Thackeray nodded, hoping that he had.
‘When shall I report, Sarge?’
‘Time you’ve done that lot, better be tomorrow. I’m stay-ing on here an hour and that’s enough. Need to know who backs these wobblers. Interrogation, Thackeray. Patient questioning. After that I’ll be ready for a sleep. Never felt so tired.’
‘In here tomorrow?’ asked Thackeray.
‘This very spot, and early. Have to tackle the trainer again. Shake his story a bit if we can. You get off now, and look him up. Last I heard he was in the bar.’
Thackeray headed at a conscientious rate in that direc-tion, while Cribb ambled to the enclosure where the book-makers had their stands, among sellers of oranges, pies and humbugs. The afternoon was a slack period. Some bookies had reserved their spaces, and would return in the evening. Several though stood idly in small groups facing the crowd, who waited, like them, for the evening.
Cribb approached a pair who looked the senior represen-tatives present. He had recognised the shorter man, a stout, rubicund character, with a fine growth of whiskers about the mouth and chin.
‘The Major, ain’t it?’ Cribb exclaimed. ‘Never thought to see you off the turf. What’s up-gees not paying these days?’ For a second there was hesitation. Then the bookie raised a finger in salute.
‘Of course! Wally Cribb! Sharpest crusher in London! What’s your fancy then, Sergeant? What say one of these prime beasts to beat Chadwick?’ He jerked his head in the direction of O’Flaherty and Chalk, then indulging in a whimsical jog for a few laps. ‘Give you good odds against the Irishman.’
Cribb was shaking his head.
‘You know me better than that, Major. If they paid me enough I might find the stake for a likely nag at Epsom or Newmarket. Not for a bunion Derby, though. No, I’m here on business. If I weren’t, I wouldn’t be in Islington, I prom-ise you.’
‘Checking licences, are you?’ inquired the second bookie, warily.
‘That’s not a sergeant’s job,’ his friend enlightened him. ‘No. Cribby’ll be checking on the party that died. And don’t ask him about it. He won’t talk. What can we do for you, Sergeant?’
‘Charles Darrell,’ announced Cribb, with such emphasis that he could have been a court usher. ‘The pedestrian. Backed himself, had he?’
‘Don’t they all? He got in early at a good price. Stood to net five hundred if he won. Confident, he must have been, or soft-headed. A man who stakes a hundred usually hedges some of it.’
‘So he really thought he’d win,’ mused Cribb. ‘What hap-pened to the odds when you knew he was dead?’
‘Made a bloody mockery of ’em, Sergeant, if you’ll excuse the term. What odds can we offer on Chadwick now? He was favourite to start with. Now it’s a fiver to a gooseberry. You won’t get any odds at all on him from these lads-not unless he breaks down or takes a fit. Man’s got ten miles in hand. Look at him.’
Chadwick passed near to them, certainly making sound progress, and walking more stylishly than any of his rivals.
‘Is he well-backed?’ asked Cribb.
‘Oh yes. There’s plenty who stand to scoop a tidy sum when the soldier wins, himself included. There were some pretty bets made on Monday, when Darrell got ahead, I can tell you. Willy here took seventy to forty from Chadwick’s trainer, didn’t you, mate?’
Willy nodded glumly.
‘Darrell looked good, you see,’ the ‘Major’ continued. ‘And the touts had watched his breathings at the Wick. Chadwick had to be favourite on his known form, but Darrell looked a clinker at four to one. Then off goes Darrell on Sunday night like a dog after aniseed, and Chadwick’s odds began to lengthen. That’s when the fast boys like Harvey got their stake on.’
‘And Chadwick himself? Does he stand to win anything?’ ‘Runs into three figures, I’ve heard. Not that I took any-thing from him, thank the Lord. Yes, come Saturday night, Captain Chadwick will stand on velvet. Now how about Mostyn-whatsit at five hundred to one? Can I tempt you with that?’
‘You can’t,’ smiled Cribb. ‘I wonder why you stay here. There’s not much left in this affair for you lads. Unless one of the second-raters steps out sharpish, that is. What sort of business can you do?’
The ‘Major’ smiled.
‘Side-bets, Sergeant, side-bets. Hazard a guess now. Who covered most miles in the first twelve hours today?’
‘Chadwick, I suppose.’
‘And there you’d lose your stake. O’Flaherty’s the boy.’
‘Really? Shows how cute I am to hold back. Any other heavy bets on Chadwick, besides his own?’
‘Couldn’t say.’
‘How about the management? Mr Herriott stand to recoup anything?’
‘I wouldn’t know, Sergeant. He doesn’t deal with the likes of us, anyway. We’re small men.’
‘Jacobson?’ persisted Cribb.
A smile appeared among the whiskers.
‘Poor old Walter? No one here would touch a bet he made. He’s tried, of course, but we’re not charity, Sergeant. Jacobson’s under the hatches and every bookie knows it.’
‘That so? No credit for him, then. A poor man’s best off like me, you know, watching a race for the joy of pure athletics. Ah well. Must leave you to your work. Good to see you.’
With a wink and a wave he moved away towards an exit, leaving the pure athletics to continue without his support for the rest of the afternoon and evening.
Harvey had brought IN a plateful of roast duck pre-pared at a restaurant near by. With the help of the gas-ring it was still warm when Chadwick came into the tent at seven. As soon as he had loosened the champion’s boot-laces and cleaned off his face with the sponge, Harvey lifted the plate-cover. He watched for the response to this favourite meal. It was quite five seconds before Chadwick reacted at all, and then it was not the duck that he commented on.
‘I am singularly depressed. Open a bottle of wine.’
Harvey lifted a Graves Superieur from the crate behind the clothes-cupboard, drew the cork and poured a small amount into a glass for Chadwick to taste.
‘Fill it up, man! This isn’t the Cafe Royal.’
‘Sir.’
‘And massage my legs, or I’ll never get back on the track.’ Harvey applied himself to the task. He knew Chadwick well enough to keep silent at these times. The dinner, which might have been Billy Reid’s eel-broth for all the recogni-tion it got, was quickly dispatched. Chadwick sat back in his chair, moaning abstractedly. At length he addressed the attendant.
‘My neck is paining me. See if you can loosen it, will you? I really doubt,’ he went on dismally, ‘whether I can endure this torment for another three days. The rewards seem less and less worth pursuing as one goes on. And the effort’-he shuddered-‘the effort, Harvey, is almost impossible to muster. It was better on the inside track. Now I’m involved in a physical battle if I try to go any faster than these-these lumbering apes. My ribs ache from the battering they’ve received. I tell you, this is no race. It’s a battle for survival.’
‘I’ve seen, sir,’ Harvey agreed. ‘They’ll put you out if they can. It frets me. But I’ve listened to their talk. They won’t dare knock you down and cripple you. It’s the sly nudge and the shin-tap that they use. If they can they’ll break your spirit that way. Like,’ and he cast about for a comparison that the Captain would appreciate, ‘like a siege, sir. Slowly starving you out. Mustn’t let morale get low.’
Chadwick reached for an orange.
‘I suppose so,’ he sighed. ‘Tighten my boots, will you? I must get out there again.’
Harvey obeyed, and, as he kneeled pieces of orange-peel fell about him on the floor.
‘You’ve got to keep on, sir,’ he urged. ‘For the Regiment, too.’
There was an intensity about Harvey’s manner that pen-etrated even Chadwick’s weariness. When he had eaten the orange he swallowed a second glass of wine and stumped back to the track.