Читать книгу The Z Murders - J. Jefferson Farjeon - Страница 9

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A clock was striking eight when Richard Temperley entered a small shop not a stone’s throw from the Thames and demanded breakfast.

Eight o’clock! It seemed impossible! Only three hours ago his train had drawn into Euston, and he and John Amble had been snapping at each other. Now John Amble was dead, and the fact would soon be blazoned on eager posters. Three hours ago he had never seen that hotel smoking-room—a room which would remain in his memory now until he died. He had never seen Detective-Inspector James or his satellite Dutton. He had never heard of Tail Street, Chelsea. He had never met the occupant of Studio No. 4. She, also, would remain in his memory until he died! Life in all its vividness and death in all its stillness had been encountered during these three short hours...

“Breakfast, sir?” said the old woman who kept the shop. “Yes, sir, will you step upstairs?”

He went upstairs. The stairs wound round darkly, then led sharply to their reward—the star room on the first floor. It was a small room overlooking the river, and Temperley chose the table in the window. From there he could stare at the river, speckled with morning sunlight, into which intruded every now and then the black silhouette of a barge or little boat. Stare and think. And thought was what he needed, even more than breakfast. That was why he had chosen this quiet, secluded shop where there was small chance of disturbance.

“Eggs, sir?” queried the old woman.

“Yes,” he answered kindly, to avoid forcing an admission from her that there was nothing else.

Yes, there was a lot to think about, and the first thing framed itself into a blunt question: “Am I being a thorough fool or not?”

Dutton had challenged him directly on the point when he had proposed co-operation. That, certainly, was the obvious course to pursue. Co-operation. Help the police. After breakfast go off to James and say, “There’s something I didn’t tell you, inspector, at Euston. I found that girl’s bag, and also her name and address. And I went to the address. I’ve had a long conversation with her, and it wasn’t any too satisfactory. She knew she had lost her bag, but was afraid to go back for it. She didn’t tell me why she was afraid. She didn’t tell me why she left the smoking-room in a hurry—at least, one explanation she attempted was an obvious lie. She didn’t tell me anything. And now she’s disappeared again. But I expect your man Dutton has already reported that to you?”

In his imagination, he continued with the conversation, to see where it was likely to lead: “Yes,” said the imaginary inspector, “and he also reported the trick you played upon him to get rid of him.”

“I had to get rid of him,” replied the imaginary Temperley.

“Why?”

“I needed time to think.” Thus Temperley argued with his conscience.

“And also to see whether you could find Miss Wynne again?”

“That’s true. But I couldn’t find her. She’d vanished into thin air.”

“Why, do you suppose?”

“Fright.”

“Why was she frightened?”

“Can’t say.”

“She didn’t tell you—even though you were obviously trying to help her?”

“No.”

Temperley paused in his imaginary conversation. It wasn’t going too well! Still, he had to follow it to the end—to see whether he would risk turning the imagination into reality.

“Have you any idea why she didn’t confide in you?”

“No.”

“Perhaps that fright you mentioned just now was fright of the police?”

“I don’t believe it!”

“Then what else could it have been?”

The imaginary conversation was interrupted by the reality of the old woman, who reappeared with two boiled eggs. “If there’s anything more you’re wanting, will you ring the bell?” she said.

“Yes, yes,” answered Temperley.

And resumed the imaginary conversation while the old lady’s footsteps grew fainter down the winding staircase.

“What else could it have been, inspector?” repeated the imaginary Temperley. “Well, assume for a moment that she isn’t implicated.”

“Well?”

“Then somebody else is!”

“Well?”

“And she may be frightened of that somebody else!”

“It’s possible. But have you any direct evidence of this?”

“Yes, I have!” cried the imaginary Temperley, while the real Temperley felt instinctively in his waistcoat pocket for the proof. “I forgot to tell you this, inspector! I let myself into the studio with a key I found in her bag. On the floor of the hall I saw another of those letter Z’s! It was when I mentioned this to her that she nearly fainted. Jove, the poor child was scared stiff!”

His fingers went on fumbling in his waistcoat pocket.

“And yet, even then, she didn’t want the protection of the police!” observed the ruthless imaginary inspector.

That was a nasty one! Temperley thought about it hard, while his fingers still fumbled in his pocket.

“And why did you have to let yourself into the studio, Mr. Temperley?”

“There was no reply when I rang.”

“But you say you met the girl there?”

“Yes.”

“Did you let her in, afterwards?”

“No.”

“How did she get in, then?”

“Through a window.”

“In other words, she had to break into her own studio—she preferred this to returning to the hotel and reclaiming her key! Sounds a bit thin, sir! Well, let’s look at this second letter Z you found.”

And there the imaginary conversation ended. Temperley discovered that he hadn’t got the second letter Z! His mind now raced on a new tack. The eggs began to cool. What had he done with it? When was the last time he had had it?

The scene came back to him. He had taken it out of his pocket to show Miss Wynne. Then they had seen the shadow outside the front door. He must have laid the Z down unconsciously when he had rushed to the door. Yet he was certain it had not been anywhere about when he had returned. This meant that the girl had taken possession of it, and had escaped with it. Was that significant—or not?

Temperley refused to think so. He was certain that the inspector would think so, however. Yes, if he went to the police with his full story, their suspicions of Miss Wynne would strengthen, and she would be fighting alone against a double danger.

“By George, she shan’t fight alone!” exclaimed Temperley, now finally reaching the decision from which, in the strange days that followed, he refused to deviate. “I’m as certain she needs my help as I’m certain she’s innocent! Good-bye, Inspector James. Au revoir, Mr. Dutton! You nearly got me, but not quite! We’ll be honourable foes!”

But, he added in vindication, foes with the same object in view—bringing to justice the guilty, and clearing the innocent. Different roads to the same end, that was all.

Meanwhile, in the shop below, one of the honourable foes was solemnly purchasing four ounces of acid-drops.