The Z Murders

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  “Been and gorn, p’r’aps,” suggested Diggs.

  “Perhaps,” nodded Temperley, moving to the window.

  “What are you doin’, sir?” inquired Diggs, watching him apprehensively. Temperley was peering in at the window; or, rather, trying to. The dim slit between the thick curtains revealed nothing.

  “We’d better go,” urged Diggs.

  A crash of glass answered him. He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound. Temperley had broken the window.

  “’Oi—we can’t do that!” gasped Diggs.

  “We have done it,” answered Temperley, quietly. “Stick outside the door, will you?”

  He was climbing through the window as he spoke.

  Diggs stuck outside. His heart thumped. What was the use of it? Nobody was in there! That was plain, wasn’t it? If they’d been there they’d have answered the bell, wouldn’t they…

  And then a queer and horrible vision came into Diggs’s mind. A ridiculous, grotesque, outrageous vision. A vision of three people—a man lying crumpled in an arm-chair, a gipsy woman lying silent in a field, and another man—a taxi-driver, like himself—lying face upwards in a dank pool of water. And a bell was ringing through the vision. And none of the three people responded—because they couldn’t.

  Was a fourth person to be added to the vision? A fourth person somewhere behind this door outside which Diggs waited? A fourth person who, also, couldn’t answer a bell…

  The door opened suddenly. Diggs nearly fainted. “Come in!” commanded Temperley’s voice.

  Diggs went in, mechanically. He found his eyes glued on Temperley’s wrist. There was blood on it.

  “W-what’s that?” he stammered.

  Temperley looked at his wrist. It was the first time he had noticed the blood.

  “Nothing,” he answered. “The window, I expect.”

  Diggs gulped.

  “Found anyone?” he asked.

  “Not down here. I’m going upstairs now.”

  He turned and ran up the staircase as he spoke. Diggs hesitated, then abruptly followed him. Diggs needed company. Reaching the upper landing Temperley paused for an instant, and Diggs barged into him.

  “What’s the matter?” demanded Temperley, sharply.

  “Nothing,” mumbled Diggs. “I was jest a bit close, like.”

  Ahead of them were two doors. One was ajar, the other was closed. They tried the door that was ajar first. It opened into a small front bedroom. It was empty. The bed had not been slept in since last being made. Then they tried the other door. It opened into the back bedroom, a rather larger chamber. Through the window across the room was glimpsed the end of a pond some distance off. But the thing that interested Temperley most was the bed. This had not been made since it had last been slept in.

  Beneath a counterpane that looked as though it had been hastily replaced were tumbled bedclothes. They made a little mound, and for a second the two men stared at the mound with sickening dread. But when Temperley dashed forward for a closer investigation, he found that the mound sank blessedly beneath his hand. The bed contained no victim.

  But a second point of interest lay in the position of the bed. It had been pulled out a little from the wall, and stood at an angle from it. Peering across into the space between it and the wall, Temperley gave an exclamation. Diggs’s hand clapped his stomach, where his main emotions resided. “What is it?” he jerked.

  “Board up,” answered Temperley.

  Quickly pulling the bed farther still from the wall, he examined the long, thin gap. The displaced board lay along the wall, and whoever had taken it away had failed to replace it.

  “Anything there?” chattered Diggs.

  “Nothing,” answered Temperley, frowning. “Rather queer—isn’t it?” The next instant he had leapt to his feet, and was staring at Diggs.

  “Did you close the front door before you came up?” he whispered.

  “Eh? No!” Diggs whispered back. “Why?”

  Temperley did not reply. It was not necessary. Someone had entered the cottage, and was moving about below.

  Chapter XXXVI

  In a Back Bedroom

  Diggs felt himself going to pieces. He stood by the bed with his mouth open. The sounds below had deprived him of capacity for movement.

  Temperley, on the other hand, became more alert. For two or three seconds he stood and listened; then he slipped swiftly towards the door. But as he reached the door he paused abruptly, and stood still again.

  “Coming up!” he whispered.

  And now he stepped quickly aside, so that he was out of sight of the passage and the doorway.

  Then movement returned to Diggs. A sudden realisation of his own necessity—for he was still in full view of the passage and the head of the stairs—gave him back the gift of mobility, and in a flash he was beside Temperley, struggling to pant soundlessly. Meanwhile, the sounds below drew nearer, and reached the stairs.

  “When it comes do yer ’it it?” wondered Diggs.

  As though divining the thought, Temperley laid his hand on Diggs’s wrist. Maybe he had seen a spasmodic movement. By now the sounds were mounting the stairs; softly, stealthily, with little unnerving pauses.

  “You do ’it it,” decided Diggs.

  The footsteps reached the top of the stairs. There was another little pause. Somebody was wondering which of the two bedrooms to enter—the front one or the back one. The back one was chosen. Temperley steeled himself, while Diggs behind him turned into india-rubber. India-rubber is soft, and ready to bounce away in any direction.

  “God! Where’s ’e gone?” gulped the india-rubber.

  For, just as the unknown individual reached the doorway, Temperley had bounded forward like rubber himself, and a moment later Diggs’s eyes beheld the remarkable spectacle of Temperley bearing the half-fainting form of Sylvia Wynne towards the bed.

  “Was it ’er?” gasped Diggs, ridiculously, when speech became possible again.

  “Close the door,” replied Temperley, sharply. “And stand by it.”

  Diggs obeyed. At that moment he would have done anything anybody had ordered him to do. Happily, this particular instruction did not go against the grain. Closed doors were infinitely preferable to open ones.

  “Take it easy,” said Temperley, to the girl on the bed.

  “How did—you get here?” she answered, faintly.

  “It wasn’t likely we wouldn’t follow, was it?” replied Temperley, patting her shoulder as though she were a little child. “I’ll tell you my story later. But just at the moment—when you’ve got your breath back—I want to hear yours. You’re—you’re not hurt, are you?”

  “No,” she murmured. “Just weak.”

  “Well, rest a bit.”

  “Is there time?”

  “I don’t know!” he replied, frankly. “Isn’t there? You must tell me that!” He glanced towards the door by which Diggs was standing. “Is—anyone following you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t—? Have you only just got here?”

  “Yes.”

  “But, how—? Who brought you here?”

  “Those two men must have.”

  “The ones who attacked us at Boston?”

  “Yes. But I don’t remember anything. They—drugged me or something. I’m still muzzy. And when I came to—” She shook her head in confusion.

  “You found yourself near here?” he prompted her, encouragingly.

  “Yes.”

  “How far from here?”

  “Just round the corner.”

  “Just round—”

  “Yes. In a car. I’ll tell you. But, first, are you sure there’s nobody about? I’m all to bits!”

  “We’re about,” he replied, cheerfully. “Old Ted Diggs and I. So you’ve no nee
d to worry any more.”

  “I’m trying not to. But you’ve not seen anybody else?”

  “Not a soul. I don’t quite understand, though, Miss Wynne. Those two rascals—weren’t they in the car when you came to?”

  “No.”

  “Bunked, eh? And you haven’t seen any policeman, either?”

  “I wish I had!”

  “Queer, that, because the moment I got on to it where you were—your bit of paper helped!—I notified Inspector James, and told him to ’phone through to Whitchurch. Meanwhile Diggs drove me here at a thousand miles an hour. We’ve only just arrived ourselves, you know.…Jove, listen to that wind!…and found this place empty. By the way—who lives here?—when at home?”

  “My grandfather,” she answered, in a low voice.

  “Your grandfather,” he repeated, softly. “I see. At least—I think I’m beginning to. Do you—” He paused; then proceeded, very gravely, “Do you know where he is?”

  She shook her head.

  “Did you expect to find him here?” he went on.

  He hated pressing her, in her condition, but there was no time to be lost.

  “I don’t know what I expected. He was—I mean, he’s an invalid.” She shuddered as she corrected her tense. “I thought he was helpless. An old woman lived here with him and looked after him. But—when I got anxious yesterday—yesterday, was it?—time’s all got mixed up—I sent a telegram here from London, asking if he was all right.”

  “Yes?”

  “The reply came that he had disappeared.”

  “Who sent the reply?”

  “Mrs. Davis. The woman who looked after him. Who looks after him.”

  “And now—she isn’t here, either.”

  “No.”

  “Tell me, Miss Wynne. Why didn’t you come straight here from London—if you were anxious after receiving the reply?”

  “I—I had reason to believe he might be at Bristol. I’d received a queer note, you see. And when I heard he wasn’t at Whitchurch, I thought—”

  “He might be connected with these Z murders?”

  “Yes. I had a reason for that, too. Mrs. Davis had sent me word that he was getting delirious—and something about a mysterious visitor he’d had. He seemed to think that something awful was going to happen at Euston at 5 a.m.”

  “But why didn’t you go straight to the police?”

  “He seemed as terrified of the police as of anything else. I didn’t have much time to think, you know. And, then—”

  “Yes?” he queried, as she paused. “I think you’d better tell me everything?”

  “It wasn’t that,” she answered, quickly. Her eyes were on the door. “I thought I heard something!”

  Diggs moved farther away from the door. They listened. All was silent below. “Did you leave the front-door open?” asked Temperley, suddenly.

  “I’m afraid I did. I found it open.”

  “Well, it had better be closed,” he said. “I don’t know if you feel up to the job, Diggs?”

  Diggs didn’t. But, with Beauty as audience, he had to put up some sort of a show. So he observed, “Right in my line, that is!” and, after a moment’s hesitation, opened the bedroom door, went out into the passage, and half-closed it behind him. They heard him gingerly descending the wooden staircase.

  “Now let’s finish this quickly,” said Temperley, turning to Sylvia again. “You were talking of your grandfather, you know.”

  “Yes. Will Diggs be all right? There’s always been some mystery about my grandfather that I’ve never found out. I believe it was because of this my parents left England before I was born. They’d found it out, and went to Australia, but they’d never speak about it. But when they died—that was a year ago—I had no relatives left—only grandfather—and he wrote me such a sad letter that I decided to come to England and work here.”

  “At Whitchurch?”

  “No, in London, but I often came to visit grandfather here. He was terribly ill and lonely.”

  “And he never told you about—his mystery?”

  “Never. And so I thought, at first, that he was connected with these horrible murders—though it was all guessing, really.”

  “And you still think it?”

  “Yes. But not that he’s responsible for them,” she added, quickly.

  “No, I agree,” answered Temperley. “He fled from this cottage in terror—and a great shock, you know, may temporarily cure a man from paralysis—if that was your uncle’s trouble. Now, these two men. They evidently drove you here, and then fled.”

  “Yes.”

  “After visiting here first? I doubt it. No window was broken, and if the place was empty, as I found it, they couldn’t have got in by any other means…What a time Diggs is!…Did you come straight here from the car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t you hear us come by? We didn’t see your car, by the way.”

  “No. It’s hidden, just off the road. Yes, I did hear something going by, I think, but I was too muzzy to know. And then there’s the wind, too.”

  “By Jove, yes! Just listen to it!” It howled round the cottage as he spoke, followed by a fierce rush of rain on the roof and a scrambling flurry of outraged leaves. “But the taxi’s outside. You must have seen that?”

  “I did. But it might have meant anything. The whole thing was a jumble. I just came in to find—whatever there was to find. And—thank God—found you!”

  “I am also thanking God for that, Miss Wynne,” he answered, fervently. “Now, just one more question, and then we’ll go and find out why the police are so late.…Back to your grandfather’s mystery again. Look over the other side of the bed. On the floor. Do you think that has anything to do with it?”

  She turned her head, and stared at the uprooted board. They heard Diggs returning.

  “He’d hidden something there!” she exclaimed.

  “And has taken it away with him,” replied Richard Temperley. “That’s as plain as a pikestaff, isn’t it? Well, here’s Diggs back again, and now for the police, eh?” The door was shoved open. The man without arms stood in the passage.

  Chapter XXXVII

  The Last Victim

  “No, I wouldn’t move,” said the man without arms. “My sleeve may appear empty, but it can strike.”

  He raised his right sleeve as he spoke, while Richard Temperley struggled against the temporary paralysis produced by this appalling and unexpected apparition. The man did not merely lack arms. He lacked expression. Beneath the wide rim of an old slouch hat glinted eyes that were as vacant and as cruel as those of an octopus.

  “I’m sorry I’ve had to disappoint you,” went on the man without arms, “but Mr. Diggs—I think I heard you describe him by that name as I came up the stairs just now—Mr. Diggs is not fetching the police. He is not in a condition to fetch anything. I have had to give him a little dose—”

  “You damned little cur!” cried Temperley, finding his voice at last.

  “But it’s not such bad stuff, is it?” the man proceeded, turning the expressionless gaze towards Sylvia. “You’ve tested it, haven’t you? It doesn’t kill.” The expressionless gaze turned back to Temperley. “Not that I would have minded killing Mr. Diggs. One more or less? What would it matter? But—a man without any arms is at a disadvantage.” The sleeve flapped slightly. “He cannot strike again and again. The number of his blows is limited. And the few I have left—two, to be exact—must not be wasted on insignificant people like Mr. Diggs.”

  Temperley’s mind raced round and round in a hopeless circle. Madness stood there in the doorway. How did one deal with madness? Before the madness dealt with you? Nothing to appeal to! No spark of ordinary intelligence or sympathy or understanding! All that existed in that miserable, wasted frame, all that signified, was a homicidal lust, that se
emed at this moment to be fanned into additional vitality by the outside elements themselves. The rain descended in violent sheets, rapping and squalling against the little window with the view of the troubled lake. The wind howled with venom and shook with laughter, shaking the cottage with it. “Who are you?” Temperley heard himself asking.

  He knew the answer, but he had to say something to break up the deadly suspense.

  The left sleeve rose in response—the right still remained directed towards them—and brushed off the slouching hat. Above the expressionless eyes was revealed a ragged, zig-zagging scar. It zig-zagged upwards from the top of the nose to the farthest visible extremity of the forehead in the form of a letter Z.

  “I see,” muttered Temperley.

  “Do you?” came the ironical reply.

  “Yes,” said Temperley. “I see that you are the person who killed—”

  “A man in an arm-chair—an old woman in a field—a taximan at Boston? Yes, I am that person. You may like to know that I’ve added since to the list—”

  Sylvia’s fingers suddenly clutched Temperley’s sleeve.

  “—as I have had to dispose of my companion, who grew troublesome.”

  The fingers relaxed, and became weak.

  “He lies dead in the pond out there.”

  “God!” exclaimed Temperley. “And you think it wise to tell us of these things—”

  “I have already warned you once not to move,” interrupted the man without arms, sharply. “The next time, she’ll get a bullet. And you won’t hear it. She’ll just sink down on that bed and lie still—as the others have done.”

  “There must be some way,” raced Temperley’s mind. “There must be some way! There must be…”

  “Wise to tell you of these things?” said the man without arms. “Why not? You won’t be able to repeat them?”

  “In that case,” retorted Temperley, “you might tell us a little more.” But his mind was still racing, “There must be some way—there must be—!”