The Z Murders (17 page)

Chapter XXVII

As Unfolded to Inspector Wetherby

Inspector Wetherby didn't know what to make of it. One thing at a time—that he could grapple with as well as anybody. A row in the Market Place—right. A boat accident in the Witham—right. A burglary—right. A drunk—right. But this queer tangle of things before seven in the morning, when you weren't exactly at your brightest, these disjointed fragments advanced by distracted people—people who seemed to imagine that you only had to say “Boo” to a policeman to set him running off wherever you wanted him to—that wasn't so good! It needed, on your own side, a little caution and thought.

Let's get this straight, now. Just while the police car is being brought round. Two people saying they've been set upon and chloroformed on the road from Grantham. Not the Sleaford road, the Donington road. Right. And a third person who was with them, a girl, was kidnapped. H'm! And the whole lot supposed to have come from Bristol.

Night joy-ride, eh? No? Well, then, might one know the object of the journey? Yes, that's true, of course, plenty of people travelled by car at night, but, in a case like this—an alleged kidnapping case—it helped the police to have precise details. Oh—on business. Just a business trip. H'm. Very informative! Right.

Now, any idea who the kidnappers were? Two of them—right. One large, in a rough suit, and leggings. Sort of farmer. Right. The other—what was this? Deformed, eh? Oh, not deformed. What, then.
Looked
as if he was deformed? Looked deformed, but not deformed. Well, what made him
look
deformed. Can't say, eh? Pity taxi-drivers don't have to pass an intelligence test! Ah, an arm gone. Now we're coming to something. Arm off, and a face like Gawd knows what. Very helpful description, that! Very helpful indeed, Mr. Piggs. Oh, Diggs. Apologies. The full name would be helpful. Ted Diggs, taxi-driver, Bristol. And the taxi standing three miles away by the road-side with two useless wheels and no petrol. Right. That would have to be seen to. Right, right.

And
your
name, sir? Temperley. Richard Temperley. St. John's Wood, London. Right. Yes, sir, certainly. In half a minute. Car being brought right round. But first we must get this other man's story straight, mustn't we? Can't go anywhere before we know just where to go, can we? Right.

Now, you! Your name's Smale, isn't it? And why aren't you in bed, Smale, where all good little boys ought to be at this time of the morning? Couldn't sleep, eh? Right. Often can't sleep? Because of angels ringing bells—quite so, quite so. Right, right. And did the angels wake you this time? Oh, a motor-car. What time? Can't say. Well,
about
what time? Can't say that either., (Yes, yes, sir, I agree, but this fellow isn't over-burdened with brains—they forgot to fill his head when he was born—and we
must
get his story, mustn't we? And the car isn't here yet. Right.)

Now, then, Smale. This car that passed your place. Was it when you went to bed? No. Then was it just after? No. Then was it just before you got up? Yes? Excellent. And how long have you been up. Hour or two. Well, we'll get it presently.

So this motor-car woke you up. Rushed by your cottage. Like what? Like chariots in heaven—yes, yes. And then what did you do? You got up? Yes? And then what did you do? You went out? Yes? And which way did you go? Towards the First Pullover? Right. And why did you go in that direction?

I see. The car had come from that direction? What's that? The
second
time? Was there a
first
time, then? I see. You heard it twice. Why didn't you tell me that before? The first time—that was the time it woke you up—it was going
towards
the sea. And the second time—that was the time you were dressing—it was coming
from
the sea? Right. It had gone towards the sea, and then it had come back again? How long between the times it passed your cottage going and coming? You don't know! Well, then, how long do you take to dress? As long as it takes to boil two hard boiled eggs? Yes, very funny, Smale, very funny. Can't you see, we're all splitting ourselves with laughter? And now the comic turn is over—all right, sir, all right, sir,
I
know how to handle him—we're old friends, you and I, Smale, aren't we?—we'll go to heaven together, won't we?—there you are, you see, sir, all bright and smiling again—well, now that's over, we can put the time down at ten minutes. Right.

Why did you get up, Smale? You always get up when you can't sleep. You like to walk about. Angels calling—right. But what made you go towards the sea? Wanted to find out what the car had been up to. Splendid! We
have
our gleams of intelligence, after all. Now, then, Smale, tell me exactly what you found? Yes, you followed the lane to the First Pullover. Right. You found a car that had run into a post. Yes, but you said…Oh, I see. This was another car—not the car that passed your cottage? H'm.

Well, get on. How did you see the car if it was dark? Were the lights still on? No? Oh, it was getting light.
Now
we can fix the time. Between five and six. (You see, sir, everything comes out after a little patient questioning.) That means that the car went by your cottage, say, round about five o'clock. Well, what next? You went on. You went up the embankment. Why? Something drew you? Not angels this time, perhaps, eh? Never mind what I said—get on with it. You passed the empty farm buildings and sheds—yes, yes, I know them. You reached the gate. Yes. You turned to the left. To the fence. Know why? Quite so, something still drew you, but did you hear any
sound
? A cry or anything? No? You looked over the fence. Looked down into the water. And—yes?

Go on, go on! You're quite safe here! You saw—it? Yes, but what? No, no, tell us exactly, Smale. A body? One of your angels, perhaps? No? Now, listen, Smale, are you quite sure—(Yes, yes, sir, but this man—can't you see? I've had to deal with his illusions before!)
Not
an angel. Just a body. Facing upwards. Can't say whether a man or a woman—right. But—drowned, eh? You're sure of that? You went down to look?

Idiot! Why didn't you? Mind went blank. Oh, well, I see. Wandered about. Yes. And then you met these two men, and you told them your story, and they brought you along here. Right, Smale. Thank you very much.

Yes, yes, don't worry. I'll see the angels don't get you yet awhile. There's plenty of time. Just come along with us for a little ride, and then you can go home again with a nice, large piece of cake. Yes, the same as you had last time. That's right. Pink.

Here's the car, sir. Now, if you please, we'll be getting along.

Chapter XXVIII

The Growing List

While Inspector Wetherby was obtaining his information in his own particular manner, Richard passed through varying emotions.

Smale's news, incoherent though it was when first delivered in the road, had filled him with despair. All that his muddled mind could seize on was the fact that someone had been drowned near by, and since Smale could give no description of the someone—not even, apparently, the gender—the fear that it might be Sylvia bit into his soul. Later, at the police station, the fear had turned into desperate impatience, and the desperate impatience had, in its turn, changed to a revulsion of relief that for a few minutes weakened him even more than his rough handling; for the insistent questions of Inspector Wetherby had elicited details which rendered impossible the theory that the drowned person was Sylvia.

The car had passed Smale's cottage at about five. It was not till well after five that Sylvia had been kidnapped. Whether the kidnappers had been in the car or not, the kidnapping had occurred
after
Smale had made his gruesome discovery. Yes, Inspector Wetherby, for all the impatience he had evoked, had brought out that vital point. Like many another before him, Richard Temperley had not been entirely just to the police force!

Wetherby, in fact, in spite of a certain leisureliness born of false alarms, proved himself well on the job once he had got his teeth into it. He recognised that the two stories he had just listened to might not have any connection with each other, although there was a strong probability that they did; and if they were not connected, then each story would have to be covered by prompt action. Before setting off to investigate Smale's gruesome find, therefore, he passed on the descriptions of the wanted men to his subordinates, and told them to get busy on trying to pick up the trails.

Then, with a sergeant, a police surgeon, and the three men who had routed him too early out of bed, he drove towards the grassy embankment known locally as the First Pullover.

It was a short journey. During the first half, no one spoke. Then the police surgeon, who had learned to accept life and death as a matter of course, and wasn't particularly affected by either, grew a little bored, and asked the inspector if his aunt had written to him yet.

“Had a letter yesterday,” replied the inspector.

“Bought that parrot?” inquired the surgeon.

“No, they wanted a pound too much,” answered the inspector.

“Well, personally, I can't stand the things,” observed the surgeon. “No tact. Had one once that said ‘God save the King,' while I was filling in my income-tax form.”

Aunts! Parrots! Income-tax forms! While Sylvia Wynne was being spirited away into the unknown…

“Hardly a motoring-road,” remarked the surgeon.

“Curly as a pig's tail,” replied the inspector.

“Shouldn't care to live at this spot. Too far from neighbours.”

“Well, you could always drop in on Smale here,” grunted the inspector, dryly. “We're just passing his cottage.” Smale grinned sheepishly. No one had called on him for a year.

The road grew lonelier and narrower. It began to give up being a road. Suddenly the inspector gave a sharp exclamation. “There's the car!” he cried.

The sight of it translated theories into facts. Parrots and pigs' tails were forgotten as his own car slowed down and he jumped out.

He examined the car quickly, eyed the ground in the vicinity, and then raised his eyes to the grassy embankment. “Up there, eh?” he inquired, jerking his head towards Smale.

“Ay, and I'm not goin'!” muttered Smale.

“Nonsense, of course you're going!” retorted the inspector. And, to save an argument, added, “There's half-a-crown for you at the end of it.”

They climbed on to the ridge. They bore to the right. They passed the first farm buildings on their left. They came to another—a low shed, with a corrugated iron roof. This was also on their left, and it presented its back to them, but the front could be reached by a small path that ran downwards round the end of it.

Ignoring this path and continuing on, they came to a tangle of hedge and a fence. Now, ahead, was a gate.

“There!” whispered Smale, pointing to the fence.

The inspector turned, and walked to the fence. But Richard got there first. He looked down, over the fence, and another face looked up at him.

“Beyond our help,” remarked the inspector, at his side.

“Yes—poor fellow!” muttered Richard.

“Recognise him?”

“Never seen him before in my life.”

“Not one of the men who attacked you, then?”

“We were attacked
after
this happened.”

“Yes, sir, I'm aware of that. According to the times we've been told. But, so far, all these times are circumstantial, if you get me? Stories told at the police station don't always tally with those told in the witness box.…There goes the doctor…down to have a look at him.…Hallo, what's the matter?”

An exclamation had come from behind him. Ted Diggs shoved his head forward.

“Gawd!” he cried. “But—I know 'im!” He stared stupidly, while the inspector swung round.

“What—you
know
him?” exclaimed Wetherby.

“Yes—or I'm dippy!” gasped Diggs. “That's Albert Bowes, that is—another taxi-driver at Bristol!”

Once again Inspector Wetherby proved he was no fool. He recognised genuine amazement when he came across it, and he had never come across more genuine amazement than that depicted on Diggs's face. Unless, perhaps, it was the amazement on Richard's face.

“What! You
know
that man, Diggs?” cried Richard. “And he comes from
Bristol
?”

Diggs nodded. It was all he could do. His mouth was open, and he had forgotten to close it.

Wetherby watched him quietly. Sometimes it is more instructive to watch than to talk. He watched two men stare at each other; and, refusing to bank on his first impression, searched their faces for traces of acting. Suppose—just for the sake of argument—two men had drowned a third man, and had adopted the subtle device of going straight to the police station with some story that would suggest an alibi, and at the same time lay the blame upon other mythical folk invented for the purpose? Then it would be up to them to do a bit of play-acting, wouldn't it? They'd pretend this and they'd pretend that…

Yes, but this wasn't pretence. There wasn't any play-acting here. It was the genuine open-mouthed article. And, that being so, it was of no use wasting time over impossibilities. “You don't know how he came here?” he barked to Diggs.

“Eh?” jerked Diggs.

“You don't know how that fellow came here?”

“'Ow 'e—? Why, 'e was in Bristol yesterday mornin'!” spluttered Diggs. “I know, 'cos I seen 'im.”

“Well,
you
were in Bristol yesterday morning,” retorted Wetherby, “and you're here now. So, you see, it can be done.”

“Eh?”

“If you can pick up a fare, so could he.”

“Yes, but—to the same place? To Boston?”

“Why not? If a kidnapping game was on? Well, anyhow, you've identified him. Could you identify his car?”

“'Corse I could.”

“I see. Of course you could! Yet it occurs to me that perhaps you
didn't
!”

“Eh?”

“That stranded car we passed just before we came up here. Mightn't that be his car?”

“Well—I'm—! Yes—it was like it,” muttered Diggs. “But—nacherly—seein' it then, and not 'avin' 'im in my mind—”

“Yes, naturally, naturally. Tell me, sir,” went on the inspector, turning now to Richard, “have you any theory to offer?”

“Absolutely none,” answered Richard.

“Quite sure, sir?”

“Quite. Unless—”

“Ah! Unless? Let's have the ‘unless.'''

“Unless we were followed, inspector? No, I give it up. This car got here first—”

“But you might have been overtaken and passed,” interposed Wetherby, “by some one who had got on to your destination…Hallo!” he broke off. “The doctor seems to be getting excited down there. I must go down and see what the trouble is!”

He clambered down to the water's edge, where the doctor and the sergeant were staring at the sodden body of Albert Bowes. It lay now on the bank to which it had been drawn. “Not drowned, eh?” inquired the inspector, shrewdly.

“No,” answered the police surgeon, with a grimace. “Look at this. Shot!”

Inspector Wetherby looked. If he experienced any surprise, he refused to show it. Surprise is not good form in the police force. It makes you lose your grip.

“Well, I wasn't betting on suicide,” he observed, after a pause. “
Or
an accident.”

“But were you betting on
this
?” inquired the doctor, and opened his hand.

A little crimson letter lay in the doctor's palm. Now, despite himself, the inspector's eyes gleamed.

“By George!” he muttered tensely. “Another Z murder!”