Wobble to Death by Peter Lovesey

Author:Peter Lovesey [Lovesey, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Historical, Mystery, Suspense
ISBN: 9781569475232
Google: m1fwrFfLEpcC
Amazon: B005HKM3S0
Barnesnoble: B005HKM3S0
Goodreads: 5617811
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 1969-12-31T18:30:00+00:00

‘You will pardon me, O’Flaherty?’

The dreamer stirred, disturbed by the voice.

‘I think you should be rousing yourself, my friend. The race, you know. I have just left the track. Chadwick’s light is on …’

O’Flaherty parted his eyelids. Mostyn-Smith was sitting near by, still in his black outfit, eating a breakfast prepared from some herbal recipe. Harshly this unromantic scene displaced the one in O’Flaherty’s mind. He stretched, tugged the blankets away and rose, yawning.

‘I don’t know how you stay on your feet on half an hour’s rest,’ he said to Mostyn-Smith, half in admiration, half resentment.

‘If you think it out mathematically,’ came the answer, between spoonfuls, ‘you will realise that my half-hour is in fact only one hour less than your three. I rest, you see, for four half-hours in twenty-four, whereas you take a single rest-period of three hours, except when your natural func-tions otherwise compel you to stop.’

The logic of this was too sophisticated for the Irishman in his present state. He moved to the door, dimly recalling that the washing facilities were behind the huts. Mostyn-Smith raised a restraining hand.

‘Footwear, O’Flaherty. You should not walk barefoot in those fetid pools outside. I admit to being mistaken about poor Darrell’s demise, but the danger of tetanus remains.’

O’Flaherty returned without a word for his socks and boots. The experience of sharing with Double-barrel had not turned out as he once expected, with the little man jumping at the sound of his voice. O’Flaherty’s prestige would not easily recover from the incident of the carbolic. When his feet were safely shod, he ventured, shivering, outside.

The washing arrangements for the eight pedestrians still in residence at the huts consisted of four buckets and a tap, at knee-height. Two additional buckets were kept behind a wood-and-sacking construction.

O’Flaherty turned the tap to fill a bucket. The water was icy. He carried his bucket some yards from the tap, to escape the odour from nearby. He cupped his hands, and lifted some water to his face, leaning over the bucket with legs astride to avoid the drops that fell. The contact was chilling, but revived him too. It was the first wash he had given him-self in twenty-four hours. Such refinements as footbaths and shaves were impossible without an attendant to heat the water. He straightened, shaking the water from his eyes. Then he breathed in, deeply.

There was a familiar, unpleasant smell in the air that had nothing to do with the stench from the latrines.

O’Flaherty coughed to empty his lungs. He inhaled again, speculatively. He was certain now. Gas. But where was its source? He looked around him. He could see only water-piping. Then he wheeled round, and decided what had happened. The huts themselves had been fitted with gas for lighting and cooking. The escape was from the hut behind him, one of those left empty when runners had retired from the competition. The smell was penetrating the wooden sides.

There was no time to investigate; Chadwick might be on the track already, adding to his lead.

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