The Z Murders (14 page)

Chapter XXI

The Power of a Hook

Though the Cotswold Hills rise on your right, the road northwards from Charlton to Gloucester is flat, and assists you if you are in a hurry. Albert was in a hurry. He wanted to put the greatest possible distance between himself and Charlton in the least possible time, and he was urged to this desire by terror and guilt without definitely comprehending either.

The guilt was certainly incomprehensible. This was not the first time Albert had evaded an interview with a creditor. Moreover, in the present case he was earning money with which to pay the creditor. But the terror was hardly easier to understand. (Or so he told himself.) There were plenty of ugly people in the world, and he himself was not exactly beautiful! Why should his passenger have such a chilling effect upon the backbone—and why should his mind be tortured with such horrible curiosity concerning those few minutes when the passenger had slipped from the car, and when the aeroplane had droned so fretfully overhead?

Something had happened during those few minutes. Something that had been reflected in those mirthlessly grinning eyes as their faces had almost touched, and as the unseen aeroplane had descended…Tchar!…

The sign-post on the triangle of green at Charlton said, “Gloucester, 30½ miles.” They reached Gloucester in forty-nine minutes. Albert began to slow down.

“What's this for?” inquired the speaking-tube.

Damn the thing!

“What's what for?” replied Albert, gruffly.

“You're slowing.”

“Well, I know it!”

“But you don't seem to know that I asked you why!”

“Petrol,” muttered Albert.

The speaking-tube was silent for a moment. Then it barked the question:

“Can't you carry on for ten more miles?”

“Just about, I could,” answered Albert.

“Then let's see you move again,” retorted the speaking-tube, “and fill up at Tewkesbury.”

Albert frowned, but obeyed.

On the road to Tewkesbury he did some hard thinking, as well as some hard driving. He wasn't going to give up his fifty pounds. He was quite ready to proceed to Boston for that sum—yes, and to see that he got it! But there would have to be a readjustment on the personal side. This bossing business would have to end.

Thus Tewkesbury, already famous for one battle, was reached by Albert Bowes in a mood for another.

He postponed the second battle until he had drawn sustenance for his car from an ugly yellow petrol pump. (How those who fought the first battle would have rubbed their eyes could they have foreshadowed this queer addition to their picturesque town!) Then, just beyond the final habitations, he stopped.

Rather to his surprise, the speaking-tube made no protest. When he dismounted, and poked his head inside the car, his passenger was sitting silently in the corner with eyes closed. This Albert decided, was a good start. “Here, wake up, you,” he said, hectoringly. “I got a word or two to say.”

The passenger made no movement.

“Hey, are you deaf?” exclaimed Albert, his courage growing. “I said I wanted to talk to you!”

The passenger still made no movement, and Albert began to lose a little of his courage.

“What's the matter with you?” he asked.

Was his passenger asleep? Or—dead? A sudden fear gripped Albert. Holy smoke! Suppose he
was
dead? Dead in Albert's car. And with money on him!…

A frightful vision of a court flashed into Albert's mind, and a judicial voice droned ominously through the vision:

“I believe you are in financial difficulties, Bowes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the man found dead in your car had money on him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A good deal of money?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you are telling us, Bowes, that he engaged you to drive him to Boston, in Lincolnshire?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Didn't you think that rather strange?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yet it is a fact that you didn't even trouble to ask for an advance?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And now you want us to believe that, having driven your passenger as far as Tewkesbury, he conveniently died?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Does it occur to you, Bowes, that it is far easier for us to believe that your passenger never asked you to take him to Boston at all? That he was just an ordinary passenger who hired you for just an ordinary journey? That you discovered he had money on him? That you also discovered his—peculiar condition? A condition, Bowes, that would give you a distinct advantage over him in a tussle? That, having engaged in such a tussle, you conveyed the body a long distance—to Tewkesbury, in fact—and then lost your head and reported the matter to the police in the hope that they would accept the interpretation of ‘death from natural causes'? You have a bad record, Bowes. Hitherto, you have only just managed to keep on the right side of the law. I am afraid you are no longer on the right side of the law, and the penalty for murder, Bowes, is to be hanged by the neck until…”

Albert swallowed. He found it difficult. Then, in a sudden frenzy, he opened the door of the car, but only to close it again the next instant, and to stand with his back to it. Some one was coming along the middle of the road.

He waited, while the sweat poured down his forehead. The some one reached the car, and paused. It was a grubby tramp.

“Got a match?” asked the tramp.

Albert produced a box, and held it out. He wondered whether the tramp would notice his hand was shaking.

“Thank'ee,” said the tramp, and took the box. He studied it carefully, and then inquired, with audacious innocence: “Got a fag?”

Ordinarily, Albert would have sent the tramp about his business, but this was not an ordinary occasion. Still, he hesitated an instant before permitting himself to be victimised so glaringly, and during the instant the tramp winked towards the car and inquired,

“P'r'aps yer fare'll oblidge?”

The tramp winked as he took the cigarette and lit it. Then, with a “Thank'ee,” he pocketed the match box absent-mindedly, and continued on his way.

Albert waited till the fellow was round the corner. Then he turned, and again opened the door of the car. Cautiously he leaned forward, till his head was close to the silent figure. The next instant, a hook wound round his sleeve, and held him.

“And, now,” inquired the individual with the hook, “is there to be any more nonsense?”

For a complete minute, Albert felt sick. Then, finding himself released, he took out his pocket-handkerchief, and wiped his forehead.

“Ain't you going to tell me the idea?” he muttered.

“Yes,
this
is the idea,” answered his passenger, and the cracked voice now had a hiss in it. “If you obey me unquestioningly and unhesitatingly till we get to Boston, you will make fifty pounds. But if you disobey me in any tiny detail, if you make any protest such as you were about to make just now, if you leave me, or go back on me, or double-cross me, you will not only lose your fifty pounds, but you will also lose something else that you probably value far more—though it is doubtful,” came the cynical addition, “whether anybody else does. Now, tell me, have you got on to the idea, or haven't you?”

“Yes,” growled Albert.

“You're quite sure?”

“Yes.”

“Quite, quite certain there's no mistake about it this time, eh?”

“Yes!”

Was he doomed to say “Yes” for the rest of his life, both in reality and imagination? Here he was, answering this freak, just as obediently as he had answered the mythical judge in his mind!

“Very well, then,” said his passenger, sinking back into his corner. “Get back into your seat, and carry on to Evesham.”

With his spirit broken, Albert Bowes continued with his job. They reached Evesham without incident. A famous battle was also once fought there, but Albert did not contemplate a repetition of history this time. Instead, he obeyed the speaking-tube's command to stop, and waited for the next orders. The next orders were:

“Drive to a quiet street. Then leave the car, and buy a map. Bring it back. If I am not here when you get back, wait for me, and study the route to Boston while you are waiting. I think you will find that the best way is through Stratford and Coventry and Leicester.”

“What about something to eat while I'm waiting?” Albert ventured.

“Certainly. Eat a lot. Eating keeps one from talking.”

“Thank you for nothing! And how long do I wait—
if
I wait?”

“You will wait just as long as you have to,” answered the speaking-tube. “It may be five minutes, or it may be five hours. But however long it is you will wait, and however long I am, I shall return. And if you aren't there when I return, you will be traced. Do you get
that
!”

Albert got it, and nodded. He found a quiet street, and stopped again. “This suits you?” he inquired, as he descended from his seat.

The figure inside the car made no response. Accepting silence as consent, Albert turned away, then, suddenly, turned back again.

“Yes, but how do I know the
car's
going to be here when I get back?” he demanded.

“Could
you
drive a car without any hands?” asked his passenger.

Albert shuddered. The answer was conclusive. Nevertheless, he decided that he would not be away from his car for longer than was necessary.

He soon found a stationer's shop, and possessed himself, for half-a-crown, of a little red-faced copy of Newnes's Tourist Atlas. Then he walked to an inn and had a couple of drinks. He needed them. He also bought some cheese and sandwiches at the inn, but these he slipped into his pocket, for, despite the impossibility of driving a car without hands, his mind was by no means easy, and he wanted to get back to his property as soon as he possibly could.

He got back in twelve minutes from the moment he had started. The car was there. As he had expected, it was empty. “Wonder what he's up to
this
time?” reflected Albert.

But he did not waste any time over the problem. The problem of the route to Boston was both more appealing and practical. He studied the map, and soon the fruits of his study were inscribed on the blank sheet next to the cover:—

He went over the list meticulously and checked its figures, while munching his cheese and his sandwiches. The minutes went by. Sixty of them. Then another sixty. He began to grow impatient.

But, though he was impatient, he was not uneasy. He was as certain that his uncouth passenger would return as he was that the sun would set. “I'm beginning to understand that chap,” he told himself, for the comfort of assuming himself knowledgable, “and when he says he's going to do a thing, he's going to
do
it. And you're all right with him,” he went on, to increase the comfort, “so long as you do what you say
you'll
do! And what I'm going to do is to earn my fifty pounds. And if I drive him to the devil while I'm earning it, well, that's
his
affair!”

Thus fortified, he continued to wait. Five o'clock struck. Six o'clock. A boy strolled along with a bundle of papers. “Here! Let's have one,” called Albert.

The boy held one out, and received a penny in exchange. Albert began to read.

His eyes became glued to the page. The page went round. His eyes went round with it. He felt moisture dripping down the inside of his shirt, and the drips seemed to be red. A voice at his elbow inquired,

“Anything interesting?”

His passenger had returned.

Chapter XXII

Nightmare Journey

The silence that followed seemed to Albert Bowes interminable. His head grew light and his legs grew heavy. He wanted to run, but how can you run when your knees won't move and your feet are sewn to the ground? And, even if Albert had possessed the power to run, where would he have run to?

Few of us, whatever our record, lack some form of sanctuary. At first, it is just our mother's knee. Then, perhaps, it becomes a nursery or a house, or a town, or a ship; or, failing these, our thoughts. Albert's sanctuary was an unattractive room in Bristol, where he formed his doubtful policies and sought escape from their consequences. Insecure though it was, it at least provided brief periods of repose and relief, standing between him and immediate retribution.

But now even that unsavoury haven was cut off from him. Should a miracle occur and should he find himself back in Bristol, this hideous monstrosity he had picked up from the road would seek him out and fasten itself upon him. He was certain of it! It was as though the slender rope that had hitherto held Albert to solid ground had been hacked through—by a jagged hook!—leaving him alone in the world with a maniac!

The silence that seemed interminable lasted, actually, only ten seconds. Then Albert's passenger spoke again.

“What's the matter?” he asked.

It was a cynical question. The speaker knew quite well what was the matter, and why Albert's eyes were fixed so vacantly on dancing print. Then, all at once, the dancing print began to dance away from him, and the newspaper slid from his fingers. The passenger was relieving him of it.

This woke Albert up. He leapt into the air, and his back struck the car as he came to the ground again. Meanwhile, the passenger eyed the headlines of the newspaper, and smiled.

“What! Is
this
what has upset you?” he inquired. “Just an old woman being murdered?”

Albert could be callous, but such callousness as this was beyond his experience.

“Come, come, don't lose your nerve,” continued the passenger. “These things happen, you know. Why—look at
me!
”

He held up an arm, with its case of flapping sleeve. Albert tried not to look, and failed. His passenger had the power of a snake.

“
I
am quite calm, you see,” said the snake. “True, my sleeve flutters, but that is just the breeze. What lies within the sleeve is perfectly, perfectly steady.”

He raised the sleeve higher as he spoke, and Albert found it pointing directly at him. “Here—stop that!” the trembling man managed to murmur.

“Stop—what?” inquired the passenger. “First, afraid of a newspaper, and then afraid of a sleeve? Really, my man, you must try and get hold of yourself. We've work ahead of us, don't forget.”

Work? What work? Albert fought hard to rediscover that point inside him where his independence resided.

“Look here—I'm not going on!” he muttered.

“Hey? Not going on?” exclaimed his passenger, sardonically. “Of course you are going on! You are going on to Boston, my man—to earn your fifty pounds.”

“S'pose I say I'd rather not?”

“It won't make the slightest difference what you say! A bargain is a bargain, and there is a penalty for breaking it.” He paused, and, removing his eyes from Albert's, transferred them to the newspaper. How the fellow contrived to retain the newspaper in the flapping folds of sleeve was an uncanny mystery. “Believe me, you'll find it much wiser to keep your bargain,” he added, softly. “I've always kept mine.”

There was a pause. Albert gulped, and tried a new tack. “Well, this—this work,” he said, hoarsely. “Is it—just to drive you to Boston?”

“What else should it be?” answered the passenger.

“I don't know.”

“Then why do you ask?”

With unexpected doggedness, Albert floundered on.

“Didn't you say just now that I'd need to keep my nerve?”

“I did.”

“Well, then!”

“What, then?”

“Blast it, you don't need nerve just to drive a car!” exploded Albert.

The passenger considered the point for two or three seconds, then stepped a little closer.

“You seem to have something in your mind, my friend,” he said. “What is it?”

“Nothing!” replied Albert, quickly, and tried to back away; but when you are already pressing hard against solid substance there is nowhere further to back to. “I told you, didn't I?”

“In that case, please avoid the annoyance of going round and round in a circle,” retorted the passenger, now speaking sharply. “You're wasting time, and it's time to move.”

Then Albert put up his last fight.

“Is it! All right! I'm
going
to move,” he said. “But
you're
not going to move with me!”

He turned towards the driving-seat as he spoke these bold words, and the next moment felt hot breath on his neck. His passenger had slipped up behind him.

“Haven't you learned,
even yet
, what it will cost to double-cross me?” came the hiss in his ear. “No one ever double-crosses me and gets away with it! Do you hear me?
Ever
! EVER!”

The voice began to rise, but suddenly ceased, as though checked by an iron control. Then it continued, more quietly, but no less forcefully, while the speaker's breath burned fiercely on the listener's nape:

“And do you think there's any possibility that you
could
double-cross me, even if you decided to try? Listen, fool! You have no more chance with me than that cat has over there. Watch it!”

The cat had leapt out of a hedge. Now it stood, eyeing some vague object in the distance. An instant later, it rolled over on its side, and lay still.

“And,
now
, will you move?”

There was no more fight in Albert Bowes. He stared horror-stricken at the dead cat, then mechanically mounted to his seat. How his legs, which he had no power to direct, managed to function he could not say. All he knew was that they did function, that they appeared to be directed by some power outside himself, and that here he was, with his right foot touching the accelerator and his left foot touching the clutch.

“One moment, before we start,” said the speaking-tube, “so that we may be absolutely and finally clear. From this instant until we reach Boston I shall be behind you. There will not be one instant when I am not behind you. I have slid the glass partition a little to one side, and your back is thus presented to me without any intervening substance. Just to prove this, I will touch it.” The voice ceased, and something sharp gently prodded the back of the most terrified man in the kingdom. Then the voice continued, “You felt that? Good! If the necessity arises, you will feel it again. But it may not be quite so gentle, next time. It may be sharper, and hot like a burning furnace. It may even break your back, and you may lie afterwards as quietly as that cat in the road there, and as that old woman you have just read about in the paper, and…But perhaps these are enough to go with, eh! Now, answer me. Did you hear all I said.
And did you understand
?”

Albert tried to answer, but no words came. Something pricked his backbone, and he shrieked hoarsely, “Yes!” Then he let in the clutch, and the car once more moved forward.

His mind became numb. He drove mechanically. Time grew meaningless, and roads merely strips in a nightmare punctuated by sign-posts. He could not have told you during any minute what had happened during the minute before. They might have just left Evesham, or Tewkesbury, or Charlton, or Bristol. All he knew was that the nightmare went on and on and on, while a cold spot in the middle of his back had a large hole in it.

Somewhere in the hole was fifty pounds. It tickled and cracked and burned. Not till the nightmare ended could he turn round and look for it. And the nightmare didn't seem as though it would ever end.

Stratford, Warwick; Warwick, Kenilworth; Kenilworth, Coventry. They meant nothing to him, beyond a temporary change in the nightmare to slow motion. Between Coventry and Leicester they lost their way in the darkening lanes, and did not find the way again for an hour. He did not even remember that; it was his passenger who rediscovered the way and who communicated the necessary instructions to the speaking-tube. The instructions reached the ear of a man stricken through terror with mental paralysis.

Now it was quite dark, and the nightmare was illuminated only by the car's two yellow eyes. The eyes ran into Melton Mowbray. Then they ran up into hills and down into dips.

Beyond Grantham the hills and the dips ceased to exist—if they ever had existed; Albert couldn't tell—and the two yellow eyes ran along the monotonous levels of Lincolnshire. The way was lost again. A tyre got a puncture. The wheel was changed and the way was found, and the nightmare was resumed. Had they lost their way? Did they get a puncture? Albert didn't know…And then, at last, a whiff of sea air, an aroma of salt, a sense of conclusion. Somewhere rose a tall black tower. Somewhere else rose another tower, like the first one's skeleton. Low hedges. Dark buildings…Boston.

But they didn't stop. They went beyond the buildings, and round by a river, and into a new form of flatness beyond. A marshy flatness. You could smell the flatness. And now there were no hedges, and you felt you'd be off the map any minute.

“We'll be in the sea in a minute!” thought Albert.

The thought startled Albert for two reasons. The first was because of its implication. The second was because it
was
a thought! It was the first coherent thought he had had since Evesham!

Others followed, crowding upon him like shrieking, drowning things. Where are we? What time is it? What am I doing? Where's my brain been? What's this thing pressing into my back?

The thing was pressing hard. Ahead loomed a dark embankment. A moment of terrible clarity came to him. Power returned on the wings of frenzied necessity. He stepped on the brake, and leapt.