The Z Murders (19 page)

Chapter XXXI

The Z Route

They reached Boston at eighteen minutes past twelve.

It was good going, for the roads were wet and slippery, and during the latter portion of the journey a driving wind had added its inconvenience to the rain; but it was not quite good enough. They missed Richard Temperley by ten minutes, and it was not until some hours later that any news of him reached them. When the news did reach them it was brought by the half-wit, Bob Smale, and for once Detective-Inspector James, who prided himself on his equanimity and had even lectured on the value of composure, forgot himself and swore.

He stared at the note that was handed to him, and his eyes dilated. “But—but this letter was written at 12.45!” he spluttered to the messenger.

“Wer' it?” blinked the messenger.

“Yes—12.45! And look at that clock!”

Bob Smale looked at the clock. It did not seem to make any violent impression on him.

“What have you been doing since this note was given to you?” cried the inspector, angrily. “Watching a dog-fight?”

“There wern't no dog-fight,” Bob assured him. “I'd 'a seed it.”

“I'm asking you why you didn't come here direct, man!”

“Well, I'm 'ere, ain't I?”

“Yes, you're here!” exclaimed the inspector, already at the telephone. “And probably too late!”

“Ah, now I remember!” ejaculated Bob Smale, suddenly. “Now I do remember. Tha's right. 'Twas a cow. A white cow she was, an' she come round the corner, and I ses to myself, seein' 'er all white, ‘You wasn't born on earth,' I ses, ‘there ain't no spots on you—'''

“Take him away, Dutton!” shouted James. “How can I telephone while that babble's going on?”

Dutton obeyed. He had not yet seen the letter himself, but he gathered, from his superior's unusual manner, that its contents were disturbing.

Let us return a few hours, and find out how those contents came to be written.

After satisfying the dictates of both conscience and necessity by getting into touch with James over the telephone—and it was merely by the accident of fortune that he was able to fulfil his obligation only a few minutes after the scheduled time—Temperley did not sit down and watch the local police at work. He worked himself, joining one of the hastily improvised search parties, and sharing its failures and its disappointments. For the people for whom they were searching had enjoyed the advantage of a long start, and of commencing their flight in the early hours of the morning when scarcely a soul was about.

Thus, no one could be found who had met the kidnappers on the road, or who could give any clue to their whereabouts. They had vanished into the void.

There was not even any theory to work upon. The murders with which the kidnappers were connected occurred, apparently, at any time and at any place. They appeared to be motiveless and purposeless, and to form no settled scheme. Within thirty hours three tragedies had occurred, known already as “The Z Murders” in thousands of homes, and countless anxious lips were voicing the questions, “How many more?” “Where will the next occur?” and “Who will the next victim be?”

To the first and second of these questions Richard Temperley had no answer, but the answer to the third burned into his brain and sickened his heart. And because he believed he knew the answer without any shadow of doubt, he worked with a desperate calmness that concealed a spirit almost demented.

His faithful ally, Ted Diggs, worked meanwhile on his car. The damage, although rendering his car
hors-de-combat
at the crucial moment when it had been most needed, was not of a permanent description, and the assistance of a local garage soon remedied the petrol trouble and provided new tyres. Then Diggs joined in the search himself, connecting up with Temperley at the Boston police station and participating with him in the hopeless hunt. “Let's get back to the spot where they set on us,” said Temperley, after they had made fruitless inquiries at a dozen cottages.

“That ain't likely to 'elp, sir,” replied Diggs, gloomily.

“
Nothing's
likely to help!” retorted Temperley. “But we can't stand still, can we?”

“That's right,” nodded Diggs. “'Oo minds gettin' wet?”

They returned to the spot. A figure was lurking there. Temperley leapt from the car and dashed at it. The frightened face of Bob Smale stared back at him through the drizzle. “What are
you
doing here?” demanded Temperley, in angry disappointment.

Smale shook his head vaguely. The implication was that he didn't know.

“Well—have you found anything?” asked Temperley, more quietly. Now Smale nodded.

“What?”

“Eh?”

“What?
What?
”

Smale advanced his mouth mysteriously.

“Blue eye!” he whispered. “Angel's, I reckon!”

He unclosed a fist that had been held tight, displaying a small blue button. Temperley recognised it with a pang. “Where did you pick that up?” he demanded, almost fiercely, to hide another emotion.

“Eh?”

“Where did you pick it up?”

“Oh!” Then Smale pointed. “There!”

The spot he pointed to was a little way along the road. Temperley ran to the spot, and searched it.

He found nothing more, but all at once he gave an exclamation. “Diggs!” he cried. “Where was your car, when you stopped?”

Diggs indicated the place.

“And this button was found
behind
it. That is, farther away from Boston. In the direction from which we had come.”

“That's right, sir.”

“Then—they wouldn't have gone back to Boston, would they?”

“P'r'aps not, sir.”

“Why, ‘perhaps not?'''

“I mean, sir, that if that there button come off in, well, a struggle like—”

“Yes, yes, I know what you mean!” groaned Temperley. “She might have jumped out of the car, and been caught while trying to run away. And what happened outside the car would be no proof of the direction the car ultimately took.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'm just snatching at straws, Diggs. But what else is there to snatch at?” He stared at the button, but its significance almost unnerved him, and he slipped it quickly into his pocket. “Where's your map, Diggs. Let's have another look at it.”

“The local map, sir?” asked Diggs, for they had bought one.

“No, no. The one of England. They've gone off the local map by now—damn them!”

Diggs produced the map, and opened it. They gazed at it hopelessly.

“Just look at the route they've travelled!” muttered Temperley. “First, London. That's where the first Z murder took place. Look—just there.”

He made a mark with his pencil. A vicious dig. Diggs looked, and thought, “Yus, that's nice for my map, that is!”

“And, second, Charlton. That's where the
second Z
murder took place. See—just there!”

He made another angry jab with his pencil. Diggs thought, “'Corse, wot's a little thing like a map?”

“And then, here's the third place. Boston. London—Charlton—Boston.” Another jab. “A Z murder at each spot—a crimson Z left at each spot—London—Charlton…Boston…
God!
”

He became motionless. For a moment, Diggs thought he was going to be sick. “Poor chap!” he muttered, getting ready to catch him. “I thort 'e wouldn't larst!”

But Richard Temperley was not swaying. He was like a statue. Like a statue staring at a map. With eyes galvanised. With mouth apart…

“Gawd, now wot's 'e doin'?” wondered Diggs.

For the statue had sprung into sudden life, and the immobile pencil was now zigzagging across the map. From London, westwards, to Charlton…from Charlton, north-eastwards, to Boston…

“Well, I can get another for 'arf-a-crown,” thought Diggs.

…and from Boston…

“'Ere, where's 'e goin' now?”

…westwards, again, through Notttingham…Derby…

“Whitchurch!” shouted Temperley, in a frenzy. “Whitchurch! The next will be
Whitchurch!
”

Diggs stared, and now
his
mouth opened, too. Across the map of England, in pencil, was a perfect letter Z.

The lead was black, but to the men who stared at it, it looked crimson.

A sudden exclamation from Bob Smale roused them. They had forgotten all about him. He was staring seraphically at a piece of torn paper which he had taken from his pocket. “Angel's feather—
that's
what it is—angel's feather!” he babbled.

He gazed skywards, as though expecting to see another piece of paper come fluttering down. But only rain descended upon his upturned face.

“What's that?” demanded Temperley.

“Angel's feather,” repeated Smale. “Down there it was.” He pointed towards the spot where he had found the button. “But I kep' it. You took the other thing! That's not fair!”

Temperley snatched it from him. On it was written, in a faint, hardly decipherable scrawl:

“Rose Tree Cott…”

Chapter XXXII

On the Road to Whitchurch

“What are you stopping for?” asked the man without arms.

“Because I want a little chat,” answered the countryman who was driving him. “Don't you think it's about time we had one?”

“There will be time enough for our little chat after we have paid our visit to Whitchurch,” said the man without arms.

“Yes, but I'm not at all sure that we're going to
pay
that visit to Whitchurch,” observed the countryman, while his right foot increased its pressure on the brake.

The man without arms was sitting behind the countryman, and thus the countryman was spared the sight of an expression which the devil himself might have envied. By the time the countryman had brought the car to a standstill and had turned round in his seat, the expression was gone, and in its place was an expressionless blank.

“Do you realise,” said the countryman, “that this is the first opportunity we've had for a proper talk since we separated in London yesterday morning?”

“Go on,” replied the man without arms.

“I'm going on,” nodded the countryman. “I suppose, by the way, there's no chance that our passenger will wake up?”

The man without arms turned his expressionless face for an instant towards the insensible girl at his side. Then he turned back to the countryman, and responded,

“There is not the slightest chance that she will wake up.”

“Well, see that she doesn't,” frowned the countryman. “
She's
one of the things I want to talk about.”

“Oh! You are becoming sentimental?”

“God, no! My sole affection just now is for my own skin, thank you. And I'm not satisfied that this Whitchurch trip is going to be good for it.”

“I see. Yet the Whitchurch trip is the only trip of the whole damn lot that really matters!”

“To
you
!”

“Oh! So that's the way of it, eh?”

“Well—I'm interested, too, naturally. I don't want any of your cursed sneers! But there's been too much bungling, and before I decide—”

“Hey?
You
decide?”

“That's what I said! Before I decide what we're going to do, I want to know all that's been
done
? Do you get the idea?” The man without arms did not reply. “Don't make any mistake about it—we're going to have things straight, if we have to stick in this lane all night long. There's been far too much of this Blind Man's Buff!”

“Bungling,” murmured the man without arms. “Yes, maybe there has been bungling. There seems to be some of it at this moment.”

“Oh, no!
This
ain't bungling!
This
is common sense—reasonable caution. That brain of yours—well, you couldn't run England with it, you know!”

“All you can do with
your
brain is to go round and round in a circle!” rasped the man without arms. “What's this all about? What do you want? Are you
ever
coming to the point?”

“Yes, I'm coming to the point,” answered the countryman, calmly, “and this is what I want. There's too many blanks in this business. I'm not going an inch farther without knowing the whole darned mess. Where you've been—”

“And where
you've
been!”

“That's right. We've got to join up our knowledge. And we've got to know who's after us
now
, and what clues and trails they've got. Why, for all we know, there may be somebody waiting for us in Whitchurch at this moment! I'm not going to walk into any booby trap!”

“All right! Go on, go on, go
on
!” suddenly screamed the man without arms. A moment later, however, he was quiet again, and was regarding the countryman with a stony, passionless stare.

“When first we planned this little scheme, a month ago—” began the countryman.

“When first
I
planned this little scheme, twenty years ago,” interposed the man without arms.

“Have it your own way!” snapped the countryman. “When first we planned the actual details of it, anyhow—does that satisfy you? When first we planned the details, everything seemed clear sailing. We found out where Ledlow was living—checked the address, rather—”

“And the fact that he had changed his name, to Jones,” added the man without arms.

“Yes. And decided on—our little dose of revenge.”

“
My
little dose of revenge,” said the man without arms.

“Hell, how many more times are you going to interrupt me?” demanded the countryman. “
Your
little scheme—
your
revenge! Have the damn lot! And
your
little hangman's rope at the end of it! I'm not bidding!”

He stared at his companion emotionally, while his companion stared unemotionally back.

“Go on,” said the man without arms.

The countryman swallowed slowly, and went on:

“Yes, it
is
your scheme—you're quite right—because, if you'd followed my advice you'd have gone straight to Whitchurch and got the thing over at once. But, instead, when you found out that Ledlow was living paralysed in a lonely cottage with only an old woman to look after him—”

“An old woman who read out all the news to him,” the man without arms interrupted again; and, this time, his expressionless face was momentarily illuminated with a faint, sardonic smile.

“—you hatched this roundabout way of working your way towards him so that, as you expressed it, you could pay him in his own coin. I wish to God I'd been a little less conscientious when I was ferreting around for you—or that I'd told you a little less of what I found out. Then you've never have got hold of this mad idea!”

“Mad?” repeated the man without arms. He raised a flapping sleeve. The sleeve flapped towards his head, and a moment later his large hat had been tipped back, revealing the usually covered expanse of forehead. The countryman looked away suddenly. His eyes had seen the sight presented many times before; but, at this moment, it unnerved him. Again he swallowed slowly. Then, angry with himself, he turned his head back to his companion. But the forehead was no longer visible. Those flapping sleeves could work uncannily! “Go on,” said the man without arms.

“Yes, but before I go on,” replied the countryman, rather hollowly, “I'm going to remind you of something—something even—a madman does not forget.”

He laughed mirthlessly at the crude jest. The man without arms did not join in.

“So I really
am
mad, am I?” he said.

“No, of course you're not!” exclaimed the countryman, quickly. “Can't you understand a little joke? What I've got to remind you of is this. All I've
done
for you!”

“What have you done for me?” inquired the man without arms.

“What have I done for you?” repeated the countryman, raising his eyebrows in amazed indignation. “When Ledlow's gang double-crossed ours twenty years ago and left your mutilated body for dead, and—and branded their mark on you, who was it came and carted you off before the police or the crows could get hold of you?”

“You did,” said the man without arms.

“Yes, and saved you from the lunatic asylum, as well—because that's all you were fit for at first!—and nursed you back to—”

“Health?”

“Damn it, man I'm not a miracle-worker!” fumed the countryman, fiercely. His memories seemed to be giving him courage. “You can't make a whole man out of half a man! I did what I could, and you'd have been dead or raving if it hadn't been for me. I nursed you and doctored you, and looked after you, and hid you. You've lived in my back room for a third of your life! I even got your damned hook for you and your—your damned other thing—”

“My silent shooter,” murmured the man without arms, with a glance towards his right sleeve.

“Yes, your silent shooter,” exclaimed the countryman, “that has given you so much fun during the past twenty-four hours—”

“And that is going to give me so much more fun before I've done with it—or with you,” said the man without arms.

“Perhaps,” retorted the countryman. “And, after all this, you have the impudence to sit there and ask me what I have done for you!”

The man without arms looked at his right sleeve again. His face remained expressionless, though perhaps there was just a tiny glint in the eyes. But the eyes were concealed under the brim of his hat.

“Then I'll alter my question,” he said, after a pause. “
Why
have you done all this for me?”

“Why?”

“Yes. Out of love?”

The countryman frowned. “There's such a thing as sticking together, ain't there?” he demanded.

“Yes, and we're going to
remain
sticking together,” replied the man without arms. “But let's hear your other reason?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Ledlow had a reason for double-crossing me twenty years ago—and if you'd been able to find a certain packet of beads when you called at his cottage in the guise of an ex-serviceman and found out what I'd asked you to find out, maybe
you'd
have double-crossed
me
—”

“Oh, so that's what you think, is it?”

“If I thought it, you wouldn't be sitting where you are, talking to me,” answered the man without arms. “You'd be talking to your Maker. I'm just reminding
you
, since you've been reminding
me
of things, that I've been double-crossed once in my life, and the man who tries it a second time won't die in his bed. You're interested in that packet of coloured beads, Mr. Kindheart, and that's why you're sticking to me. You think I know something about 'em, or at any rate you need my wits to get 'em back. Well,
that's
as may be. But if we do get 'em back, you can have the lot, because they don't interest
me
any more. I've just one interest in life. Half of it's in this sleeve, and the other half's on my forehead. And we're
going
, Mr. Kindheart, to Whitchurch! See?” And he raised his right sleeve as he spoke, and flapped it towards the countryman. “Or am I wrong?” he asked, with a malicious gleam. “And is it still—perhaps?”