The Z Murders (5 page)

“Tell me,
was
he snoring?” he cried.

The question came so suddenly and so exultingly that Miss Wynne gazed at Temperley almost in alarm.

“I told you—didn't I?” she answered, flustered. “That was why I left.”

And then the exultation departed, and Temperley knew that John Amble had
not
been snoring when the girl had left and when he himself had entered the smoking-room.

He knew for two reasons. The first was the girl's attitude; it betrayed that she was catching at straws. The second was that, if Amble had been snoring, Temperley now realised the inevitability of his associating the fact with the girl's departure. “Hallo—
she
can't stick it, like!” Such, Temperley felt, would have been his obvious instinctive thought.

In his extremity, he plunged.

“Truth's a damn good thing,” he said, and looked at her squarely.

“And I'm not speaking it?” she replied. “Thank you.”

There was a pathetic lack of indignation in her tone.

The pathos beat him. Her lips were trembling slightly, and the whiteness with which she had first greeted him had returned. She looked unutterably weary. He ached to lift the pretty, tired feet and arrange them comfortably on the couch, so that she could relax into the peace and comfort she required. Well, he couldn't do that, but he could at least remove his penetrating gaze from her face, and for a few seconds spare her his scrutiny.

“He was shot from the window,” he said, and, because he had turned away, he missed the sudden stiffening of her body. “At least, that's the inspector's theory, and he seemed sure of it. Of course, I was questioned pretty closely, as you can imagine. You see—you and I were the last people to see him alive—”

“Except for the person who shot him,” she interposed, with unexpected shrewdness.

“By Jove—yes—apart from that person,” answered Temperley, swinging round again. “Of course,
he
—”

He paused, and his eyes roamed instinctively towards the door.

“What's the matter?” she asked, with a catch in her voice.

She was like the wires between telegraph poles as viewed from a travelling train; every time her spirits began to rise, something happened to jerk them down again.

“Nothing,” he replied, unconvincingly.

“Then why did you look at that door?”

“Don't know.”

“A moment ago, Mr. Temperley,” she observed, “you reminded me that truth was a damn good thing.”

The reminder was accompanied by a little smile. The wires were going up again.

“Touché,” he smiled back. “I do know.”

“Then please tell me!”

He decided that it was best to. The situation was too grim altogether for evasion. He walked to the stool, pulled it in front of the settee, and sat down.

“Listen, Miss Wynne,” he said, gravely. “This is a pretty bad business, and, in your own interests, I'm not going to keep anything back. After the inspector had finished asking me about myself—”

“But you convinced him you had nothing to do with it?” she interrupted, eagerly. “
You're
in no danger?”

“None at all. I imagine I've got a clean slate. But then he began asking me about you. I told him I didn't know anything about you—who you were, or what you were, or where you were.”

“Even though it wasn't true—?”

“It was true, at first. But not afterwards—not after I found your bag. Luckily, I managed to evade the point after that, but he wants to find you pretty badly, that inspector does, and he strikes me as the sort of chap who generally gets his way in the end.”

“You mean, you think he'll find me?”

“He'll have a jolly good try!”

“Perhaps he followed you here!”

“I thought of that possibility before I started, Miss Wynne. I haven't made my way here like a crow, straight, but like a crab, sideways! If anybody began following me, I'll bet I shook 'em off! But that fellow'll track you presently, and—well, one can see his point of view, you know. Can't one?”

“What is his point of view?”

“That you left the smoking-room rather suddenly.”

“Yes—I did.”

“And you didn't go back.”

“No.”

“Not even—for your bag!”

Again she showed her shrewdness. “But only
you
know that,” she pointed out.

“Yes, and I wish I didn't!” he exclaimed, marvelling all at once at her acceptance of his allegiance. Was he being a blind fool? Another of the inspector's remarks flashed uncomfortably into his mind: “There was a time when I, like you, rebelled against the idea of coupling crime with beauty. But facts beat us, sir! We must keep our dreams for our private moments.” Facts were certainly trying to beat Richard now. Again he made a sudden appeal to her for the truth. “Look here, why not go to the inspector and tell him your story, whatever it is?” he begged. “I'll go with you, if you like—and it's much better than having the story dragged out of you.
I'd
have been under a shadow if I hadn't stayed and found it. The inspector's quite a decent chap—provided one doesn't make an enemy of him. I imagine—
then
—he might be awkward!”

His eyes searched hers earnestly. She did not reply, but seemed to be considering his appeal. He endeavoured to strengthen it with another argument.

“There's a second reason why I think you should go to the police,” he said. “You should go for your protection.”

“My protection?”

“Yes. You see—there's one thing I've not told you yet. The reason why I looked towards your front-door just now.”

“Yes, I'm waiting for that!”

“I told you that the inspector's theory is that the man was shot from the window. That is, from the direction of the window. The careful idiot wouldn't commit himself as to the exact point where the bullet started from, but he found something outside the window which suggests that the murderer must have been outside. A—very odd thing. It was in the shape of the letter Z.”

The effect of this information was galvanic. She jumped up from the couch as though an electric current had suddenly passed through her body, and stood trembling. For an instant Temperley stared at her in amazement. Then he, too, was on his feet, standing before her with his hands firmly holding her arms to steady her.

“As bad as that, eh?” he muttered. “Poor child!” He felt her weight upon him as her strength began to leave her. “Well, don't forget—I'm here to help you, if I can.”

He said the words to comfort her, but as he spoke them he knew they were true. Something terrible hung over her; brooded over the studio in which she lived; crept outside through the murk of Tail Street. It had been present on No. 3 Platform at Euston—hadn't Temperley sensed it even there, though he had not then associated it with this warm, frightened creature trembling against him. And it had followed her into the hotel smoking-room, and been with her ever since! Well, if she had no one else to turn to…

He felt suddenly cold. She had called upon some hidden reserve of strength, and, no longer needing his, had drawn away from him. Outwardly, she appeared calm again, or nearly so.

“You must think me an idiot,” she murmured. “I haven't had any breakfast.” Ridiculous explanation! “A letter Z? Well?”

“Look here, Miss Wynne, what
about
that breakfast?” he suggested. “Don't you think it's time you got it inside you?”

“Tell me the rest first.”

“Perhaps there isn't any rest.”

She thought for a moment, then replied, “If you say there isn't, I'll try and believe you. But if there
is
, and if you really and truly meant what you said just now about wanting to help me—”

“Of course, it's true!”

“Then it's impossible—
impossible
to help me by keeping anything back.”

The earnestness of her voice would have convinced him even if the facts themselves had not. Naturally, nothing must be kept back. She must know the full extent of the menace, and must be given her chance of clearing out of the studio until the menace was removed. He wondered where she could go. Suppose she had no sanctuary? As this possibility occurred to him, an idea that was perhaps more intriguing than reasonable flashed into his mind. Why not offer her his sister's house? Winifred was a good sport. He was certain she would not object, and Miss Wynne would be safe there. No—would she? Inspector James had his sister's address! Confound Inspector James—what a well-meaning nuisance the fellow was!…Thus Richard Temperley's thoughts raced, tumbling over each other like an eager schoolboy's.

“You're right—I won't keep anything back,” he said. “You ought to know everything. But, first, just one thing. What happened, exactly, when you got back here, and found you had lost your key?”

“Does that matter?” she asked, frowning.

“Very likely not,” he admitted, “but it would be nice of you to humour me.”

“Very well. I—just couldn't get in.”

“Didn't know you'd lost your bag until that moment, eh?”

“That's right. And I—I started back for it. Then I changed my mind.” She had spoken hesitatingly, but now she ran on quickly, as though to avoid being asked why she had changed her mind. “The back of this studio looks out on another road, you know—or passage, rather. I knew the window didn't latch properly, so I went round to the back and got in. You saw me do it.”

“Yes,” he answered. He refrained from pointing out that she had not accounted fully for her time. After all, was she under any obligation to? “How do you get round to the back?” he inquired abruptly.

“You have to go out of the street, and then round.”

“Out of Tail Street?”

“Yes.”

“I see. And you didn't meet anyone?”

“No. Did
you
?”

He shook his head. “But someone seems to have been here before us, just the same. No, I don't mean inside,” he added quickly, in response to her fresh look of alarm. “Probably on the doorstep. When I let myself in—yes, I know it was jolly cool, but I couldn't get any reply to my ringing, and I wanted to make sure that everything was all right—” He stopped, and watched her rather anxiously. “I found something on the ground.”

“What?”

“Well, it was another of those darned little letter Z's.”

She took it well. He admired her tremendously at that moment. “How funny,” was all she said.

“A bit odd,” he agreed, grimly. “It had probably been slipped through the letter-box slit. Anyway, there it was—and here it is.” He took the unsavoury object from his pocket and held it out. “And, if I may offer advice, Miss Wynne,” he concluded, “you'll give this spot a wide berth for a while, because it doesn't seem any too healthy.”

She did not reply. Was she listening? The momentary composure was departing again. “P'r'aps she's got nowhere else to go to?” wondered Temperley, with a fresh wave of intense sympathy.

“Here's a perfectly mad idea—if you've no better,” he said. “My sister lives at 18a, Hope Avenue, Richmond—her name's Mostyn—she's an awfully good sort, and—”

No, she wasn't listening! Her eyes were on the front door once more. Temperley turned swiftly. Beyond the opaque glass of the door moved a shadowy, formless smudge.

Chapter VI

The Person on the Doorstep

To reach the front door you merely had to cross the little passage that connected it with the studio. Ordinarily it would take you three or four seconds. It took Temperley one. And in another second he had flung the door open. Thus it was that the origin of the shadowy, formless smudge had no time to evaporate, but stood staring at Temperley without any sign of delight in his sudden presence.

But neither was there any sign of discomposure. The origin of the shadowy, formless smudge was a rather ordinary-looking man, belonging perhaps to the workman class, but not in working clothes, and his face was unimaginative and expressionless. This lack of flurry or of menace momentarily disarmed Temperley, who had expected a chase or a scrap, and who was primed for either. For a few moments he regarded this innocent-looking fellow with vague surprise. Then suspicion and determination returned, and he barked out a sharp question: “What are you doing here?”

“Eh?” replied the man.

“I asked you what you were doing here!”

“Oh. I wanted to see the occupier.”

“What for?”

“Are you the occupier, sir?”

The fellow spoke quite respectfully, but Temperley refused to be put off his guard.

“
I'll
ask the questions, if you don't mind,” he retorted. “I'm still waiting, you know.”

“Very sorry, I'm sure, sir,” murmured the man. “I come here to see if I could get a job of work.”

“Oh,” answered Temperley, disbelieving him. “What sort of work?”

“Any kind,” said the man. “Garden. Windows. Studio, ain't it?” He craned his neck slightly, as though to get a peep inside. Temperley tried to widen himself. “Want your windows kep' clean in a studio, sir. Or I could do a bit of posing.”

“Are you sure you're
not
?” enquired Temperley.

“Eh?” blinked the man, and looked hurt.

“Well, there are plenty of burglars about these days,” said Temperley, without contrition. “One has to be careful, you know. What made you choose this house to call at?”

The man thought for a moment. He seemed to be trying hard. He rubbed his chin, and then responded,

“Well, sir, you don't ezackly
choose
. You jest call—where you happen to be, if you take me?”

“And you happened to be here?”

“That's right.”

“H'm. Well, I'm afraid there isn't any work for you.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And I'm also afraid you won't find any by trying to peep in,” added Temperley, sharply, as the man craned his neck again.

“That's right, sir,” agreed the man. “You can't see through a curtain.”

Was it the man's words, or some new quality in his voice, that caused Temperley to swing round suddenly? In any case, he did so. Curtain?…What curtain? He found himself staring at a curtain. Like the door, it was blue. It had been drawn across the entrance to the studio, shutting it entirely from view. It had not been drawn when he had left the studio. Or—had it? No, of course, it had not. He had seen the front door from the studio. And so had the girl.…

Quickly he swung back to the man, but the man had disappeared.

Temperley closed the front door, fighting his anxiety, and hastened back to the studio, shoving the curtain aside as he ran. Then he got another shock. The girl, also, had disappeared.

“Well—I'm damned!” he thought. “What's that mean?”

Had she got a fright and taken cover? He called her name softly. Obtaining no response, he began to search the studio, trying first the corner he himself had hidden in. There was no sign of her. Suddenly he looked towards the little window.

“Open again!” he muttered.

Obvious, of course. The bird had flown out through the window. Well, he had advised her to give the place a wide berth, hadn't he? She had merely acted on his advice! Yes, but without a word, without so much as…

On his way to the window he stopped abruptly. A faint sound came from outside. His heart beat happily again.

“Miss Wynne!” he called, keeping his voice low. “You can come back. He's gone!”

“I'm afraid he hasn't,” came the reply, as the individual under discussion emerged into view.

No longer asking Temperley's sanction, the unwelcome visitor climbed in through the window, and as Temperley watched him a wretched suspicion came into his mind. A moment later, the visitor was confirming the suspicion.

“I hope you'll forgive me for the pack of lies I told you on the doorstep just now, Mr. Temperley,” he said, “but you've not been the soul of truth yourself, now, have you?”

“Who are you?” demanded Temperley.

“Name, Dutton,” replied the man, brushing dust from his sleeve. “Working for Inspector James.”

“And your work was to follow me?”

“Afraid so, sir. You see, sir—well, we guessed you weren't going to Madame Tussaud's.”

“I see,” murmured Temperley, and added abruptly, with a frown, “Pretty poor game, yours, isn't it?”

“That's how you look at it, sir,” answered Dutton. “Maybe some'd say the same of yours.”

“Mine?”

“Yes, sir. Not helping the police, I mean. You've led me a dance, and no error!”

He smiled amiably. If his words contained a reproach, his tone and his attitude were quite friendly. Temperley, trying to make the best of a situation quite new to him, wondered what his own tone and attitude ought to be.

“I take back what I said just now about yours being a poor game,” he said. “But—perhaps, if you understood—you'd realise that I'm not really playing a bad game, either.”

“Oh, I understand that, sir,” nodded Dutton, “but I've got to go on with my job, just the same.”

“Well—go on with it,” smiled Temperley. “What's the next step?”

Dutton smiled back.

“What's yours?” he asked.

“Oh! Then the chase is to continue?”

“That depends on you, sir.”

“What do you mean?” Dutton shrugged his shoulders. “That's not an answer. Let's start square, anyway. Why have you followed me?”

“Well, sir—p'r'aps the police aren't always such fools as people think. And that being so, sir—if I may offer a word of advice—it would be much simpler if we pulled together. It'll come to the same in the end.”

“You think so?”

“Sure of it, sir.”

“Listen, Mr. Dutton. I admit you've scored a trick. I'm not one of those who call policemen fools. But—well, p'r'aps
I'm
not such a fool, either?”

“I'm sure you're not, sir. If it was only you and me, I'd go fifty-fifty on the result. But you've forgotten the inspector. He sent me to trace Miss Wynne, through you—and he won't rest till he's found her.” Dutton paused. Then he went on, in a matter-of-fact voice: “The lady's acting very queerly, you'll admit. I don't say she's anything to do with our business, but if she hasn't why doesn't she come forward and say so? There you are.”

He paused again. His eyes roamed round the studio. Temperley watched him curiously, and also with a sense of irritation. Why were they both staying here? Why didn't they go? And, when they did go, would they separate?

Now Dutton was eyeing the curtained corner. He moved towards it casually.

“Have you got a warrant to search the place?” enquired Temperley.

“No,” replied Dutton, continuing on his way.

Temperley saw his chance, and seized it. While Dutton proceeded towards the corner, Temperley turned and slipped quietly to the front-door. He opened it and closed it with a bang, then swiftly dropped down behind the hat-stand.

Five seconds later, Dutton came rushing by. The blue door was opened and closed a second time, on this occasion with an even louder bang.

From behind the hat-stand came a chuckle.

“Do your job, Dutton,” murmured Temperley, as he emerged, “and all honour to the foe. But I've got a job, too, and by George I'm going to see it through. Evidence is all very well, but there's also such a thing as faith, isn't there?”

He tiptoed softly back to the studio, crossed to the little window, and climbed out; while not far off a conscientious policeman chased a shadow, and a girl fled from one, and the shadow itself stood under an archway, with a pallid grin upon its nightmare face.