The Z Murders

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  “I feel sick,” answered Diggs.

  Richard, also, felt sick, but his sickness was in his soul. Struggling to his feet, and leaving Diggs to fend for himself, he turned towards the spot where the taxi had been when he had left it. The next moment he gave an exclamation.

  “Thank God! It’s still here!” he cried.

  He ran forward as he cried, pretending fiercely that all was well. There stood the taxi, and that was all that mattered! Provided, of course…

  The door of the taxi was closed. He seized the handle and opened it. No one was inside. “Miss Wynne!” he called, fighting a choking sensation. “Sylvia!” Only his own voice came back to him.

  He passed through a period of black agony. He discovered that he was moist with perspiration. Black anger mingled with the black agony, and the blackest recoiled against himself. He had failed. His brain had slept at its post!

  When we are angry with ourselves, we try to divert our anger to the nearest thing. The nearest thing to Richard was Ted Diggs. “Diggs! Why don’t you come?” he shouted. “She’s gone! Where are you?”

  “Yer need legs to move with, don’t yer?” said Diggs. Diggs’s legs were bound, and so were his hands. Informed of the position, Richard returned, and freed the man.

  “And, now, after them!” he exclaimed. “Quick! Hurry!”

  Diggs did his best, but his legs gave under him. He shook his head miserably. “Don’t think I’m much good, fer a bit,” he mumbled. “And, any’ow, we don’t know which way they went.”

  “But we can’t stay here doing nothing!” retorted Richard. “Keep where you are for a minute, if you’re done up, and I’ll look for tracks.”

  He went into the middle of the road and stared at the marks. If any informative marks were there, he could not discern any. The light was too feeble. “Get the lamps on ’em,” suggested Diggs, from the roadside.

  Richard went to the car. Something in its appearance arrested him. Something he had not noticed before.

  “What’s up?” called Diggs, apprehensively.

  “They’ve done in two of the tyres,” answered Richard. “And—look!” Beneath the car was a pool of petrol. He returned to Diggs, who was rubbing his legs to get the circulation back. “You’ll be able to move, Diggs, before your car will,” he said, desperately. “Two tyres gone west, and all the petrol.”

  “What—’ave they let out the gas?” gasped Diggs.

  “They’ve made a clean job of it.”

  “Well, I’m blowed!”

  “And we’re stranded.”

  “What’s the meanin’ of it?”

  “Don’t let’s trouble with the meaning of it for the moment,” replied Richard, fighting every moment to regain sufficient calmness for functioning purposes. If he stopped to consider the meaning of it, despair would render him impotent. “Let’s just confine ourselves to facts. The first fact is that Miss Wynne—my fellow passenger—is gone.”

  “Ay. So you said.”

  “She’s been kidnapped!”

  “Ay. Looks like it.”

  “And since we can’t chase the kidnappers ourselves, we must report the matter to others who can.”

  “The police?”

  “Yes. How far do you reckon we are from Boston?”

  “Two or three miles, sir. But it’s a guess.”

  “Then we’ll have to walk there, unless we can get a lift.”

  “That’s right.”

  “How soon do you think you’ll be able to step out?”

  “Give me a couple o’ minutes.”

  Richard glanced at his wrist-watch. It was just on six. “Well, if you’re longer, I’ll have to step out without you,” he said. “Meanwhile, here’s a cigarette—you look as if you needed one—and use the two minutes by telling me exactly what happened, and what these two men were like.”

  “There was only one of ’em first,” said Diggs, taking the cigarette gratefully. “He stands in the middle of the road—”

  “What sort of a man?”

  “Biggish. In a rough suit. I see the suit, because there ’e stands, plain as daylight in the lamp, see? Leggings—”

  “Appearance of a farmer, in fact?”

  “That’s right,” nodded Diggs. “You’ve ’it it. ‘Oi!’ ’e ses, ‘my car’s in a ditch. Can you give me a ’and to get it out?’ Well, you can’t pass trouble on the road, no matter what time o’ the night, so down I ’ops, and I’m speakin’ to ’im when you calls me.”

  “But you said there were two of them?”

  “That’s right. The other comes up jest after I answered you, and gives me a crack on the jaw. No, the other one didn’t!” he corrected himself. “It was the first one cracked me. The other one—well, I didn’t see ’im plain, ’cos ’e keeps in the shadders like, but I’d say ’e was a cripple o’ some sort. Nasty looking chap, and no mistake!”

  “These descriptions should help,” commented Richard. “Have just a puff or two more, and then see if you can manage it. I think I can add a touch or two to your first friend.”

  “What! D’you know ’im?” exclaimed Diggs, in surprise.

  “I believe so.”

  “What about the other feller?”

  “No, I don’t know him,” replied Richard, thoughtfully, “but I’ve a feeling I shall, before long.”

  “Well, you needn’t take me with you, sir,” observed Diggs, with a grimace, “becos’ the very thought of ’im gives me the creeps. Suddenly, there ’e is—then, bing on me nose—and then ’e isn’t!”

  “What about the car?”

  “What about what?”

  “The one they said was in the ditch.”

  “Never saw a sign of it.”

  “It probably never was in a ditch.”

  “Couldn’t ’ave been, sir, or they wouldn’t ’ave got away in it.”

  “Agreed. Well, ready now?”

  “I think I can manage, sir.”

  “Good. Then, march! And quick as your legs allow.”

  Diggs rose to his feet, and, as his feet moved, his brain moved, too.

  “Yes, but what about my car?” he queried “’Oo’s goin’ to look after it?”

  “A car with no petrol and two of its wheels hors de combat—”

  “Horder what?”

  “—out of commission—useless—isn’t likely to run off,” said Richard. “Still, you can stay, if you like.”

  Did Diggs like? He thought about it. And it occurred to him all at once that he didn’t like. He was in a mood for company. “Another reason I’d like you with me,” continued Richard, “is that you’ll be useful at the police station for identity purposes. You saw the men, you know—I didn’t.”

  “That’s right,” nodded Diggs, with secret gratitude. “I better come along with yer.”

  And now came the last stage of the journey to Boston. Three began it in a car. Two ended it on foot.

  All the way, Richard strove against hideous thoughts and nightmare emotions. Every step seemed to stab his heart. A sense of personal failure was swamped by a sense of personal loss, while the sense of personal loss was swamped by a fear less selfish—a fear for Sylvia herself. Where was she at this moment, and what was happening to her? He tried to make his mind a blank. There was no relief otherwise.

  Now the grey became more revealing, and, in the east, was replaced by amber. A point of gold grew up into the amber and expanded. But a perfect morning is fruitless without a perfect mood.

  The tall tower of St. Botolph’s church stood out like a black silhouette with edges of gold. The roofs of Boston began to waken as they came into view. Which was the roof of the police station? That was the one immediate query in Richard’s mind.

  A figure came straggling into view. Its head nodded from side to side. The head paused, however, when it was
hailed. “Which is the way to the police station?” The head seemed immensely interested in the question. It soon became evident to Richard that it belonged to the village idiot. An expression of profound surprise was followed by another of profound knowledge. The head began wagging again.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” demanded Richard, sharply.

  “Ay,” nodded the head. “You’ve seen it, too, then?”

  “Seen what?” asked Richard.

  “It,” repeated the village idiot.

  “If you will explain what you mean by ‘it,’’’ rasped Richard, “I’ll tell you whether I’ve seen it!”

  The village idiot looked a little disappointed. He thought he had connected up with somebody of sympathy and understanding. “By the First Pullover,” he mumbled. “Tha’s where ’tis.”

  His eyes became distended, and a look of fascinated horror entered into them. “I seen it, as I was comin’ by. But I ses, ‘I ain’t goin’ to no police station,’ I ses, ‘or maybe they’ll say I done it!’’’

  And he laughed slyly at this subtlety.

  “Done what?” asked Richard, his heart missing a beat.

  “Starin’ up, it be!” grinned the village idiot. “Starin’ up in the sky. Tha’s where we all come from. Tha’s where we all go back to. Like a wet dog, it be. Starin’ up. But it can’t see nothin’. You can’t see nothin’, no, not when you’re dead!”

  Chapter XXVII

  As Unfolded to Inspector Wetherby

  Inspector Wetherby didn’t know what to make of it. One thing at a time—that he could grapple with as well as anybody. A row in the Market Place—right. A boat accident in the Witham—right. A burglary—right. A drunk—right. But this queer tangle of things before seven in the morning, when you weren’t exactly at your brightest, these disjointed fragments advanced by distracted people—people who seemed to imagine that you only had to say “Boo” to a policeman to set him running off wherever you wanted him to—that wasn’t so good! It needed, on your own side, a little caution and thought.

  Let’s get this straight, now. Just while the police car is being brought round. Two people saying they’ve been set upon and chloroformed on the road from Grantham. Not the Sleaford road, the Donington road. Right. And a third person who was with them, a girl, was kidnapped. H’m! And the whole lot supposed to have come from Bristol.

  Night joy-ride, eh? No? Well, then, might one know the object of the journey? Yes, that’s true, of course, plenty of people travelled by car at night, but, in a case like this—an alleged kidnapping case—it helped the police to have precise details. Oh—on business. Just a business trip. H’m. Very informative! Right.

  Now, any idea who the kidnappers were? Two of them—right. One large, in a rough suit, and leggings. Sort of farmer. Right. The other—what was this? Deformed, eh? Oh, not deformed. What, then. Looked as if he was deformed? Looked deformed, but not deformed. Well, what made him look deformed. Can’t say, eh? Pity taxi-drivers don’t have to pass an intelligence test! Ah, an arm gone. Now we’re coming to something. Arm off, and a face like Gawd knows what. Very helpful description, that! Very helpful indeed, Mr. Piggs. Oh, Diggs. Apologies. The full name would be helpful. Ted Diggs, taxi-driver, Bristol. And the taxi standing three miles away by the road-side with two useless wheels and no petrol. Right. That would have to be seen to. Right, right.

  And your name, sir? Temperley. Richard Temperley. St. John’s Wood, London. Right. Yes, sir, certainly. In half a minute. Car being brought right round. But first we must get this other man’s story straight, mustn’t we? Can’t go anywhere before we know just where to go, can we? Right.

  Now, you! Your name’s Smale, isn’t it? And why aren’t you in bed, Smale, where all good little boys ought to be at this time of the morning? Couldn’t sleep, eh? Right. Often can’t sleep? Because of angels ringing bells—quite so, quite so. Right, right. And did the angels wake you this time? Oh, a motor-car. What time? Can’t say. Well, about what time? Can’t say that either., (Yes, yes, sir, I agree, but this fellow isn’t over-burdened with brains—they forgot to fill his head when he was born—and we must get his story, mustn’t we? And the car isn’t here yet. Right.)

  Now, then, Smale. This car that passed your place. Was it when you went to bed? No. Then was it just after? No. Then was it just before you got up? Yes? Excellent. And how long have you been up. Hour or two. Well, we’ll get it presently.

  So this motor-car woke you up. Rushed by your cottage. Like what? Like chariots in heaven—yes, yes. And then what did you do? You got up? Yes? And then what did you do? You went out? Yes? And which way did you go? Towards the First Pullover? Right. And why did you go in that direction?

  I see. The car had come from that direction? What’s that? The second time? Was there a first time, then? I see. You heard it twice. Why didn’t you tell me that before? The first time—that was the time it woke you up—it was going towards the sea. And the second time—that was the time you were dressing—it was coming from the sea? Right. It had gone towards the sea, and then it had come back again? How long between the times it passed your cottage going and coming? You don’t know! Well, then, how long do you take to dress? As long as it takes to boil two hard boiled eggs? Yes, very funny, Smale, very funny. Can’t you see, we’re all splitting ourselves with laughter? And now the comic turn is over—all right, sir, all right, sir, I know how to handle him—we’re old friends, you and I, Smale, aren’t we?—we’ll go to heaven together, won’t we?—there you are, you see, sir, all bright and smiling again—well, now that’s over, we can put the time down at ten minutes. Right.

  Why did you get up, Smale? You always get up when you can’t sleep. You like to walk about. Angels calling—right. But what made you go towards the sea? Wanted to find out what the car had been up to. Splendid! We have our gleams of intelligence, after all. Now, then, Smale, tell me exactly what you found? Yes, you followed the lane to the First Pullover. Right. You found a car that had run into a post. Yes, but you said…Oh, I see. This was another car—not the car that passed your cottage? H’m.

  Well, get on. How did you see the car if it was dark? Were the lights still on? No? Oh, it was getting light. Now we can fix the time. Between five and six. (You see, sir, everything comes out after a little patient questioning.) That means that the car went by your cottage, say, round about five o’clock. Well, what next? You went on. You went up the embankment. Why? Something drew you? Not angels this time, perhaps, eh? Never mind what I said—get on with it. You passed the empty farm buildings and sheds—yes, yes, I know them. You reached the gate. Yes. You turned to the left. To the fence. Know why? Quite so, something still drew you, but did you hear any sound? A cry or anything? No? You looked over the fence. Looked down into the water. And—yes?

  Go on, go on! You’re quite safe here! You saw—it? Yes, but what? No, no, tell us exactly, Smale. A body? One of your angels, perhaps? No? Now, listen, Smale, are you quite sure—(Yes, yes, sir, but this man—can’t you see? I’ve had to deal with his illusions before!) Not an angel. Just a body. Facing upwards. Can’t say whether a man or a woman—right. But—drowned, eh? You’re sure of that? You went down to look?

  Idiot! Why didn’t you? Mind went blank. Oh, well, I see. Wandered about. Yes. And then you met these two men, and you told them your story, and they brought you along here. Right, Smale. Thank you very much.

  Yes, yes, don’t worry. I’ll see the angels don’t get you yet awhile. There’s plenty of time. Just come along with us for a little ride, and then you can go home again with a nice, large piece of cake. Yes, the same as you had last time. That’s right. Pink.

  Here’s the car, sir. Now, if you please, we’ll be getting along.

  Chapter XXVIII

  The Growing List

  While Inspector Wetherby was obtaining his information in his own particular manner, Richard passed through varying emotions.

  Sma
le’s news, incoherent though it was when first delivered in the road, had filled him with despair. All that his muddled mind could seize on was the fact that someone had been drowned near by, and since Smale could give no description of the someone—not even, apparently, the gender—the fear that it might be Sylvia bit into his soul. Later, at the police station, the fear had turned into desperate impatience, and the desperate impatience had, in its turn, changed to a revulsion of relief that for a few minutes weakened him even more than his rough handling; for the insistent questions of Inspector Wetherby had elicited details which rendered impossible the theory that the drowned person was Sylvia.

  The car had passed Smale’s cottage at about five. It was not till well after five that Sylvia had been kidnapped. Whether the kidnappers had been in the car or not, the kidnapping had occurred after Smale had made his gruesome discovery. Yes, Inspector Wetherby, for all the impatience he had evoked, had brought out that vital point. Like many another before him, Richard Temperley had not been entirely just to the police force!

  Wetherby, in fact, in spite of a certain leisureliness born of false alarms, proved himself well on the job once he had got his teeth into it. He recognised that the two stories he had just listened to might not have any connection with each other, although there was a strong probability that they did; and if they were not connected, then each story would have to be covered by prompt action. Before setting off to investigate Smale’s gruesome find, therefore, he passed on the descriptions of the wanted men to his subordinates, and told them to get busy on trying to pick up the trails.

  Then, with a sergeant, a police surgeon, and the three men who had routed him too early out of bed, he drove towards the grassy embankment known locally as the First Pullover.

  It was a short journey. During the first half, no one spoke. Then the police surgeon, who had learned to accept life and death as a matter of course, and wasn’t particularly affected by either, grew a little bored, and asked the inspector if his aunt had written to him yet.

  “Had a letter yesterday,” replied the inspector.