The Tick of Death (5 page)

In their present situation, it was courting disaster to prolong conversation further, so he picked up the hammer and stumbled to the sideline without a word. There, he started the walk back towards the circle, dragging the implement behind him like a sledge, for exhibitions of strength were no more suitable from officials than antics with hats.

He was met half-way by the thrower, a generously-built fellow, not quite a barge-horse, but impressive enough about the flanks and withers. ‘I’ll need to turn faster than that to bother the Yankees,’ he confided to Cribb in the unconfidential accents of the English upper class. ‘I fancy that this hammer is a trifle short in the shaft. See if you can get hold of Devlin’s and pass it on to me, there’s a good chap. I’ll wait here.’

There was nothing against it in the rules he had thoughtfully consulted that morning, so he nodded and made for the centre of the field, where the second hammer had already embedded itself, some ten feet past the Englishman’s mark. When it was marked, he wrenched it from the turf and hauled it over to the waiting athlete.

‘Stout fellow!’ said the Englishman. He grabbed the handle and made off towards the circle at some speed, taking care not to catch the eye of the American fast approaching Cribb.

‘Where’s m’hammer?’ demanded the new arrival. He was the shorter of the foreign opposition, a mere six feet or so of shaggy Irish-American muscularity. This must be Devlin, Cribb decided. It wouldn’t do to anger him.

Cribb winked theatrically. ‘I think you’ll find there’s more whip on this one. This shaft is made of malacca, you see. The other’s hickory. I passed it to the Englishman.’ He winked again, in case the first had not been noticed.

Devlin frowned, and examined the hammer-handle dubiously. ‘Now why should you do a thing like that?’

Cribb shrugged. ‘Maybe there’s a drop of Erin blood in my veins.’

‘Ah!’ Devlin seemed to understand. He winked at Cribb and walked away, dangling the hammer like a toy.

During this conversation, the third hammer had been launched and had landed several yards short of the previous throws. Cribb retrieved it and towed it to the side of the throwing area. In his keenness to get clear before the whistle blew again, he practically butted his silk hat into the midriff of the third competitor.

Malone did not budge an inch. If Cribb’s forward motion had not been independently halted at the last possible instant, there is no question that the injuries would have been all on his side. ‘I do apologise,’ he said.

Malone put forward a massive hand for his hammer. The sections of his limbs not covered by the black merino of guernsey and drawers supported a growth of hair so abundant that it would not have wanted much imagination to believe him clothed from head to toe in black. When Cribb looked up into the two small eyes that, together with a once-fractured nose, were all that could be seen of Malone’s face behind a mass of glossy curls, he had the curious fancy that they were regarding him from the centre of a heap of blackberries. It was not a fruit he liked.

Malone took the hammer without a word and strode away. Cribb studied his vast, retreating figure. It was baffling that a man of those proportions could not hurl a sixteen pound weight farther than lesser mortals like Devlin and the Englishman. Possibly Malone was equally baffled.

The next throw from the Englishman drifted well off centre, but it was a long one that took him into the lead. ‘It’s a little beauty!’ he told Cribb, when he collected the hammer. ‘Let’s see if Uncle Sam can match that!’

Devlin’s throw, unhappily, was ten feet behind his first effort. Cribb discerned unmistakable aggression in the set of the Irish-American’s shoulders as he came forward for the malacca-handled hammer. ‘Did you see that throw of mine? I think you handed me a bum hammer, Mister. Are you sure about that Irish blood of yours?’

‘As sure as I am that you’ll beat him with your last throw,’ said Cribb, with all the passion he could raise. ‘I think you gave it too much height, if I might proffer an opinion. The shaft is giving you the extra whip. You have my word for that.’

‘D’you really think so?’ said Devlin, prepared to be convinced.

‘I had the very devil of a job pulling it out of the turf,’ said Cribb. ‘There’s power in that malacca, I promise you.’

‘There has to be. I shall need over a hundred feet to win this afternoon.’

At the other end, Malone was in the circle. His efforts with the hammer aped the style of the other competitors without achieving the same fluidity. Instead of swinging the hammerhead through a series of circles in a gradually accelerating movement, he somehow contrived to begin like a fly-wheel at full speed and end like a novice with a yo-yo. On sheer arm-power the hammer swung aloft and dropped like a plummet not twenty yards from the circle. Cribb decided it was prudent to let him collect the implement himself.

The Englishman’s third throw was no longer than his second, so it was open to the Americans to clinch the contest with their final efforts. For once in his life, Cribb gritted his teeth and hoped Britannia would not prevail. There were bigger things at issue than victory in a sporting competition. The winning of Devlin’s confidence was more important for England this afternoon.

The lead weight at the end of the malacca handle flashed in the sun as it was pulled through its preliminary orbits. Three times it passed above Devlin’s head before he allowed his body to contribute to the momentum, turning with the hammer, spinning with singular agility on the balls of his feet. Then at the moment of maximum acceleration, his right leg stiffened at the front edge of the circle and he released the hammer. It described a great arc above the blackness of Lillie Bridge and shuddered down in the centre of the throwing-sector.

From where Cribb stood, the throw looked at least the equal of the Englishman’s. With the greatest difficulty, he resisted the impulse to cheer. He ran to the mark to make quite sure he was not deceived by some trick of perspective. ‘It’s a long one,’ said the second official superfluously. ‘There won’t be much in it between the two of them. Did he put his foot out of the circle, do you suppose?’

The arrival of the first official from the opposite end led Cribb to wonder momentarily if such a calamity had taken place. Fortunately, it was not so. ‘Mr Malone has elected not to take his last throw,’ came the explanation, ‘so we may now commence the measuring of the best effort of each competitor.’ The second official took the end of the measuring-tape from his colleague with the familiarity of a well-established ritual and walked to the circle, pulling for more tape as he required it. Soon a quivering line was established between the front of the circle and Devlin’s mark. ‘One hundred and eight feet precisely,’ announced the second official.

‘Holy Mother of God!’ exclaimed Devlin. ‘I’ve never thrown anything so far in all my life. That’s the sweetest little hammer I’ve ever held in my two hands.’

‘Malacca,’ Cribb reminded him, in an aside.

‘Ah! Malacca.’ Devlin winked.

The measuring-party moved tensely across to the Englishman’s pennant at the extreme edge of the sector. At the front edge of the circle, the first official held his end of the tape rigidly in place. The second official was on his knees by the pin with everyone else clustered around him. The Englishman was the first to leap up in excitement. ‘One hundred and eight feet one, by Heaven! I’ve done it by an inch.’ He snatched Devlin’s hand and shook it vigorously. ‘Splendid competition, old man. You certainly brought out the best in me. You too.’ He nodded in Malone’s direction, but did not go so far as to shake his hand.

‘That’s it, then. Congratulations,’ said Devlin.

‘Just a moment.’ The voice was Cribb’s. He was standing at the circle, beside the first official. ‘I should like the throw to be measured again according to the rules,’ he called. ‘I think we may find a discrepancy.’

The Englishman strode the thirty-five yards to where Cribb was standing. ‘Just what do you intend by that remark, sir?’

‘That we are subject to the regulations of the Amateur Athletic Association,’ said Cribb mildly. ‘If I may quote— and I think I can—“All distances shall be measured from the circumference of the circle to the first pitch of the hammer,
along a line drawn from that pitch to the centre of the circle.
” The latter was not observed in this case, gentlemen. The measuring of both throws was taken from the same spot at the front of the circle. It would not, of course, affect the measuring of Mr Devlin’s throw, which happened to be in line with the front, but I suggest that we re-measure the other.’

‘I believe he’s right,’ conceded the first official. ‘The bloody laws are always being changed.’

‘Not this one,’ said Cribb. ‘It has been in force for several years.’

The tape was extended again, this time between the Englishman’s mark and the point of the circle nearest to it.

‘One hundred and seven feet, eleven and a half inches,’ said the second official. ‘Mr Devlin wins.’

‘You’re a son of Erin, by Jesus!’ said a voice in Cribb’s ear.

CHAPTER
5

‘THIS IS MOST CIVIL of you,’ said Cribb, indicating the pint of ale in front of him.

‘Not at all,’ said Devlin. ‘It’s a poor sort of man that doesn’t repay a kindness. I don’t let opportunities like this slip by.’

Nor I, thought Cribb. He had not gone to so much trouble merely for a glass of beer. ‘I was doing my job, no more. It was simply a matter of exercising the rules.’

‘That may be so,’ said Devlin, ‘but ’twould have been easier to have held your tongue. The sport could do with more of your kind, mister—men of principle, that take their duties seriously. Incidentally, you’re not wanted for the high jump, or anything, are you?’

‘Lord, no.’ Cribb shook his head decisively and transferred the official rosette slickly into his pocket. ‘We tend to specialise in one event, you know.’ He smiled. ‘The rules get more complicated all the time.’

‘Sure, and don’t you think I know that? It’s taken me a year and more to master the art of turning in a pesky little seven-foot circle.’

What an opening! Cribb took a sip of beer and casually said, ‘It’s an art your friend Mr Malone doesn’t appear to have mastered yet.’

Devlin returned a sharp look. ‘Malone? Malone’s no friend of mine.’

‘Indeed?’ said Cribb. ‘I apologise for the error.’ As Devlin showed no sign of wanting to enlarge on his statement, the sergeant went on. ‘I had assumed you were constantly competing together. In England, the principal hammer-throwers comprise a very—if you’ll pardon the expression— small circle.’

The reference made no impression on Devlin. He stared absently into his beer.

‘And then again,’ said Cribb, determined not to drop the subject, ‘I should have thought you would have got to know each other tolerably well on the voyage from America. I presume you were all on the same Cunarder.’

‘Sure,’ said Devlin, ‘but Malone was travelling on his own ticket like a gentleman. The rest of us were steerage. The first time I spoke to him was after we had docked at Southampton.’ He emphasised his words in a way clearly intended to remove any question of his involvement with Malone.

But if
that
line of inquiry was closed, another was now open. ‘He is somewhat detached from the other members of the team, then?’ said Cribb.

‘That’s about it,’ said Devlin, relieved that the point was taken at last.

‘He isn’t quartered with the rest of you, I dare say?’

Devlin shook his head. ‘He’s taken a suite in some flash hotel in Piccadilly—the Alcazar. The rest of us are dos-sing down in something not much better than a common lodging-house here in West Brompton. It’s convenient for Lillie Bridge, but there the convenience ends.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Cribb.

‘Ah, we wouldn’t really want to be in a hotel. We’re not accustomed to it. Shanahan and I are at college, you see, and Creed works in a druggist’s store. We’re all dependent on the club for our upkeep here.’

‘Not so Malone?’ said Cribb.

‘Not so Malone.’

‘He is a man of private means, then?’

‘I think you could say that.’

‘I follow you now,’ said Cribb, as if Devlin had been struggling all afternoon to make himself clear. ‘If a man is a passable athlete and can pay his way, the club will allow him to wear its colours. Ah well, it may seem unjust that a man can buy himself a place on an international team, but after all, the same thing happens in every other sphere of human activity, Mr Devlin, and I daresay there are less wholesome things to be bought with money than athletic club vests. The exercise Mr Malone is getting must be most beneficial. Perhaps he will blossom into a champion by the time you all return. He’s got the physical capacity, wouldn’t you say?’

‘He’s a big fellow, I’ll grant you,’ Devlin conceded, ‘but he’ll need to learn the rudiments of turning in the circle before anyone can call him a hammer-thrower.’

‘That was evident this afternoon,’ Cribb agreed. ‘But surely he will improve with practice? I cannot believe that a man so enthusiastic about his athletics as to cross the ocean for competition is not taking the most elementary steps to improve his style.’

‘Believe what you like,’ said Devlin. ‘You saw him this afternoon. He’s been here since February.’

‘Really? How very odd!’ said Cribb, pleased at the way the conversation flowed more freely now it was concerned with the demands of hammer-throwing. ‘If the man doesn’t practise, how on earth does he keep himself in condition? Does he have a set of bar-bells at the Alcazar Hotel, do you think?’

‘If you want to know, I reckon he’s more accustomed to lowering pints than lifting weights,’ said Devlin. ‘The only exercise he gets is in the contest when he represents the club. He gets by on sheer size and brute strength. He knows he’s less than fit, too. That’s the reason why he entered for the shot-putting as well as the hammer this afternoon—to shake some of the lead out of his limbs.’

Cribb nodded. The last assumption was probably true. If Malone’s training for athletics was restricted to Saturday afternoons, he would want to take all the opportunities of exercise that the programme of events offered. Of far more interest was what kept him from practising at other times, what had brought him from America—for it was evidently not hammer-throwing.

‘He’s a drinking man, you say? That’s unusual in an athlete, isn’t it? I’ve heard of pugilists sneaking into public houses or carrying their little bottles of liquor about with ’em, but I thought you amateurs trained upon temperance principles.’

Devlin grinned. ‘You don’t know much about the Gaelic American Athletic Club, then. We’re none of us averse to a drop of the hard stuff once in a while—and what do you think we use for embrocation?’

‘He can’t possibly spend all his time at the bar,’ persisted Cribb.

‘I’ve never thought it part of my business to ask him.’

There was enough rebuke in the answer to show Cribb that he would not get any further. Whatever Devlin privately thought Malone was doing on the other six days of the week, he was not going to be drawn into discussing it that afternoon. The sergeant got to his feet. ‘Ah well, it takes all sorts to make an athletics team, eh, Mr Devlin? I think I’ll amble back to the ground now and see how things are progressing. What time is the shot-putting expected to start?’

‘Four o’clock, I believe.’

‘It’s almost that already. I wonder whether Mr Malone will fare any better without a bar attached to the weight than with one.’

As it happened, Cribb had no intention of finding out. After looking in briefly at Lillie Bridge and satisfying himself that Malone was still there (in fact, limbering up conscientiously for his event), he hailed the first hansom cab that passed along Seagrave Road and told the driver to take him to the Alcazar Hotel in Arundel Place.

The streets of Brompton basked in the sunshine which had finally broken through, their Saturday afternoon somnolence altogether remote from dynamite and death. As Cribb watched the parasol parade from his cab, the smell of tar from the joints of the Earls Court Road’s wooden pavement was wafted through carriage-dust to his nostrils. Memories of perambulations in winsome company on summer afternoons drifted across his mind, until the sight of a blue helmet jerked him back to his present commission. He trained his thoughts on Constable Bottle and his ignominious end, and pressed himself farther back against the leather upholstery. It was not impossible that the Clan already had him under scrutiny; his doings at Lillie Bridge had been a calculated risk. What if Malone had not been taken in by the top hat and official rosette? The dangers in this business were extreme, and all the more unnerving for being played out in such unlikely spots as railway stations and sporting arenas. In all truth he would have felt more comfortable face to face with his enemy in some ill-lit back room of an Irish public house.

Arundel Place, one of those odd little culs-de-sac within a few yards of Piccadilly Circus, yet quite detached from the hub of the Empire, was approached from Coventry Street. It was well-known to the Vine Street police—on whose strength Cribb had served in his time—as a peculiarly rewarding point of duty. Lambert’s, the silversmith’s on the corner, paid the Force thirty shillings a week to have a constable on night watch outside, and in return for keeping his eyes open (or closed, according to circumstances) the fortunate officer could make almost that amount in tips from the distinguished residents of the Georgian houses and three hotels that comprised the street. At the end, it broadened into a small square, in which the Alcazar Hotel was prominent, its Georgian portico projecting on to the pavement, with twin potted ferns at each side of the open front door.

Cribb paid the cabman and climbed three carpeted steps to the hotel foyer. It was ten years at least since he had last been there, at the night-porter’s invitation, for a glass of something warm in the small hours of a January morning. He was half-prepared to be recognised, for hotel staff have long memories, but he retained a hope that the silk hat and morning suit were sufficiently unsuggestive of helmet and great-coat to preserve his incognito. It chanced that no one was present when he entered, and after a short appraisal of
The Bath of Psyche
over the mantelpiece, he settled on a sofa to wait. Without knowing the location of Malone’s room, he did not propose to wander aimlessly about the hotel. Nor was he moved to make a rapid examination of the register lying open on the reception-desk; unless there were over-riding disadvantages in the procedure, he preferred to conduct his inquiries in a civilised fashion.

Just as well, for the receptionist appeared rapidly and without warning from a door behind the desk, a young woman with hair cut square over her brow and loosely knotted behind in the modern style. To his relief, Cribb had not seen her before.

‘I do apologise, sir. You haven’t been waiting long, I hope?’

‘A few minutes, no more. I believe that you have a Mr Malone, from America, staying here. I was desirous of meeting him.’

‘Mr Malone? Oh, yes—the sporting gentleman. I am not sure if he is in. He comes and goes rather, and doesn’t always advise us of his movements. If you’ll kindly wait a moment, sir, I’ll arrange for a page to go up to his suite. Do you have a card, sir?’

A card! The topper and tails
were
making an impact. ‘He doesn’t know me by name,’ Cribb explained. ‘But if the boy would care to mention the Metropolitan Athletic Club . . .’

He made sure he was within earshot when the page reported, and heard the receptionist send him to room 206. He managed to look fittingly disappointed at the news, a few minutes later, that Mr Malone was not in his suite.

‘You are welcome to wait, if you have the time,’ the receptionist told him. ‘There is a lounge to your left, and the smoking-room beyond.’

He nodded his gratitude and moved in to the lounge, a large pink and white room. It had a deserted, Saturday afternoon look. One elderly resident dozed by the window under a copy of
The Morning Post.
He ventured through into the smoking-room, all leather and mahogany, and quite uninhabited. A baize door to the right of the fireplace attracted his attention, more than likely an entrance used by servants. The chance of getting upstairs by this route was too good to forego. He pushed through the door into a narrow, uncarpeted passage. Some fifteen yards ahead, where it turned to the right, was a spiral staircase. Voices were coming from somewhere, too indistinct for him to make out individual words, but apparent from the tone that two or more female domestics were exchanging confidences. With luck, they would be too occupied with their conversation to disturb him. He hoped so; morning-dress might be an advantage in an hotel foyer, but it was difficult to account for in the servants’ quarters.

He reached the stairs and mounted as noiselessly as he could to the second floor, where he made his way along a passage similar to the one he had first come through, and found himself in a linen-room stacked with bedding. He listened at the door, and hearing nothing, pulled it open and stepped on to the carpet of the second floor corridor, not without a flutter of self-congratulation. Perhaps, after all, there was a future to be had in the Secret Service.

The corridor was as deserted as the rest of the hotel. He stepped boldly along it, counting the numbers on the doors until he came to 206. To be quite sure it was locked, he tested the handle; a pity his training at Woolwich had not included the forcing of locks. Short of sitting down to wait outside the door for Malone’s return, there was one other expedient left to him. It called for the kind of heroics he would normally have entrusted to Thackeray, but this afternoon he had to take the initiative himself. He walked to the end of the corridor, pushed up a window, and peered out.

Thirty feet below, a pigeon was crossing Arundel Place. From Cribb’s position, its waddling progress looked awkward in the extreme. Strange how a change of perspective altered the appearance of everyday things . . . He looked left along the side of the building, on a level with the second floor. More pigeons were clustered there, perched proprietorially along a ledge projecting some nine inches from the wall. It provided exactly what he required: a means of reaching the window of suite 206.

He removed his jacket and placed it neatly out of sight with the silk hat behind the folds of the curtain. He folded his shirt-sleeves and lowered himself from the window to the ledge without another glance downwards. He hoped anyone who chanced to see him would suppose him a window-cleaner or house-painter going about his lawful employment. The square was deserted, so far as he could tell. He flattened his palms against the wall and began to move sideways. The pigeons did not disdain to leave the ledge as his feet appeared among them, but contrived to find a way around the invading shoes, grumbling chestily at the inconvenience. A small stone was dislodged and he heard it hit the pavement below. He wondered whether anyone was down there by now, looking up at him. He thought of Malone, and pondered how long it took to complete a shot-putting contest. He began to move with more urgency.

The window of 206 was partially open, and easy to push up far enough for him to climb inside. Secure again, he looked down into Arundel Place to satisfy himself that his manoeuvre had not been observed. The pigeon was still in sole occupation.