Peter Lovesey: Wobble to Death

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.

‘You’re in charge, then. See that nobody connected with the race leaves this Hall for any reason. Understand?’

‘Right, Sergeant.’

Cribb turned to Thackeray.

‘Jacobson’s the man we want. Mr Herriott, where’s his lodgings?’

‘Old Street. Over the “Three Ships,”’ answered the pro-moter, in a dazed voice.

‘Come on,’ said Cribb urgently. ‘If he’s only got half an hour on us we’ll catch up with him there.’

Cribb was in earnest. For the first time since Thackeray had known him he was running-along the covered way lead-ing from the Hall to Islington Green and Upper Street. And he was nimble on his feet. Although the oncoming crowds were too dense for his long legs to be of much use, the sergeant was adept at switching direction. Street vendors cluttered the cor-ridor- match-sellers, sherbet-girls and piemen-surrounded by clusters of people. Cribb zigzagged ahead until Thackeray lost sight of his nodding bowler. In Upper Street the sergeant had whistled a hansom, stated his destination and climbed in before Thackeray lumbered up. He held out a hand and hauled his breathless assistant aboard. The driver pulled his lever, the knee doors closed, and they were away.

The cabby had been promised double pay if he made good time. The vehicle lurched alarmingly as the horse was whipped towards Islington High Street. Inside, the two fares were jostled too much for a prolonged conversation.

‘What if he ain’t there?’ Thackeray managed to get out.

‘Too bad. We must take the chance,’ Cribb answered. ‘Reckon he’ll make for a station after he’s been home.’

There was no vehicle to compare with a hansom in slipping through streets thick with traffic. Soon they were rattling south along Goswell Road towards St Bart’s, worming between growlers, buses, drays and barrows that loomed out of the patchy fog. The experience must have been unnerving even for the driver-and he was in the safest position, perched high at the rear. Thackeray gripped the handrail until his knuckles whitened. He tried to focus on the horse’s back rather than the obstacles hurtling towards them through the mist.

The hospital, a taller, darker mass, appeared ahead. The cab turned, its chassis groaning in protest, into Old Street. ‘There’s the pub!’ shouted Cribb, above the racket of hooves and wheels. He looked up through the glass trap in the roof, but the cabby was already steering across the road towards ‘The Three Ships’. How they escaped collision with a knifeboard bus being drawn at speed from the other direction, neither passenger knew.

‘Wait here, for God’s sake!’ the sergeant called out as they jumped to the pavement and crossed to the entrance. Idlers around the door looked up in surprise at the urgent com-mand. Somebody obviously needed his drink.

The public bar was doing a brisk trade for a Saturday. As Cribb weaved a route to the counter there were several half-formed threats, but something about his manner cut them short. Thackeray remained at the door; Cribb’s figure was better suited to side-on progress than his.

‘One moment, landlord.’

Cribb’s voice was more insistent than any of the pleas around him for refills.

‘Sir.’

‘Police business. You’ve a man living over these premises, I believe.’

The licensee was a pale, rabbit-like man. He almost dropped a full glass at hearing Cribb’s announcement.

‘That’s right, guv’nor. Mr Jacobson. I haven’t seen ’im for a day or two.’

‘Not at all today?’

‘No guv. But I’m busy, as you can see. He may be up there now, for all I know. The door’s round the back. Up the iron staircase.’

Cribb forced a passage towards the back exit and found the stairs. He was up them three at a time, and knocked hard at the frosted window, trying to peer through. There was no reply. Instinct told him Jacobson was not inside hiding. He clattered down, ran across the yard and round to the front of the building, surprising Thackeray by opening the bar door and hauling him outside.

‘Not there.’ Cribb was at a loss.

Putting his unhappy morning out of mind, Thackeray acted with inspiration. Twenty yards up the street, at the entrance to another bar, was a barrel organist, playing a gen-uine shoulder-instrument supported on a pole. The consta-ble barked in his ear, above the wheezing intake of air and ‘Champagne Charlie’.

‘D’you see a man call a cab out here this last half-hour? Probably carried a case.’

‘Eh?’ The musician inclined his head to Thackeray, con-tinuing to turn his grinding-handle.

Thackeray repeated the question, and produced a coin from his pocket. It was an instant aid to the man’s hearing. ‘Quarter of an hour back I saw the gent from upstairs come down with a case. Couldn’t get no ’ansom. Took a four-wheeler ’e did.’

‘Did you hear where he was making for?’ bellowed the constable, slipping the hand into his pocket again.

‘Matter o’ fact I did.’ The organist waited until the sec-ond coin was in his hand. ‘The station, ’e said. Fenchurch Street. Reckon ’e was going east.’

They turned to their cab. The driver was by the horse, chatting with a passer-by and swinging his arms for warmth. ‘Right driver!’ Cribb called imperatively. ‘Fenchurch Street-and get this beast at the gallop!’

They clambered aboard. The whip cracked above their heads and the pursuit began anew. A right turn into City Road and a long, hard chase towards Moorgate. By the Artillery Barracks they had to swerve to miss a cat’s meat barrow parked at the roadside. The road was badly pot-holed. If the horse had stumbled anywhere the detectives would have been pitched straight out of the front. But the cabby kept up the reckless canter, even encouraging the ani-mal with bloodcurdling bellows. Police, the passengers had said they were. They should have their gallop.

The City was quiet, or he would never have taken them down past the Bank and up Lombard Street. But the fog was thicker here and in the narrower street he had to rein and come into line behind a coal cart. Its rate was agonisingly slow. At Lime Street he turned left and cantered between the tall buildings, taking a chance on the narrow passage being clear. Along Fenchurch Avenue, into Billiter Street, and they were back in Fenchurch Street, ahead of the cart. A wave of the whip, a shrieking turn, and they were in the station approach, rattling across cobbles.

‘We’ll be back!’ Cribb shouted. He sprinted into the booking-hall, darted his eyes across the scene, and made for the stairs. Thackeray was not far behind.