Wobble to Death

CHAPTER 17

Cribb was in earnest. For the first time since Thackeray had known him he was running-along the covered way lead-ing from the Hall to Islington Green and Upper Street. And he was nimble on his feet. Although the oncoming crowds were too dense for his long legs to be of much use, the sergeant was adept at switching direction. Street vendors cluttered the cor-ridor- match-sellers, sherbet-girls and piemen-surrounded by clusters of people. Cribb zigzagged ahead until Thackeray lost sight of his nodding bowler. In Upper Street the sergeant had whistled a hansom, stated his destination and climbed in before Thackeray lumbered up. He held out a hand and hauled his breathless assistant aboard. The driver pulled his lever, the knee doors closed, and they were away.

The cabby had been promised double pay if he made good time. The vehicle lurched alarmingly as the horse was whipped towards Islington High Street. Inside, the two fares were jostled too much for a prolonged conversation.

‘What if he ain’t there?’ Thackeray managed to get out.

‘Too bad. We must take the chance,’ Cribb answered. ‘Reckon he’ll make for a station after he’s been home.’

There was no vehicle to compare with a hansom in slipping through streets thick with traffic. Soon they were rattling south along Goswell Road towards St Bart’s, worming between growlers, buses, drays and barrows that loomed out of the patchy fog. The experience must have been unnerving even for the driver-and he was in the safest position, perched high at the rear. Thackeray gripped the handrail until his knuckles whitened. He tried to focus on the horse’s back rather than the obstacles hurtling towards them through the mist.

The hospital, a taller, darker mass, appeared ahead. The cab turned, its chassis groaning in protest, into Old Street. ‘There’s the pub!’ shouted Cribb, above the racket of hooves and wheels. He looked up through the glass trap in the roof, but the cabby was already steering across the road towards ‘The Three Ships’. How they escaped collision with a knifeboard bus being drawn at speed from the other direction, neither passenger knew.

‘Wait here, for God’s sake!’ the sergeant called out as they jumped to the pavement and crossed to the entrance. Idlers around the door looked up in surprise at the urgent com-mand. Somebody obviously needed his drink.

The public bar was doing a brisk trade for a Saturday. As Cribb weaved a route to the counter there were several half-formed threats, but something about his manner cut them short. Thackeray remained at the door; Cribb’s figure was better suited to side-on progress than his.

‘One moment, landlord.’

Cribb’s voice was more insistent than any of the pleas around him for refills.

‘Sir.’

‘Police business. You’ve a man living over these premises, I believe.’

The licensee was a pale, rabbit-like man. He almost dropped a full glass at hearing Cribb’s announcement.

‘That’s right, guv’nor. Mr Jacobson. I haven’t seen ’im for a day or two.’

‘Not at all today?’

‘No guv. But I’m busy, as you can see. He may be up there now, for all I know. The door’s round the back. Up the iron staircase.’

Cribb forced a passage towards the back exit and found the stairs. He was up them three at a time, and knocked hard at the frosted window, trying to peer through. There was no reply. Instinct told him Jacobson was not inside hiding. He clattered down, ran across the yard and round to the front of the building, surprising Thackeray by opening the bar door and hauling him outside.

‘Not there.’ Cribb was at a loss.

Putting his unhappy morning out of mind, Thackeray acted with inspiration. Twenty yards up the street, at the entrance to another bar, was a barrel organist, playing a gen-uine shoulder-instrument supported on a pole. The consta-ble barked in his ear, above the wheezing intake of air and ‘Champagne Charlie’.

‘D’you see a man call a cab out here this last half-hour? Probably carried a case.’

‘Eh?’ The musician inclined his head to Thackeray, con-tinuing to turn his grinding-handle.

Thackeray repeated the question, and produced a coin from his pocket. It was an instant aid to the man’s hearing. ‘Quarter of an hour back I saw the gent from upstairs come down with a case. Couldn’t get no ’ansom. Took a four-wheeler ’e did.’

‘Did you hear where he was making for?’ bellowed the constable, slipping the hand into his pocket again.

‘Matter o’ fact I did.’ The organist waited until the sec-ond coin was in his hand. ‘The station, ’e said. Fenchurch Street. Reckon ’e was going east.’

They turned to their cab. The driver was by the horse, chatting with a passer-by and swinging his arms for warmth. ‘Right driver!’ Cribb called imperatively. ‘Fenchurch Street-and get this beast at the gallop!’

They clambered aboard. The whip cracked above their heads and the pursuit began anew. A right turn into City Road and a long, hard chase towards Moorgate. By the Artillery Barracks they had to swerve to miss a cat’s meat barrow parked at the roadside. The road was badly pot-holed. If the horse had stumbled anywhere the detectives would have been pitched straight out of the front. But the cabby kept up the reckless canter, even encouraging the ani-mal with bloodcurdling bellows. Police, the passengers had said they were. They should have their gallop.

The City was quiet, or he would never have taken them down past the Bank and up Lombard Street. But the fog was thicker here and in the narrower street he had to rein and come into line behind a coal cart. Its rate was agonisingly slow. At Lime Street he turned left and cantered between the tall buildings, taking a chance on the narrow passage being clear. Along Fenchurch Avenue, into Billiter Street, and they were back in Fenchurch Street, ahead of the cart. A wave of the whip, a shrieking turn, and they were in the station approach, rattling across cobbles.

‘We’ll be back!’ Cribb shouted. He sprinted into the booking-hall, darted his eyes across the scene, and made for the stairs. Thackeray was not far behind.

The main area of the station was almost deserted, but it was two or three minutes before they discovered this, for the fog had cut visibility to twenty yards or so.

There was only one train waiting, and that was not attracting many passengers.

‘Where’s this one bound for?’ Cribb asked a porter, neat in monkey jacket and corduroys.

Weighing up the sergeant as second-class, no more, the porter jerked his thumb at a board behind him and moved away.

‘Tilbury. Come on, Thackeray.’

They bustled past an indignant ticket collector with a peremptory ‘Police.’ Then they began checking the car-riages, small, four-door affairs with oil lamps alight inside them. It was not a long train, and in three minutes they were by the hissing tank engine.

‘Got away, Sarge,’ Thackeray sighed, producing a hand-kerchief to mop his forehead.

‘When did the last train leave?’ Cribb shouted to the driver and fireman, who leaned in some interest from their cab.

‘From this platform, you mean-’ began the driver. ‘Hey! Git off that bloody line!’

But Thackeray was away. He had glimpsed a fast-moving figure on the opposite platform and taken the straighter route in that direction. He clambered up the other side and set off in pursuit. His speed was a revelation.

Cribb too bolted along his platform, wishing he had a police-rattle to sound the hue and cry. Thackeray was out ahead on the other side of the train, but Cribb could not see whether he was gaining on the runaway figure. He reached the ticket barrier and brushed past the irate official in time to see the constable still running hard. An instant later the fog swallowed him.

Cribb made for the same direction. Ahead, he heard the constable thudding down the stairs towards the booking-hall. Then a shout and the sound of someone falling. A scuf-fle ahead, and two figures wrestling at the foot of the stairs. ‘Lay off him, Thackeray,’ Cribb ordered, when he was near enough to assist.

‘All right-I’ll give no trouble.’ The voice was Jacobson’s. ‘The money’s all here in the case.’

‘Must have lain low as we walked past his carriage, Sarge. I saw him getting up on the other platform,’ explained Thackeray with some pride.

‘As pretty a piece of arresting as I’ve seen. Fine work, Thackeray. Now, Mr Jacobson. We’ll get you back to the Hall, I think. I’d like to see who’s winning that race.’

Cribb did not get back to Islington as early as he planned. Jacobson’s arrest made certain formalities neces-sary. The prisoner was taken to a police station and charged with theft. And after a long wrangle it was conceded by the local force that Cribb should take custody of Jacobson. Then the detectives sat down to their first meal since break-fast. By seven o’clock that evening they were ready to return.

The drive to the Hall with Jacobson was reassuringly sedate. Cribb hired a ‘growler’ and ordered the driver to take his time-a superflous instruction as things turned out. In the City even the street-lamps were obscured by the fog. Drivers of hansoms were compelled to walk leading their horses. Nothing could move at a faster rate than they dictated. The delays greatly disturbed Thackeray. More than once he got down from the four-wheeler and strutted along the line of traffic in front, looking for a cause of the hold-up.

‘We’ll be deuced lucky to make the Hall by ten, at this rate,’ he complained as he climbed aboard again.

Cribb was disturbingly serene. His usual sense of urgency was absent and this made Thackeray uneasy. The constable had relished Jacobson’s capture as a taste of action after days of patient questioning. But had it helped the main inquiry? Wasn’t it just a diversion, like Harvey’s sabotage of O’Flaherty, that the local force should have dealt with?

Jacobson sat in silence, staring through Cribb. He did not want to talk, and the sergeant made no approach. But his presence was inhibiting. If he was a vital witness, or the killer-and why else should they take custody of him? — it would be disastrous to discuss the case. So Thackeray per-sisted in his agitated excursions while the others waged silence on each other.

The carriage reached Islington High Street a few minutes after nine o’clock. The isolating barrier of fog had muffled all sound, but now there was shouting immediately outside. The carriage halted on the fringe of an ugly, jostling mob. Cribb opened the door with difficulty, settled the fare, and, taking a tight grip on Jacobson’s upper arm, guided him towards the Hall entrance. But it was there that the crowd was converging. They were people who had been refused admittance. Every seat, every standing place, a harassed offi-cial was trying to explain, was taken. Nobody else would be allowed in.

This was a challenge almost designed for Thackeray. He put thumb and forefinger between his teeth and produced a whistle worthy of the Regent’s Park parrot house. A police helmet could be glimpsed at the entrance, and Thackeray exchanged a signal with its wearer. Then, to surprisingly few protests, a passage was cleared from both sides of the crowd. Cribb, with his prisoner, and Thackeray with the prize money slipped through and into the Hall.

‘Get this man to the police office and see he’s kept there,’ Cribb ordered Thackeray at once. ‘And be discreet,’ he added, touching a finger to his lips. ‘I’ll return the money.’ ‘Who shall we see after that, Sarge?’ Thackeray asked. ‘There’s precious little time left.’

‘Don’t propose seeing anyone,’ Cribb told him, with a glance that infuriated him, it was so expressionless. ‘Not till after the race is over, any rate. There’s time to enjoy it, Thackeray. Chance to take a look at some pukka foot-racers- not station platform performers.’

The nine surviving competitors were certainly giving a lively performance. True to theatrical tradition they had reserved something for the last night. Three, Chadwick, Chalk and Mostyn-Smith, had decked themselves in new running-costumes, stored at the bottom of their portman-teaux with this evening in mind. Chadwick and Chalk wore blue; the Captain’s silk drawers were in his university colour, and the Scythebearer had put on a favourite jersey hooped in white and indigo. But Mostyn-Smith had undeniably scooped the fashion parade with a bright vermilion jersey and minimal orange knickerbockers over white tights.

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