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.
Chapter VIII
The Value of a Sister
Winifred Mostyn, née Temperley, sat in her comfortable drawing-room with an unusual frown on her face.
As a rule her face was as composed as her drawing-room. She loved adventure in her secret heart, and although she was always ready to enthuse obediently over Shaw and Huxley, her favourite author was still Robert Louis Stevenson; but five years ago she had played for safety by marrying a bank manager, and the agreeable routine of a bank manager’s home had entered into her soul and her expression.
She liked to do things well, and if routine had to be done, then she would do that well. The punctual breakfast at 8.30, the affectionate peck before sending Tom off to catch the 9.9, the morning round, the solitary lunch, the afternoon of mild diversions leading up to, and never interfering with, the pleasant reunion with Tom at 7.4—such details as these were rendered agreeable by her conscientious attention to them and her bright personality. Her contentment was not a pose. It was a habit. Thus the frown on her face as she sat in her drawing-room on this particular afternoon was not a frown of self-pity. It denoted that something had interfered with the routine; that law and order had been, in some sense, outraged.
The frown was to deepen as the afternoon progressed, but at the moment it was born of two causes. The first was that her brother Richard, expected that day for a week’s visit, had not turned up yet—but then he was not a creature of routine! Still, he might have sent a wire, if anything had gone wrong, for even a methodical sister can be worried! And the second…
Yes, the second was very odd. Someone had telephoned to Richard, as though expecting him to be there, and had refused to give her name.
“And she knew my name!” reflected Winifred Mostyn, with vague indignation.
The telephone conversation, as she recalled it, had run precisely thus: “Hallo.”
“Hallo.”
“Is Mr—? Who am I speaking to?”
“This is Richmond 0086.”
“Are you Mrs. Mostyn?”
“Yes. Who is it?”
“Could I speak to Mr. Temperley?”
“He’s not arrived yet.”
“Oh!”
“But I can give him a message when he comes.”
“I see. You—you’re expecting him.”
“Yes. Who shall I say ’phoned?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“But wouldn’t you like me to—?”
And then the receiver had been abruptly replaced at the other end, and the conversation had concluded.
“It’s certainly very odd,” frowned Mrs. Mostyn, without realising how much she was secretly enjoying the oddity. “A nice voice—but why wouldn’t she give her name? And how did she know mine? And—and why did she seem so—?”
So what? Frightened?
“Yes, she did seem frightened!” decided Winifred Mostyn, suddenly refusing to hedge. “I wonder what it was about—and whether she’ll ’phone again!” Then her mind swung back to her first worry. “I wish Dick would come! He could tell me—unless it’s the skeleton popping out of his cupboard! Well—a jo
lly nice-sounding skeleton!”
She glanced at the china clock. It had shepherdesses about it. Sixteen minutes to four.
“I do hope nothing’s happened to him,” she fretted. “I got the cakes especially!”
She hated feeling anxious. That was why she tried to ascribe her anxiety to the cakes. The argument against routine is that it makes one over-sensitive when the routine is disturbed. Ten minutes ticked by. In another six Jane would bring in the afternoon paper. At five minutes to four, the telephone rang again.
“Which will it be?” she wondered, as she rushed to it. “That girl again, or Dick?”
It was neither. A man’s voice answered her “Hallo,” and it was a voice she had never heard before.
“Hallo!” said the man’s voice. “Am I speaking to Mrs. Mostyn?”
“Everybody knows me, but I don’t know anybody!” she thought indignantly, as she answered aloud, “Yes. Who is it?”
“Inspector James. May I have a word with your brother, Mr. Temperley?”
“Inspector—?” Her alarm grew like a flame. “My brother isn’t here—has anything happened?”
“No need for alarm, Mrs. Mostyn,” came the inspector’s calming voice. “He and I met this morning over a certain matter, and he told me that, if I wanted to get into touch with him, I could communicate through you. You’re expecting him, I suppose?”
“I’ve been expecting him all day!”
“Then—he hasn’t been in touch with you?”
“No. Please tell me—Inspector James, did you say?—what is all this about?”
There was a short silence, during which the inspector considered his reply.
“I think perhaps I’d better leave him to answer that, Mrs. Mostyn,” he then said. “Meanwhile, please let me assure you that you have no need to worry on his account. No need whatever. I apologise for troubling you. But may I ask one more question?”
“I don’t see why not—since you say I’ve no need to worry on his account.”
“And I repeat that assurance. Has anybody called at your house to-day to see your brother?”
“Called here? No.”
“Or telephoned?”
“Yes. At least—” She paused, wondering suddenly whether it was wise to give this information. But the wonder came a second too late. “Yes, someone did telephone, inspector, but—well, I rather feel as if I’m talking into a blank wall.”
“I appreciate your position, Mrs. Mostyn,” came the inspector’s reply; how irritatingly pleasant the man was! If only he had been rude, so that one could have snubbed him, or cut him off without any conscience qualms! “Don’t answer any questions you prefer not to. But if you could tell me whether it was a lady who phoned—”
“It was a lady,” interrupted Winifred, “but if you ask me who she was or anything about her, I can’t tell you. She rang off as soon as she heard my brother wasn’t here, and that’s all I know.”
“Thank you,” said the inspector. “Again, please accept my apologies.” And he, also, rang off.
The china clock now said three minutes to four. The three minutes passed in serious but unproductive contemplation. Then the clock gave a little wheeze and tinkled four, and Jane brought in the afternoon paper.
“Don’t bring in the tea till I ring,” said Winifred, and opened the paper.
We like to believe ourselves sympathetic, but, in truth, Nature has designed us, perhaps necessarily, to be callous. A murder in Newcastle is of less importance than a cut finger in our own home, and therefore Winifred Mostyn was only mildly interested. All at once, however, the mildness evaporated. In the next column a name had caught her eye. It was the name of her brother!
Euston! Yes, of course! Her brother would have arrived at Euston! But how did his name—?
She read the account eagerly, with a fast beating heart. It was a carefully-worded account. Possibly, officially inspired. A man identified as John Amble had been found dead at 5.30 a.m. that morning in a hotel arm-chair. He had been shot. There seemed to be no motive for the murder, nor clue to the murderer, saving a small metal token in the form of a crimson letter Z which had been found outside the window. Among those questioned by the police were a Mr. Richard Temperley, address not given. (Winifred thanked heaven that the address opposite his name in the telephone directory was Wellingley Grove and not Hope Avenue—otherwise she might have been inundated with inquiries!) Mr. Temperley, the account made clear, had satisfied the police with his information, and had not been detained. The case was in the able hands of Detective-Inspector James…
“James!” she exclaimed. “That was the name! Of course, he wanted to speak to Richard about—this!”
But the other one? The girl? Winifred scanned the report, and found no mention of any girl. Temperley—John Amble—night commissionaire—Inspector James—Dr. Benson—but no reference to any girl. There was a total absence of femininity in the report, saving for a housemaid who had fainted.
A moment later, Winifred Mostyn herself nearly fainted. The telephone rang again, and the newspaper slid to the floor as she jumped from her chair.
“Really, I must get a hold on myself!” she exclaimed angrily. “I’m behaving ridiculously!”
But she could not quite steady her hand as she lifted the receiver. “Hallo!” she called.
“Hallo!” came the reply.
“Thank God!” she cried, devoutly relieved as she heard her brother’s familiar voice. “How are you?”
“No need to worry about me, Winnie,” replied Richard. “How are you? You sound upset.”
“Well, I’ve had a bit of a shock!”
“You mean—this wretched murder business?”
“Yes. I’ve just read about it. Tell me, Dick, you are all right, aren’t you?”
“Of course, I am,” he answered. “What makes you think I’m not?”
“I don’t know. But—well, never mind. We’ll talk when you come. You ought to have rung me up before, you bad boy! Where are you now?”
“Never mind, old thing. And I’m afraid we’ll have to do our talking over the telephone, because I’m not coming.”
“Not coming?”
“Well, not just yet.”
“Why not?” There was a pause. Terror suddenly leapt into Winifred’s voice. “Dick! Dicky! You’re—you’re not—”
“If you mean, did I kill John Amble,” interposed Richard, quickly, “I didn’t. And nobody thinks I did. Just the same, you’ll have to excuse me if I’m a bit mysterious. One day you’ll have the whole story, but just at the moment I want your help more than I can say. Has anyone called on you?”
“No—”
“Or ’phoned?”
“I seem fated to answer questions and not to ask them. Yes, two people have ’phoned.”
“Ah!” There was no mistaking the eagerness of that exclamation. “Who?”
“The first was a lady.”
“By Jove!”
“Dick!” exclaimed his sister, admonishingly. “Are you on the edge of a scrape?”
“Yes, but it’s not my scrape. Be a sport, dear, and don’t ask questions. Time’s precious. Was it Miss—Who was the lady who ’phoned?”
“So I’m not to be told her name?”
“Not if you don’t know it.”
“I don’t know it. I’m not good at guessing the names of perfect strangers by their voices.”
“When did she ’phone, and what did she want?”
“She ’phoned at twenty to four, and she wanted you.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That you weren’t here.”
“Yes! Do go on!”
“You keep on interrupting. She wouldn’t give me her name, but she knew mine, goodness knows how.”
“P’r’aps I told her.”
“Are
you ill, Dick? You’re becoming positively informative! When she found you weren’t here she said it didn’t matter, and she wouldn’t leave any message. She just rang off, and left me guessing.”
“Didn’t say she’d ring up again?”
“No.”
“Dash! Well, if she does ring up again—no, wait a minute! What about the other ’phone?”
“Yes,” answered Winifred, grimly, “I think you’ll want to know about that, too. The other ’phone was from Inspector James.”
“The devil!” came a grunt. “Mug I was, to give him your address!”
“Yes, how many more people have you given my address to? Everybody can see me but I can’t see anybody! I’m like the ‘It’ in Blind Man’s Buff!”
“Sorry, my child! What did Inspector James want?”
“Same thing as your lady friend. You. I told him you hadn’t arrived yet. Let me think, did I put it like that? Yes—I told him I’d been expecting you all day. He seemed rather surprised that you hadn’t ’phoned or anything.”
“Did he ask anything else?”
“Yes. He asked if anybody else had ’phoned or called. I said somebody had. I can hear, by the commotion at the other end, that you don’t like that, but don’t blame me, my dear! If these situations are bounced upon me without warning, you can’t expect me to be prepared with clever answers.”
“Of course, I don’t blame you, Winifred. You’re the best ever. I just wish—Well, what did you tell him?”
“Precious little. In other words, exactly as much as I knew. Then he rang off—and now here you are. I expect the next will be the night commissionaire, and then John Amble himself!” But the moment of levity passed almost as soon as it had dawned. “Well, Dick, what’s the next step?” she asked, soberly. “Am I to know anything at all, or not?”
In the silence that followed she could almost hear her brother thinking. Before his thinking had ended a new voice broke in: “Time’s up. Do you want another call?” Two more pennies were dropped in a little black metal box somewhere in London. Then Richard Temperley said: “Listen, Winnie. I know you’re a sport. Do you think I’m one?”
The Z Murders Page 6
