Free Wobble to Death by Peter Lovesey Page A

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.

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