Peter Lovesey: Wobble to Death

‘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

Thackeray could not be certain that the night was the coldest that week, but he knew positively that he had not passed such an uncomfortable four hours since he gave up beat-pounding. There was a paraffin stove in the police office. His boot-welts were so near the flame that smoke rose from them. But his toes stayed bloodless all night. He had borrowed a spare great-coat and tried to insulate his already heavily clad body by tucking it around him as he settled in the one available armchair. It was no substitute for a heavy quilt over a decent horse-hair mattress. So he shiv-ered and grumbled and shifted his bulky form about the creaking framework until five in the morning, when the duty constable put a mug of coffee in his hands. He sipped it dolefully.

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.