Wobble to Death (18 page)

There was no carnival costume for O’Flaherty. He had used the day grimly reducing the lead, yard by yard. With just over an hour left he was only a mile in arrears, but it was clear to experienced observers that the chase was futile. Chadwick had decided to pace himself through the last few hours in order to win; he was not interested in the distance he achieved. So he was performing at calculated intervals, running strongly for five or six laps and then stepping off the track to talk with friends or stand with hands on hips watching the others. He was in control of the race, and he intended it to be known.

Not many of the crowd appreciated the true position, and the cheering mounted hour by hour as the Scoreboard gave its information. The underdog was giving chase, and gain-ing steadily. On the stands boots thundered in unison until the building seemed to vibrate. The usual chanting and cat-calling was lost in breakers of cheering that rolled and boomed and crashed towards the track. At one end, the bandsmen might have been acting a mime for all but a small section of the crowd around them.

In the centre was Sol Herriott. He, too, had dressed to impress, in silk topper, white tie, white waistcoat and tails, the uniform of a music hall manager. He smiled expansively and continuously, his composure restored by Cribb’s recov-ery of the prize money. He was supervising, in a perfunctory way, the erection of a presentation stand. It was a pity he could not now delegate the task to Jacobson, but he enjoyed being in the centre, and the workmen seemed capable enough.

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

CHAPTER
18

‘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.’

Herriott was encouraged by Cribb’s silent attention.

‘When I refused to pay him, he began to threaten me. Perhaps you got him to admit this?’

He looked hopefully at Cribb, but there was no response. After mopping his forehead with a handkerchief, Herriott continued.

‘He tried to make me believe that you had to make an arrest for the murders, and you’d grab the first man you could. He talked about the bad reputation of the old Detec-tive Branch, and the corruption that came to light in the Home Office inquiry. Of course, I dismissed such specious rubbish. I’ve always found the police entirely honourable.’

He flashed an ingratiating smile at the detectives.

‘And then,’ he went on, ‘Jacobson made me understand what he was threatening. He knew I’d been out on the evening before Darrell died. He said he would fabricate a story that I had been dining with Mrs Darrell. He demanded money from me, made me open the safe. So I was forced to pay him. I don’t need to tell you what happened after that, do I?’

He groped for the gin bottle and refilled his glass.

At last Cribb broke his silence.

‘You say you respect the police. Why pay up?’

‘Lost my head,’ admitted Herriott. ‘Panicked.’

‘You know Mrs Darrell socially. What’s so incriminating about a dinner out with her? I’ve heard her talk of you as an old friend.’

‘People misconstrue things, Sergeant.’

‘Then it’s up to you to speak the truth, ain’t it?’ snapped Cribb, animated at last. ‘Look, I know that you
were
with Cora Darrell that evening. You told me you dined alone at the London Sporting Club. I checked there this morning, and they hadn’t seen you for a fortnight. Then I got the truth from Cora Darrell. You’re full of lies, aren’t you? You told us Jacobson had robbed you, when you’d just paid him off to silence him. You had your reasons for keeping quiet about that dinner date with Cora, didn’t you?’

Herriott had disintegrated as rapidly as his story. He was deathly pale, and trembling.

Cribb pounced.

‘What made you sign the poison register in an assumed name?’

For a moment the question stunned Herriott. Cribb pro-duced a sheaf of papers from his inner pocket and tossed them on to the desk.

‘These are all reports on sales of strychnine—’

Herriott snatched one up.

‘No! By God! You can’t have found . . .’ He checked him-self. ‘Which poison register? What do you mean?’

Cribb was completely in control.

‘If you want me to produce the dispenser who served you . . .’

Even Thackeray’s eyebrows jumped at this. For Herriott it meant capitulation. He sunk his face into his hands.

‘It’s all over!’ he mumbled. ‘All over. Why couldn’t you have stayed out of this? It’s only because of you Monk had to go. If you had kept your nose out of it I’d never have had to finish him. He’s on my conscience, and he should be on yours, too. Bloody Darrell got what he deserved. Monk was different.’

Thackeray was writing furiously in his notebook.

‘Never mind Monk,’ snapped Cribb. ‘Why did you poi-son Darrell? You did that for Cora, didn’t you?’

Herriott acknowledged this with a slight gesture of his hand, and then covered his eyes again.

Cribb continued.

‘You met her in the weeks before the race, while you were watching Darrell’s breathings at Hackney. And when she flashed her pretty eyes your way, you saw an invitation in them, didn’t you? But being the man you are, you held back. You’re no philanderer, Mr Herriott, whatever else you might be.’

Herriott’s bowed head registered nothing.

‘I dare say she told you her story during those weeks,’ Cribb went on,‘—a snatch here and there as she made some excuse to exchange a few words with you. And you swallowed it all—misunderstood wife, bullying brute of a husband.’

The twitch of Herriott’s shoulders confirmed Cribb’s account.

‘But Cora miscalculated. She got your sympathy. Got dined out on it while her husband was foot-slogging last Monday night. But she didn’t know you were planning on marriage—once her brute of a husband was neatly boxed up and six feet under. She didn’t know you were the scrupulous sort, Mr Herriott—a man that wouldn’t take another man’s wife while that man was still alive. She couldn’t have known you’d already bought the strychnine.’

Herriott looked up.

‘That’s right. She had no part in the plan. She knew noth-ing—’ He laughed grimly. ‘She knew as little of me as I knew of her. It took Jacobson to tell me what sort of crea-ture she really is—too late, of course. It seems she gives her-self to anyone she fancies when her husband is racing.’

‘But you really believed she wanted to marry you?’

Herriott nodded.

‘I was completely taken in. Believe me, last Monday evening was the first time we’d ever dined alone. But I’d already planned to release her from this misery that she described. I wasn’t going to say anything to her, though.’ He sighed. ‘It all went wrong, of course. I doctored Darrell’s tonic that night. I’d sent Jacobson away to get a change of clothes, after he’d ruined his suit in the fire. Monk was out of the Hall. I slipped into Darrell’s tent and tipped the poi-son into the bottle. I thought Darrell wouldn’t touch it until he was exhausted, in the last days of the race. Instead he took it that second morning. He was dead in no time at all.’ Cribb nodded and took up the narrative.

‘We didn’t put it down to tetanus or heart failure, so your plan went wrong. You had to provide us with a culprit. Monk was the obvious choice. But how did you force him to write the note?’

‘There was no force in it, Sergeant. It was pure luck. He was an illiterate, man, you know. When he thought that tetanus was the cause of death he felt responsible. He shouldn’t have let Darrell run barefoot, you see. So he asked me to help him write a note to Cora. Afterwards, I saw that it made a perfect suicide note.’

‘And you fixed him at night, after Jacobson had left him in the hut?’

‘Yes. I could walk about the tents and huts as a matter of routine. But even that went wrong. I shouldn’t have stunned him. You would never have known. But you did find out— and the rest is a nightmare.’

‘Jacobson, you mean?’

‘That bloody idiot! Yes. He unknowingly stumbled on the one thing that could incriminate me—my evening with Cora Darrell. I was ready to pay anything to keep you from investigating that relationship. So I opened the safe, and he took what he wanted.’

‘What made you report it as a theft?’

‘What else could I do? The runners had to be paid tonight. If there was no money they’d have been on me like starving hounds. I gave Jacobson a reasonable time to escape, and then informed you. I couldn’t announce at the last minute that the money had been taken. That’s been tried before, and you know what happens. I don’t believe they’d have left one brick of this Hall standing, and God knows what they’d have done to me. I hoped that if the word got round in time, the story of theft might be believed. Jacobson might have got clean away, and I could have paid off the debts later. As you know, it didn’t happen like that.’ Herriott slumped, exhausted, over the desk.

‘Come on Thackeray,’ said Cribb. ‘We’ll get him down to the local station. He needs a rest—even if it is in a cell. What’s the time? Before midnight is it? Just made it in the six days.’

‘I’d like to know how you got Jacobson to talk,’ said Thackeray. He and Cribb were being transported out of Islington by hansom.

‘Jacobson? Never said a word.’

Thackeray was incredulous.

‘Well if he didn’t, whatever led you to Herriott, Sarge?’

‘Process of elimination,’ Cribb declared. ‘Why should anyone kill a man like Darrell—good runner, popular celebrity?’

‘For profit, I thought,’ admitted Thackeray.

‘That was the first possibility. Someone with a lot to win on the race. But look at the suspects. Chadwick? He expected to win. Didn’t need to kill the opposition.’

‘That’s true, Sarge. But Darrell went ahead, and surprised him proper. Chadwick could have decided to poison him after that.’

‘Not so,’ said Cribb. ‘He wouldn’t have had the strych-nine ready. Couldn’t have walked into Darrell’s tent, come to that. Now Harvey—’

‘
He
was a worried man,’ said Thackeray. ‘He would have killed, I’m sure.’

‘Might have,’ agreed Cribb. ‘He wanted watching. Could have had some strychnine with him too, as a tonic for Chadwick.’

‘What made you discount him, then?’

‘The second murder. Monk’s note. Man like him couldn’t get Monk to write his own suicide note. Harvey didn’t get on with Monk.’

‘All right. It couldn’t have been Harvey. What about Jacobson? He was a man in plenty of financial trouble.’

‘Couldn’t get a bet on, though. Every bookie in London knew he was in debt. No profit for him in killing Darrell. That’s why he had to blackmail Herriott.’

Thackeray was convinced.

‘You don’t need to go through the other suspects, Sarge. You was left with Herriott and Cora Darrell. Cora wanted to keep her husband.’

‘Good. You realised that,’ Cribb congratulated him. ‘Her story rattled like this old hansom. In all the lies she told— and there were plenty—one fact shone through. Her fury at Darrell’s death, whatever the cause. He was just coming into the big money. Star billing. She didn’t want him killed.’

‘Why did she cover up so much, then, Sarge?’

‘Understandable,’ said Cribb. ‘Lonely wife takes a lover or two. Don’t look so good when husband gets murdered, does it? Scandal, Thackeray. Powerful force. Could ruin a woman’s chance of remarrying. People have lively imagina-tions where philanderings are concerned. So I was left with Herriott, and then it had to be a crime of passion, you see. Profit couldn’t be the motive. We found out from the maid that Cora dined out that Monday with someone. Cora tried to cover up with a false story, so it had to be someone we would know. That had to be Herriott—the only man out of the Hall that evening. It was—I confirmed that by checking on their stories. But it still wasn’t proof of murder. I needed a confession.’

‘But you had the report in from the place where he bought the strychnine,’ Thackeray pointed out. ‘That was evidence enough.’

‘Pure bluff,’ said Cribb. ‘Still got no idea where the stuff came from. It broke him, though, didn’t it?’

The cab turned into the street where Thackeray lived. Before climbing out, the constable addressed a final ques-tion to Cribb.

‘If you knew it was him, Sarge, why didn’t you confront him earlier? We might all have got home before now.’

‘That would have ended the race too soon. Done the peds out of their money.’