Читать книгу The Z Murders - J. Jefferson Farjeon - Страница 8

Table of Contents

To reach the front door you merely had to cross the little passage that connected it with the studio. Ordinarily it would take you three or four seconds. It took Temperley one. And in another second he had flung the door open. Thus it was that the origin of the shadowy, formless smudge had no time to evaporate, but stood staring at Temperley without any sign of delight in his sudden presence.

But neither was there any sign of discomposure. The origin of the shadowy, formless smudge was a rather ordinary-looking man, belonging perhaps to the workman class, but not in working clothes, and his face was unimaginative and expressionless. This lack of flurry or of menace momentarily disarmed Temperley, who had expected a chase or a scrap, and who was primed for either. For a few moments he regarded this innocent-looking fellow with vague surprise. Then suspicion and determination returned, and he barked out a sharp question: “What are you doing here?”

“Eh?” replied the man.

“I asked you what you were doing here!”

“Oh. I wanted to see the occupier.”

“What for?”

“Are you the occupier, sir?”

The fellow spoke quite respectfully, but Temperley refused to be put off his guard.

“I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind,” he retorted. “I’m still waiting, you know.”

“Very sorry, I’m sure, sir,” murmured the man. “I come here to see if I could get a job of work.”

“Oh,” answered Temperley, disbelieving him. “What sort of work?”

“Any kind,” said the man. “Garden. Windows. Studio, ain’t it?” He craned his neck slightly, as though to get a peep inside. Temperley tried to widen himself. “Want your windows kep’ clean in a studio, sir. Or I could do a bit of posing.”

“Are you sure you’re not?” enquired Temperley.

“Eh?” blinked the man, and looked hurt.

“Well, there are plenty of burglars about these days,” said Temperley, without contrition. “One has to be careful, you know. What made you choose this house to call at?”

The man thought for a moment. He seemed to be trying hard. He rubbed his chin, and then responded,

“Well, sir, you don’t ezackly choose. You jest call—where you happen to be, if you take me?”

“And you happened to be here?”

“That’s right.”

“H’m. Well, I’m afraid there isn’t any work for you.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And I’m also afraid you won’t find any by trying to peep in,” added Temperley, sharply, as the man craned his neck again.

“That’s right, sir,” agreed the man. “You can’t see through a curtain.”

Was it the man’s words, or some new quality in his voice, that caused Temperley to swing round suddenly? In any case, he did so. Curtain?... What curtain? He found himself staring at a curtain. Like the door, it was blue. It had been drawn across the entrance to the studio, shutting it entirely from view. It had not been drawn when he had left the studio. Or—had it? No, of course, it had not. He had seen the front door from the studio. And so had the girl....

Quickly he swung back to the man, but the man had disappeared.

Temperley closed the front door, fighting his anxiety, and hastened back to the studio, shoving the curtain aside as he ran. Then he got another shock. The girl, also, had disappeared.

“Well—I’m damned!” he thought. “What’s that mean?”

Had she got a fright and taken cover? He called her name softly. Obtaining no response, he began to search the studio, trying first the corner he himself had hidden in. There was no sign of her. Suddenly he looked towards the little window.

“Open again!” he muttered.

Obvious, of course. The bird had flown out through the window. Well, he had advised her to give the place a wide berth, hadn’t he? She had merely acted on his advice! Yes, but without a word, without so much as...

On his way to the window he stopped abruptly. A faint sound came from outside. His heart beat happily again.

“Miss Wynne!” he called, keeping his voice low. “You can come back. He’s gone!”

“I’m afraid he hasn’t,” came the reply, as the individual under discussion emerged into view.

No longer asking Temperley’s sanction, the unwelcome visitor climbed in through the window, and as Temperley watched him a wretched suspicion came into his mind. A moment later, the visitor was confirming the suspicion.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for the pack of lies I told you on the doorstep just now, Mr. Temperley,” he said, “but you’ve not been the soul of truth yourself, now, have you?”

“Who are you?” demanded Temperley.

“Name, Dutton,” replied the man, brushing dust from his sleeve. “Working for Inspector James.”

“And your work was to follow me?”

“Afraid so, sir. You see, sir—well, we guessed you weren’t going to Madame Tussaud’s.”

“I see,” murmured Temperley, and added abruptly, with a frown, “Pretty poor game, yours, isn’t it?”

“That’s how you look at it, sir,” answered Dutton. “Maybe some’d say the same of yours.”

“Mine?”

“Yes, sir. Not helping the police, I mean. You’ve led me a dance, and no error!”

He smiled amiably. If his words contained a reproach, his tone and his attitude were quite friendly. Temperley, trying to make the best of a situation quite new to him, wondered what his own tone and attitude ought to be.

“I take back what I said just now about yours being a poor game,” he said. “But—perhaps, if you understood—you’d realise that I’m not really playing a bad game, either.”

“Oh, I understand that, sir,” nodded Dutton, “but I’ve got to go on with my job, just the same.”

“Well—go on with it,” smiled Temperley. “What’s the next step?”

Dutton smiled back.

“What’s yours?” he asked.

“Oh! Then the chase is to continue?”

“That depends on you, sir.”

“What do you mean?” Dutton shrugged his shoulders. “That’s not an answer. Let’s start square, anyway. Why have you followed me?”

“Well, sir—p’r’aps the police aren’t always such fools as people think. And that being so, sir—if I may offer a word of advice—it would be much simpler if we pulled together. It’ll come to the same in the end.”

“You think so?”

“Sure of it, sir.

“Listen, Mr. Dutton. I admit you’ve scored a trick. I’m not one of those who call policemen fools. But—well, p’r’aps I’m not such a fool, either?”

“I’m sure you’re not, sir. If it was only you and me, I’d go fifty-fifty on the result. But you’ve forgotten the inspector. He sent me to trace Miss Wynne, through you—and he won’t rest till he’s found her.” Dutton paused. Then he went on, in a matter-of-fact voice: “The lady’s acting very queerly, you’ll admit. I don’t say she’s anything to do with our business, but if she hasn’t why doesn’t she come forward and say so? There you are.”

He paused again. His eyes roamed round the studio. Temperley watched him curiously, and also with a sense of irritation. Why were they both staying here? Why didn’t they go? And, when they did go, would they separate?

Now Dutton was eyeing the curtained corner. He moved towards it casually.

“Have you got a warrant to search the place?” enquired Temperley.

“No,” replied Dutton, continuing on his way.

Temperley saw his chance, and seized it. While Dutton proceeded towards the corner, Temperley turned and slipped quietly to the front-door. He opened it and closed it with a bang, then swiftly dropped down behind the hat-stand.

Five seconds later, Dutton came rushing by. The blue door was opened and closed a second time, on this occasion with an even louder bang.

From behind the hat-stand came a chuckle.

“Do your job, Dutton,” murmured Temperley, as he emerged, “and all honour to the foe. But I’ve got a job, too, and by George I’m going to see it through. Evidence is all very well, but there’s also such a thing as faith, isn’t there?”

He tiptoed softly back to the studio, crossed to the little window, and climbed out; while not far off a conscientious policeman chased a shadow, and a girl fled from one, and the shadow itself stood under an archway, with a pallid grin upon its nightmare face.