“Confound the fellow!” thought Richard, angrily. “I’ll bet he’s got his eyes wide open, and is watching me through the print!”
He quelled a sudden impulse to snatch the paper away. That would have been too blatant a declaration of war! Later on, he thanked heaven for his restraint, for if you smell the enemy it is just as well not to let him know that you are sniffing.
The sense that he was under observation increased, growing more and more distressing. Snores from beneath the newspaper also increased, and did not lessen the distress. But presently a happier moment came. The voice of the dining-car attendant sounded from the corridor. He was announcing that seats could now be taken for the first dinner.
It was a welcome diversion, and Richard took immediate advantage of it. The newspaper stirred—apparently the sleeper behind it had his ears open as well as his eyes!—but Richard stirred first, and was in the corridor with a speed that, to an uninitiated onlooker, would have appeared almost gluttonous. “You’re not going to sit at my table, young feller me lad!” decided Richard, grimly. “I’ve had as much of you to-day, Mr. Dutton, as I can stand!”
But another shock awaited him in the corridor. The smile of momentary relief with which Richard had emerged from his compartment disappeared as he came upon an elderly man with a grave face talking to a ticket official. He paused abruptly. The elderly man paused also, and turned towards him.
“Good-evening, Mr. Temperley,” said Detective-Inspector James, and stood aside with a smile.
The shock of James was greater than the shock of Dutton. You had grown to expect Dutton, but you thought you had finished with James! Great as these shocks were, however, an even greater awaited him in the dining-car.
As he entered it, some one looked up from one of the little tables that lined the right-hand wall, and he found himself staring into the eyes of Sylvia Wynne.
Chapter XII
Dinner for Two
In looking back over this most amazing period of his life, Richard Temperley did not award himself a hundred marks for proficiency. He recalled many occasions when he had acted cumbrously and many moments when he had acted foolishly. Was not the entire adventure, from a sober point of view, an expression of folly? Even if it were not, even if young men were permitted by the laws of sanity to chase all over England in the cause of young ladies they had no knowledge of, Richard was not especially fitted for this sort of thing, and this was his first personal introduction into the complexities of crime and the subtleties of the police force.
“Put me against a demon bowler,” he reflected, “or stick me on a tennis court, and all’s serene. But Scotland Yard and Bill Sykes don’t see me at my best!”
It must be remembered, too, that he was also ploughing through an emotional confusion that had nothing to do with crime or detectives, and that was centred in the mysterious attraction by which Nature catches and utilises us for her inscrutable ends.
Nevertheless, Richard did congratulate himself, and with justice, on the manner in which he handled the astounding moment when his bewildered gaze fell upon Sylvia Wynne in the dining-car. Another man might have given the moment best, thrown up his hands in helpless submission, and cried, “Kamerad!”
The thing he wanted most in all the world to happen had happened, but it had happened in the worst possible circumstances. He was being shadowed—so he had been given to believe—with the sole object of revealing to his pursuers a lady whom they were anxious to question, but whom so far they had never met. He, Richard Temperley, was their only key to the lady’s identity. And here, before him, was the lady. And, only a little way behind him, were the pursuers. A single false move at this moment, not merely on his part but on the part of the lady who was assumedly unaware of her danger, the merest word of greeting or glance of recognition would be fatal.
And when your whole heart is bursting to say the word and to give the glance, it is trebly to your credit if you control yourself sufficiently to avoid them.
Richard did not control merely himself. He controlled, also, Sylvia Wynne. He saw the startled light dawning in her eye, and he realised that she could give the game away even more easily than he could. She was facing the corridor from which, at any instant, Detective James and the confounded countryman might appear, while he himself had his back turned to the corridor. Profiting by this fact, he threw the girl a look intended to warn her of her position.
It was a most difficult look to muster all in an emotional moment, and perhaps it was as well for his vanity that no mirror reflected it for him; but, however lacking in aesthetic value, its practical value was immediately demonstrated, for it produced the desired result. The girl, with an intelligence little short of his own, swiftly banished her expression of astonished recognition, and removed her eyes casually to the window.
Then Richard completed his strategy with a culminating stroke of daring subtlety. He gazed about vaguely, and, with an expressionless face, took the unoccupied seat at Sylvia Wynne’s table.
“Inspector James knows I’ve seen him,” ran the mind behind the expressionless face, as Richard sat down, “and he will know I am on my guard. Surely, the last person in the world I would select to dine with in these circumstances would be the very girl they hope me to lead them to! Just as the last person I ought to have suspected was an old countryman who voluntarily opened a conversation with me!”
It was an astute move, as well as a very desirable one. The question remained—would the astute detective be equally astute, and read through his bluff?
That was not the only question that remained. There was another. Could two young people who were furiously conscious of each other continue the bluff and act as perfect strangers?
While Richard strove to play his part, a voice fell upon his ears and a faint dampness grew on his forehead. He fought the dampness with all his might. “I can control my expression,” he thought, desperately, “but how the deuce does one control perspiration?” He had not discovered the answer when the individual who had evoked the perspiration came by, and stopped at the table.
“This is a lucky meeting, Mr. Temperley,” said Inspector James, pleasantly. “I’ve been trying to get into touch with you.”
“Have you?” replied Richard, racking his brain to find out whether he ought to admit his knowledge of this fact or not.
“Yes. I telephoned to Richmond. Didn’t your sister tell you?” Subtle fellow, this James!
“I’ve not been to Richmond,” answered Richard.
“Oh, I see. I thought you might have been there after I ’phoned. Mrs. Mostyn said she was expecting you.”
“That’s right. She was. But I couldn’t manage it.”
“As a matter of fact,” pursued the inspector, “she seemed rather anxious about you. She’d been expecting you all day, and hadn’t had a word.”
“And when a detective-inspector rang up,” smiled Richard, praying that his forehead did not look as moist as it felt, “I don’t suppose that lessened her anxiety?”
Richard, even while he suffered, could be subtle, too! By this casual remark, he identified the inspector for the benefit of his vis-à-vis.
“I’m afraid it didn’t,” admitted James, “but I did my best to reassure her. I hope you reassured her, also? Some one else had rung you up, you see, just before I did.”
“Nice of you to be so interested, inspector. Yes—I reassured her.”
“I suppose she told you about my ’phone call?”
“Well, naturally.”
“Oh, then you knew I’d been trying to get in touch with you?” The inflection was that of a question, but the significance was that of a statement with a tinge of reprimand in it. The inspector’s voice remained quite amiable, however, as he added, “And the other call? Did she mention that, too?”
Then Richard, deciding that he had had quite enough for the moment, and that all this ne
eded sorting out before he could proceed any farther, applied the closure by playing another of his bold, audacious strokes. He donned a slight frown, and glanced significantly at the girl opposite him. His frown attempted to convey to the inspector, “I say—is all this really necessary before a stranger?”
The stranger did not seem to be taking any interest in the conversation. She was staring idly at the River Thames over which they were just passing. Inspector James, however, appeared to realise Richard’s point, and he nodded, with a faint smile.
“We’ll resume later,” he said, and passed on.
“How did I come out of it?” wondered Richard. “Not too badly, I hope. I don’t think I told him anything he didn’t already know. After all, Dutton will have kept him pretty well posted! And Miss Wynne now knows who he is—for I’ll wager her ears were wide open—while if he swallowed my implication that I disliked discussing matters before strangers, I’m something useful up!”
The necessity for caution was not yet removed, however, and Richard endured an anxious moment when he found the girl’s eyes on him again. He refused to meet them. Taking up the menu he murmured to it, “Not just yet—there’s another,” and became quickly absorbed in the relative merits of Consommé Laitue and Crème Tomate as the “other” came along.
There may have been some among the well-dressed diners who were surprised that a very considerably less well-dressed countryman should search for a seat among them. Snobbery is not rife in a third-class dining-car, where all classes mix with the exception of the essentially first-class; but this countryman was particularly unshaven and grubby, and some social distinction still exists.
Richard himself, however, was not in the least surprised—his emotion was just acute annoyance—and it seemed quite obvious to him that the countryman should select, of the only two vacant seats left, the seat nearest his own, despite the fact that the three other occupants of the table were two highly fashionable women and a man with an eye-glass. “Room fer a small ’un?” the countryman inquired, with somewhat heavy jocularity. A frigid silence gave consent.
Well! Now what? The situation was intolerable! Fruitless minutes slipped by—minutes that were precious, and that should have been crowded with good work, both practical and spiritual. Waiters with cleverly-balanced plates appeared. The soup came and went.
In vain Richard tried to devise some plan by which he could open a conversation without inviting suspicion. Yet even if he opened the conversation, how could he steer it into productive channels? What could he say that, while conveying something to Sylvia Wynne, would convey nothing to other listening ears?
The fish appeared before the plan, and he was driven to the feeble device of passing the salt.
“Thank you,” murmured Sylvia.
“And that’s that!” thought Richard, impotently. “Oh, for the brain of a Poirot or Sherlock Holmes!”
Their eyes had met for an instant over the salt-cellar, and he gathered from her expression that the strain was beginning to tell on her, also. He grew more and more disgusted with himself, as the situation grew harder and harder to bear. Was nothing beyond salt to pass between them during the entire meal? Would they rise at the end of it, and separate wordlessly to their respective compartments? And would he lose her again, to resume his search in Bristol?…
And then, at last a plan came to him.
It was not much of a plan. It could not lead to any immediate intercourse. But it was a move, if only a pawn’s move, in a game that was threatening to develop into a stale-mate; and a move that, despite its limitations, required the most careful handling.
It took Richard Temperley six minutes to complete the move, for he only moved a little bit at a time. The first bit was to affect interest in a cross-word puzzle in his afternoon paper. He still had by him the newspaper he had bought, for sixpence, outside Sylvia’s studio. The second bit was to take his pencil from his pocket, and to jot down his inspirations. The next, apparently prompted by the approach of the waiter, was to desert the cross-word puzzle for the menu, ignoring a politeness that might have urged him to let a lady consult it first.
His pencil was still held carelessly in his hand, and the next bit of the move was to use the pencil on the menu. The pencil was well concealed behind the menu, and unless you had been actually looking over his shoulder you might have assumed that he was merely running over the items with his thumb.
The next bit was to lay down the menu, once more ignoring the polite attention of handing it across the table, and turning again to the cross-word puzzle.
The waiter drew up, and looked inquiringly at Sylvia.
“Mutton,” said Richard, growing more and more careless of his manners.
The waiter, more insistent on manners, ignored the order, and handed Sylvia the menu. Richard rejoiced inwardly. This was exactly what he had hoped the waiter would do, and why he had refrained from passing the menu himself. The girl glanced at the menu. She studied it rather a long while. But her expression did not change, and all she said as she laid the menu down was: “Beef.”
She gave no indication that the menu bore the pencilled addition: “When and where?”
In due course, the beef and the mutton turned up.
“Mustard?” asked Richard, his manners improving.
“Please,” she replied.
He shoved the mustard over. The pencil went over with it. “Thank you,” said Sylvia, politely, and suddenly stooped to regain her serviette.
The serviette, rather obligingly, had slipped from her knees, and when she picked it up she placed it carelessly on the table, over the pencil.
If men could purr like cats, Richard would have purred just then. He would have purred with delight at his knowledge that she had responded to his gesture, and that she was not wanting in coolness and ingenuity. She had now definitely joined in the game—a game for Two versus the World—and before long she would doubtless make a move herself.…
Yes, but meanwhile he must not declare to all and sundry that he wanted to purr! He sobered his expression, and directed it severely towards his mutton.
Her move came with the next course.
“Ice or fruit?” inquired the waiter.
“Fruit,” replied Sylvia.
“And you, sir?”
Richard stretched his hand towards the menu. The waiter had only mentioned ice and fruit, but there might be something else. There was something else, though all Richard said was: “I’ll have fruit, too.”
The something he did not mention ran:
“Bristol, outside station, 11, will try.”
As he laid the menu down she leaned towards him.
“Sugar?” she inquired.
Their eyes met again; and when she passed the sugar, their fingers met, also. Thus, after valiant duty, the little pencil came back to him, and gave him an instant that glowed like warm sunshine through the gathering shadows. “Thank you,” he said.
The countryman’s voice sounded suddenly in his ear.
“Can I ’ave sugar after you?” asked the countryman.
Chapter XIII
Temperley Versus James
Mohamed went to the mountain because the mountain would not come to him. Richard Temperley went to the detective because he was quite certain that, if he did not, the detective would come to him, and he did not wish to betray his anxiety by attempting to avoid a meeting that was inevitable. Possibly the detective realised all this. Detectives are supposed to read your mind like a book. But, thought Richard for his consolation, detectives often have to assume knowledge they do not possess in order to acquire that knowledge from an unsuspecting dupe; and Richard determined, as he entered the detective’s compartment, that he was not going to give anything away voluntarily. If James tried to find out what he knew, he would return the compliment, by trying to find out what James knew!
“Ah, Mr. T
emperley!” exclaimed James, looking up. “And how have you been using your time since our meeting at Euston this morning?”
He smiled, and Richard smiled back. Richard was in a fighting mood. He was under no delusions as to the odds against him, and he certainly did not commit the fatal error of underrating his enemy, but he had just emerged successfully, he told himself, from one important skirmish, and the victory was all the more complete because the enemy knew nothing whatever about it.
There was another reason why Richard felt in a fighting mood. For half an hour he had sat opposite the Cause for which he was fighting. It had strengthened his resolve, and had made the fight doubly worth while.
“What have I been doing?” he repeated, sitting down opposite the inspector. There was nobody else in the compartment. “Sounds rather like a leading question, doesn’t it?”
“It is a leading question,” nodded the inspector, unabashed. “I want to know everything you care to tell me about yourself.”
“Don’t you mean, everything I don’t care to tell you?” suggested Richard.
“Right again, sir!” replied James. “The things you don’t care to tell me are the things I want to know most. Assuming, of course,” he added, “that there are any things you want to hide from me? Are there?”
“That’s rather like the question of the business man who said to another business man, ‘Oh, before we begin, are you honest?’’’
“Well, I believe you are honest.”
“Hooray! I’m terribly hopeful on that point myself.”
“Only, if you are, why not give me an honest description of how you’ve been spending your time?”
“You’d better apply to an individual named Dutton,” answered Richard. “What he doesn’t know about me is hardly worth knowing.”
The Z Murders Page 9
