The Z Murders Read Free Page A

afterwards, he remembered finding himself at the door, calling to the commissionaire, and then turning and pointing to the arm-chair by the window with its gruesome occupant. But the memory was distorted and hazy, for through it ran the confusion of a fatigued and violently startled man, and also a queer, quite separate agitation for which at first he could not account.
    Then he realised that the agitation was due to the abrupt departure of the lady from the smoking-room, and to the ominous persistence of her absence. Why was not her face here, among the rest?
    The night-commissionaire’s face—there it was, rising like a pale ghost above the little gleams of the official collar. A sleepy maid’s face, flushed with nightmare; a callow youth’s face, with a smear of boot-blacking on it; a tall man’s, wagging over a once-resplendent dressing-gown; a constable’s. These faces and others bobbed round the room, augmenting like mushrooms after rain. But the lady’s face was not among them, and Temperley would have given five pounds to have seen it there…
    â€œWhy am I worrying?” he wondered suddenly. “What the devil does she matter to me ?”
    And now to the facial gallery came two further additions. One was elderly and grave. The second was also elderly, but had a sharper quality.
    â€œStand away, there!” came the constable’s voice, quiet and important. During a short temporary lull before the arrival of the newcomers, the constable had stationed himself by the dead man as though to make sure that no one brought him to life again. Now he stepped aside, respectfully deferential towards those for whom he had cleared a path.
    The newcomers reached the arm-chair, and stood for a few seconds regarding its limp contents. The second man transferred his gaze to the first man and raised his eyebrows. The first man, aware of the interrogation out of the corner of his eye, nodded.
    â€œDead,” he said, laconically.
    â€œNo doubt about it, doctor,” agreed the other, who had merely been awaiting the surgeon’s verdict as a matter of procedure. “Shot.”
    Standing in the shadows, Temperley started slightly. Shot? He had heard nothing…
    â€œBull through the heart,” replied the doctor, as he bent closer. “Well—it’s a quick way to go, inspector. Some I know wouldn’t mind.”
    â€œAll depends on whether you’re ready to go,” grunted the inspector, his gaze now roaming towards the window. “As he’s past helping, you won’t want to move him till he’s been photographed, will you?”
    â€œThat suits me,” answered the surgeon. “My job’s simple.” The brief examination of the one individual beyond all personal interest in it concluded, and the inspector turned away. He gave a few instructions. Then: “May I have a few words with the man who was with—who found him?” he asked.
    Temperley stepped forward. One’s mind is over-receptive and over-sensitive at poignant moments, and Temperley’s recorded three unrelated facts as he advanced. One was that a constable now stood guarding the smoking-room doorway. He seemed like a gate. Another was that the inspector-detective had an inch of white thread on his shoulder. The third was that the smear of blacking on the callow youth’s cheek had grown from the shape of a small black apple to a long grey banana; but whether this were due to the oppressive heat of the room or the working of an agitated finger on fleshy canvas, Temperley did not know.
    â€œAh,” said the inspector, subjecting him to a glance that merely appeared to be casual. “May I know your name, sir?”
    â€œRichard Temperley,” answered Temperley.
    â€œThank you,” murmured the inspector, noting the fact on paper. “You are staying here?”
    â€œOnly for an hour or two,” replied Temperley. “I’ll explain