‘The end one. In front of the wash-place. Smelt it when I was there a few moments back.’
‘Very well. I’ll take a walk that way in a moment.’
O’Flaherty nodded and returned to the track. Chadwick had still not appeared, so he set off at a jog-trot. At this rate he might cut back the eight miles by Friday.
Jacobson consulted his watch, and nodded to Chadwick as he made his appearance. Then he strolled away towards the hut the Irishman had indicated. Only when he was a few yards away did his lethargic thought- processes seize on the significance of that particular hovel. He hurried towards the closed door. The whiff of gas was strong around it. The door was stiff, and he used his shoulder. As it swung inwards, an outrush of gas hit his face as firmly as a baize drape. He drew back for air, gulped, and stumbled inside.
Sam Monk’s body lay where Jacobson had last seen it, inert on the bed. The gas-ring and the lamp were hissing into the darkness. He silenced them and quit the place, hun-gry for air. The glimpse he had taken of Monk’s appearance told him it would be futile to try to revive him.
His mind seething with half-realised conclusions, Jacobson ran to the constable seated outside Darrell’s tent, and alerted him. The Law took over.
‘You say O’Flaherty first noticed the gas?’
Sergeant Cribb questioned Jacobson as they approached the hut containing Monk’s body.
‘Yes. That was a few minutes after four.’
‘And you opened up?’
‘I did. The gas reeked all round the hut. You can still smell it, can’t you?’
Cribb sniffed, and grimaced.
‘You had to force the door?’
‘Well, it was stiff. I put my shoulder to it.’
They stepped inside. The sergeant bent over the body to examine it. Jacobson swung the door back and forth, encouraging a draught. When it was safe, he lit the lamp.
‘There’s something written here,’ he said, taking up a sheet of paper from the top of the bedside cupboard. He handed it to Cribb, who replaced it on the cupboard with-out glancing at it.
‘Whisky,’ he said, finally standing up.
‘Oh yes,’ Jacobson confirmed. ‘The man had been imbib-ing heavily. I brought him back here about half past ten last night. He was drunk all right.’
The sergeant was interested.
‘You brought him, Mr Jacobson?’
‘Well yes.’ The manager hesitated. ‘Mr Herriott asked me to. Monk was getting in the way. There was a lady. Mrs Darrell. I think Mr Herriott wanted Monk where he could cause her no embarrassment.’
‘So you brought him here?’
‘Yes. He was far gone, Sergeant. You can see that by his features now. The drink has left him rosy- faced.’
Cribb shook his head.
‘Symptom of gassing. Was he conscious, would you say?’ ‘I suppose so. He was depressed, though. When I brought him in he just sank back on to the bed.’
‘Did you turn on the gas?’ Cribb was examining the piece of paper as he spoke.
‘No. I’m sure of that. I simply brought him in, watched him fall on to the bed and left.’
Cribb grunted, apparently accepting the statement. His eye picked out the ventilator, a small outlet which worked by a shutter mechanism. It was closed.
‘Pretty little suicide, eh?’ he said to Jacobson. ‘Gas soon fills a poky shack like this. Much cleaner than a wrist-slash-ing. This note …’
‘Yes?’ Jacobson was feeling relieved that there was a note. Events might have been interpreted to his disfavour otherwise. ‘You’ve read it?’
Jacobson shook his head, and Cribb obliged by reading it aloud, in the dull intonation traditionally used by police in giving evidence.
‘ “This is to show how sorry I am. I did not mean him to die. Samuel Monk”.’
‘His conscience killed him, then,’ commented Jacobson. ‘Poor fellow. I don’t know whether I myself could have car-ried on living after making the tragic mistake that he did.’
Cribb ignored this. He began feeling into the dead man’s pockets.
‘The note wasn’t here when you brought him in?’
‘Certainly not.’ Jacobson was puzzled.
‘You think it was written after that?’
‘Well, I assume it must have been.’
‘Capable of writing, was he?’ Cribb snapped at him.
Jacobson pursed his mouth irritably.
‘You’ve got the note there, Sergeant, so he must have been. I presume you will identify it as Monk’s handwriting.’ ‘You see the shutter there,’ Cribb continued. ‘Closed. Was it closed when you were here?’
‘I really cannot remember,’ protested the manager. ‘But if a man wanted to gas himself he would hardly leave a venti-lator open, now would he?’
Cribb was too taken up with the details of Monk’s death to crush this sarcasm. He said nothing more to Jacobson for a full minute.
‘Am I wanted any longer?’
‘Thank you. No.’
When Jacobson left, Cribb was on his knees, feeling the floor below the bed.
The news was not long in circulating. Cribb’s sudden arrival was noted, and Jacobson’s agitated comings and goings confirmed an occurrence of some importance. Far from concentrating on their event with the single- minded-ness legendary among athletes, the Islington trampers fol-lowed every movement within their range of vision. Tedium was a worse menace than distraction in this form of compe-tition. So when a stretcher was carried from the huts past the track the identity of the covered burden was generally known.
‘Monk done the proper thing,’ was Chalk’s verdict. ‘If a trainer tips bloody poison into a man’s drink ’e’s got no right to go on.’
‘Bugger ’ad a better ending than Charlie Darrell, come to that,’ Williams added. His rest had helped his feet consider-ably, and he was walking normally now. ‘Poor old Charlie. Why bloody Chadwick didn’t get it I don’t know. That nob’s set to take the bloody monkey now, and ’e never had the beatin’ of Darrell.’
‘O’Flaherty’s ’ot after him. There ain’t ten miles in it and Feargus is no small beer when there’s something to go for,’ Chalk observed hopefully.
‘Beat Chadwick? The day O’Flaherty does that I’ll swim the bloody channel.’
Chalk did not pursue the point. He was not quick-witted at his best, but even he could detect some professional jeal-ousy here. Fortunately a fresh arrival provided distraction.
‘ ’Ullo. Crushers arriving in force now,’ he commented, watching Thackeray’s advance on the hut, where Cribb was still at work. ‘I’ll tell you something about that one, mate. Master of disguise, ’e is. See them great feet of ’is and that belly? You wouldn’t credit that ’e’s been running on this path, now would you? Double-barrel reckons ’e goes round with him at night-’
A guffaw from Williams broke in.
‘You believe that? ’Im pussy-footing it with Double-barrel? What’s ’e supposed to be up to for God’s sake? That’s the only thing we ain’t got chasing round this bloody ring-a bobby on ’is beat!’ He continued to enjoy the prospect so heartily that Chalk gave up entirely.
Inside the hut where Monk’s body was found, Cribb was grappling with blankets on the floor when Thackeray arrived.
‘Come on, man. Help me get this lot back on the bed,’ he said, a little breathlessly. ‘Had to have ’em off. Checking. Heard about Monk?’
‘I came as quick as I could, Sarge. Looks as if this ties it all up neat. Sad business, though.’
The two detectives between them deposited the blankets, and then themselves, on the bed.
