Peter Lovesey - Wobble to Death

‘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?’

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.’

The method. It was useless trying to prevent the next murder without isolating a probable method. Poisoning and gassing had been used; they could not be discounted, but it was likelier that the murderer would vary his style again. A stabbing? Unlikely: that was too crude and too immediate for this stamp of killer. His was the insidious approach. His crimes were open to interpretation as sui-cides, or accidents. He was no sledge-hammer maniac, as O’Flaherty pictured him.

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.

Constable Thackeray found Cribb in the police office. ‘Mind if I sit down, Sarge? I’ve been on my feet since six.’ ‘Good man,’ said Cribb from a well-cushioned swivel-chair. Thackeray decided not to press the matter of his fatigue. He had been tramping the London streets because the fog outside had slowed everything, trams, buses and cabs, to less than walking pace. Cribb would not be unsympathetic, but the temptation to make some comparison with the tramp going on inside the Hall would be irresistible. So Thackeray suffered his aching feet without any more comment.

‘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.’

‘Day and a half to go. Better spend lunch-time on the case.’

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.’