“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.
Chapter XXIII
The Third Murder
He came to earth, unexpectedly, on a soft cushion of grass. If he had descended a yard more to the right he would have been shattered by hard ground, or if he had descended a yard more to the left he would have been impaled on a rusty-toothed farm implement. But, for some reason understood only by the Fates who weave their inscrutable patterns and prolong joy or agony without any interest in either, he descended on softness; and although the breath was nearly knocked out of him, he discovered to his amazement that he was still alive.
He lay very still. Because, after all, he was only just alive, and he could not move until he had got a little of his breath back. Moreover, he did not want to move for a few seconds. Movement would give him away. Before he moved he must try to discover whether movement was also occurring in the vicinity of that large dark monster with bright slanting eyes from which he had leapt.
The monster itself was perfectly still. It had crashed into a post, and was tipping at an angle. It looked like a big black box, or an overturned coffin, and the yellow eyes had been forced round sideways. The light from the eyes streamed over stubble, grotesquely exaggerating its irregularities, and poured itself finally into the embankment that stretched like a vast dark green snake between land and sea.
The embankment had seen many strange sights in its time. It had been raised by Romans, and invaded by Norsemen. Shields and swords had clashed on it, arrows had flown over it, mailed horses had trampled on it and fallen on it, and a German shell had whistled above it. But no queerer battle had ever been staged there than the conflict it was about to witness between a Bristol chauffeur and a man minus hands…
For a few seconds, as he lay with strained ears, Albert wondered whether the man minus hands was also minus life. In that moment of sudden clarity when he had leapt from the car, only one half of his effort had been to save himself. The other half had been to wreck the car and kill its occupant, and besides jamming on the brake he had given a violent twist to the driving-wheel. Thus the car had swung away from him as he had jumped and had struck the post.
Now he listened hard. He listened so hard that he almost burst the veins in his forehead. He heard nothing. Nothing. Suddenly he realised his mistake. He was hearing dozens of things. Little grasses stirring. Little twigs moving. Little breezes blowing. Little drops of water oozing. All around him were minute sound and movement, filling the blackness with a million indecipherable stories. For there is no such thing as utter silence. The ear merely needs to be tuned in.
At first these little sounds terrified Albert. He attributed the stirring grasses and the moving twigs to stealthy human feet, and the oozing to advancing boots. But when his own ear became tuned in, and he heard the sounds repeated in front of him and behind him and on both sides, he interpreted them correctly, and strained his ears afresh so that he might not miss that sound which spelt real Menace.
He looked towards the black car. The Menace would begin from over there, of course. Then a twig snapped abruptly from a spot behind him. He twisted his neck violently. A point touched his face. It was a long grass.
Steadying himself, he twisted his neck back again, and again stared towards the car. In particular he stared towards the two rays of light that slanted off into the embankment. If a figure moved into an edge of either of these two rays, it would be visible, and could be located; and, once located, a policy could be devised. Thus, while one dreaded the moment when a stealthy form would edge into the light, one also wanted it, and became divided against oneself.
No! After all, did one want it? The longer this inactivity lasted—the longer this world of little sounds remained unbroken by any big sound—the more possible grew the theory that the man without hands was indeed dead, and that Albert’s attempt to kill him by wrecking the car had succeeded. Because what would the man do if he were not dead? Why, it was obvious. He would wait a second or two, to collect himself—just as Albert was waiting—and then he would creep out of the car. Then he would creep round the car, searching for Albert. Then he would creep a little farther afield. During these operations, he would be bound to move into one or other of those two thin streets of light, and to reveal himself to the eyes of the man for whom he was sea
rching…
Snap! Again a twig crackled in Albert’s rear.
“Not this time!” thought Albert, and kept his eyes on the lights.
Nothing! Nothing! NOTHING!
“God, he is dead!” babbled Albert, hysterically.
He rose, tottering, but free! And, as he rose, a cold hook stretched forward from behind and touched the back of his neck.
If life is doubly sweet after thinking you have lost it, death is doubly terrible after believing you have escaped from it. As the cold metal touched Albert’s skin, and he visualised Death standing behind him—the Death he himself imagined dead—he endured the worst moment of his existence.
In that moment, while he stood tottering on the edge of Eternity, his past rose from the swaying ground and circled round him. A man he had cheated howled derisively at him. A woman he had cheated clung to him. A dog he had hoped to sell in some far-off life wagged its tail and barked at him, while a piece of curved metal began travelling round his neck.
“Now you’ll pay!” shrieked the man.
“I forgive you!” wailed the woman.
“Bow-wow!” barked the dog. “Have you forgotten how to kick? Bow-wow!”
Kick? What’s that? Kick? Instructed by the ghost of a dog on whom he had practised in that far-off life, Albert swung round and kicked.
His boot met something soft, and the metal vanished. Then Albert turned and ran.
He ran heavily and unscientifically. The ground tried to seize his legs, but he went on kicking. Presently the ground rose, and he fell forward against it. He thought he was lying down, and found he was lying up. He heard panting. Was it his own, or somebody else’s? There was no time to stop and inquire. He clambered up the ground that had risen in front of him, clambered with hands as well as feet, and reached the top.
Something clambered up after him.
He was now on the ridge of the embankment, and he had to turn to the right or left to avoid a tumble. For all he knew, the tumble might end in the sea. He chose the right, and ran desperately. It surprised him that he kept on the ridge. He expected to fall over a side of it any moment, for in the darkness he underestimated its width and seemed to be speeding along a tight-rope. Possibly, he was helped, also, by the fact that at this portion of the embankment it took a sweeping curve, and when we cannot see we are apt to move in circles.
Suddenly he became conscious of farm buildings on his left. He did not believe in their reality at first, owing to his misconception that the sea was immediately below him; actually the sea was still some considerable distance away. As he raced by a barn, however, he discovered that it was not an imaginative object but a real one.
He tried to shout. He did not know whether he succeeded or not. No one came to his assistance from the barn, or from any of the other buildings. They were all empty and deserted…
Something obstructed his path. It was a gate. He fell against it, and clung to it. He discovered, to his horror, that he had no strength to open it. He hadn’t even the brain to find out how it opened, or at which end of it he was. He turned, like a spent bull at bay, and waited.
Somewhere below him, water gleamed. He wondered vaguely whether there would be any object in reaching it. The fence that ended at the gate took a downward turn towards the water, and if he could climb over the fence he might drop down into some sort of sanctuary while his pursuer passed on through the gate. But was there time? He stared back along the ridge over which he had travelled. There was no sign of his pursuer.
Perhaps his pursuer had stumbled? Perhaps he had fallen over a side of the embankment? Or perhaps—and this was more likely—he had decided to take no risks, and was stalking his quarry slowly and cautiously, knowing that the quarry’s breath would soon be spent and that ultimate escape was impossible! Well, in any case, the pursuer had not arrived yet, and there might be time to get over the fence and hide before he came.
It was worth trying. The only remaining question was—had one the strength?
Albert took a deep breath, attempting to steady himself, and then proceeded inch by inch along the fence. He had to cling to the fence while he moved, for otherwise he could not have held himself up. When he reached the point immediately above the water, he paused and stared down, trying to estimate how far the water was below him. He thought it was only a very short distance. He judged by a star that gleamed in it. Probably there would be a bank or something which would provide him with cover…Now, then! Be quick!…On to the fence, and over it!…
He managed to get astride of the fence. As he did so, he noticed another farm building. A small shed, near the side of the water. Fool he was! Was he working with a brain or a sieve? He ought to have hidden in one of the farm buildings! They were all empty.…
Hallo! This one wasn’t! A figure emerged from the shed, and stood regarding him.
“Help!” gasped Albert.
The figure raised a flapping arm and pointed it at him. The next moment Albert toppled from the fence, and reached the water.
The star shivered.
Chapter XXIV
The First Lap
As Albert Bowes’s journey to Boston ended, Ted Diggs’s began.
Diggs had not been tempted by so large a sum as Albert. Twenty pounds, not fifty, had been offered him for crossing England at a moment’s notice, but he was happier in the person who had offered the sum, and stood a likelier chance of getting it. Thus, he set out with a more contented mind.
“Mind you,” he told himself, “this is the maddest trip I’ve ever took, and I don’t say I ain’t a bit mad myself for takin’ it. But, there! We’ll all be dead in a ’undred years, won’t we? So what’s the difference?”
Fortunately he took his work sufficiently seriously to include a map in his outfit. Fortunately, also, he knew the road as far as Gloucester. When they got to Gloucester he’d have a go at the map, and p’r’aps get the young gent to help him. As long as he wasn’t asked to cross the Atlantic, he expected he could get to a place called Boston as well as the next man.
Pity there wasn’t a moon, though.
Inside the car, his two passengers were also occupied with their thoughts. Each was confused, and each knew of the other’s confusion; yet, for some reason known only to the girl—her mind was clearer on that point at least—they could not pool their confusion in the attempt to build something coherent out of it. Darkness lay in their minds as well as on the roads they were travelling through.
But the silence was not entirely uncommunicative! Companionship existed inside the car, and also trust. No words were needed to strengthen these consoling elements; indeed, at this stage, words might have weakened them, implying a leakage in their spiritual armour. The silence was peaceful, too. They could relax into it, and gather strength for what lay ahead.…Yes…what did lie ahead?
Richard pondered over this question fruitlessly. Twenty-four hours ago—yes, just twenty-four hours ago!—he had been trying to close his ears to the snoring of John Amble. (How much more appealing was the companion on his present night journey!) Afterwards, John Amble had died at Euston. Was there any connection between Euston and Boston? Via Bristol? And, if so, what?
The crimson Z! Was that the connection? A sentence spoken by Inspector James in the Bristol train came into Richard’s mind. Queer how the inspector’s words had a habit of reverting to one! “I’m beginning to wonder, Mr. Temperley, how many more of these crimson Z’s we are going to find before we’ve finished the job.”
Despite his resolve to form the strength of this little army of two, Richard suddenly shuddered, and the other half of the army, which had been sticking unconsciously close, suddenly spoke.
“What’s the matter?” asked Sylvia.
“Nothing,” he replied, quickly.
“Just natural St. Vitus’s Dance?” she queried.
He smiled, delighted to find that she co
uld jest.
“It was only a thought,” he said.
“Let me know it!”
“In return for all the voluminous information you’ve given me?”
Now she smiled, as though glad that he could jest, too.
“It wasn’t important,” he went on, to escape gloom. “You know how one’s mind goes round and round.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, my mind was going round and round—”
“And it bumped somewhere?”
“That’s it. And woke you up. Now try and go to sleep again.”
“Where did it bump?”
“Nowhere important. I’ve told you so already.”
“But you do it so badly.”
“Do what?”
“Lie.”
“Thank you,” he laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You don’t even know when you’re lying to the wrong people,” she observed.
“That’s less complimentary,” he admitted, and turned his head suddenly to look at her.
The thought that had caused him to turn his head was chased away by another. “Whew, if I were an ordinary young man in a taxi,” came the second thought, “what a fool I’d make of myself!” Possibly he was not quite fair to the ordinary young men in taxis. One is apt to lower other people in order to maintain one’s own elevation. But there was no time now to reach final conclusions regarding the behaviour of ordinary young men in taxis or how they would behave if seated, after midnight, by such a devastatingly pretty girl as Sylvia Wynne. The devastatingly pretty girl was returning Richard’s gaze, and the only way to escape from the danger of the second thought was to swing back to the security of the first…The first thought…What was it?…Oh, yes, the bump in the vicious circle.
The Z Murders Page 16