The Z Murders

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  “Are you going to tell me?” she asked.

  “Well—since it was only a thought,” he replied.

  “Thoughts can be useful.”

  “And dangerous, if they come from panic.”

  “I don’t associate you with panic, Mr. Temperley.”

  “I’m glad of that, Miss Wynne. I—do get in a bit of a panic, though, when I think you’re in danger.”

  Something entered her eyes, causing her to remove them quickly from his and to stare into the back of Ted Diggs separated from romance by a sheet of glass. Richard felt cheated of a wonderful moment. Maybe she sensed this. Her next words, coming after a little silence, were compensation.

  “I never feel in danger when I’m with you,” she said. “And, now, please—the thought?”

  “All right! Just this,” he said. “I was wondering whether we are going to find any more of those beastly little crimson Z’s at Boston?”

  She sat very still. Deciding, now the thought had been forced from him, to proceed with it ruthlessly, he inquired. “What’s your opinion?”

  “I don’t know,” she murmured.

  “Still, you think we may find one?”

  “Everything’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “Miss Wynne,” said Richard, reprovingly, “if I lie badly, you fence badly. And you don’t know when you’re fencing with the wrong people!”

  “What do you want me to say?” she asked, rather helplessly.

  “I asked for an opinion, not a generality.”

  “But suppose I haven’t got an opinion?”

  “Nonsense! We’ve all got opinions. I don’t know whether to-morrow’s going to be wet or dry, but if I had to bet a shilling one way or the other I’d find that fifty-one per cent. of my opinion regarding the meteorological outlook said, ‘Dry.’ So I’d bet ‘Dry,’ without in any sense posing as an expert. Having delivered which little lecture, the annoying but well-intentioned young man repeated, ‘What’s your opinion, Miss Wynne, on the criminalogical outlook in Boston? Wet or dry?’’’

  “Wet,” she replied, giving up.

  “That’s my opinion, also,” he nodded, now becoming sober again, “although I’ve far less to go upon than you have.”

  The car slackened speed at a sign-post, then veered round a dark corner and accelerated.

  “Do you think I’ve got a lot to go upon?” she challenged him.

  “I don’t know,” he parried.

  “Nonsense! We’ve all got opinions!” she scored. “What’s your fifty-one per cent. on the Sylvia Wynne outlook?”

  “A hit, a hit, a palpable hit!” he answered, with a smile. “I’d bet my bob that Sylvia Wynne had a very great deal to go upon.”

  “Then you’d lose the bob,” came the unexpected response. “I haven’t much to go upon.”

  He turned and stared at her in genuine surprise.

  “What—not much to go upon?” he exclaimed. She shook her head. “Do you mean, you’re chasing all over England without knowing exactly why you’re doing it?”

  “I know why I’m doing it.”

  “But you’re not sure that the reason is a sound one?”

  “It might be something like that.”

  “And you won’t even let me help you?”

  “But you are helping me—”

  “To decide, I mean.”

  “You’d only see the logic of the case.”

  “Only the logic!” he echoed. “What else is there?”

  “Everything else. Instinct.”

  “Oh!”

  “And I believe in instinct—being a woman, you see.”

  “Bit dangerous, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sometimes. But sometimes instinct brings safety, too.”

  “I’m afraid that’s rather beyond me.”

  “It shouldn’t be, Mr. Temperley. But for my instinct, would I be trusting you like this?”

  “By Jove, I expect that’s true!” he murmured. “So—I’m the safety, then?”

  “The only safety.”

  “Miss Wynne, I warn you,” he said, fighting his pleasure. “When you make remarks like that, I become considerably less safe!”

  “I’m not afraid,” she answered.

  “No, but I am!” he retorted. “You don’t realise the—the chaos of my mind! Oh, yes, I’m safe enough, I expect! You needn’t be afraid, really. Just the same, I demand that you give me a little genuine, human credit for the fact.”

  “I do,” she answered, and unconsciously tested him by moving an inch closer.

  “And I demand something else, too,” he went on, earnestly. “When we get to Boston, you’re going to tell me everything!”

  “When we get to Boston—you’ll be telephoning to Bristol.”

  “By Jove, you keep your mind pretty clear on details, Miss Wynne,” observed Richard, wryly. “Yes, of course, I’ll have to get in touch with Inspector James, if I can. That’s rather a matter of honour, isn’t it?”

  “I agree that it is. And it’s largely because it is that I can’t tell you everything when we get to Boston until—” she paused, then added, “until after you’ve telephoned to Bristol.” His heart leapt.

  “Then—after I’ve telephoned to Bristol—?”

  “If I am still in trouble,” she promised, “I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Thank God!” he murmured, and felt as though a great load had been lifted from him. “Believe me, you won’t regret it!”

  The car slowed down again. Not far behind, another car also slowed down. Ted had heard the other car for a full minute, but his passengers had been too absorbed in their conversation to notice its approach. But when Ted stopped his car, dismounted, and poked his head in at the window, the sound of the following car was too distinct to be ignored.

  “Oi!” called Ted. “Gloucester’s jest a’ead. Where’s the next stop fer Boston?” But before the reply came, he stood aside briskly. The following car had reached them and came swinging by.

  Chapter XXV

  The Last Lap

  Minds, whether great or small, do not always think alike. The mind that, twelve hours earlier, had planned a previous journey to Boston, had elected to reach Stratford-on-Avon via Tewkesbury and Evesham (it was probably a mere coincidence that these two names are associated historically with bloodshed), but the mind that worked out the present journey favoured Cheltenham and Winchcombe. This route appeared to be shorter, and Diggs’s map did not indicate that it was also hillier.

  Beyond Stratford, the minds did think alike. Warwick, Kenilworth, Coventry, Leicester via Sharnford, Melton Mowbray, Grantham and Boston—all these names were duly entered in Diggs’s note-book, opposite a forecast of next week’s washing, in case he should grow sleepy and forget them.

  The question of the possible sleepiness was itself touched on. “Are you sure you can keep awake?” inquired Richard.

  “You won’t be driven into no brick wall,” Diggs promised.

  “I really think I’ll have to make it guineas,” said Richard.

  “Make it fivers, if you like,” suggested Diggs, with a wink. “I ain’t one to worry if I’m overpaid!”

  Then he returned to his seat, and the journey was resumed.

  To Diggs, sitting outside and with all the work to do, the business soon lost the little glamour that had attached to the start of it and became a mere matter of eating up the momentarily illuminated darkness. The illumination travelled along with them, like the illumination of the phosphorescent fish that lives in the black depths and makes its own light; but ahead and behind lay the cloak of night, and there was nothing on which to concentrate beyond the process of getting safely through it.

  Small towns were hardly noticed, and large ones were merely milestones. So much nearer Boston. So much nearer twenty guineas. So much ne
arer the possession of a dog. (Had Diggs known that the owner of the said dog was lying at that moment in a dike near Boston, with unseeing eyes turned upwards to a star, he would have steered a less steady course.) So much nearer a bed, and sleep, and a dream or two.

  But to his passengers, leaning back in the cushioned leather on which he rather prided himself, the journey had become more magical. For half-a-dozen hours, they could relax, conscious of each other, safe with each other, and in the quiet enjoyment of each other. There was no need for further conversation. A happy point had been reached in it, and when they arrived at Boston they would together face whatever problem presented itself. If the problem could not be solved with unequally shared knowledge, then Sylvia would yield all the knowledge she possessed to Richard. There would exist no more mystery between them. In its place would be the perfect trust and confidence for which, from the outset, Richard had ached.

  So, meanwhile, why worry? Richard decided that he would not worry. And, apparently, the girl at his side made the same decision. She drew a little closer to him—a wonderful acknowledgment, this, of her growing sense of companionship—and presently he found that her head was resting against his shoulder.

  At first he hoped she was asleep, so that her head would remain against his shoulder. Then he hoped she was not asleep, for the added significance this would impart to the position. Then he didn’t know which he hoped. Then he laughed at himself, and called himself a fool. Then he swore silently at Ted Diggs for failing to avoid a bit of unevenness in the road and causing a bump.

  But the head did not stir. It still lay with sweet heaviness against him.

  “She is asleep,” he decided. “Sound!”

  Soon, his own eyes began to close. He fought against his drowsiness at first. He was a sort of sentry, and sentries must not sleep at their post. Then, as the drowsiness gained on him, and he knew it would win, he sought some excuse to ease this pleasant drifting into unconsciousness. He found it quite easily. He was going to sleep for her sake! When they arrived at Boston he would need all his senses about him, and all his strength. The previous night had been broken. How could he face Boston if this night were sleepless, also?

  So now Richard’s head drooped, too. Had Ted Diggs looked back, he would have smiled at the sight. But Ted Diggs did not look back. His job lay ahead of him, and his necessity was “Eyes front!”

  The night hours slipped by. The towns on his list were wiped out, one by one. The stars increased. Now the sky above was a black sheet sewn with spangles. Now the spangles grew less bright. The advance rumour of morning depressed their brilliance.

  “Lummy, am I still ’ere?” thought Diggs abruptly, with a jerk. He had travelled ten miles without being conscious of any of them!

  That wouldn’t do. He opened his eyes wide, and as he ran through a sleeping town he wondered why towns didn’t have their names written up, like stations…

  “’Corse, I’m goin’ barmy!” he reflected.

  Anyway, he knew the name of the town. It was Grantham. Must be, since the place before had been Melton Mowbray, same as Melton Mowbray must have been Melton Mowbray because the place before it had been whatever it had been. Another twenty-five miles or so, and they’d be there.

  “’Ooray,” he yawned, to cheer himself.

  If you possess a touring map of Lincolnshire, you will see that there are two routes from Grantham to Boston. The northern route goes through Sleaford, and assuming your map knows its business, you will note that the road is level and first-class all the way. The southern route begins by being hillier and ends by being second-class, but it makes up for these deficiencies by being shorter. Which of the two routes, if presented with the problem just before sunrise, would you choose?

  That was the problem now before Ted Diggs, and because he felt rather ashamed of his lack of attention just before Grantham he felt that he must equalise matters by additional attention after it. Therefore he stopped the car and consulted his map. It was all he had to consult. His passengers appeared to be fast asleep. “Think I’ll go by Sleaford,” he decided, utterly unconscious that the decision held any real importance. “Ay, that’s what I’ll do. Sleaford.”

  It was a happy decision. Sleaford spelt safety. But man proposes and God disposes, and either through human error or fatalistic design, Diggs missed a turning.

  “All right, then,” he muttered, finding himself heading for the southern route, “I won’t go by Sleaford! Wot’s it matter, any’ow?”

  You cannot put up a fight against Fate in the cold grey hour. And thus Security, which had held out its hands for a moment, slipped back into the shadows, and a grinning, armless spectre slipped into its place.

  Grantham, still sleeping, vanished. Up slipped the car into unseen hills, and down it slipped out of them. Now the sea declared itself with a queer, cool tang to the nostrils. It was miles away yet, but only flat land lay between.

  “Nearly over!” thought Diggs, gratefully. “That dog’s mine!”

  Yes, it wasn’t far now to Boston, with its tall church tower, and its skeleton standards, and its grassy Roman embankment. Just a few more miles of this flat, almost hedgeless road, with the sea-tang growing stronger and stronger in the faint east wind, and then…

  Richard woke up with a jerk. The girl stirred at his side. What was happening?

  “Are we there?” murmured the girl.

  “I don’t think so—don’t move yet,” Richard murmured back. “We’re slowing, though.”

  He peered out of the window, and his shoulder suddenly felt cold. Sylvia had lifted her head from it.

  “We’re stopping,” she said.

  “Yes. P’r’aps he’s missed his way or something.”

  He frowned. It was comfortable in the car. Still, he’d better get out and discover what the trouble was.

  The trouble was a man standing in the middle of the road. No, two men. And where was Ted Diggs?…Ah—there he was! He was the second man.

  “Anything wrong?” called Richard.

  Diggs came ambling back, while the other man vanished.

  “Chap in trouble, sir,” reported Diggs. “’Is car there in a ditch.”

  “Where’s he gone to?”

  “’E’s gone back to it. Wants to know if we’ll give ’im a ’and.”

  “Righto!” grunted Richard. “But it’s a nuisance.” He turned back to Sylvia, who was now sitting bolt upright. “Fellow out there wants us to give his boneshaker a shove. You’ll be all right for a minute?”

  “Yes, of course,” she replied. “But—make it a short minute!”

  “You bet, I will!” smiled Richard. “I’ll make it the shortest minute that was ever born!”

  He opened the door and stepped out on to the road. The salt of the sea met him.

  “Where’s everybody?” he inquired of the night.

  “Over ’ere, sir,” came Diggs’s voice, through the darkness.

  He took a step or two forward. It was confoundedly dark! Where had Diggs shouted from?

  “Give us another call!” he cried.

  But this time Diggs did not respond.

  He took another step or two forward. The stars that had begun to pale became suddenly bright. Something had shaken them violently, with a huge thud…and now they were below him, and he was falling among them. Or was it the sea he was falling into? He certainly smelt something that did not usually reside just outside one’s nostrils. Stronger than the sea, though…more like chloroform…more like…

  Chapter XXVI

  Something Staring Up

  The stars vanished, both in the space of Richard’s mind and in the vaster space above it. The blackness grew less intense. When Richard opened his eyes, there was grey in the east.

  His head was dizzy and throbbing. For a few moments he could not remember where he was. A studio, wasn’t it? No, that was las
t year. Ah—a train! And somebody had just tried to shove him out on the line! No, that was the year before last. Of course—now he’d got it! He was in a taxi, travelling to Euston. No, from Euston. Well, one or the other. Or was it Bristol? Something about Bristol. Hold on to Bristol. But how could you hold on to Bristol if the whole blessed city insisted on swaying up and down…

  Steady! Take a deep breath. Whew—something a bit wrong with the breathing apparatus! A bit more slowly, this time. Inhale—exhale—that was better. Now one could think, if only that throbbing would stop. What was throbbing? The taxi? And, yes, what about that taxi? He was in it, wasn’t he? But, if he were in a taxi, why should a prickly branch be sticking into his cheek? He seemed to remember that prickly branches didn’t grow in taxis. They grew in the sides of roads…yes, in the sides of roads…

  He sat up suddenly and painfully. Recollection swept back, and the abrupt shock of it almost suffocated him. He was on the side of a road. The taxi was a thing of the past. When he had left the taxi, somebody had hit him, and had tumbled him into this ditch. Yes, all that was clear now. But—what had happened after he had been tumbled into the ditch?

  He put his hand on the ground, with the intention of rising, and it came against a face. The unexpected contact unnerved him for an instant, for he still felt very groggy, and he drew away quickly. But as the face did not rise and thrust itself after him, he bent forward again, and risked an examination.

  The face was quite still. The eyes were open, staring upwards. Around the mouth, a coloured handkerchief was tied with cruel tightness.

  Gripping on to himself, Richard untied the handkerchief, and the face worked spasmodically. It went through a series of necessary but unpicturesque convulsions. Then slowly, it rose, and Ted Diggs and Richard Temperley stared emotionally at each other.

  “Knocked you out, too, eh?” muttered Richard.

  “There was two of ’em,” Diggs muttered back.

  “The taxi—what about the taxi?” asked Richard.