‘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.
‘Out of condition, both of us,’ declared Cribb. ‘Could do with a turn or two round the track.’ Abruptly becoming seri-ous, he added, ‘You saw Monk yesterday, after I left you. What was he like?’
‘Like?’ queried Thackeray.
‘His state. Drinking then, wasn’t he?’
‘Oh yes. He’d taken a glass or two, but he talked well enough, Sarge.’
‘Depressed?’
‘I didn’t think so at the time, but I’m not really a judge of such things. My wife always-’
‘You asked to search his place?’
‘Yes. He gave me a key at once. Said there wouldn’t be anyone else there. He also told me where to find the phial of strychnine, and it was there, exactly where he said.’
Thackeray produced the tube of glass from his pocket. Cribb took it carefully, held it in front of his face, and turned it slowly, watching the repositioning of the few crystals inside as though it was a water-snowstorm in a glass globe.
‘There they are then. He spoke truth,’ said Cribb.
‘I went on to the chemist he spoke of,’ continued the con-stable. ‘The man knew him by name. He remembered sup-plying the strychnine last Friday too. Said he does a bit of business with the trainers from around there. He knows they use the strychnine for making up tonics for the pedes-trians, but, as he says, he’s only supplying very small amounts, and he’s careful about telling them of its dangers. They all sign the book-’
‘Book? Monk had signed for it?’
Thackeray nodded.
‘Take a look at this, then.’ Cribb picked up the note that Jacobson had found. ‘Same signature?’
Thackeray squinted at it, scratching his beard.
‘Positively the same, Sarge.’
‘Hm.’ Cribb seemed suddenly elated. ‘Did you look through the book?’
Thackeray beamed virtuously.
‘I found seven previous entries in Monk’s name in the last four years. They was all for the same quantity, Sarge.’
‘Capital work. He was a regular customer, then?’
‘Yes-and each time he collected strychnine he was preparing a ped for a long walk or mix. The chemist told me he made sure of that.’
‘Did he now?’
‘And I questioned him about other sources of supply,’ continued the constable, stressing his efficiency, ‘and he told me he didn’t know of another chemist his side of London who would sell a man strychnine, unless he was a doctor.’
Cribb was in good humour now. He had quite recovered from being brought out so early.
‘Excellent, Thackeray! We’re making progress.’
The constable glowed.
‘Now! On your knees, man,’ Cribb continued. Thackeray’s mouth dipped at the sides, to underline exactly the shape of his moustache. ‘Look for a pencil. I’ve had no luck. Man like you should find it if it’s here.’
‘I’ve got one in my pocket,’ Thackeray replied, much deflated. ‘You can borrow that.’
The sergeant slowly shook his head.