The Z Murders (18 page)

Chapter XXIX

Boston Rings Up Bristol

At eight o'clock on that same morning, an inspector even more important than Inspector Wetherby, of Boston—to boot, Detective-Inspector James, of Scotland Yard—sat in a room at Bristol Police Station, wondering whether a certain young man of his acquaintance would keep his promise or not.

“Any news of him, Dutton?” he inquired, as a rather tired man entered with a sheaf of papers. He was tired because he had been up half the night preparing the papers; and a bandage round his head added to his somewhat dilapidated appearance.

“Not yet, sir,” replied Dutton. “What's the betting?”

“A hundred per cent. on his good faith,” answered James unhesitatingly, “but fifty-fifty on his ability to prove the good faith.”

“Well, it's a pity some of these nice young chaps with good faith can't trust a bit more in ours, and fall into line,” observed Dutton, feelingly.

James glanced at him, and smiled.

“Why, Dutton, that's almost emotional,” he said, gentle reproof in his tone. “I didn't know you went in for the passions!”

“Sorry, sir,” murmured Dutton, apologetically, “but if Mr. Temperley had given us his co-operation from the start, he might have saved me half
this
trouble!” And he held out the sheaf of papers. “And don't forget, sir, I've had a knock on the head.”

“I never forget,” answered James, soberly. “That's why I always insist that you work with me on cases that require special skill.”

“Thank you, sir. Will you look at these notes now?”

James glanced at the clock. “Two minutes past,” he remarked, and sighed. But, as he stretched his hand out for the papers, the telephone rang. “Ah,
now
what's the betting?” he exclaimed, as he lifted the receiver.

“I'll have sixpence on it,” responded Dutton.

“Done!” nodded James. A moment later he added, “Afraid I've lost my tanner. It's a call from Boston.” But a moment after that, he added again, “No, sir! I've
won
! It's Temperley!”

“Boston! So
that's
where they were all heading for, is it?” muttered Dutton, glancing at his papers. “Damn! Why couldn't I keep on the trail?”

Inspector James held up his hand. “Yes, it's James speaking,” he called. “Got any news?”

Then he was silent, and Dutton, watching for signs, realised that big things were happening. The amiability left his superior's face, and the lines around his mouth hardened. For a minute he merely listened. Then he chipped in.

“Hold hard a moment,” he said. “I want you to repeat every word you've said, and then to carry on. And speak slowly. I shall repeat after you, so that what you say can be taken down.…Note-book, Dutton. Another Z Murder, and…God, I'm worried!…Ready?”

Dutton nodded. An instant later, his pencil was racing over paper.

It raced for ten minutes. Then there was a short pause. During the pause, Dutton worked his aching knuckles up and down, while, at the other end of the line, Richard Temperley vacated his seat at the telephone, and Inspector Wetherby occupied it.

“Ready again, Dutton?”

Dutton was always ready. When Death itself came, he'd be ready. For another ten minutes the pencil raced. Then James spoke for two minutes, and the pencil rested. Then the receiver was replaced, and James turned to the faithful stenographer.

“Now, you've some additions for your notes, Dutton,” he said, gravely.

“Yes, sir,” answered Dutton, equally gravely. And all at once added, unexpectedly. “We're up against some pretty damn blackguards, aren't we?”

James nodded. Then asked, “Can you be ready in half-an-hour?”

“With the additions to the reports, sir?”

“Yes.”

“That's O.K.”

“Good. Do them here. And then we can study them together on the way to Boston.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Dutton. “I hoped I wasn't going to be left behind. Car or train?”

“What, with an aerodrome round the corner?” replied James. He rose, walked to the door, stopped, and abruptly shot a question. “What's
your
opinion of all this?” he demanded.

Dutton, already seated at his notes, glanced up and shook his head. “I'm on facts, sir, not opinions,” he replied. “I'd sooner wait for yours when you've been through these dossiers.” Then the inspector left the room, and while he was making final arrangements his subordinate bent over his papers.

There were ten papers. Each was headed with a name, and each bore neat little writing in red and blue ink. The red came out of one end of Dutton's pen, and the blue came out of the other. He often declared that on the day this pen was lost, his career would be over.

Each of the ten papers was now carefully read through, additions were made to some of them, taken from the new shorthand notes of the conversation with Boston. Most of the additions were in blue, and the speed and ease with which they were extracted from the shorthand notes, and added to the longhand notes already existing, formed a further tribute to Dutton's efficiency. While he had taken the shorthand notes he had anticipated the next step, and had appended numbers in the margins. Thus, when he had anything to add to Sheet Seven, he merely had to consult the passages marked “7” in his shorthand to know where to find the required material. Dutton was a detail man. He knew his limitations, and worked meticulously up to them. Presently the inspector returned.

“Aeroplane's O.K.,” he announced, “and the car's ready to take us to Filton.”

“But I'm not ready,” replied Dutton, without looking up. “You gave me half-an-hour, and I've got another minute.”

“Well, take your pound of flesh,” smiled James, “but not an ounce more. We've got a busy day ahead of us.”

“Thanks for reminding me, sir,” murmured Dutton, writing hard.

The inspector went to the car and took a back seat. In fifty seconds, Dutton joined him. The car began to move. “You've something interesting in your mind!” challenged James.

“Yes, it is rather interesting, sir,” replied Dutton. “Do you know, this is the fourth journey that has started from Bristol for Boston in the last twenty-four hours?”

When there was a breathing space between one phase of a job and another, Detective-Inspector James liked to smoke a pipe and to think of nothing. He called the process “slipping into neutral.” Gradually into the nothingness of his mind returned the salient point of the first phase to be carried on into the second, but the trivial points dropped away like grit off a smoothed surface, and only essential matter remained.

Now James smoked his pipe, and Dutton, aware of his Chief's idiosyncracies, did not disturb him. He watched the progress of the pipe, and, judging the moment to a nicety, held out the notes just before the car reached Filton.

“Thanks, Dutton,” said James. “I'll read them in the air. Facts in blue and conjectures in red as usual?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Dutton, “and in this case most of the conjectures can be relied on. Mere queries and possibilities, of course, are set down as such.”

“And do these reports comprise all the information we have, up to date?” inquired James, as he took them.

“Everything, sir. Right up to the Boston telephone conversations. I have seen or 'phoned every person who, in addition to myself, has contributed information to the reports—and I may say, sir, I am quite satisfied with their work.”

“Good,” nodded James. “I hope I'll be equally satisfied. Ah, Turndike. Here we are. No low flying
this
trip, please!”

Chapter XXX

Storm Clouds

Flight-Officer Turndike left Filton Aerodrome at a quarter-past nine. He descended at Digby Aerodrome, twenty miles from Boston, at fourteen minutes to twelve. There his two passengers transferred to a waiting car and were raced over the final lap of their journey by road, and during this final lap Detective-Inspector James discussed with Dutton the report he had read above the clouds.

“Excellently concise,” he said, approvingly. “These notes set down very clearly all the known facts. Let's go over them, while we've a chance, and see whether we can deduce any further facts. ‘John Amble—31b King's Cross—age fifty-two—lived over shop—' Ah! ‘No enemies.' Now, can we be sure of that?”

“No, sir,” replied Dutton, promptly. “But his aunt, who was interviewed, swears he hadn't any—'''

“The aunt who lived at Preston, and whom he had been visiting—”

“Yes, sir. She seems to have known all about him. Said he was surly, but honest.”

“And, like most honest men, found it difficult to make both ends meet!”

“That's right, sir.”

“So he may have been in a mood to contemplate suicide.”

“No, I think not, sir. Too fond of his skin, she said. And she'd just promised to lend him a hundred pounds.”

“I see. Then it comes to this. John Amble died, but he didn't kill himself, and nobody had any motive for killing him, and nobody heard the shot that killed him, or found the weapon from which the shot was fired. He was evidently killed by an inhabitant of the moon whose hobby is potting at planets.…Ah, this is interesting, Dutton. Amble left his keys at Preston, and knew he couldn't get into his shop till his assistant turned up with the only other latch-key.”

“Yes—makes one think, doesn't it, sir?” murmured Dutton. “If Amble hadn't left his keys behind him, he'd never have entered that smoking-room, and might have been alive at this minute!”

“Quite true,” nodded James, gravely. “We never know what's coming to us out of the merest trivialities! If the second victim—‘Martha,' I see her name is—hadn't crossed the field at Charlton just when she did,
she
might be alive, too.”

“It's only a guess her name's Martha,” interposed Dutton. “She may have borrowed somebody else's handkerchief.”

“Very probably, since she appears to have been a gipsy, and gipsies aren't always too particular about property. Nothing else known about her, eh?”

“No, sir. But this is worth noting. You'll see she dropped dead at 12.58. It's Turndike's time. That means that the second victim of our Z murders died seven-and-a-half hours after the first, about 125 miles away.”

“While the third victim, towards whom we are now going—”

“Albert Bowes, 5 Channel Row, Bristol, age, query—”

“—was found shot—”

“—or drowned, or both—”

“—sixteen hours after the second victim, about 170 miles away.”

“
Found
sixteen hours after, yes,” agreed Dutton. “But he might have been murdered three or four hours earlier than he was found, according to the police surgeon. No one can say how Albert Bowes came to be in Boston, and he was seen in Bristol round about the time the second victim died. Rather important that, sir, don't you think?”

“Very, Dutton,” nodded the inspector. “Almost looks as if Albert Bowes and—our unknown murderer travelled from Bristol to Boston at about the same time. Yes—distinctly important.”

He paused and stared ahead of him along the straight flat road. He tried to visualise others who had travelled recently over the road—tried to read the secrets in their eyes and the hidden impulses in their hearts. Soon Boston would appear to him. It would appear out of a grey, cloudy smudge; moistly, for a thin drizzle had now started. How had it appeared in those other, those earlier journeys? Out of what form of light or darkness had it shaped, and with what personal significance?

“Going into dirty weather, sir,” observed Dutton.

“It looks like it,” answered James, frowning. “Dirty in every sense. This fellow Smale, now, who found Albert Bowes. I should put him down as a semi-imbecile.”

“I should delete the ‘semi,''' smiled Dutton. “Don't think we need worry about
him
, sir.”

“No—nor about Mrs. Mostyn, Gerald Turndike, or Ted Diggs,” replied James, glancing at the notes. “You've been very thorough, Dutton, I must say, and don't seem to have left out anybody! While, as for Mr. Richard Temperley, you've written a three-volume novel about him! But we don't suspect him, either, do we?”

“Hardly, sir.”

“Nor, any longer, the young lady he is so interested in?”

“Nor any longer, sir. She's a puzzle though. Tied up in the business somehow from the start. Right back as far as Euston. What brought
her
into it? Euston, Bristol, Boston!”

He shook his head, in gloomy impotence.

“For the moment, Dutton, I'm more interested in what has brought the last two individuals on your list into it,” responded Inspector James. “It seems to me that the movements of these two really form the key to the whole puzzle. Admire the scenery for a moment, please, while I read through your last two notes again. I want to get them fixed in my mind.”

And, while Dutton tried dutifully to discover the beauty of utter flatness, James read:

“‘Farmer. Possibly a genuine farmer. Possibly not. Address not known. Age, fifty?

“‘Of interest on account of certain incidents obviously implicating him in the business. Big, strong, rough man. Not so simple as he looks.

“‘Movements, as far as known. Took the 5.30 p.m. train to Bristol on the day of the first two murders. In train sat opposite Temperley and chatted with him. Later on in the journey, occupied seat at table with myself and two ladies, near table occupied by Temperley and Miss Wynne. Note that, at this point, we did not know the lady was Miss Wynne. Farmer moved over to their table once to ask for the sugar, though our table had plenty. Query, did
he
know the lady was Miss Wynne?

“‘Later on still in the journey, he attacked Temperley in his compartment, while Temperley was dozing, and the results might have been fatal if I had not appeared in the corridor. Upon this, the farmer hurriedly left the compartment, and Temperley, meeting me in the corridor, suspected me in my new disguise.'''

James broke off for a moment in his reading, and regarded his faithful second-in-command. Dutton, still dutifully staring at the flatness ahead, stirred slightly.

“Cathedral or something,” reported Dutton.

James looked at the tall tower of St. Botolph's Church, then resumed his reading:

“‘Freed from the supervision of Temperley, owing to the compact made with him, I was now detailed to watch the farmer, and when we arrived at Bristol my attentions clearly worried him and interfered with his freedom of action. I assumed he was trying to follow Temperley, but now think it more probable he was trying to follow Miss Wynne. He threw me off the scent two or three times, but I stuck to him and discovered, shortly before midnight, that he had a car hidden away near the Carpenter's Arms.

“‘Matters came to a head between us a few minutes later. He surprised me round a hedge and laid me out. Fortunately my eye-glass had no glass in it.

“‘I adopted the old dodge of feigning insensibility, and while the farmer was bending over me and I was wondering whether the dodge would succeed, Temperley arrived.

“‘Farmer made a remark about an accident, then vanished. Temperley started to follow, and then turned back to me. But, by that time, I also had vanished. Felt groggy, but chased the farmer unsuccessfully across several fields. Saw him get into the driver's seat of a waiting car, and then suddenly leap off again.

“‘Query: Was this the car subsequently driven by Ted Diggs to Boston, and was Sylvia Wynne inside at the time? If so, this would appear to have been the farmer's first definite attempt to kidnap her.

“‘Finally, I lost the farmer in the vicinity of the Carpenter's Arms again. By this time I was feeling very groggy indeed. On reaching the spot where his car had been I discovered that it was gone.

“‘It is obvious now, from what we have learned from Boston, that the farmer travelled to Boston. It is also fairly obvious that the farmer's car reached Boston first, either passing Temperley's car on the road, or beating it by taking some alternative route at some point or other. In any case, the farmer succeeded in his second attempt to kidnap Sylvia Wynne a few miles from Boston, and he took her away in his car.

“‘Query, where?'''

The drizzle increased. Clouds, flying low, came in from the North Sea, bearing its mood in their frayed edges. The automatic screen-wiper changed from a luxury into a necessity.

“Getting worse, sir,” remarked Dutton.

“Damn the North-West of Ireland,” grunted James.

“More like the South-East of Finland this time,” said Dutton. “Mustn't blame Ireland for everything!”

But James hardly heard him. He was engaged in a battle, unusual for him, against the sinister atmosphere of the elements. They increased a disturbing, gnawing sense of impotence.…

“Seems to me, sir, we came down to earth just in time,” observed Dutton. “I wouldn't care to be up in the sky just now!”

Yes, one could be pretty helpless up in the sky, if pitched against the fury of the elements. But down below here, when pitched against the simpler mechanisms of mere human beings, no self-respecting detective-inspector should be helpless! Yet there was a human being somewhere who had committed three murders, one after the other, leaving behind him an ironic symbol to identify each as his work, and who was still free to add to his ghastly list of victims…and, unless the detective-inspector dissipated his helplessness and, here in Boston, picked up a definite trail…

“Deformed man,” ran the final note in Dutton's report. “Said to have been seen with the farmer, but nothing definite known about him.”

“You're wrong in your last note, Dutton,” said James. “We do know something definite about the deformed man.”

“Yes, sir?”

“We know, I think, that he is Z!”

“And does it help us?” muttered Dutton.