacobson and I made a close study of six-day events before we embarked on this enterprise. And I think you’ll agree that the race has been a success, a well-matched affair, in spite of Darrell’s unfortunate death.’

‘How did you persuade Captain Chadwick to enter?’ Cribb asked, ignoring the last remark. ‘He’s not one of the Hackney Wick fraternity.’

‘Ah!’ Herriott was smiling proudly. ‘Privileged informa-tion, Sergeant. A friend of mine happened to know that he wanted to test himself over six days but couldn’t face the prospect of mingling with a batch of peds. The separate tracks were my inspiration.’

‘You didn’t know him before this, then?’

‘No, Sergeant. Fellow’s not really my type.’

‘Mine neither. As a matter of interest, sir, d’you know anything about this man, Harvey?’

‘Harvey? Oh, the trainer! He was his batman, wasn’t he? No, I know very little of him. He seems very capable.’

‘Yes.’ Cribb smiled at an undisclosed thought. ‘Well, sir. Thank you for your time. You’ve been helpful.’

‘I like to be, if I can,’ Herriott gushed.

‘The race finishes at ten-thirty Saturday night, I believe.’ ‘That’s so.’

‘You’ll make some kind of presentation to the winners?’

Herriott leaned back and tapped the safe.

‘I’ve over a thousand pounds in here, Sergeant, and a magnificent belt. Oh yes, I’ll have a presentation ceremony on Saturday night—if the winner can walk up for his prize, of course!’ He was convulsed with laughter at the prospect of a champion too exhausted to cover another step. ‘I hope you’ll be there to see it, Sergeant.’

‘Looks as though I shall, sir,’ Cribb confirmed, without much enthusiasm.

Thackeray was waiting in some perturbation for Cribb to leave Herriott’s office.

‘I’ve looked everywhere I know, Sarge. Harvey just ain’t to be found.’

‘You’ve asked Chadwick?’

‘He don’t seem interested.’

‘Don’t suppose he will be before one o’clock. Harvey should be here by then. Strict on their duties, these military men. Now how about the strychnine hunt? Any reports come in?’

If they had, Thackeray had been too preoccupied to collect them from the police office. The two detectives walked in that direction, past the arena, which had filled almost to capacity. Mostyn-Smith, rather redder in the face now, was still a yard in front of Chadwick, with O’Flaherty almost at his side. The strain was telling on all three. They clung to the pace more in desperation than determination. Whoever succumbed now would be men-tally accepting defeat.

The constable on duty had a sheaf of papers ready for Cribb. He thumbed them through rapidly, rejecting many, and then examined the rest more carefully.

‘No help here,’ he finally told Thackeray. ‘We’ll get some more in tomorrow. I’m not too confident though. Seems another dead end.’

‘Should we see Mrs Darrell again, and face her with the false statement about where she was last Monday evening?’ ‘Not much point. I don’t think she’d tell us much that we don’t know. Now what’s this? Ah!’

He picked up a report that he had at first rejected.

‘Our chemist, Sarge?’

‘No. The report on Monk’s note. I wanted the handwrit-ing analysed, compared with his signature in the poison-book.’

‘What’s their view, then?’ asked Thackeray.

‘As I thought, unfortunately. Monk definitely wrote the letter. No shadow of doubt.’

Thackeray was mystified.

‘I don’t follow, Sarge. That was a suicide note—
must
have been cooked up by the killer.’

Cribb shook his head. His constable had disappointed him again.

‘Not so, not so! Got a note of the wording of that note, have you?’

Thackeray embarrassedly delved for his notebook. He read out Monk’s message. ‘ “This is to show how sorry I am. I did not mean him to die. Samuel Monk.”—Was he forced to write it, do you think, Sarge?’

‘Not very likely. Poor fellow was too drunk to write any-thing, by Jacobson’s account. No. What we’ve got to work out is
when
he wrote it, Thackeray. That’s the key.’