The Z Murders (13 page)

“No.”

“Thank God for that!” he exclaimed, fervently. “Then where
does
it lead? Our driver is ready for fresh orders—and so am I.”

The taxi stopped, and Diggs began to descend from his seat.

“Where shall I tell him?” asked Richard. “Bristol?”

“Yes—I think you'd better tell him that,” she replied, her voice suddenly nervous. “Only—”

“Only what?”

“I won't be going back with you.”

“Not going back with me?” exclaimed Richard. “What on earth—I say, do you suppose I'm going to dump you down in the middle of Darkest Gloucestershire in the middle of the night.”

“I'm afraid there's no alternative,” she answered. “You see, there's somewhere else I've got to go.”

“I see. The ‘even madder move!'''

“Yes.”

“But won't to-morrow do?”

“No, to-night.”

“Well, I'll take you there.”

“It's too far.”

“How far?”

“And you've done enough.”

“I asked,
how
far?”

“Over a hundred and fifty miles,” she said.

“A hundred and—! You know, Miss Wynne, you're getting ridiculous,” he declared. “You don't mean to sit there and tell me, in all seriousness, that you intend to travel another hundred and fifty miles before to-morrow morning's breakfast?”

“I'm quite sure I must sound ridiculous,” she answered, quietly, “but however ridiculous I sound I'm serious.” Her manner bore out her words.

“Well, and where is this place, a hundred and fifty miles away, that you've got to go to?” he demanded.

“I'm afraid I can't tell you that,” she responded.

“Why not?”

“Because—you'll be going back to Bristol.”

“What difference would that make—if it were true?”

She shot a quick glance at him as he added the last four words, then abruptly shook her head and set her teeth, as though resisting a temptation.

“In Bristol you'll be seeing your detective,” she said, “and it will be easier for you to talk to him if you don't know where I've gone.”

“But I insist on knowing!”

She made no reply. Of course, he had no right to insist. Abruptly, he gave way. After all, hadn't his heart told him from the start that he would give way?

“Kamerad!” he said. “You can trust me with the name of your next stop.”

He thought she was still going to refuse; then he realised that the continuation of her silence was due to another cause. She was struggling with emotion.

“You—mean—?” she stammered, at last.

“Of course, I mean!” he answered. “Mr. Britling can't beat
me
for seeing things through! Now, then, where is this place? I can't take you there unless I know it, can I?”

“It's—Boston,” she gulped. “In Lincolnshire.”

Chapter XIX

The Beckoning of Boston

Gloucestershire—Lincolnshire! And afterwards?

While Richard was revolving this new move in his mind, Diggs, having waited patiently outside, poked his head in at the window.

“Well, sir, what's it now?” he inquired. “'Ome?”

Richard studied the good-natured, lined face, wondering how much farther the good-nature could be taxed. Diggs had already proved himself better than one had any right to expect, but there must be a limit to his tolerance. Still, no useful purpose would be served by deciding in advance that this limit had been reached; with tact, one must play for an extension.

“Yes, home for you, I expect,” he answered, beginning at once to exercise the tact, “but I'm afraid not for us.”

His observations produced two effects, and he was conscious of both. Relief on the part of Sylvia Wynne, for the word “us” confirmed his allegiance, and uneasy surprise on the part of Ted Diggs.

“Eh? Not for you?” the driver blinked. Richard shook his head. “Where are you goin', then, if you ain't goin' 'ome—if I may ask?” But before Richard could inform him, Diggs got a brain-wave. “Oh—police station!” he exclaimed. “That's the idea, is it?”

“Not even a police station,” replied Richard. “We want you as a final service, to drop us at a garage where they sit up all night.”

“What for?” demanded Diggs.

If the question sounded rude, there was no rudeness in the questioner's heart.
He
wanted to get to bed, and he thought it was time these two young people got to bed, too, even if they required a little bullying to drive them there. Unconsciously, Richard replied with an argument that had been used to him by Sylvia only a minute or two earlier.

“That's our business,” he remarked, pleasantly, “unless, of course, you care to make it yours.”

“Make it mine, eh?”

“No, don't worry,” said Richard, recanting subtly. “We really mustn't keep you out any longer.”

Diggs thought about it.

“Where do you want to go?” he inquired, cautiously.

Richard felt a sudden nudge at his side. He nudged back, to imply that he had received the signal, and that he hadn't needed it. “Oh, a long way,” he said.

“'Ow long?”

“All night session.”

“Eh?”

“Session. Meaning, in this case, an all night drive.”

“Oh.”

“And that's why we want a garage where they sit up all night.”

“Oh.”

“Do you know of one?”

“Not nearer'n Bristol.”

“How far is that?”

“About—twelve mile.”

“That's a nuisance,” sighed Richard. “By the way, have you any idea what it will cost us to go a hundred and fifty miles?”

“Shilling a mile, that's the rate,” answered Diggs, thinking very hard.

“Shilling a mile. Hundred and fifty miles, hundred and fifty shillings. Seven pounds ten. Have to pay both ways, I expect, so twice seven pounds ten makes it fifteen pounds. And an extra fiver for luck makes it twenty. Now, do you suppose, Mr. Diggs, I'll be able to find any one to do this journey for us for twenty pounds?”

Once upon a time, Ted Diggs had had a dog. It had died an unnatural death on the road, and he had always wanted another. In his opinion, a dog was better company than a woman. Just say, “Shut up,” and it did. Albert Bowes had a dog that he wanted three pounds ten for, and that Harry Poynter had said could be worked down to three pounds five.

“Where's the place?” asked Diggs.

“Nonsense! You don't mean
you'll
take us there?” exclaimed Richard, feigning incredulity.

It wasn't only the dog. There might be a pound over for his mother. She was worrying over that dentist's bill. Pity she'd been rude to the panel chap.

“Where is it?” he repeated.

Richard turned his head from the window, and glanced at Sylvia. She pursed her lips at him—he could just distinguish them in the dimness, and for an instant he forgot all about Ted Diggs.…

“I'll give you the address when I know you're going to take us there,” he said.

It wasn't only the dog and the dentist bill. It was these two silly young people themselves, too. Pleasant young feller, for all his nonsense. And, of course, you didn't meet a young lady like this twice a month.

“It's a go,” he said. “And
now
let's 'ave it!”

“Good news!” beamed Richard. “I knew you were a sport, from the first moment I clapped eyes on you. And hasn't he proved it?” he added, turning to Sylvia. She nodded confirmation. Then turning back, he asked, “Tell me, do you know Boston?”

Did Diggs know Boston? Once he had been top of his geography class!

“Lummy!” he exclaimed, aghast. “Are you askin' me to drive you to Ameriky?”

Chapter XX

The Individual

It has been mentioned that two remarkable journeys were taken at this time by Bristol drivers. With the most remarkable portion of Ted Diggs's yet to come, let us interrupt his journey and follow the journey of Albert Bowes, who so far has only been introduced as the owner of a dog priced at three pounds ten.

The journey of Albert Bowes commenced, very roughly, about a dozen hours before that of Ted Diggs, and Albert was as crooked as Ted was straight. We will blame him for that or not according to our philosophy. Judged by the usual standard, Albert deserved a good deal of blame. The aforementioned dog, for instance, was not worth more than thirty shillings commercially, despite the friendly way it wagged its tail, and its lack of anger when you pretended to throw a stick and didn't. Then passengers who looked green were induced by Albert to act in accordance with their unintelligent hue, and more than once he had given the wrong change to a foreigner.

But Albert descended crookedly from a crooked ancestry, and of the most recent ancestry, tracing it back merely as far as his eight great-grandparents, only three had been honest out of a total of fourteen. The other eleven had all been as crooked as Albert (and some a great deal crookeder), and their blood flowed crookedly through his veins.

And as we are, so we look to the truly perspective. This may account for the fact that a certain individual, arriving at Bristol on an early morning train, picked Albert out for the remarkable journey about to be described. The individual needed a man like Albert to drive him. Albert, on the other hand, could very happily have done without the individual.

In truth, ugly though Albert was, the sight of the individual nearly frightened him off his seat.

“Do you know Charlton?” inquired the individual.

This was the moment when Albert nearly jumped out of his seat. He had not seen the individual approach. He seemed to have slipped out of a shadow, while his voice seemed to have slipped out of a crack.

“Yes, I do,” replied Albert. “It's through Westbury.”

“It can be through Hell, for all I mind,” said the individual, “Drive me there.”

Albert looked at the individual. Then he looked away again. The sight was unpleasant. Even though he could only see the lower portion of the individual's face. The forehead was concealed by a large, well pulled-down hat. He decided to adopt the unusual course of refusing a fare. “Sorry, but I'm engaged,” he remarked, staring straight ahead of him.

There was no reply. Albert repeated the information. Then, as there was still no reply, and as the individual had not appeared to be the kind of person to take refusal without a murmur, Albert risked another glance—and found himself staring at space. The individual had vanished. “Good riddance!” muttered Albert.

The next instant, Albert again nearly jumped out of his seat. A soft voice rasped in his ear.

“If you don't start this moment I'll alter the address to a police station. I know the law.”

His passenger had got into the car, and was addressing him through the speaking-tube.

Albert knew a bit about the law, also. You have to, to break it. It occurred to him that in this instance he had better not break the law, and the law imposes obligations on a driver whose disengaged car has been entered by a passenger; there was something about this passenger that made you careful. Besides, after all, Charlton was six miles away, and that would be twelve shillings there and back, and if he didn't sell his dog he'd have to raise a bit of extra money somehow to avoid explosions among creditors.

So he started the engine, and let in the clutch. And thus began the most fateful journey of his life.

During this initial stage, Albert tried to forget his passenger, and to concentrate on his driving. He found he could not do so. He had only had one glimpse of the passenger, but that glimpse had stamped a picture on his mind that was not destined to be eradicated during the rest of Albert's life time; and the knowledge that this picture was behind him, in the living flesh, was a constant disconcerting itch. The speaking-tube, too, had become a sinister instrument since the cracked voice had percolated through it. At any moment, that voice might occur again; and something told Albert Bowes that, if the voice did occur again, he would obey whatever it commanded.

The voice did not occur again, however. Although there was no ostensible reason why it should—passengers do not make a habit of keeping up conversations with drivers through speaking-tubes—Albert began to wonder at last whether the car had been vacated as quietly as it had been entered; or whether, as another alternative, the entire episode might not be some hallucination. Albert did not believe in Prohibition, and this was one reason why he had to sell his dog to meet his creditors.

To settle these conjectures, he turned his head just before they reached Charlton, and thereby participated unconsciously in a moment of queer significance. The significance of this moment was never fully revealed to any of the participators, for unconscious meetings rarely leave their mark afterwards.

The individual leaned, huddled, in a corner. So one might try and fold oneself if one wished to stay undetected. An old woman in the lane stood aside, to let the car pass. Her skin was dark, and she had travelled many miles in her life—but on foot, not in motor cars. She was now travelling her last mile. Overhead, with an insolent hum, an aeroplane soared low, at the bidding of a rather bored flight-officer and a joy-stick.…

The moment passed. Another came. The speaking-tube ordered Albert to stop.

“We ain't quite in Charlton yet,” said Albert.

“Stop,” came the repeated order.

So he stopped. The individual slipped out.

“Wait!” said the individual.

“Wait! Here?” asked Albert, stupidly.

He felt stupid. It was seeing the individual again. Horrible sight! But—where
was
the individual? He had vanished!

Albert need not have waited. Indeed, he was tempted to depart there and then. Two considerations deterred him from that wise course. Firstly, he felt certain that, as soon as he began to move, the individual would hear him and be back again. Secondly, what about his fare?

“Better wait,” he thought. “See any one getting off without paying me!”

Thus he attempted to develop his superiority complex and to pretend that his was the stronger will; but all at once he wondered whether his passenger were
really
trying to get off without paying! The superiority complex went up a few points as genuine indignation began to stir within him. He was now almost able to convince himself, while he waited, that commerce was the only reason that held him there.

Two minutes went by. The aeroplane reappeared, making a wide circle. It was still flying low. Br-r-r-r-! Z-z-z-z-z! Round it went, and off again. Another two minutes went by. “Well, I'm blowed!” muttered Albert Bowes, viciously. “Done it on me! Hopped it! If I see that ugly mug again, I'll—”

And at that moment the owner of the ugly mug reappeared. “Now—Boston,” came the laconic order. “And don't waste time.”

Albert stared. Boston? Why, that was up in Yorkshire somewhere, wasn't it?

“Here, what's the game?” he demanded, angrily.

“That you are to drive me to Boston,” said the individual.

Albert continued to stare. Was the individual mad? That seemed the only explanation!

The aeroplane sounded closer again.

“Oh, and how far's Boston?” inquired Albert, with fine sarcasm.

“A hundred and seventy miles, if you go the way I tell you to,” answered the individual.

“Hundred and seventy?”

“Didn't you hear me say so?”

The voice was sharp. Albert looked away, to avoid the influence of the speaker's eyes. The aeroplane sounded closer still, although it was out of sight, beyond a low rise.

“And what's it going to cost you, to go a hundred and seventy miles?” demanded Albert, trying hard to keep his end up.

“I expect you'll tell me that when we get there,” replied the individual, tartly.

He got into the car. Albert strode to the door, and glared in. The individual was already huddling into the corner.

“I'll tell you
now
!” cried Albert. “Forty pounds!”

“It's fifty if you start this instant!” cried the individual, suddenly moving forward. “But not a ha'penny, if you don't!”

For a second their two faces were so close they almost touched. Albert gasped, then drew back.

The aeroplane sounded louder than ever. Why didn't it come into view? Perhaps it was dropping? The lower they were, the less distance you could see them. Yes, but why should it come down here? The aerodrome at Filton was a couple of miles away.…

Fifty pounds! Whew! A bit of money! But—start off at once? That was just nonsense!

Was it? Not so sure! If Albert started at once, he would avoid an interview with his most disturbing creditor, and when he returned he would be able to pay the creditor off and snap his fingers at him.…No doubt about it, that aeroplane
was
making a landing over the brow of the hill. It sounded like an angry bee-hive.…Fifty pounds…

“Gloucester first,” ordered the individual, “then Tewkesbury and Evesham. Start in ten seconds, or the deal's off.
God, man, are you deaf ?
”

Sweat appeared on Albert's brow as he climbed galvanically into his seat. All at once the air had become electrical. His mind was swimming. If you'd asked him why he couldn't have told you. Or, if he could have, he wouldn't.

“I'm doing this for fifty pounds, see?” he told himself, as he stepped on the accelerator. “Good enough reason, that, isn't it?” The car started.

“Get a move on!” came the voice through the speaking-tube.

The car lurched.

“Faster! Faster!” came the voice.

“Well, ain't I?” exclaimed Albert, desperately.

As the car went faster, the air grew tighter. Albert's forehead dripped. He felt suddenly as though he had attached himself to the devil.

Perhaps he was not very far wrong.