The Z Murders

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  “Bought that parrot?” inquired the surgeon.

  “No, they wanted a pound too much,” answered the inspector.

  “Well, personally, I can’t stand the things,” observed the surgeon. “No tact. Had one once that said ‘God save the King,’ while I was filling in my income-tax form.”

  Aunts! Parrots! Income-tax forms! While Sylvia Wynne was being spirited away into the unknown…

  “Hardly a motoring-road,” remarked the surgeon.

  “Curly as a pig’s tail,” replied the inspector.

  “Shouldn’t care to live at this spot. Too far from neighbours.”

  “Well, you could always drop in on Smale here,” grunted the inspector, dryly. “We’re just passing his cottage.” Smale grinned sheepishly. No one had called on him for a year.

  The road grew lonelier and narrower. It began to give up being a road. Suddenly the inspector gave a sharp exclamation. “There’s the car!” he cried.

  The sight of it translated theories into facts. Parrots and pigs’ tails were forgotten as his own car slowed down and he jumped out.

  He examined the car quickly, eyed the ground in the vicinity, and then raised his eyes to the grassy embankment. “Up there, eh?” he inquired, jerking his head towards Smale.

  “Ay, and I’m not goin’!” muttered Smale.

  “Nonsense, of course you’re going!” retorted the inspector. And, to save an argument, added, “There’s half-a-crown for you at the end of it.”

  They climbed on to the ridge. They bore to the right. They passed the first farm buildings on their left. They came to another—a low shed, with a corrugated iron roof. This was also on their left, and it presented its back to them, but the front could be reached by a small path that ran downwards round the end of it.

  Ignoring this path and continuing on, they came to a tangle of hedge and a fence. Now, ahead, was a gate.

  “There!” whispered Smale, pointing to the fence.

  The inspector turned, and walked to the fence. But Richard got there first. He looked down, over the fence, and another face looked up at him.

  “Beyond our help,” remarked the inspector, at his side.

  “Yes—poor fellow!” muttered Richard.

  “Recognise him?”

  “Never seen him before in my life.”

  “Not one of the men who attacked you, then?”

  “We were attacked after this happened.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m aware of that. According to the times we’ve been told. But, so far, all these times are circumstantial, if you get me? Stories told at the police station don’t always tally with those told in the witness box.…There goes the doctor…down to have a look at him.…Hallo, what’s the matter?”

  An exclamation had come from behind him. Ted Diggs shoved his head forward.

  “Gawd!” he cried. “But—I know ’im!” He stared stupidly, while the inspector swung round.

  “What—you know him?” exclaimed Wetherby.

  “Yes—or I’m dippy!” gasped Diggs. “That’s Albert Bowes, that is—another taxi-driver at Bristol!”

  Once again Inspector Wetherby proved he was no fool. He recognised genuine amazement when he came across it, and he had never come across more genuine amazement than that depicted on Diggs’s face. Unless, perhaps, it was the amazement on Richard’s face.

  “What! You know that man, Diggs?” cried Richard. “And he comes from Bristol?”

  Diggs nodded. It was all he could do. His mouth was open, and he had forgotten to close it.

  Wetherby watched him quietly. Sometimes it is more instructive to watch than to talk. He watched two men stare at each other; and, refusing to bank on his first impression, searched their faces for traces of acting. Suppose—just for the sake of argument—two men had drowned a third man, and had adopted the subtle device of going straight to the police station with some story that would suggest an alibi, and at the same time lay the blame upon other mythical folk invented for the purpose? Then it would be up to them to do a bit of play-acting, wouldn’t it? They’d pretend this and they’d pretend that…

  Yes, but this wasn’t pretence. There wasn’t any play-acting here. It was the genuine open-mouthed article. And, that being so, it was of no use wasting time over impossibilities. “You don’t know how he came here?” he barked to Diggs.

  “Eh?” jerked Diggs.

  “You don’t know how that fellow came here?”

  “’Ow ’e—? Why, ’e was in Bristol yesterday mornin’!” spluttered Diggs. “I know, ’cos I seen ’im.”

  “Well, you were in Bristol yesterday morning,” retorted Wetherby, “and you’re here now. So, you see, it can be done.”

  “Eh?”

  “If you can pick up a fare, so could he.”

  “Yes, but—to the same place? To Boston?”

  “Why not? If a kidnapping game was on? Well, anyhow, you’ve identified him. Could you identify his car?”

  “’Corse I could.”

  “I see. Of course you could! Yet it occurs to me that perhaps you didn’t!”

  “Eh?”

  “That stranded car we passed just before we came up here. Mightn’t that be his car?”

  “Well—I’m—! Yes—it was like it,” muttered Diggs. “But—nacherly—seein’ it then, and not ’avin’ ’im in my mind—”

  “Yes, naturally, naturally. Tell me, sir,” went on the inspector, turning now to Richard, “have you any theory to offer?”

  “Absolutely none,” answered Richard.

  “Quite sure, sir?”

  “Quite. Unless—”

  “Ah! Unless? Let’s have the ‘unless.’’’

  “Unless we were followed, inspector? No, I give it up. This car got here first—”

  “But you might have been overtaken and passed,” interposed Wetherby, “by some one who had got on to your destination…Hallo!” he broke off. “The doctor seems to be getting excited down there. I must go down and see what the trouble is!”

  He clambered down to the water’s edge, where the doctor and the sergeant were staring at the sodden body of Albert Bowes. It lay now on the bank to which it had been drawn. “Not drowned, eh?” inquired the inspector, shrewdly.

  “No,” answered the police surgeon, with a grimace. “Look at this. Shot!”

  Inspector Wetherby looked. If he experienced any surprise, he refused to show it. Surprise is not good form in the police force. It makes you lose your grip.

  “Well, I wasn’t betting on suicide,” he observed, after a pause. “Or an accident.”

  “But were you betting on this?” inquired the doctor, and opened his hand.

  A little crimson letter lay in the doctor’s palm. Now, despite himself, the inspector’s eyes gleamed.

  “By George!” he muttered tensely. “Another Z murder!”

  Chapter XXIX

  Boston Rings Up Bristol

  At eight o’clock on that same morning, an inspector even more important than Inspector Wetherby, of Boston—to boot, Detective-Inspector James, of Scotland Yard—sat in a room at Bristol Police Station, wondering whether a certain young man of his acquaintance would keep his promise or not.

  “Any news of him, Dutton?” he inquired, as a rather tired man entered with a sheaf of papers. He was tired because he had been up half the night preparing the papers; and a bandage round his head added to his somewhat dilapidated appearance.

  “Not yet, sir,” replied Dutton. “What’s the betting?”

  “A hundred per cent. on his good faith,” answered James unhesitatingly, “but fifty-fifty on his ability to prove the good faith.”

  “Well, it’s a pity some of these nice young chaps with good faith can’t trust a bit more in ours, and fall into line,” observed Dutton, feelingly.

  James glanced at
him, and smiled.

  “Why, Dutton, that’s almost emotional,” he said, gentle reproof in his tone. “I didn’t know you went in for the passions!”

  “Sorry, sir,” murmured Dutton, apologetically, “but if Mr. Temperley had given us his co-operation from the start, he might have saved me half this trouble!” And he held out the sheaf of papers. “And don’t forget, sir, I’ve had a knock on the head.”

  “I never forget,” answered James, soberly. “That’s why I always insist that you work with me on cases that require special skill.”

  “Thank you, sir. Will you look at these notes now?”

  James glanced at the clock. “Two minutes past,” he remarked, and sighed. But, as he stretched his hand out for the papers, the telephone rang. “Ah, now what’s the betting?” he exclaimed, as he lifted the receiver.

  “I’ll have sixpence on it,” responded Dutton.

  “Done!” nodded James. A moment later he added, “Afraid I’ve lost my tanner. It’s a call from Boston.” But a moment after that, he added again, “No, sir! I’ve won! It’s Temperley!”

  “Boston! So that’s where they were all heading for, is it?” muttered Dutton, glancing at his papers. “Damn! Why couldn’t I keep on the trail?”

  Inspector James held up his hand. “Yes, it’s James speaking,” he called. “Got any news?”

  Then he was silent, and Dutton, watching for signs, realised that big things were happening. The amiability left his superior’s face, and the lines around his mouth hardened. For a minute he merely listened. Then he chipped in.

  “Hold hard a moment,” he said. “I want you to repeat every word you’ve said, and then to carry on. And speak slowly. I shall repeat after you, so that what you say can be taken down.…Note-book, Dutton. Another Z Murder, and…God, I’m worried!…Ready?”

  Dutton nodded. An instant later, his pencil was racing over paper.

  It raced for ten minutes. Then there was a short pause. During the pause, Dutton worked his aching knuckles up and down, while, at the other end of the line, Richard Temperley vacated his seat at the telephone, and Inspector Wetherby occupied it.

  “Ready again, Dutton?”

  Dutton was always ready. When Death itself came, he’d be ready. For another ten minutes the pencil raced. Then James spoke for two minutes, and the pencil rested. Then the receiver was replaced, and James turned to the faithful stenographer.

  “Now, you’ve some additions for your notes, Dutton,” he said, gravely.

  “Yes, sir,” answered Dutton, equally gravely. And all at once added, unexpectedly. “We’re up against some pretty damn blackguards, aren’t we?”

  James nodded. Then asked, “Can you be ready in half-an-hour?”

  “With the additions to the reports, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s O.K.”

  “Good. Do them here. And then we can study them together on the way to Boston.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Dutton. “I hoped I wasn’t going to be left behind. Car or train?”

  “What, with an aerodrome round the corner?” replied James. He rose, walked to the door, stopped, and abruptly shot a question. “What’s your opinion of all this?” he demanded.

  Dutton, already seated at his notes, glanced up and shook his head. “I’m on facts, sir, not opinions,” he replied. “I’d sooner wait for yours when you’ve been through these dossiers.” Then the inspector left the room, and while he was making final arrangements his subordinate bent over his papers.

  There were ten papers. Each was headed with a name, and each bore neat little writing in red and blue ink. The red came out of one end of Dutton’s pen, and the blue came out of the other. He often declared that on the day this pen was lost, his career would be over.

  Each of the ten papers was now carefully read through, additions were made to some of them, taken from the new shorthand notes of the conversation with Boston. Most of the additions were in blue, and the speed and ease with which they were extracted from the shorthand notes, and added to the longhand notes already existing, formed a further tribute to Dutton’s efficiency. While he had taken the shorthand notes he had anticipated the next step, and had appended numbers in the margins. Thus, when he had anything to add to Sheet Seven, he merely had to consult the passages marked “7” in his shorthand to know where to find the required material. Dutton was a detail man. He knew his limitations, and worked meticulously up to them. Presently the inspector returned.

  “Aeroplane’s O.K.,” he announced, “and the car’s ready to take us to Filton.”

  “But I’m not ready,” replied Dutton, without looking up. “You gave me half-an-hour, and I’ve got another minute.”

  “Well, take your pound of flesh,” smiled James, “but not an ounce more. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”

  “Thanks for reminding me, sir,” murmured Dutton, writing hard.

  The inspector went to the car and took a back seat. In fifty seconds, Dutton joined him. The car began to move. “You’ve something interesting in your mind!” challenged James.

  “Yes, it is rather interesting, sir,” replied Dutton. “Do you know, this is the fourth journey that has started from Bristol for Boston in the last twenty-four hours?”

  When there was a breathing space between one phase of a job and another, Detective-Inspector James liked to smoke a pipe and to think of nothing. He called the process “slipping into neutral.” Gradually into the nothingness of his mind returned the salient point of the first phase to be carried on into the second, but the trivial points dropped away like grit off a smoothed surface, and only essential matter remained.

  Now James smoked his pipe, and Dutton, aware of his Chief’s idiosyncracies, did not disturb him. He watched the progress of the pipe, and, judging the moment to a nicety, held out the notes just before the car reached Filton.

  “Thanks, Dutton,” said James. “I’ll read them in the air. Facts in blue and conjectures in red as usual?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Dutton, “and in this case most of the conjectures can be relied on. Mere queries and possibilities, of course, are set down as such.”

  “And do these reports comprise all the information we have, up to date?” inquired James, as he took them.

  “Everything, sir. Right up to the Boston telephone conversations. I have seen or ’phoned every person who, in addition to myself, has contributed information to the reports—and I may say, sir, I am quite satisfied with their work.”

  “Good,” nodded James. “I hope I’ll be equally satisfied. Ah, Turndike. Here we are. No low flying this trip, please!”

  Chapter XXX

  Storm Clouds

  Flight-Officer Turndike left Filton Aerodrome at a quarter-past nine. He descended at Digby Aerodrome, twenty miles from Boston, at fourteen minutes to twelve. There his two passengers transferred to a waiting car and were raced over the final lap of their journey by road, and during this final lap Detective-Inspector James discussed with Dutton the report he had read above the clouds.

  “Excellently concise,” he said, approvingly. “These notes set down very clearly all the known facts. Let’s go over them, while we’ve a chance, and see whether we can deduce any further facts. ‘John Amble—31b King’s Cross—age fifty-two—lived over shop—’ Ah! ‘No enemies.’ Now, can we be sure of that?”

  “No, sir,” replied Dutton, promptly. “But his aunt, who was interviewed, swears he hadn’t any—’’’

  “The aunt who lived at Preston, and whom he had been visiting—”

  “Yes, sir. She seems to have known all about him. Said he was surly, but honest.”

  “And, like most honest men, found it difficult to make both ends meet!”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “So he may have been in a mood to contemplate suicide.”

  “No,
I think not, sir. Too fond of his skin, she said. And she’d just promised to lend him a hundred pounds.”

  “I see. Then it comes to this. John Amble died, but he didn’t kill himself, and nobody had any motive for killing him, and nobody heard the shot that killed him, or found the weapon from which the shot was fired. He was evidently killed by an inhabitant of the moon whose hobby is potting at planets.…Ah, this is interesting, Dutton. Amble left his keys at Preston, and knew he couldn’t get into his shop till his assistant turned up with the only other latch-key.”

  “Yes—makes one think, doesn’t it, sir?” murmured Dutton. “If Amble hadn’t left his keys behind him, he’d never have entered that smoking-room, and might have been alive at this minute!”

  “Quite true,” nodded James, gravely. “We never know what’s coming to us out of the merest trivialities! If the second victim—‘Martha,’ I see her name is—hadn’t crossed the field at Charlton just when she did, she might be alive, too.”

  “It’s only a guess her name’s Martha,” interposed Dutton. “She may have borrowed somebody else’s handkerchief.”

  “Very probably, since she appears to have been a gipsy, and gipsies aren’t always too particular about property. Nothing else known about her, eh?”

  “No, sir. But this is worth noting. You’ll see she dropped dead at 12.58. It’s Turndike’s time. That means that the second victim of our Z murders died seven-and-a-half hours after the first, about 125 miles away.”

  “While the third victim, towards whom we are now going—”

  “Albert Bowes, 5 Channel Row, Bristol, age, query—”

  “—was found shot—”

  “—or drowned, or both—”

  “—sixteen hours after the second victim, about 170 miles away.”

  “Found sixteen hours after, yes,” agreed Dutton. “But he might have been murdered three or four hours earlier than he was found, according to the police surgeon. No one can say how Albert Bowes came to be in Boston, and he was seen in Bristol round about the time the second victim died. Rather important that, sir, don’t you think?”