Читать книгу The Z Murders - J. Jefferson Farjeon - Страница 5

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The discovery of the crimson Z introduced a new note into the grim business. It suggested deliberation rather than impulse, and a murder that has been planned is doubly sinister. But Detective-Inspector James did not imply, as he continued quickly with his investigations, that he had relinquished his interest in earlier clues through the introduction of this later one, and the metal symbol failed to divert him from returning to Richard Temperley to conclude their conversation.

A fellow-creature had been done to death, and for the protection of other fellow-creatures who still enjoyed life the murderer would have to be found and brought to justice. For that purpose, no line of thought could be ignored; and if the line embarrassed an agreeable young man or cast an ugly shadow over an attractive young lady, that could not be helped. The excuse lay, huddled, in an arm-chair.

The conclusion of the conversation, however, was not illuminating. Temperley had little to add to his story, and the one item of real news he had just acquired remained hidden in his pocket.

“Then that’s all you can tell me?” said the inspector, at last.

“Afraid so,” replied Temperley. “I don’t think I’ve done so badly.”

“No. But there’s one important thing we’ve forgotten.”

“What’s that?” asked Temperley, as his heart missed a beat. The inspector’s eye was on his pocket.

“Your address,” came the answer. “I’m afraid you’ll be wanted at the inquest.”

The answer was a relief, but it was also disturbing. Inquest? Good Lord! Was there to be no end to it all?

“My address is 22 Wellingley Grove, N.W. 3,” he said, “but I won’t be there for a week. It’s let.”

“Where will you be?”

“At my sister’s, I think. She lives at Richmond—18a, Hope Avenue.”

“You think?” queried the inspector, as he jotted the two addresses down.

“Make it ninety-five per cent. sure,” suggested Temperley. “I’ll keep the odd five for accidents. After all, I suppose unless you actually arrest me, I’m still a free man?”

“Certainly. But you’ll justify your freedom by letting us know if the—five per cent. wins?”

“I’ll let my sister know,” smiled Temperley, “and she can pass on the news to whomever it may concern.”

“That will be the coroner,” Inspector James smiled back. “Thanks for your help.”

“Does that mean I can go and have a bath?” exclaimed Temperley, as the inspector rose.

“If you want, you can go to Madame Tussaud’s,” answered the inspector, and, with a nod, he turned and walked towards a quiet little man with a camera.

Feeling like a released schoolboy, Temperley cast a final glance towards the arm-chair of death, and then hurried from the room. The constable on guard at the door had evidently received his cue, and was no longer a gate.

“Morning, sir,” he said, as Temperley went by.

With difficulty Temperley refrained from the frivolity of wishing him a happy Christmas.

The fact was, Richard Temperley was suffering from reaction. Reaction from a long and tiring journey. Reaction from the shock of seeing dead a man whom he had so recently seen alive. Was that helpless, silent thing the same flesh that had irritated Temperley in the train, that had spoken, and grumbled, and snored? And would he, Richard Temperley, so full of vigour and of life, one day be as helpless and as silent?... Reaction from the strain of a long cross-examination. Reaction from the confusion of a contentedly-guilty conscience, for which a small purse was responsible. Reaction from the greater confusion set up by the owner of the purse, and of the ridiculous emotions her vision inspired.

“Richard Temperley,” he said to himself, reprovingly. “You are an ass!”

Some one directed him to a swing-door. Beyond the swing-door was another door, and beyond this was a bath. As he turned on the tap and the steam rose up from the bath bottom, a sense of selfish happiness began to pervade him. What, at that moment, did anything matter beyond the warmth that would soon be around him? In the grip of perfect comfort, we are dulled to the discomfort of others. From steaming water we can think dispassionately of the Arctic. From a cool sea, the Equator is a theory. In a woman’s arms, the loneliness of others has no power to chill. And so Richard Temperley, regaining his vigour beneath the rippling warmth of a hotel bath, must not be censured for his temporary inability to share in the tragedy that lay so near at hand. He was merely accumulating, in his callousness, new strength to deal with it, as you or I might have done in his place.

After the bath, he dressed thoughtfully. Already his sense of responsibility had returned to him, and his resuscitated mind was grappling with its problems. The immediate problem was the lady’s bag in his pocket.

Amazed that he had not done so before, he suddenly took the bag from the pocket of his hanging coat, and opened it. Suppose, after all, it contained nothing but money? It would be of small use then to either himself or a detective!

The bag contained six objects. The first was a pound note. The second was a half-crown piece. The third was a small handkerchief. Temperley lifted it to his nose, praising the scent before he smelt it. It was Houbigant Bois Dormant, but he did not know that; all he knew was that it was good. The fourth was a tiny gold vanity-box. The fifth—his heart gave a leap—was a visiting card, bearing the words:

Sylvia Wynne, Studio 4, Tail Street, Chelsea.

He stared at the fifth article so long that he nearly forgot the sixth, but the sixth was equally interesting. It was a Yale key.

“By Jove!” he murmured. “Her latch-key!” And then, an instant later, “How will she get in?”

He completed his dressing quickly. Of course, studios sometimes had maids, and there was no reason to suppose that Sylvia Wynne’s had not. Still, the possibility that she might be shut out of her studio, and striving at that moment to get in, gave Temperley all the excuse he needed to hurry, and he was out of the bathroom by a quarter to seven.

In the corridor, he paused. Glancing along the passage to the left, he caught sight of the constable on duty at the smoking-room door. Beyond the door investigations were still being made, and a patient inspector was still plying questions. The answer to the most urgent question was in Temperley’s pocket. “Sylvia Wynne, Studio 4, Tail Street, Chelsea.” In a moment of strength or weakness—for the life of him he couldn’t determine which!—Temperley took a step towards the constable. Then he retracted. No—he would see Sylvia Wynne herself first. And, afterwards, use his discretion.

Reaching this decision, he turned to the right, and nearly bumped into Detective-Inspector James.

“Hallo! Just off?” queried the inspector genially.

“Yes,” replied Temperley, catching his breath. “That is, unless you want me?”

The inspector shook his head. More at ease, Temperley asked whether he had found out anything fresh.

“A few details, yes, but nothing really illuminating,” said the inspector. “The dead man is John Amble. He lived over his shop in King’s Cross. I believe we shall find he was in debt, so it doesn’t look as though he was murdered for his fortune.”

“Perhaps he wasn’t murdered,” answered Temperley, “but committed suicide on account of his misfortune?”

“If you shoot yourself, you drop the pistol,” observed the inspector, rather dryly. “We haven’t found any pistol. Besides—”

“Besides what?”

The inspector regarded Temperley for a moment, as though weighing him up. Then he remarked,

“John Amble was shot from the window.”

“Why, then—in that case—” began Temperley, eagerly, but the inspector interrupted him.

“We can only judge the direction of the bullet,” he said, “not the exact distance it travelled. The bullet may have started from outside or inside the window.”

“I see,” murmured Temperley.

“But even that may be cleared up later,” went on the inspector, “after the bullet is extracted. Meanwhile, I’ve got on to the shop, and his assistant is coming along. P’raps he’ll help. There’s absolutely no clue as yet as to motive. Well—enjoy yourself at Madame Tussaud’s, and give my love to W. G. Grace.”

Then the inspector vanished.

“Queer fellow!” thought Temperley. “Is he really a humorist—or is he playing some game with me? I don’t know much about detectives, but he was rather confidential!”

However, the “queer fellow” was now back in the smoking-room, so Temperley was free to make his exit without hinderance.

“Wonder what he was doing out here?” he wondered idly, as he went along the passage to the entrance hall. “Perhaps he’d been across to the station—or was telephoning.” They were both wrong guesses.

The night commissionaire was back at his post. His face lit up as he saw Temperley. For the last quarter-of-an-hour he had felt rather out of it.

“Luggage, sir?” he asked briskly.

Temperley nodded, and felt for a good tip.

“Shot from the window, so they’re saying,” said the porter. “God—I’m glad I wasn’t sitting in that there chair!”

Temperley paused. If he hadn’t returned and questioned this fellow about the luggage, he might have sat in the fatal chair.... Yes, but... He doubled the tip. The night commissionaire thanked him very much indeed. “Call you a taxi, sir?” he asked.

A taxi was waiting outside.

“Where to?” inquired the commissionaire.

Suddenly Temperley caught his breath. In another second he would have handed the whole show away! He visualised the inspector demanding of the commissionaire: “What address did he give?” and the commissionaire responding, “Studio 4, sir, Tail Street, Chelsea,” and, as he visualised the inevitable scene, he responded to an uncontrollable impulse.

“Madame Tussaud’s,” he said.

Two minutes after the taxi had started on its journey, however, he put his head out of the window and changed the address to Baker Street Station. The occupant of another taxi, twenty yards behind, did the same.