‘Should have noticed she didn’t deny it. Simply refused to answer the point.’
Thackeray nodded sheepishly.
‘No matter,’ said Cribb brightly, seeing that his criticism had been taken hard. ‘You think she had a visitor. That’s the main thing.’
Thackeray reacted at once.
‘Yes, and I fancy I know who it was.’
‘How’s that then?’
Cribb liked to affect ignorance with Thackeray. It brought out the constable’s best qualities, and often encour-aged a point worth taking up.
‘By deduction, Sarge.’
The back of Thackeray’s left hand, large and shaggy, appeared a foot in front of Cribb’s nose. Deduction meant points to Thackeray, and points required fingers.
‘Number one: the visitor comes at night between one and two and leaves two hours later. That looks heavy odds on someone from the race. Someone who had to leave when the runners took to bed and be back before they was off again.’
‘Good.’
‘Two: that don’t sound like a runner to me. Poor coves were too beat even on that first day to spend their rest hours visiting women. So it wouldn’t have been Darrell himself. Three: it must have been a trainer or a timekeeper. Everyone else could have taken other times off. Four: the timekeepers are too old for that kind of caper.’
‘You’re doing famously,’ admitted Cribb. ‘But you’ve only one finger left.’
‘Five: the one trainer connected with Cora was Monk. He showed her the tent that afternoon, and likely fixed the meeting then.’ He withdrew the fist triumphantly.
‘First-class,’ declared Cribb. ‘But tell me this. If Cora was sweet on Sam Monk why did she plan to sue? Long time since I saw a woman so roused against a man.’
Thackeray beamed in a superior fashion. Then he tapped his forehead.
‘The mind, Sarge. I fancy I knows a bit about the work-ings of a woman’s thoughts. Cora gets bored while Darrell trains, and looks about a bit. Probably takes a lover or two to while away the six weeks. Agrees to let Monk have his way on Monday night. Next day, Darrell drops dead. What’s a woman going to feel like? Feelings of guilt, I reckon, Sarge. That’s why she turned on Monk.’
‘Plausible,’ agreed Cribb, who had listened tolerantly.
The driver reined his horses. They were back in Liverpool Road, although it was barely recognisable in the conditions. In the street Cribb took up the conversation again.
‘I like your theory. Stands up well. Came to the same con-clusion myself. Different route though. Remember when we grilled Monk? He admitted he was with a lady that night. Must have been her.’
Thackeray snapped his fingers at this realisation, and the two detectives, confirmed in their conclusion, set their pow-ers of detection to finding the Hall entrance.
The contrast was extreme between the muffled trundling of carriage-wheels, ghost-like, in the foggy streets and the brassy din of the Hall band. The scene inside was highly animated. Most of the action, however, came from the bandleader and the crowd. The walkers- none of them could be described as anything else and sev-eral hardly merited that-moved mechanically around the circuit. The slightest alteration in the pace was at once taken up by sections of the crowd, who, amazingly, seemed entirely pleased with the entertainment. A trainer offering a sponge, or a competitor leaving the track for a few minutes produced gales of jeering and ribald com-ment. And the protagonists themselves moved on unper-turbed, incongruously drab beneath the flags and flickering chandeliers. Chadwick changed his clothes reg-ularly; the others too obviously ate and slept in their ‘rac-ing togs’, and had not used a razor or comb since they started.
There was noisy support for O’Flaherty, who had contin-ued with his extraordinary effort to overhaul Chadwick. The score-board, on which each man’s mileage was hung in numbered plates, now showed only four miles’ difference between them. Each time O’Flaherty overtook, the man concerned would move to his right, allowing the Dublin Stag to pass inside. Chadwick, of course, did not benefit from this assistance. In a day’s walking the ground gained in this way did not amount to much for O’Flaherty, but the annoyance that registered on Chadwick’s face from time to time was a great psychological fillip.
For a few minutes Cribb followed the race from the offi-cials’ entrance, with Thackeray yawning at his shoulder. Jacobson passed, and catching Cribb’s eye felt bound to speak.
‘It’s building up to a promising finish.’
‘Looks like it-if they make it.’
Jacobson chuckled.
‘Oh, they will now. Most of this bunch are old hands. They’re saving something for Saturday. They should sleep better tonight, because we’ve given them a hut each.’
‘Hm. Hope none of ’em leave the gas on.’
With a weak grin, Jacobson passed on through the crowd. Cribb addressed Thackeray, without looking away from the tired procession.
‘This goes on two more days, that’s all. Two days to find our killer. When this breaks up our chances are small.’
‘Nil, I’d say, Sarge.’
‘Got to narrow it down according to evidence. You know who we want, don’t you? Trouble is, fixing it in black and white for a judge and twelve. Tomorrow, Thackeray, I want you to check the Highbury business early. Then get every Force in London alerted. Every footloose copper. You know the routine. I want the poison books checked at each supplier in London. Get the instructions straight. Strychnine sold in any quantity this last six months. Must have a record of the name, date and amount. I need it by Saturday.’
The Pedestrian Contest at Islington
POSITIONS AT THE END OF THE FOURTH DAY
FRIDAY
CHAPTER 13
Francis Mostyn-smith had decided who the next victim would be. During his solitary circuits in the small hours of Friday he found time to contemplate the crimes. One could not hope to make deductions when the entertainment was at its height, with an ill-disciplined crowd and those lamenta-ble instrumentalists bombarding one’s ears. But at night, in an arena deserted by all but one official, concentration was possible.
He had not conclusively identified the murderer. That was more difficult than nominating a victim. He wondered about approaching the police officers with his information. In the morning they would be back in the Hall continuing their investigations. But something made him reluctant to do this. The sergeant in charge of the detective inquiry, the tall, sharp-eyed fellow, did not have the look of a sympa-thetic listener. His overweight assistant, who had been exhausted after that one lap of the track, might be more approachable, but probably lacked the intelligence to follow the argument. In all the circumstances it was best, Mostyn-Smith decided, to thwart the assassin himself. He would warn the victim.
O’Flaherty was soundly asleep, cooling his feet in Dublin Bay, when Mostyn-Smith entered his hut. When the reallo-cation of huts had been made at 1 a.m., O’Flaherty had agreed to move to the empty shack next to the one where Monk had been found. It was smaller than the other, but less draughty, and the bed was softer. The smell of carbolic was not so obvious, either. And Double-barrel had kept the hut at the opposite end of the row; he would have to find some-one else to pester.
It was 3.30 a.m. O’Flaherty was not one of those efficient sleepers who wake at precisely the required time. His brain was not attuned to regular sleep, and this may have accounted for it. But in one respect it was totally reliable; if anything should wake him before his chosen time he knew at once that he was being cheated of sleep.
