The Z Murders (16 page)

Chapter XXV

The Last Lap

Minds, whether great or small, do not always think alike. The mind that, twelve hours earlier, had planned a previous journey to Boston, had elected to reach Stratford-on-Avon via Tewkesbury and Evesham (it was probably a mere coincidence that these two names are associated historically with bloodshed), but the mind that worked out the present journey favoured Cheltenham and Winchcombe. This route appeared to be shorter, and Diggs's map did not indicate that it was also hillier.

Beyond Stratford, the minds did think alike. Warwick, Kenilworth, Coventry, Leicester via Sharnford, Melton Mowbray, Grantham and Boston—all these names were duly entered in Diggs's note-book, opposite a forecast of next week's washing, in case he should grow sleepy and forget them.

The question of the possible sleepiness was itself touched on. “Are you sure you can keep awake?” inquired Richard.

“You won't be driven into no brick wall,” Diggs promised.

“I really think I'll have to make it guineas,” said Richard.

“Make it fivers, if you like,” suggested Diggs, with a wink. “I ain't one to worry if I'm overpaid!”

Then he returned to his seat, and the journey was resumed.

To Diggs, sitting outside and with all the work to do, the business soon lost the little glamour that had attached to the start of it and became a mere matter of eating up the momentarily illuminated darkness. The illumination travelled along with them, like the illumination of the phosphorescent fish that lives in the black depths and makes its own light; but ahead and behind lay the cloak of night, and there was nothing on which to concentrate beyond the process of getting safely through it.

Small towns were hardly noticed, and large ones were merely milestones. So much nearer Boston. So much nearer twenty guineas. So much nearer the possession of a dog. (Had Diggs known that the owner of the said dog was lying at that moment in a dike near Boston, with unseeing eyes turned upwards to a star, he would have steered a less steady course.) So much nearer a bed, and sleep, and a dream or two.

But to his passengers, leaning back in the cushioned leather on which he rather prided himself, the journey had become more magical. For half-a-dozen hours, they could relax, conscious of each other, safe with each other, and in the quiet enjoyment of each other. There was no need for further conversation. A happy point had been reached in it, and when they arrived at Boston they would together face whatever problem presented itself. If the problem could not be solved with unequally shared knowledge, then Sylvia would yield all the knowledge she possessed to Richard. There would exist no more mystery between them. In its place would be the perfect trust and confidence for which, from the outset, Richard had ached.

So, meanwhile, why worry? Richard decided that he would not worry. And, apparently, the girl at his side made the same decision. She drew a little closer to him—a wonderful acknowledgment, this, of her growing sense of companionship—and presently he found that her head was resting against his shoulder.

At first he hoped she was asleep, so that her head would remain against his shoulder. Then he hoped she was not asleep, for the added significance this would impart to the position. Then he didn't know which he hoped. Then he laughed at himself, and called himself a fool. Then he swore silently at Ted Diggs for failing to avoid a bit of unevenness in the road and causing a bump.

But the head did not stir. It still lay with sweet heaviness against him.

“She
is
asleep,” he decided. “Sound!”

Soon, his own eyes began to close. He fought against his drowsiness at first. He was a sort of sentry, and sentries must not sleep at their post. Then, as the drowsiness gained on him, and he knew it would win, he sought some excuse to ease this pleasant drifting into unconsciousness. He found it quite easily. He was going to sleep for her sake! When they arrived at Boston he would need all his senses about him, and all his strength. The previous night had been broken. How could he face Boston if this night were sleepless, also?

So now Richard's head drooped, too. Had Ted Diggs looked back, he would have smiled at the sight. But Ted Diggs did not look back. His job lay ahead of him, and his necessity was “Eyes front!”

The night hours slipped by. The towns on his list were wiped out, one by one. The stars increased. Now the sky above was a black sheet sewn with spangles. Now the spangles grew less bright. The advance rumour of morning depressed their brilliance.

“Lummy, am I still 'ere?” thought Diggs abruptly, with a jerk. He had travelled ten miles without being conscious of any of them!

That wouldn't do. He opened his eyes wide, and as he ran through a sleeping town he wondered why towns didn't have their names written up, like stations…

“'Corse, I'm goin' barmy!” he reflected.

Anyway, he knew the name of the town. It was Grantham. Must be, since the place before had been Melton Mowbray, same as Melton Mowbray must have been Melton Mowbray because the place before it had been whatever it had been. Another twenty-five miles or so, and they'd be there.

“'Ooray,” he yawned, to cheer himself.

If you possess a touring map of Lincolnshire, you will see that there are two routes from Grantham to Boston. The northern route goes through Sleaford, and assuming your map knows its business, you will note that the road is level and first-class all the way. The southern route begins by being hillier and ends by being second-class, but it makes up for these deficiencies by being shorter. Which of the two routes, if presented with the problem just before sunrise, would you choose?

That was the problem now before Ted Diggs, and because he felt rather ashamed of his lack of attention just before Grantham he felt that he must equalise matters by additional attention after it. Therefore he stopped the car and consulted his map. It was all he had to consult. His passengers appeared to be fast asleep. “Think I'll go by Sleaford,” he decided, utterly unconscious that the decision held any real importance. “Ay, that's what I'll do. Sleaford.”

It was a happy decision. Sleaford spelt safety. But man proposes and God disposes, and either through human error or fatalistic design, Diggs missed a turning.

“All right, then,” he muttered, finding himself heading for the southern route, “I
won't
go by Sleaford! Wot's it matter, any'ow?”

You cannot put up a fight against Fate in the cold grey hour. And thus Security, which had held out its hands for a moment, slipped back into the shadows, and a grinning, armless spectre slipped into its place.

Grantham, still sleeping, vanished. Up slipped the car into unseen hills, and down it slipped out of them. Now the sea declared itself with a queer, cool tang to the nostrils. It was miles away yet, but only flat land lay between.

“Nearly over!” thought Diggs, gratefully. “That dog's mine!”

Yes, it wasn't far now to Boston, with its tall church tower, and its skeleton standards, and its grassy Roman embankment. Just a few more miles of this flat, almost hedgeless road, with the sea-tang growing stronger and stronger in the faint east wind, and then…

Richard woke up with a jerk. The girl stirred at his side. What was happening?

“Are we there?” murmured the girl.

“I don't think so—don't move yet,” Richard murmured back. “We're slowing, though.”

He peered out of the window, and his shoulder suddenly felt cold. Sylvia had lifted her head from it.

“We're stopping,” she said.

“Yes. P'r'aps he's missed his way or something.”

He frowned. It was comfortable in the car. Still, he'd better get out and discover what the trouble was.

The trouble was a man standing in the middle of the road. No, two men. And where was Ted Diggs?…Ah—there he was! He was the second man.

“Anything wrong?” called Richard.

Diggs came ambling back, while the other man vanished.

“Chap in trouble, sir,” reported Diggs. “'Is car there in a ditch.”

“Where's he gone to?”

“'E's gone back to it. Wants to know if we'll give 'im a 'and.”

“Righto!” grunted Richard. “But it's a nuisance.” He turned back to Sylvia, who was now sitting bolt upright. “Fellow out there wants us to give his boneshaker a shove. You'll be all right for a minute?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied. “But—make it a short minute!”

“You bet, I will!” smiled Richard. “I'll make it the shortest minute that was ever born!”

He opened the door and stepped out on to the road. The salt of the sea met him.

“Where's everybody?” he inquired of the night.

“Over 'ere, sir,” came Diggs's voice, through the darkness.

He took a step or two forward. It was confoundedly dark! Where had Diggs shouted from?

“Give us another call!” he cried.

But this time Diggs did not respond.

He took another step or two forward. The stars that had begun to pale became suddenly bright. Something had shaken them violently, with a huge thud…and now they were below him, and he was falling among them. Or was it the sea he was falling into? He certainly smelt something that did not usually reside just outside one's nostrils. Stronger than the sea, though…more like chloroform…more like…

Chapter XXVI

Something Staring Up

The stars vanished, both in the space of Richard's mind and in the vaster space above it. The blackness grew less intense. When Richard opened his eyes, there was grey in the east.

His head was dizzy and throbbing. For a few moments he could not remember where he was. A studio, wasn't it? No, that was last year. Ah—a train! And somebody had just tried to shove him out on the line! No, that was the year before last. Of course—
now
he'd got it! He was in a taxi, travelling to Euston. No, from Euston. Well, one or the other. Or was it Bristol? Something about Bristol. Hold on to Bristol. But how could you hold on to Bristol if the whole blessed city insisted on swaying up and down…

Steady! Take a deep breath. Whew—something a bit wrong with the breathing apparatus! A bit more slowly, this time. Inhale—exhale—that was better. Now one could think, if only that throbbing would stop. What was throbbing? The taxi? And, yes, what
about
that taxi? He was in it, wasn't he? But, if he were in a taxi, why should a prickly branch be sticking into his cheek? He seemed to remember that prickly branches didn't grow in taxis. They grew in the sides of roads…yes, in the sides of roads…

He sat up suddenly and painfully. Recollection swept back, and the abrupt shock of it almost suffocated him. He
was
on the side of a road. The taxi was a thing of the past. When he had left the taxi, somebody had hit him, and had tumbled him into this ditch. Yes, all that was clear now. But—what had happened after he had been tumbled into the ditch?

He put his hand on the ground, with the intention of rising, and it came against a face. The unexpected contact unnerved him for an instant, for he still felt very groggy, and he drew away quickly. But as the face did not rise and thrust itself after him, he bent forward again, and risked an examination.

The face was quite still. The eyes were open, staring upwards. Around the mouth, a coloured handkerchief was tied with cruel tightness.

Gripping on to himself, Richard untied the handkerchief, and the face worked spasmodically. It went through a series of necessary but unpicturesque convulsions. Then slowly, it rose, and Ted Diggs and Richard Temperley stared emotionally at each other.

“Knocked you out, too, eh?” muttered Richard.

“There was two of 'em,” Diggs muttered back.

“The taxi—what about the taxi?” asked Richard.

“I feel sick,” answered Diggs.

Richard, also, felt sick, but his sickness was in his soul. Struggling to his feet, and leaving Diggs to fend for himself, he turned towards the spot where the taxi had been when he had left it. The next moment he gave an exclamation.

“Thank God! It's still here!” he cried.

He ran forward as he cried, pretending fiercely that all was well. There stood the taxi, and that was all that mattered! Provided, of course…

The door of the taxi was closed. He seized the handle and opened it. No one was inside. “Miss Wynne!” he called, fighting a choking sensation. “Sylvia!” Only his own voice came back to him.

He passed through a period of black agony. He discovered that he was moist with perspiration. Black anger mingled with the black agony, and the blackest recoiled against himself. He had failed. His brain had slept at its post!

When we are angry with ourselves, we try to divert our anger to the nearest thing. The nearest thing to Richard was Ted Diggs. “Diggs! Why don't you come?” he shouted. “She's gone! Where are you?”

“Yer need legs to move with, don't yer?” said Diggs. Diggs's legs were bound, and so were his hands. Informed of the position, Richard returned, and freed the man.

“And, now, after them!” he exclaimed. “Quick! Hurry!”

Diggs did his best, but his legs gave under him. He shook his head miserably. “Don't think I'm much good, fer a bit,” he mumbled. “And, any'ow, we don't know which way they went.”

“But we can't stay here doing nothing!” retorted Richard. “Keep where you are for a minute, if you're done up, and I'll look for tracks.”

He went into the middle of the road and stared at the marks. If any informative marks were there, he could not discern any. The light was too feeble. “Get the lamps on 'em,” suggested Diggs, from the roadside.

Richard went to the car. Something in its appearance arrested him. Something he had not noticed before.

“What's up?” called Diggs, apprehensively.

“They've done in two of the tyres,” answered Richard. “And—
look!
” Beneath the car was a pool of petrol. He returned to Diggs, who was rubbing his legs to get the circulation back. “You'll be able to move, Diggs, before your car will,” he said, desperately. “Two tyres gone west, and all the petrol.”

“What—'ave they let out the gas?” gasped Diggs.

“They've made a clean job of it.”

“Well, I'm blowed!”

“And we're stranded.”

“What's the meanin' of it?”

“Don't let's trouble with the meaning of it for the moment,” replied Richard, fighting every moment to regain sufficient calmness for functioning purposes. If he stopped to consider the meaning of it, despair would render him impotent. “Let's just confine ourselves to facts. The first fact is that Miss Wynne—my fellow passenger—is gone.”

“Ay. So you said.”

“She's been kidnapped!”

“Ay. Looks like it.”

“And since we can't chase the kidnappers ourselves, we must report the matter to others who can.”

“The police?”

“Yes. How far do you reckon we are from Boston?”

“Two or three miles, sir. But it's a guess.”

“Then we'll have to walk there, unless we can get a lift.”

“That's right.”

“How soon do you think you'll be able to step out?”

“Give me a couple o' minutes.”

Richard glanced at his wrist-watch. It was just on six. “Well, if you're longer, I'll have to step out without you,” he said. “Meanwhile, here's a cigarette—you look as if you needed one—and use the two minutes by telling me exactly what happened, and what these two men were like.”

“There was only one of 'em first,” said Diggs, taking the cigarette gratefully. “He stands in the middle of the road—”

“What sort of a man?”

“Biggish. In a rough suit. I see the suit, because there 'e stands, plain as daylight in the lamp, see? Leggings—”

“Appearance of a farmer, in fact?”

“That's right,” nodded Diggs. “You've 'it it. ‘Oi!' 'e ses, ‘my car's in a ditch. Can you give me a 'and to get it out?' Well, you can't pass trouble on the road, no matter what time o' the night, so down I 'ops, and I'm speakin' to 'im when you calls me.”

“But you said there were two of them?”

“That's right. The other comes up jest after I answered you, and gives me a crack on the jaw. No, the other one didn't!” he corrected himself. “It was the first one cracked me. The other one—well, I didn't see 'im plain, 'cos 'e keeps in the shadders like, but I'd say 'e was a cripple o' some sort. Nasty looking chap, and no mistake!”

“These descriptions should help,” commented Richard. “Have just a puff or two more, and then see if you can manage it. I think I can add a touch or two to your first friend.”

“What! D'you know 'im?” exclaimed Diggs, in surprise.

“I believe so.”

“What about the other feller?”

“No, I don't know him,” replied Richard, thoughtfully, “but I've a feeling I shall, before long.”

“Well, you needn't take me with you, sir,” observed Diggs, with a grimace, “becos' the very thought of 'im gives me the creeps. Suddenly, there 'e is—then, bing on me nose—and then 'e isn't!”

“What about the car?”

“What about what?”

“The one they said was in the ditch.”

“Never saw a sign of it.”

“It probably never was in a ditch.”

“Couldn't 'ave been, sir, or they wouldn't 'ave got away in it.”

“Agreed. Well, ready now?”

“I think I can manage, sir.”

“Good. Then, march! And quick as your legs allow.”

Diggs rose to his feet, and, as his feet moved, his brain moved, too.

“Yes, but what about my car?” he queried “'Oo's goin' to look after it?”

“A car with no petrol and two of its wheels hors de combat—”

“Horder what?”

“—out of commission—useless—isn't likely to run off,” said Richard. “Still, you can stay, if you like.”

Did Diggs like? He thought about it. And it occurred to him all at once that he didn't like. He was in a mood for company. “Another reason I'd like you with me,” continued Richard, “is that you'll be useful at the police station for identity purposes.
You
saw the men, you know—I didn't.”

“That's right,” nodded Diggs, with secret gratitude. “I better come along with yer.”

And now came the last stage of the journey to Boston. Three began it in a car. Two ended it on foot.

All the way, Richard strove against hideous thoughts and nightmare emotions. Every step seemed to stab his heart. A sense of personal failure was swamped by a sense of personal loss, while the sense of personal loss was swamped by a fear less selfish—a fear for Sylvia herself. Where was she at this moment, and what was happening to her? He tried to make his mind a blank. There was no relief otherwise.

Now the grey became more revealing, and, in the east, was replaced by amber. A point of gold grew up into the amber and expanded. But a perfect morning is fruitless without a perfect mood.

The tall tower of St. Botolph's church stood out like a black silhouette with edges of gold. The roofs of Boston began to waken as they came into view. Which was the roof of the police station? That was the one immediate query in Richard's mind.

A figure came straggling into view. Its head nodded from side to side. The head paused, however, when it was hailed. “Which is the way to the police station?” The head seemed immensely interested in the question. It soon became evident to Richard that it belonged to the village idiot. An expression of profound surprise was followed by another of profound knowledge. The head began wagging again.

“Didn't you hear me?” demanded Richard, sharply.

“Ay,” nodded the head. “You've seen it, too, then?”

“Seen what?” asked Richard.

“It,” repeated the village idiot.

“If you will explain what you mean by ‘it,''' rasped Richard, “I'll tell you whether I've seen it!”

The village idiot looked a little disappointed. He thought he had connected up with somebody of sympathy and understanding. “By the First Pullover,” he mumbled. “Tha's where 'tis.”

His eyes became distended, and a look of fascinated horror entered into them. “I seen it, as I was comin' by. But I ses, ‘I ain't goin' to no police station,' I ses, ‘or maybe they'll say I done it!'''

And he laughed slyly at this subtlety.

“Done what?” asked Richard, his heart missing a beat.

“Starin' up, it be!” grinned the village idiot. “Starin' up in the sky. Tha's where we all come from. Tha's where we all go back to. Like a wet dog, it be. Starin' up. But it can't see nothin'. You can't see nothin', no, not when you're dead!”