Wobble to Death sc-1

by Peter Lovesey

  The full blare of the band invaded the tent for an instant as the flap was drawn open. Walter Jacobson came in.

  ‘Forgive this intrusion. I should like to speak with you about the race, and I don’t wish to delay you. The matter is of some importance.’

  ‘Please sit down, then. Our furniture is sparse, but if you don’t object to sitting on the bed…?’

  Jacobson, ill at ease, fluttered his hand to decline the offer.

  ‘To come to the point, you will have heard of Mr Darrell’s tragic passing, and I think you will understand that this has thrown the whole future of the contest into uncertainty. We-that is, the management-would wish to continue with the race, providing that the participants feel able to go on.’

  Chadwick felt totally able, but feigned a moment’s decent hesitation.

  ‘Of course,’ he ventured, ‘one feels reluctant in these unhappy circumstances…’

  ‘Quite, quite. Do continue your meal, won’t you?’

  ‘However, as a military man,’ Chadwick added with an air of fortitude, ‘I learned to accept such things philosophically. And as an athlete I have trained my body to persevere, even when the mind protests. I think that poor Darrell would wish us to continue the race.’

  ‘I am so glad that you feel this way. I hope that your fel-low-competitors are equally resolute.’ Jacobson produced a large handkerchief and dusted the back of his neck. ‘What we now have to settle is how we rearrange the race.’

  Chadwick had prepared for this.

  ‘Yes. There was a good deal of interest in the duel between Darrell and me.’

  ‘We have a problem,’ Jacobson continued, ‘in that no sin-gle competitor seems worthy of consideration as your antagonist.’

  He paused, allowing Chadwick to savour the flattery.

  ‘If, for example, I nominated Williams, who holds second place by a small margin, he might be overtaken tomorrow by O’Flaherty, or even Chalk.’

  Suspicion dawned on Chadwick’s face.

  ‘So I have come to suggest,’ Jacobson said, speaking more quickly, ‘that instead of making the main contest a two-man race, we alter the conditions a little so that you are challenged by all-comers-which was in real terms always the case.’

  ‘But I do not exactly follow-’

  ‘In other words, we dispense with one of the tracks and all competitors run on the outer path, which is wider than the other.’

  Having delivered his dart, Jacobson paused to study its effect.

  Chadwick picked up a knife from the plate and held it poised on his fingers, pointing at Jacobson.

  ‘You are seriously suggesting,’ he said in a voice thick with menace, ‘that I appear on a track with the drunks and half-wits who are out there at the moment. Is that it, Mr Jacobson?’

  ‘Well-known pedestrians, many of them,’ Jacobson stam-mered.

  ‘Clowns or criminals, every one! Perhaps you aren’t aware, sir, that I hold the Queen’s Commission. I am not unused to dealing with the lower levels of society. I wouldn’t allow one of that rabble to clean my blasted boots!’ With an air of finality he snatched an orange that Harvey was holding and bisected it savagely.

  Jacobson selected his next words with care.

  ‘So I must now inform Mr Herriott that you are retiring from the contest?’

  ‘That is not what I said.’

  ‘But the effect of what you said is the same, Mr Chadwick. First, you have no rival left. Second, you refuse to appear with the antagonists who are nominated. The conclusion is obvious.’

  Chadwick was beginning to see he had no choice, but he continued to resist.

  ‘Nominate Williams and I shall permit him to share my path.’

  Jacobson played his ace.

  ‘I doubt that Williams or any of his fellows would risk stepping on the inner track. The doctors’ suspicion is that Mr Darrell died of tetanus, contracted when he ran barefoot on that very path. The ground may be contaminated.’

  Harvey had removed Chadwick’s boots and socks for air-ing purposes. The naked feet, resting squarely on the stone floor, were abruptly tilted so that only the heels remained in contact.

  ‘If I were to accept your proposal, and move to the outer path, I should expect some form of compensation. The sac-rifice, you see, would be all on my side. The benefit to the promotion and its public appeal would be immeasurable.’

  This was capitulation. Jacobson was delighted.

  ‘I think you may be confident that Mr Herriott will make some recognition of this sporting gesture. Shall I suggest fifty?’

  Chadwick reached for his socks.

  ‘Suggest a hundred and I’ll settle for that.’

  Jacobson nodded assent and turned to leave.

  ‘One more thing,’ said Chadwick. ‘You will arrange for this floor to be disinfected?’

  ‘At once.’

  Jacobson hurried away to secure Herriott’s agreement. It was quickly given, and when Chadwick rejoined the race at 12.30 p.m. he started on the outer circuit behind Billy Reid, whose brother had bullied him into resuming. On the other side of the track O’Flaherty and his friends were already devising tactics to ensure that Chadwick earned every penny of his hundred pounds.

  Later in the afternoon Sol Herriott was preparing a statement for the newspapers about the altered race-arrangements. He sat near the starting area on a mahogany chair taken from the boardroom. The grey tip of his cigar grew, fell and disintegrated on his pin-stripes. Officials prat-tling behind him did not break his concentration; the urgency of the task preoccupied him. If Wednesday morn-ing’s Press suggested that the promotion might collapse, the effect could be disastrous. He was composing a piece to present Chadwick’s move to the second track as a sensation. The whole venture would be given an impetus.

  In general, he had been pleased by the morning editions, which appeared too late to carry the news of Darrell. The careers of the main entrants were fully described, and much was made of the different backgrounds of Chadwick and Darrell. The remainder of the field had been referred to as ‘the huddled-up division’-a slighting reference to their accommodation-but otherwise the comments were flip-pant, but uncritical. Herriott had liked ‘the Boss of the Hippodrome’, and ‘that staunch sportsman’. If tragedy had not intervened, he would have enjoyed this day.

  One of the competitors, Reid, had twice tottered off course during the last hour, and fresh sawdust had been put down to mark the inner edge of the track. The rest, though, were in good shape. All of them now chose to walk, and the pace varied little from man to man. Chadwick undoubtedly showed the best form, but two knots of competitors contrived to impede him whenever he overtook. Chalk’s antics in cutting across the Captain’s path were hugely enjoyed, and Williams too delighted the crowd by dogging Chadwick’s steps for a full lap, aping the upthrust chin.

  This mood of mirth was cut short by the entrance of a woman in dark clothes, heavily veiled and accompanied by an elderly man. She crossed the track to speak to Herriott. After a word to Jacobson, who took over the Press release, Herriott led them to his office.

  ‘It was a great shock,’ he began, when they were seated.

  Cora Darrell had lifted her veil.

  ‘A wicked thing. Mr Herriott, may I introduce my father?’

  ‘McCarthy is my name.’

  He offered his hand. ‘It was good of you to send word so quickly of my son-in-law’s death.’

  He was mildly spoken, and dressed in a faded check over-coat. Repair-stitching showed on his shoes, which he had polished to a military standard.

  ‘I wish that we could have informed you when he first collapsed,’ Herriott answered, ‘but none of us suspected anything but cramp at that stage. After that, the attacks came so suddenly and so violently that we were totally taken up with his condition. The whole thing was over in less than two hours.’

  ‘These attacks,’ asked McCarthy. ‘Did they become steadily worse?’

  ‘I was not with him to the end,’ Herr
iott answered. ‘We had two doctors in attendance, and they told me that the attacks were in the nature of muscular spasms. He was con-scious until the last moments.’

  Cora covered her face, sobbing. Her father rested a hand on her arm.

  ‘The doctors,’ he said. ‘Could I see them?’

  ‘The doctor mainly concerned left to conduct the post-mortem examination at Islington mortuary. I shall be pleased to arrange a meeting later. The other doctor volun-teered his help. He is a competitor in the race-Mostyn-Smith. If you would care to meet him-’

  ‘Not if he is on the track at present. We should not inter-rupt his running again. Did either of the doctors venture an opinion of the cause?’

  ‘They said that tetanus was a possibility.’

  ‘Tetanus? You don’t get that running, do you? I thought it entered the body through a wound. Don’t soldiers get that? I’m sure it is due to dirty wounds.’

  Herriott looked down.

  ‘I’m sorry. I know very little-’

  ‘But I really don’t understand,’ McCarthy persisted. ‘My son-in-law apparently died in agony from a disease that has to infect the body through a wound.’

  ‘His feet,’ faltered Herriott. ‘The blisters had broken. There were cuts. He ran on the path without boots or socks.’

  Cora Darrell suddenly veered from passive grief to hys-terical anger.

  ‘Cuts! Open wounds! And he ran on them, over this filthy ground! What was his trainer doing, to allow this? Where is Sam Monk? What kind of trainer is he? Oh, Charlie, Charlie, he killed you. Monk killed you.’

  McCarthy, mumbling apologies, tried to calm his daugh-ter. But she controlled herself, pushing him away.

  ‘I demand to see Mr Monk. I am entitled to a proper explanation. Where is my husband’s trainer?’

  ‘I… don’t think you should see him today,’ Herriott answered. ‘Like you, Mrs… Cora, he is in a distracted state. He could give you no proper answers.’

  He remembered seeing Monk in the restaurant at lunch-time, drinking alone, and heavily. By now he would be in a stupor.

  ‘Mr Herriott is right, my dear,’ added McCarthy. ‘It would serve no useful purpose.’

  Cora was now calm, and spoke slowly.

  ‘We shall sue that man, for wicked negligence. And you, Sol. We are old friends, I know, but if I can prove that you are responsible in any way for Charles’s death, I shall sue. You and your ridiculous race robbed me of his love-my lawful right-for the last six weeks of his life.’

  ‘Now, Cora,’ protested her father, ‘you cannot-’

  ‘There are thousands of witnesses to the filth of this building,’ she continued, ignoring him. ‘Thousands, Sol. And if the law allows it, I’ll prove you responsible.’

  Herriott remained silent, stunned by the suddenness of the young widow’s attack. Cora had said all that she wanted and stood ready to leave. Her father formed an apology on his lips but only uttered a meaningless sound. Nodding awkwardly, he motioned Cora to the door and they left Herriott alone.

  That evening was not a comfortable one for Herriott. Although a fair crowd accumulated in the stands they were less animated than the band. The performers on the track gave a dreary show. Only Billy Reid provided occasional diversions by sitting, on strike, at the track-edge, while his brother’s appeals were taken up by those near by, ‘Go it, Billy! You’ve got ’em all beat, my beauty. Get up, Billy boy!’-until he roused himself for another laborious circuit. Mid-way through the evening Sam Monk awoke from a drunken slumber in the restaurant and tottered into the arena pestering the officials for money. Herriott cast about for Jacobson, but the manager, as usual, was elsewhere, and the job of evicting Monk had to be his own.

  Most of the audience had left and the pedestrians them-selves were starting to retire when Jacobson reappeared. With him were two strangers.

  ‘These gentlemen asked to meet you. They are from the police. Sergeant-er-’

  ‘Cribb-and Police Constable Thackeray. You are Mr Herriott, manager of this show?’

  ‘Promoter. Jacobson here is the manager.’

  ‘Very good. I am from the Detective Branch. Here to investigate the death of Charles Frederick Darrell. Pedestrian, I believe?’

  ‘Yes. But why-’

  ‘Doctors’ report came in tonight. He died of poisoning, sir. Enough strychnine in the corpse to put down a dray-horse. Where shall we talk?’

  The Pedestrian Contest at Islington

  POSITIONS AT THE END OF THE SECOND DAY

  C. Darrell (125 miles), and G. Stockwell (139 miles) retired from the race.

  WEDNESDAY

  CHAPTER 7

  The boardroom still contained the bedstead which had been installed there eighteen hours earlier. It now served as a coat-rack. When he was seated, Herriott offered cigars to the other three, lit one for himself (he badly needed it), and studied the policemen, envying their vitality at this late hour. Sergeant Cribb remained standing, tall, spare in frame, too spry in his movements ever to put on much weight. His head, which switched positions with a birdlike suddenness, was burdened with an overlong nose. He had compensated for this by cultivating the bushiest Piccadilly Weepers that Herriott had seen. These, and his heavy eyebrows, were deep-brown, flecked with grey. He looked in his forties.

  Jacobson asked, ‘What do you want us to do?’

  ‘Do, sir? Do nothing. Talk to us. That’s all.’

  Cribb fastened his attention on Herriott.

  ‘The late Mr Darrell-tell me what you can about him.’

  ‘I can’t say that I knew very much about him at all, poor fellow. A first-class distance runner-I had that on expert advice, or I’d never have matched him with Chadwick. He trained uncommon hard for this race. Looked a cert when I watched him at Hackney Wick. His trainer was the best in England-Sam Monk.’

  A nod to Constable Thackeray, who was busy with a notebook.

  ‘So you take him on. Give him any cash at this stage?’

  ‘That isn’t the practice. The prize money is generous enough. If Darrell won he would net five hundred, plus sidestakes.’

  ‘And if he didn’t?’

  ‘A hundred for second place. Fifty for third. The opposi-tion didn’t amount to much.’

  Cribb paused, while his assistant, a burly, middle-aged man with a fine grey beard, caught up with his note-taking. ‘This newspaper.’ He produced a copy of that day’s Star. ‘Read it?’

  ‘Some of it.’

  ‘The report on your affair?’

  ‘Yes. I read that.’

  ‘Substantially correct?’ asked Cribb.

  The pace of his questioning was straining Herriott, who faltered. The question was flashed at Jacobson.

  ‘The details are right, yes. Some of the allusions to Mr Herriott-’

  ‘No matter. Darrell takes the lead after six hours. Right?’ ‘Yes.’

  ‘Chadwick falls behind, and takes to running?’

  Jacobson nodded.

  ‘Not much resting till twenty-four hours are up?’

  ‘Only for light meals.’

  ‘Darrell’s wife-says here she visits him. He doesn’t stop?’

  It seemed a very long time ago. Herriott took over the answers.

  ‘I showed Mrs Darrell around the arena. She didn’t want to interfere with the running.’

  ‘You show her around? She wants to see his tent, I expect?’

  ‘I simply introduced her to some of the officials. She knows most of us. We didn’t look into Darrell’s tent.’

  Jacobson remembered. ‘Monk-that’s Darrell’s trainer- took Mrs Darrell in there.’

  The eyebrows jerked higher. ‘For long?’

  ‘Oh, not much longer than five minutes.’

  Constable Thackeray, finding the standing position awk-ward for writing, sat on the bed.

  ‘Then she leaves?’

  ‘As far as I can remember, yes.’

  Cribb ran his finger down the newspaper which he was holding.


  ‘The last hour. Darrell in poor shape. Foxing, is he?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Jacobson answered. ‘His feet were troubling him. He took off his shoes before the end. Several of the runners were limping.’

  ‘Monk attends him, I suppose? Gets him back in the tent at one o’clock?’

  ‘Yes. Most of the competitors chose to rest at that stage.’ ‘Now then.’ Cribb had dissected the report to his satis-faction, and tossed the paper in Thackeray’s direction. ‘Darrell comes out again. What time?’

  ‘Soon after four.’

  ‘How’s he looking?’

  ‘Very good at that stage,’ Herriott recalled. ‘He set off at a clinking pace. The feet seemed to have improved a lot.’

  ‘Erratic?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He seemed well in command, but full of energy.’

  Cribb’s face lit into a momentary smile.

  ‘Not surprising. Full of strychnine. Acts as a stimulant. The first spasm, now. When does that come?’

  ‘That would have been about six.’

  ‘Six. Is it now? Thought it might come earlier. Maybe the running makes a difference. Must check that.’

  He patted the tip of his nose several times with his index finger.

  ‘Time of death? No matter. I’ve got that.’

  Herriott took the opportunity of a lull in the interroga-tion to raise a point that was troubling him deeply.

  ‘Sergeant, this investigation. Does it mean that you will want me to cancel the race?’

  ‘Cancel? Whatever for? Keep it going, Mr Herriott. Keep it going as long as you can. Perfect for investigating a poisoning. Everyone’s here, you see. Might ask you to extend it into next week if I’m held up.’

  Neither Jacobson nor Herriott was equal at this hour to the sergeant’s style of humour, so he turned to other matters.

  ‘This man Monk. He’s the cove I’ve got to see.’

  ‘You won’t learn much from him,’ commented Herriott. ‘The man is drunk. He took to the bottle this afternoon, drinking alone. He seemed to be doing it with the idea of get-ting stoned out of his mind. He fell into a stupor eventually, and then woke up and made a scene out there in the arena. I hauled him over to a spare hut. He’s sleeping it off there.’