Peter Lovesey: Wobble to Death

There was not much talking done on the track. The com-petitors were absorbed in their task, and anyway it was nec-essary to shout to be heard. Chalk did run alongside Williams for a few paces. The Half-breed was interested in the work going on in the centre.

‘What in ’ell’s that lot for?’ he bellowed to Chalk.

‘Can’t you see, mate? That’s the bloody scaffold. When this lot’s over they’re going to pick on the weakest man and string ’im up for killing Darrell. Keep some wind in store, mate. You might need it when the Law comes for you.’

The race entered its last half-hour. Chadwick waited for O’Flaherty to trudge past the point where he was standing, and then joined him, easily matching his stride. Mostyn-Smith, apparently revitalised by his startling appearance, slipped past them both like a thoroughbred passing cab-horses. No one else came up to his form, but it could at least be said that every competitor was moving with a sense of purpose. Even young Reid had summoned a grotesque trot-ting action for these final minutes.

Chadwick remained at O’Flaherty’s shoulder, moving smoothly, with the clear promise of power in hand. When perhaps a quarter of an hour was left, the Irishman’s sup-porters (the majority present) realised his chance of victory was past. The cheering diminished and was replaced by sympathetic applause and generous suggestions for downing Chadwick. The race was an exhibition now, and the crowd responded as they would at a prize-fight, tossing coins in appreciation. Several of the performers unashamedly stooped to pick up and pocket silver pieces. But the rain was mostly of the copper sort, and some, released from vantage points in the vaulting, struck its recipients painfully.

A bell was rung to mark the start of the final minute. Chadwick shot away from O’Flaherty, accelerating aston-ishingly, stretching his stride and bracing himself to a ‘style.’ He had misjudged the mood of the audience. Fruit hurtled about his head until he stopped his display-a rejected peacock.

Reinforcements of police were now around the track and in the bookmakers’ enclosure. Officials, too, surrounded the circuit, ready with numbered flags to mark the finishing points.

A gun fired. The nine survivors halted with almost mili-tary precision.

Chadwick’s arms were raised in triumph. A tomato thud-ded and split on his varsity jersey. The band declared their presence with ‘The Conquering Hero’. Herriott shouted through a megaphone that a presentation would take place in fifteen minutes. Thousands streamed through the exits.

‘They’re all going, Sarge!’ Thackeray announced in alarm to Cribb. They stood watching Chadwick walk easily to his tent. The other athletes, and some of the crowd, grov-elled on the track for pennies and farthings.

‘That’s right. It’s over.’

‘But the charge! We ain’t charged anyone yet.’

‘Time for that. Let’s see the prize-giving.’

The crowd was down to a few hundred when Herriott mounted the rostrum, clutching the precious case with the prize money. He made a short speech, mainly self-laudatory, reviewing the race. Then Chadwick, freshly changed into a suit, accepted his award. He was followed by O’Flaherty, who was helped on and off the platform. The third place went to Mostyn-Smith-good enough to claim on every box and bottle that he sold for the next thirty years. There were small awards for the other finishers-even Billy Reid, the last man, whose brother came forward in his place to receive the money.

Herriott addressed the Press.

‘Well, gentlemen, I must thank you for your support dur-ing these six long days. The race has not been uneventful, I am sure you will agree. Perhaps you, like my loyal officials, will be grateful for the chance of a night’s slumber. I know that I shall. But I venture to think that when we have all recovered our lost sleep we may look back on this enterprise as a notable sporting occasion.’

There was a ripple of unenthusiastic clapping. Herriott descended to ground level. Cribb was waiting for him. He spoke confidentially.

‘Can’t let you have that sleep just yet, Mr Herriott. Got to clear up the Darrell business. I’d be obliged if we could talk in your office, sir. We’ll go casual-like, and the news-men won’t catch on.’

The Pedestrian Contest at Islington

FINAL POSITIONS

Sol Herriott toyed with a large, unlit cigar, rolling it gently between his palms. The detectives had refused cigars. A pity, that. After the success of the race he was feeling expansive.

‘How about a drink, gentlemen? Not on duty now, eh?’

Thackeray looked to Cribb for a lead. They were seated in armchairs to the side of Herriott’s desk.

‘Hardly, sir,’ the sergeant answered. ‘But there are points to clear up, you know, so we’ll leave the drinks for later, if you don’t mind.’

‘Of course.’ He produced matches, and lit the cigar. The smoke obscured his vision, and he waved it away. ‘Points, you say. What do you mean, Sergeant?’

‘Well, there’s the matter of the dog.’

Cribb paused for effect. Thackeray, quite mystified, did not flinch. Herriott looked up in surprise.

‘The dog?’

‘Yes sir. Sam Monk’s dog.’

Again he stopped, and by his expression expected Herriott to respond.

Herriott cleared his throat. He was uncomfortable under Cribb’s scrutiny.

‘Well, Sergeant. What is this about Monk’s dog?’

‘Lovely animal, sir.’

‘Er-so I believe,’ he chanced.

‘If no one cares for it, we’ll have to put it down. Costs a shilling or two to feed, you see.’

Apprehension shifted like a cloud-shadow from Herriott’s face.

‘Oh, indeed. That’s it, is it? I’m sure we can find a home for the beast. Leave that with me, Sergeant.’ He stood up. ‘I think I’ll have a drink, anyway. You won’t join me?’

Thackeray shook his head. Cribb was silent. Seconds passed, and Herriott’s confidence began to drain again. He gulped some gin. At length, he spoke again.

‘There is something else, Sergeant?’

‘Oh yes,’ Cribb replied, as though he had needed remind-ing. ‘Jacobson. You know, he’s told us a queer story. Would you like to tell us yours, sir?’

‘You’ve already had mine, Sergeant.’

‘That’s right, sir. There’s nothing just come to mind that you previously forgot?’

Herriott paled. In seconds, he was sure, Cribb would drop the cloak of courtesy. And questions would follow in dagger-thrusts. He precipitated the crisis.

‘That’s a damned insulting remark, Sergeant! I’m a man of honour, and I most strongly resent your insinuations. You can keep your Scotland Yard methods for the vulgar mob outside. They won’t do for me! I’ll soon inform your superior.’ He stubbed out the cigar and stood up. ‘As I’ve nothing else to tell you, I think you’d better leave now.’

Cribb remained in his chair.

‘If we do, Mr Herriott, I’ll thank you to accompany me to the Islington Police Station.’

Herriott sank down again, sighing resignedly.

‘Very well. What do you want to know from me?’

‘The blackmail,’ answered Cribb. He stopped to study Herriott.

‘Blackmail?’

There was a long silence. Herriott looked desperately towards his visitors, his eyes pleading them to speak. They did not. Finally, he took a long draught of gin, and began to talk.

‘You’ve been listening to Jacobson’s lies. He’s not a bal-anced man, Sergeant. I’ve done what I can to help him, as you know, but-’ He spread his hands in a gesture of help-lessness. ‘He showed no gratitude. On the contrary, he seemed to dislike me. Possibly it was the strain of responsi-bility. We certainly had our setbacks during the last few days. In some way, he seemed to hold me responsible. Said his nerves couldn’t take any more and he wanted to quit. I told him, quite justly, he’d have to honour his contract, or he couldn’t be paid. He became abusive.’