The Z Murders (10 page)

Chapter XIII

Temperley Versus James

Mohamed went to the mountain because the mountain would not come to him. Richard Temperley went to the detective because he was quite certain that, if he did not, the detective
would
come to him, and he did not wish to betray his anxiety by attempting to avoid a meeting that was inevitable. Possibly the detective realised all this. Detectives are supposed to read your mind like a book. But, thought Richard for his consolation, detectives often have to assume knowledge they do not possess in order to acquire that knowledge from an unsuspecting dupe; and Richard determined, as he entered the detective's compartment, that he was not going to give anything away voluntarily. If James tried to find out what he knew, he would return the compliment, by trying to find out what James knew!

“Ah, Mr. Temperley!” exclaimed James, looking up. “And how have you been using your time since our meeting at Euston this morning?”

He smiled, and Richard smiled back. Richard was in a fighting mood. He was under no delusions as to the odds against him, and he certainly did not commit the fatal error of underrating his enemy, but he had just emerged successfully, he told himself, from one important skirmish, and the victory was all the more complete because the enemy knew nothing whatever about it.

There was another reason why Richard felt in a fighting mood. For half an hour he had sat opposite the Cause for which he was fighting. It had strengthened his resolve, and had made the fight doubly worth while.

“What have I been doing?” he repeated, sitting down opposite the inspector. There was nobody else in the compartment. “Sounds rather like a leading question, doesn't it?”

“It is a leading question,” nodded the inspector, unabashed. “I want to know everything you care to tell me about yourself.”

“Don't you mean, everything I don't care to tell you?” suggested Richard.

“Right again, sir!” replied James. “The things you don't care to tell me are the things I want to know most. Assuming, of course,” he added, “that there are any things you want to hide from me? Are there?”

“That's rather like the question of the business man who said to another business man, ‘Oh, before we begin, are you honest?'''

“Well, I believe you are honest.”

“Hooray! I'm terribly hopeful on that point myself.”

“Only, if you are, why not give me an honest description of how you've been spending your time?”

“You'd better apply to an individual named Dutton,” answered Richard. “What he doesn't know about me is hardly worth knowing.”

“You seem to know something about him, too,” remarked the inspector, rather dryly.

“I know all I want to, thank you,” retorted Richard. “Where did you pick the fellow up?”

“I hope he hasn't annoyed you?”

“Good Lord, no! His intentions have been most flattering! If I'd been a Hollywood star I couldn't have been followed more assiduously! By the way, inspector, I believe one can seek redress for being followed in Hyde Park. Can I sue Dutton for pursuing me through Oxford Street, Regent Street, Hammersmith, Tottenham Court Road and the Zoo?”

“It takes two to make a chase.”

“Meaning?”

“That if Dutton had a reason for running after you, you had a reason for running away.”

“Well, suppose it was just a sporting reason? Suppose I object to being run after, and decide to make my pursuer breathless?”

“And suppose we stop fencing, and see whether we can really get anywhere?” proposed Inspector James, with a slight frown. “Dutton's out of it, for the moment—”

“
Is
he?” interrupted Richard. “To go on with our supposing, suppose he
isn't
?” James raised his eyebrows. “Listen, inspector. I admit I'm green to this game. Even if—for sport—I pit myself against you, I realise that I'm up against all your organisation and experience. But I have my moments of intelligence, and I had one such moment in this train when I realised that all countrymen are not as countrified as they seem to be!”

The inspector absorbed this information silently, and suddenly Richard cursed himself. Was this one of his moments of intelligence? Had he admitted too much? “By Jove, I
am
green!” he thought. “If Dutton learns that I guessed who he was, he may guess on his side that I was putting up a bluff during dinner! Why isn't there some invention for taking words back!” When James spoke, however, he did not refer to Dutton.

“Sport,” he said, reflectively. “Yes, I agree it's an excellent hobby. But does it sometimes interfere with serious business, do you think?”

“In that case, I retract the word,” replied Richard, quickly. “I regard this as very serious business.”

“I'm glad to hear you say that, Mr. Temperley, although I've never seriously doubted it. We're on common ground here, at any rate. It is very serious business indeed, and I'm afraid the business may grow more serious still before we've finished with it. You know, of course, why I'm travelling to Bristol?”

“To help Dutton shadow me?”

“I'm going to Bristol to investigate a second murder that has been committed to-day.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm going to trust you with some information, Mr. Temperley, that so far has not been trusted to the newspapers. I take it, you've read about this second Charlton murder?”

“Yes, of course.”

“A woman dropped dead in a field.”

“Yes.”

“While an aviator was doing sky-tricks over her head.”

“Yes.”

“She was shot.”

“By the aviator?”

“Only if the aviator was at Euston at 5 a.m. this morning, and I have already ascertained that he could not have been.”

“You mean,” said Richard, watching the inspector closely, “that your opinion is that these two murders were committed by the same person?”

“That's my opinion, just as it is your opinion.”

“How do you know it's my opinion?”

“Isn't it?”

“I asked my question first.”

“Then I'll answer it, because, after all, mine wasn't necessary. This journey you're taking proves that it is your opinion.”

“Oh, does it?” murmured Richard. “Well, for the moment, we'll let that point go. But does your opinion rest upon my opinion?”

“Not in the least. We have arrived at the same conclusion, you and I, through quite separate channels. My opinion rests upon the information I was going to trust you with. A smart Bristol constable who arrived on the scene of the murder within a few minutes of Flying Officer Turndike's report found something in the grass a few yards away from the dead woman. Can you guess what it was?”

“Good Heavens! You don't mean it!” cried Richard Temperley, thereby proving that he guessed.

“Yes—another of those crimson Z's,” nodded the inspector, gravely. “And I'm beginning to wonder, Mr. Temperley, how many more of them we are going to find before we've finished the job?”

There was a silence, while the train altered its note and flashed through Didcot. Beyond, it resumed its song of the open.

“So perhaps you can understand,” resumed the inspector, “why I'm so keen to get all the assistance I can. Why Dutton has been following you, and stood so patiently outside your sister's house at Richmond. And why I, after telephoning to Richmond and gathering a few fragments of information, went to a studio in Chelsea to have a look round.”

“What! Did you go to the studio, too?” exclaimed Richard.

“Just a few minutes before your own last visit.”

“My own—? How do you know I went there again?”

“Because I was there during the whole time that you were. Behind a curtain in a corner. It was rather amusing to watch you doing almost the identical things I had just done myself. You got through the window in the same way, and closed it after you in the same way. You were interested, as I was, in the overturned stool. You were deceived by the dripping of a tap—only you turned it off, whereas I didn't. You examined a lady's bedroom—and took rather a long time over it.”

“Well, I'm damned!” muttered Richard. “Suppose I'd found you in your funk-hole?”

“It would merely have advanced this conversation by an hour or two,” answered James. “At one moment I thought you were going to find me. But you picked up a telegram envelope instead. I had thrown it down just before your arrival—in the spot where
I
had found it. And then you made another discovery that hurried you to Paddington station, where you missed the 5.15 train, and also a certain young lady who was travelling on it. Again, as I did.”

He paused. Richard, drinking all this in, found the draught a little intoxicating. They had missed the 5.15 together! But so had the young lady who was supposed to be travelling on it! Was Inspector James genuine in his suggestion that he did not know the young lady had missed it, also?…

“What more do you know?” inquired Richard.

“Well, I know that you telephoned from Paddington, and I conclude that you telephoned to Richmond. I also telephoned to Richmond—”

“Oh, so
that's
how Dutton got on to it that I was on this train!”

“Dutton and I certainly had an interesting conversation. I suppose, the second time you telephoned to Richmond, your sister told you that Dutton had left the lamp-post?”

“Ah!” murmured Richard, non-committally.

Of course, Winifred had not told him. He knew that she would have done so, however, if she had answered the telephone instead of Tom.

He found himself struggling against a sensation of not too reasonable resentment. It was perfectly logical, in the circumstances, that his actions should have been so closely watched, but the fact was not soothing. Anxious to get a little of his own back, and to reinstate himself, he observed:

“Well, inspector, your Mr. Dutton's a smart fellow, I'll say that for him—but the next time he disguises himself as a half-witted countryman, tell him to avoid studious references to the Battle of Crecy.”

“Yes, that rather interests me,” answered Inspector James. “You see, Mr. Temperley, Dutton doesn't happen to be disguised as a countryman.”

Chapter XIV

Nightmare

When you do not know what to say, the best plan is to say nothing. Richard Temperley said nothing for three minutes. And three minutes can be a long time when keen eyes are watching you from beneath iron-grey eyebrows, and when you are suffering from the shock of a mental bombshell.

During these three minutes, facts and theories and queries chased each other relentlessly through Richard's mind. He tried to resolve them into something coherent, but how could one attain coherence with those keen, watchful eyes immediately opposite? One needed to be alone, and unobserved. Then one might think! But thoughts become a mere jumble when somebody else is trying to discover what they are.

It is even doubtful how much one will gain by organising the jumble in such circumstances. A thought that is clear in one's mind may be clearly read by another mind!

At the end of the three minutes, however, Richard discovered his policy. Ultimate decisions must be delayed. For the moment, he must compromise.

“Do you admit armistices in your profession?” he began.

“What kind?” asked the inspector.

“There's only one kind, isn't there?”

“No, there are several kinds. They don't all end like the one in 1918.”

“True,” nodded Richard. “I suppose you mean it depends on who it's with?”

“Coupled with the particular circumstances,” replied the inspector. “My profession isn't a hobby, you know. It's my duty to try and win.”

“Yes, I appreciate that,” said Richard. “Would your chances be decreased, do you think, if you arranged an armistice with
me
?”

“I'm afraid we're back where we started, Mr. Temperley,” smiled the inspector. “I'm bound to repeat—what kind?”

Richard glanced at his watch. It said a quarter-to-eight. “Say, twelve hours and a quarter,” he suggested. “Till breakfast time?”

“And what happens in those twelve and a quarter hours?” inquired the inspector, without showing any great enthusiasm.

“That's just what you mustn't inquire,” retorted Richard.

“Then what must I do?”

“Why, draw off your sleuth-hounds.”

“So that we can lose you?”

“That's rather a nasty one, inspector. You'd have my promise to meet you over the eggs and bacon.”

“Yes, but suppose you couldn't keep the promise, Mr. Temperley?” suggested Inspector James. “I take it that, during the armistice, you'll be chasing a certain young lady. She may lead you a long way from my breakfast-table.”

“Marvellous, how you think of everything! Just the same, if I
didn't
turn up, I could almost certainly report by telephone or wire.”

“I don't like the ‘almost.' ”

“Nor do I. But it may be a sign of my good faith that I don't ignore it. Yes, it's a slight weakness in the situation that ‘almost,' and you've got to work out whether it's a vital weakness or not.”

“The weakness may take you into another county,” remarked James, after a short pause. “As far removed from Gloucestershire as Gloucestershire is from Middlesex.”

“Seems hardly likely,” answered Richard, “though I won't deny the possibility.”

“Well, let's forget the weakness for the moment, and look at the other side,” said James. “The weakness suggests what I may lose by the armistice. What will I gain?”

Richard chose his words very carefully.

“You may gain my complete co-operation,” he said.

“Depending on the result of a conversation with a certain young lady?”

“Possibly.”

“And assuming that the conversation is as completely satisfactory as you expect your future co-operation to be?”

“If the conversation takes place, I am convinced that it will prove satisfactory,” replied Richard, earnestly. “If I weren't, I'd have been with you from the word ‘Go!'''

“Then why hasn't a certain young lady been with me from the word ‘Go'?”

“That's what I want to find out. The armistice will help me.”

“I see your point,” murmured James, reflectively.

“Then—”

“But I may not share your optimism. If our young lady will not confide in the police, why should she confide in you unless you first convince her that you will not pass her confidence on? And if I haven't your word that you'll pass the confidence on, what
do
I gain by this armistice?”

“Your mind doesn't miss much,” frowned Richard.

“I wish I could agree with you,” smiled the inspector. “It misses a lot, and that's why I have to be so careful with it. And why I've got to go slow over this armistice idea of yours. Now, tell me, have I got it right? It means that you walk out of this compartment, and I lose all sight and knowledge of you till eight o'clock to-morrow morning. Then you turn up or communicate with me at some arranged place. Meanwhile, I've made no effort to watch you or follow you, and I've given instructions that nobody else shall make any effort. Is that what you mean?”

“Exactly what I mean,” answered Richard.

“And, meanwhile, another murder may take place,” said James. “And another little Z may be added to the collection.” Richard was silent.

“How do I face my superiors, if that happens?” insisted Inspector James.

“Look here!” demanded Richard, suddenly, in return. “Do you really and truly connect Miss—this lady—”

“Miss Sylvia Wynne, of Studio 4, Tail Street, Chelsea,” said James.

“Yes. Of course, you've got on to her name by now. Do you connect her with these horrible affairs as closely as all that?”

“Mr. Temperley,” replied the inspector, leaning forward slightly in his seat, “it is obvious to me that Miss Wynne is closely connected with these horrible affairs, and you must know that as well as I do.”

“Connected, perhaps! But not in the way you suggest!”

“I'm not suggesting anything beyond the fact that we have
got
to get in touch with her!”

“Very well! And how will you get in touch with her, excepting through me?”

“We may have other sources. But, assuming we haven't, isn't that all the more reason why we should refuse to sever our one link?”

“It won't
be
a link, if you watch me every moment!”

“You mean, you'll sit down somewhere in Bristol and do nothing, unless I agree to the armistice?”

“It would queer your pitch, wouldn't it?”

“And yours, sir. I play poker.”

Richard thought furiously. Disappointment ran through him like a knife. He had believed he was winning, and now the inspector was hardening. Why on earth couldn't the fellow see things in his light…Poker? By Jove, Richard could play poker, too! And, all at once, he said,

“All right, Inspector. You talk of ‘other sources.' Try them! Because, unless you
do
agree to my armistice, I'm
going
to sit down somewhere in Bristol and do nothing! Yes, and then,” he added, “what will you say to your superiors if another of these murders takes place?”

Now it was Detective-Inspector James's turn to be silent, and hope rose once more in Richard's breast. He could see that this ultimatum was being seriously considered, and the knowledge proved two vital things to him. Firstly, that James had no faintest suspicion that Sylvia Wynne was on the train. Secondly, that the “other sources” referred to by the detective either did not exist, or were negligible.

“Yes, I
am
his only source!” he thought. “And he's wondering at this instant how best to use me!”

During the silence, someone passed along the corridor. It was the countryman. He paused and wagged his head at Richard, while the inspector raised his head suddenly and shot a sharp glance at him. Then the countryman stepped into the compartment for a moment; but it was only to let three impatient people precede him along the corridor.

The impatient people were the two well-dressed ladies and the superior young man with the eye-glass.

“That's a' right, lad,” said the countryman as the young man with the eye-glass elbowed by him, “don't mind me! I'm only farmer!” Then, with another wink into the compartment, he, too, vanished.

“I agree to your armistice, Mr. Temperley,” said the inspector. “Let's get the details fixed. I draw off my ‘sleuth-hounds,' as you call them, till eight o'clock to-morrow. Then you call at Bristol police station, and we will have a chat.”

“By Jove, you're a sport!” exclaimed Richard, in relief.

“If I am, it's only because I'm banking, as a practical man, on your being a sport, too,” answered James, a trifle dryly. “It's arranged, then?”

“Wait a bit! Suppose I can't report at Bristol police station?”

“I'll have to risk that. It'll square up with your own risk.”

“What's mine?”

“Well, you won't be followed, but our respective routes may cross each other, or even lead along the same trail. We shall leave
you
alone, but we don't guarantee to close our eyes to—interesting femininity, if we come across it during our own separate investigations. That's reasonable, isn't it?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” murmured Richard, and suddenly smiled. “Life's always a risk in one form or another, however you look at it.”

Inspector James smiled, too.

“Yes, and it's yet to be proved, Mr. Temperley,” he said, “whether the greatest risk lies in the ugly face or the pretty one. Well, now we've settled our bargain, I'll begin on my part at once. For twelve hours from this moment, you cease to be under observation.”

He rose, and left the compartment with rather disconcerting abruptness.

Richard looked after him. The conversation had terminated on a better note than he had expected. Twelve hours of freedom! Twelve hours without having to dodge Dutton! Twelve hours in which to re-establish communication with Sylvia Wynne, and find out the truth from her! It was an eternity!

All the same, Richard was taking no undue risks. At eleven o'clock that night Sylvia would meet him outside Bristol station, and until that time he would sit upon his impulses and ensure that he and she were not seen together, even accidentally, by Dutton, or by James, or by the countryman…

The countryman! Who the devil was the countryman? Richard closed his eyes, to probe this mystery further, and in the darkness of his closed lids he hit upon a solution so simple that he smiled. The countryman was just a countryman! Suspicion alone had given him a sinister interpretation. That allusion to Crecy…pooh! Nothing at all! Even the humblest of us have some scrap of knowledge, some remnant of the schoolroom, that stays by us when other knowledge has flown, and we love to trot the scrap out to create an impression. We may even subtly lead the conversation round to the scrap. The countryman's scrap was the Battle of Crecy!

The Battle of Crecy began to form in the darkness. Richard was tired, and the throb-throb of the speeding train acted as a soporific. Thus his relaxed mind became a facile battle-ground for history both past and present, for fact and fancy, for beauty and the beast. The arrows of archers merged into murderous bullets, the galloping of mail-clad horses melted into the song of the sleepers, flags became faces, and the charging steeds created a draught resembling a breeze through an open window.…

The draught was wonderfully realistic. The horses, of course, were just dream illusions, but the draught seemed actually to be playing upon his face. “Am I dreaming?” he thought, fretfully. “I must wake up!” He made an effort. One of the horses descended upon him violently. “Hey, I don't like this dream!” he reflected. “I
must
wake up!” But he couldn't. The horse was upon him, and his head was facing downwards, and he was being kicked and shoved about…nearer and nearer the breeze…nearer and nearer a dim vastness that seemed the very home of wind…

Then another vision flashed abruptly into his mind. A vision of the countryman. Was this, too, fancy? He did not know. But whether it was fancy or fact, it stirred him to sudden violence, and all at once a weight that had been impelling him towards the rushing void ceased to exist.

He flung out his hand, and grasped something swaying. For an instant he swayed with it, and the rushing void swayed, also; now receding, now advancing, till it became immediately beneath him. Then Richard found that the thing he grasped was a door. The carriage door. It was open.

Dizzily, he closed it. The train, heedless of this minor incident at one small point in its length, sped on through the night. Richard's eyes, now wide open and staring, turned towards the corridor.

The young man with the eye-glass was passing by.