Wobble to Death sc-1

by Peter Lovesey

  ‘Except when you take his place here,’ said Cora, laugh-ing. ‘Take my drink, Sam. I’ve already drunk enough this evening.’

  Monk drained his own glass, and then Cora’s.

  ‘There ain’t much time,’ he said. ‘Let’s get upstairs.’

  She was shaking her head.

  ‘I wouldn’t like that, Sam. Why do you think I banked the fire up in here? The bed is cold. This is different, anyway. Charles has never approached me here. Here, Sam. Love me in here.’

  Monk was feeling warm for the first time in twenty-five hours and readily acquiesced. He draped himself along the sofa and kissed her resolutely.

  Minutes later Cora knelt before the fire while Monk began the tantalising work of disrobing her. She had slipped off her shoes, but the rest was left to him. His fingers coped haltingly with hooks and eyes and tiny buttons. The dress bodice eventually fell.

  ‘Warm your hands again before you touch my camisole,’ she commanded him between giggles, squealing as his hands gripped her shoulders and he buried his face in her neck.

  ‘Bows, Sam. They shouldn’t trouble you so much. Here, I’ll pull off a stocking while you untie them.’

  The next layer presented its own problems.

  ‘Leave the corset, then, and I’ll manage my skirt and pet-ticoats,’ she offered. ‘Turn out the gas.’

  When he turned she was stepping from a frothy moun-tain of petticoats. Monk gathered himself. There remained the corset. The rest would not be difficult.

  She gasped with relief from constriction as the unlacing progressed. And finally corset, white chemise, lace drawers, black silk stockings and garters lay scattered.

  ‘If I had the patience and time,’ whispered Monk, ‘I’d make you undress me.’

  Instead he stripped himself in seconds, and lifted her gen-tly back to the sofa.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘Much better in a warm room beside a fire.’

  Feargus O’Flaherty grunted, turned on his side and sniffed again. He felt sure that he had not been sleeping long. It could not be one of his dreams, he was certain, for he remembered the race, his aching legs and the hut. Nothing was going to make him leave the warmth of that bed; not for three more hours, anyway. But what was that blasted smell, which had not been there before? He opened his eyes reluctantly and looked across to the bed that Mostyn-Smith had been allocated. It was still empty. That greenhorn would probably walk all night. He’d need to if he was going to make a hundred miles. Grinning contentedly, the Irishman closed his eyelids and began to drift back to unconsciousness.

  Suddenly the warmth drained from his veins. His limbs tensed and he held his breath. In the hut he could distinctly hear the sound of breathing. And Mostyn-Smith’s bed lay undisturbed. O’Flaherty slowly lifted his head from the pile of clothes which served as a pillow and looked along the length of the bed towards the door, which was slightly open. His eyes swivelled to the right and left, but nobody was vis-ible. His head dropped heavily back on the pillow and he lis-tened again.

  The breathing was still there, more urgently now, and the smell had returned. But what made O’Flaherty’s eyes bolt wide in horror was a second sound, a powerful scratching on the stone floor, the unmistakable movement of something large, heavy and alive, steadily towards his bed. With a yell of fear the Irishman leapt upright on the bed-or almost upright, for in rising he crashed his head on the hut roof, groaned and collapsed. The young girl who had been detailed by Jacobson to scrub the hut screamed, jumped to her feet and bolted for the doorway, crashing over her pail of liquid carbolic as she went. O’Flaherty lay dazed and groaning. When he recovered enough to open his eyes again they focused on a scrubbing-brush lying in a pool of carbolic. He crossed himself, swore violently and bundled the bedclothes over his shivering body and head.

  Sam Monk returned to the Hall before four and hur-ried to the restaurant.

  ‘What did you want?’ asked the only other customer, who sat at the end of a long table with an empty cup and saucer in front of him. It was Chadwick’s man, Harvey.

  ‘Coffee. Is there anyone inside?’

  ‘Coffee’s all you will get. They’ve had a fire in there. Smell it?’

  Monk went through the service door and shortly emerged with a steaming mug. He sat with Harvey.

  ‘Now’s the time the cold really finds you,’ observed Harvey, conversationally. Monk was silent, sipping from his mug.

  ‘I can’t think why they chose November for this bloom-ing race,’ Harvey continued. ‘A God-awful month for any-thing. Some maniac fancied it would draw the public, I suppose. A good chance of racing being fogged off and they have to go somewhere.’

  Monk continued to brood, so Harvey tried again:

  ‘Of course, this place is a bad choice, if you want my opinion. A bloody bad choice. So big it is that you might as well be out in the open. Indoor sport, it’s called, and we sit here in blinking overcoats trying to keep our blood from freezing.’

  Monk was emerging from his reverie. He studied Harvey.

  ‘You’re with Chadwick, ain’t you?’

  Caution flickered across Harvey’s eyes.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My name’s Monk.’

  ‘I know. You’re Darrell’s trainer.’

  ‘I wanted to talk with you. This lick they set themselves today-it was bloody lunacy. They can’t keep at it like this for six days. They’ll burn each other off and leave the prize money to the second-raters.’

  Harvey evaded Monk’s eyes.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Look, I’m not new to this game. I’ve seen mixes before, mate. Your man’s as far gone as mine or I wouldn’t speak of it. Now I ain’t suggesting we fix the result-nothing like that. All I’m saying is that it’s bad tactics to throw everything into a six-day too soon. Hold your man steady and I’ll tell mine the same. It’s the only chance the poor buggers have.’ Harvey pushed his cup aside.

  ‘Sorry, chum. That’s not our way. If Darrell’s lame and can’t keep up, my guv’nor ain’t waiting for him. No deal. But I’ll give you some advice gratis. If you’ve backed Darrell heavy, get some rhino on my man, as he’s never been more certain of winning. Ah well, time I got him on the track again.’

  Elated by his display of loyalty, Harvey stood up, nod-ded to Monk, and made for the exit. From there he turned to watch the back view of the other trainer as he dispatched the coffee in gulps that visibly scalded his gul-let. Before Monk was on his feet Harvey slipped through the door.

  Monk roughly tugged the blankets from around Darrell’s shoulders.

  ‘Four o’clock, Charlie. Good rest?’

  Darrell moaned and lay inert.

  ‘Chadwick will be back on track in no time. Here, drink this. Make you stronger at once.’

  He lifted himself on to an elbow, and swallowed the trainer’s concoction. It tasted like no drink on earth, but he knew enough about Monk’s bracers to value their potency above their flavour.

  ‘Fill it up again. God, I need a livener.’

  Monk obliged, and began preparing the calf’s bladder covering for Darrell’s blistered heel. The runner was already reviving.

  ‘Where did you get to while I was sleeping? Get any rest yourself?’

  ‘I lay down a bit, but got no sleep to speak of,’ Monk replied candidly. ‘Now help me with this sock. Draw it slowly over the foot while I hold this in place.’

  In a short time Darrell was dressed in his racing-kit.

  ‘I talked with Harvey, Chadwick’s trainer,’ continued Monk. ‘Tried to get some agreement about the pace, but he’d have none of it. Bastard. My guess is that Chadwick will try to break you in the next twelve hours. He’ll push hard for as long as he can hoping you’ll pull up lame if you’re stretched.’

  ‘What’s your plan, then?’

  ‘No plan, Charlie. Forget Chadwick. Simply find a pace that’s comfortable and stick to it. If you fall behind, don’t try to raise a gallop. Keep your stride.�
�

  Darrell stood up.

  ‘I’m a sight sharper now, Sam. You’re a bloody wonder. Let’s get started, then.’

  He marched out to the starting-line, shouted to the lap-scorers that he was ready to go, and set off on his second long stint.

  Erskine Chadwick was on the track a few seconds later, the time that he had taken to groom his hair and moustache. He began at a run, stretching those stiff, lank legs into a vast stride which, coupled with the supe-rior expression on his face, suggested nothing so much as a runaway camel.

  CHAPTER 5

  The tracks now crunched under a dozen marching pairs of feet. Billy Reid, three hours in credit, looked ready to collapse at any moment. From time to time his eyes turned forlornly towards the hut where his brother contin-ued to sleep.

  ‘Didn’t like to disturb him, young’un,’ had said the old pedestrian who shared the hut. ‘I’d go over there and wake him if I was you. I never saw a man sleepin’ more peaceful. I feel a lot better meself. Uncommon comfy, them pallets.’ Feargus O’Flaherty had other comments to make about the sleeping arrangements as he toured the track with Williams and Chalk. By comparison with his newest experi-ence, his brushes with banshees paled into insignificance.

  ‘And there, as I live and breathe, was the spectre of death come to claim me for Purgatory. The smell it brought with it was all around me, stifling me. Holy Mother of God, how I prayed! And when I opened my eyes there was Death her-self, in the form of a woman, stealing up on me.’

  ‘Was that when you ’it the roof, Feargus?’

  ‘It was. I think that was how I saved my soul. I jumped up like an avenging angel, with a great shout of defiance, and she fled.’

  ‘Did you chase after ’er?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘Was she a shapely woman?’ Williams inquired. ‘I think I might surrender my ’oly soul when she visits me.’

  ‘God forgive you, Williams!’ O’Flaherty snarled at the Half-breed. ‘The man who jokes of death risks his own sal-vation.’

  Duly chastened, Williams altered his approach:

  ‘What did your little room-mate do while this was going on?’

  ‘Double-Barrel? I saw nothing of him.’

  ‘ ’Iding under ’is bloody bed, I reckon.’

  ‘Not at all. He didn’t come in to the hut for rest or sleep. So far as I can tell he was out here blistering his little feet all the while.’

  The three pedestrians regarded Mostyn-Smith, whose steady march continued, with some interest. Unlike Reid, the other invader of the small hours, he showed little sign of fatigue. The stride was as easy and precise as it had been hours before. While others were sleeping he had lapped the track twenty-eight times.

  On the inner circuit, unexpected things were happening. Charles Darrell was a revitalised force, cantering through his laps at a faster rate than anyone else in the race. His blis-tered foot might not have existed. Even Sam Monk, the advocate of uninhibited running, stood with a towel waving Darrell down, appealing to him to ease the pace. But with a sweep of his hand the runner blazened defiance. It was not clear whether his exuberant display was calculated to upset Chadwick’s poise, but this it undoubtedly did. Whatever form he assumed Darrell’s running would take, Chadwick had not expected to surrender the initiative. His decision of the previous day to break into a run had proved a useful tactic. It gave him psychological mastery. And the sight of Darrell hobbling to his tent that night convinced Chadwick that he could dictate events in future. Darrell would be con-tent to leave the thinking, the planning, the pacemaking to him; the poor fellow was committed by his weakened state to a strategy of straw-clutching.

  Now this cripple of three hours ago was completing his second mile in less than twelve minutes. Chadwick, by con-trast, was having to force his taut muscles to work. It was hard enough walking; raising a run was unthinkable. Twice Darrell had lapped him, and now he could hear the boots bearing down on him again. This time, as though to empha-sise his new role, Darrell spoke as he moved out to overtake. ‘Care to run a few laps with me? Easier that way.’

  ‘Not at present,’ Chadwick answered, between gasps.

  The infernal man was chopping his stride, talking over his shoulder.

  ‘We might make six hundred by Saturday if we share the pace,’ continued Darrell. ‘Settle the race in the final stages, but both beat the record.’

  Chadwick shook his head, but said nothing, and Darrell, after shrugging his shoulders and opening his arms expan-sively, cruised on ahead.

  The runners on the outer track were following these developments with interest. Williams spoke first.

  ‘What’s this? Charlie Darrell’s bloody swan-song, I reckon.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Obvious. He’s finished. Tryin’ to run Chadwick into the ground before ’e stops.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Chalk, from long experience, ‘Charlie ain’t the man to try that. Besides, ’e don’t look done in to me. ’E’s ’ad one of Monk’s bracers. That’s what’s ’appened to him. Two hours from now ’e’ll be creeping round like the rest of us. Mark my words.’

  O’Flaherty was sceptical.

  ‘It’s bloody early in the race to be touching that stuff. I’ve got a pick-me-up for myself, but I shan’t let it pass my lips before Thursday.’

  Williams rarely let an opportunity pass.

  ‘Sure you didn’t take it as a night-cap, Feargus, before you saw the spook?’

  The Irishman lashed out with an arm, but Williams had once earned his living as a pugilist, and ducked neatly.

  In the boardroom, Herriott and Jacobson were review-ing the first day’s takings, which amounted to a little over?260.

  ‘It could be a deal worse, Walter. With the?170 we took in entries we’ve already covered the hire of the Hall. Monday and Tuesday are never good days in these affairs. Astley reckons to double his receipts on the third and four days, and then double them again for the last two.’

  ‘There’s still two and a half thousand in expenses to cover,’ Jacobson reminded him. ‘If Darrell doesn’t blow up we ought to get good reports in the Press. But the moonstruck idiot is on the track now, spurting like a harrier. He’ll never keep going, Sol. He wasn’t a sound investment.’

  Herriott exhaled noisily.

  ‘One moment, Walter. You’re the manager of this race, and you are responsible to me for seeing that it proceeds successfully. I picked out two of the best men in England, on good advice-the dregs and lees don’t concern us-and I’ve staked a fortune on this promotion. You’-and he laid a fat finger on Jacobson’s sleeve-‘will see that Darrell doesn’t drop out. He runs till Saturday, or walks, or crawls. Understand me?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ answered Jacobson, ‘but you understand this, Sol. I agree I’m responsible for all the arrangements. I’ve appointed teams of judges and scorers who are working well in difficult conditions. I’ve spent weeks over preparations- printing, advertising, hiring officials, contractors for the stand, gate-keepers, commissionaires, police-’

  ‘All right, Walter. You’ve done well up to now-’

  ‘And there have been belts and medals to prepare, and all the entries to sift. That was my work, and it’s done, even if I knew nothing of pedestrianism before last June. What’s been your contribution, Sol?’

  ‘Three thousand pounds of my money, among other things.’

  Months of stifled resentment were inflaming Jacob-son now.

  ‘Well, I can tell you what those other things are. Press interviews and escorting lady visitors-and one other duty that you insisted on. That was the right to choose the main contestants. And you, Sol, you chose Darrell.’

  Herriott was shaking, partly from shock, partly anger.

  ‘Damn it, Jacobson, I’m not a blasted clairvoyant.’

  ‘I take your point. But nor am I a scapegoat for your mis-taken judgements. I’ve said enough. We’ve never had a wry word in all the years we’ve known each other.’

 
Herriott stood to pour sherry. His hands still trembled.

  ‘You are right. I spoke out of place and I apologise. I think we have both been on duty here too long.’

  It crossed Jacobson’s mind that Herriott had spent all of the previous evening out of the building, but he said no more.

  ‘I shall hold myself responsible if anything goes wrong with Darrell-or Chadwick, for that matter,’ Herriott con-tinued. ‘But you, if I may say so, are on better terms with the training fraternity than I am. I should appreciate it, Walter, if you would have a word with Darrell’s man-Monk, I think he’s called-and find out what game they’re at.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  Herriott handed a glass of sherry to his manager.

  ‘Things should go better today. The band report at ten. I’m told they’re more noted for their vigour than the melody they produce, but they may help us to believe we’re feeling warmer.’

  ‘I hope they inject some life into the runners on the outer path,’ added Jacobson. ‘No one expects a broken down old cabber to go like a racehorse, but some of them look ready for the knacker.’

  AT 5.30 A.M. Francis Mostyn-Smith returned to the track after a cat-nap of thirty minutes. He resumed his walk a few yards in front of O’Flaherty’s group, and the Irishman, as usual, slapped the little man’s shoulder.

  ‘That wouldn’t have been you sneaking back from the huts, now would it? I thought we were a man short on this track. You can’t sleep all day, mate.’

  Mostyn-Smith opened his mouth but they were already too far ahead to hear his reply. So he waited until they approached him to overtake again, but this time side-stepped smartly to his right so that they could pass inside, without the back-slapping. And as they came level, he addressed them.

  ‘You noticed the refreshing smell of carbolic in our hut, I hope, O’Flaherty. I managed to arrange with the manage-ment for our floor to be scrubbed each evening. It gives us a great advantage.’