The First Lap
As Albert Bowes’s journey to Boston ended, Ted Diggs’s began.
Diggs had not been tempted by so large a sum as Albert. Twenty pounds, not fifty, had been offered him for crossing England at a moment’s notice, but he was happier in the person who had offered the sum, and stood a likelier chance of getting it. Thus, he set out with a more contented mind.
“Mind you,” he told himself, “this is the maddest trip I’ve ever took, and I don’t say I ain’t a bit mad myself for takin’ it. But, there! We’ll all be dead in a ’undred years, won’t we? So what’s the difference?”
Fortunately he took his work sufficiently seriously to include a map in his outfit. Fortunately, also, he knew the road as far as Gloucester. When they got to Gloucester he’d have a go at the map, and p’r’aps get the young gent to help him. As long as he wasn’t asked to cross the Atlantic, he expected he could get to a place called Boston as well as the next man.
Pity there wasn’t a moon, though.
Inside the car, his two passengers were also occupied with their thoughts. Each was confused, and each knew of the other’s confusion; yet, for some reason known only to the girl—her mind was clearer on that point at least—they could not pool their confusion in the attempt to build something coherent out of it. Darkness lay in their minds as well as on the roads they were travelling through.
But the silence was not entirely uncommunicative! Companionship existed inside the car, and also trust. No words were needed to strengthen these consoling elements; indeed, at this stage, words might have weakened them, implying a leakage in their spiritual armour. The silence was peaceful, too. They could relax into it, and gather strength for what lay ahead.…Yes…what did lie ahead?
Richard pondered over this question fruitlessly. Twenty-four hours ago—yes, just twenty-four hours ago!—he had been trying to close his ears to the snoring of John Amble. (How much more appealing was the companion on his present night journey!) Afterwards, John Amble had died at Euston. Was there any connection between Euston and Boston? Via Bristol? And, if so, what?
The crimson Z! Was that the connection? A sentence spoken by Inspector James in the Bristol train came into Richard’s mind. Queer how the inspector’s words had a habit of reverting to one! “I’m beginning to wonder, Mr. Temperley, how many more of these crimson Z’s we are going to find before we’ve finished the job.”
Despite his resolve to form the strength of this little army of two, Richard suddenly shuddered, and the other half of the army, which had been sticking unconsciously close, suddenly spoke.
“What’s the matter?” asked Sylvia.
“Nothing,” he replied, quickly.
“Just natural St. Vitus’s Dance?” she queried.
He smiled, delighted to find that she could jest.
“It was only a thought,” he said.
“Let me know it!”
“In return for all the voluminous information you’ve given me?”
Now she smiled, as though glad that he could jest, too.
“It wasn’t important,” he went on, to escape gloom. “You know how one’s mind goes round and round.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, my mind was going round and round—”
“And it bumped somewhere?”
“That’s it. And woke you up. Now try and go to sleep again.”
“Where did it bump?”
“Nowhere important. I’ve told you so already.”
“But you do it so badly.”
“Do what?”
“Lie.”
“Thank you,” he laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You don’t even know when you’re lying to the wrong people,” she observed.
“That’s less complimentary,” he admitted, and turned his head suddenly to look at her.
The thought that had caused him to turn his head was chased away by another. “Whew, if I were an ordinary young man in a taxi,” came the second thought, “what a fool I’d make of myself!” Possibly he was not quite fair to the ordinary young men in taxis. One is apt to lower other people in order to maintain one’s own elevation. But there was no time now to reach final conclusions regarding the behaviour of ordinary young men in taxis or how they would behave if seated, after midnight, by such a devastatingly pretty girl as Sylvia Wynne. The devastatingly pretty girl was returning Richard’s gaze, and the only way to escape from the danger of the second thought was to swing back to the security of the first…The first thought…What was it?…Oh, yes, the bump in the vicious circle.
“Are you going to tell me?” she asked.
“Well—since it was only a thought,” he replied.
“Thoughts can be useful.”
“And dangerous, if they come from panic.”
“I don’t associate you with panic, Mr. Temperley.”
“I’m glad of that, Miss Wynne. I—do get in a bit of a panic, though, when I think you’re in danger.”
Something entered her eyes, causing her to remove them quickly from his and to stare into the back of Ted Diggs separated from romance by a sheet of glass. Richard felt cheated of a wonderful moment. Maybe she sensed this. Her next words, coming after a little silence, were compensation.
“I never feel in danger when I’m with you,” she said. “And, now, please—the thought?”
“All right! Just this,” he said. “I was wondering whether we are going to find any more of those beastly little crimson Z’s at Boston?”
She sat very still. Deciding, now the thought had been forced from him, to proceed with it ruthlessly, he inquired. “What’s your opinion?”
“I don’t know,” she murmured.
“Still, you think we may find one?”
“Everything’s possible, isn’t it?”
“Miss Wynne,” said Richard, reprovingly, “if I lie badly, you fence badly. And you don’t know when you’re fencing with the wrong people!”
“What do you want me to say?” she asked, rather helplessly.
“I asked for an opinion, not a generality.”
“But suppose I haven’t got an opinion?”
“Nonsense! We’ve all got opinions. I don’t know whether to-morrow’s going to be wet or dry, but if I had to bet a shilling one way or the other I’d find that fifty-one per cent. of my opinion regarding the meteorological outlook said, ‘Dry.’ So I’d bet ‘Dry,’ without in any sense posing as an expert. Having delivered which little lecture, the annoying but well-intentioned young man repeated, ‘What’s your opinion, Miss Wynne, on the criminalogical outlook in Boston? Wet or dry?’’’
“Wet,” she replied, giving up.
“That’s my opinion, also,” he nodded, now becoming sober again, “although I’ve far less to go upon than you have.”
The car slackened speed at a sign-post, then veered round a dark corner and accelerated.
“Do you think I’ve got a lot to go upon?” she challenged him.
“I don’t know,” he parried.
“Nonsense! We’ve all got opinions!” she scored. “What’s your fifty-one per cent. on the Sylvia Wynne outlook?”
“A hit, a hit, a palpable hit!” he answered, with a smile. “I’d bet my bob that Sylvia Wynne had a very great deal to go upon.”
“Then you’d lose the bob,” came the unexpected response. “I haven’t much to go upon.”
He turned and stared at her in genuine surprise.
“What—not much to go upon?” he exclaimed. She shook her head. “Do you mean, you’re chasing all over England without knowing exactly why you’re doing it?”
“I know why I’m doing it.”
“But you’re not sure that the reason is a sound one?”
“It might be something like that.”
“And you won’t even let me help you?”
“But you are helping me—”
“To decide, I mean.”
“You’d only see the logic of the case.”
“Only the logic!” he echoed. “What else is there?”
“Everything else. Instinct.”
“Oh!”
“And I believe in instinct—being a woman, you see.”
“Bit dangerous, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sometimes. But sometimes instinct brings safety, too.”
“I’m afraid that’s rather beyond me.”
“It shouldn’t be, Mr. Temperley. But for my instinct, would I be trusting you like this?”
“By Jove, I expect that’s true!” he murmured. “So—I’m the safety, then?”
“The only safety.”
“Miss Wynne, I warn you,” he said, fighting his pleasure. “When you make remarks like that, I become considerably less safe!”
“I’m not afraid,” she answered.
“No, but I am!” he retorted. “You don’t realise the—the chaos of my mind! Oh, yes, I’m safe enough, I expect! You needn’t be afraid, really. Just the same, I demand that you give me a little genuine, human credit for the fact.”
“I do,” she answered, and unconsciously tested him by moving an inch closer.
“And I demand something else, too,” he went on, earnestly. “When we get to Boston, you’re going to tell me everything!”
“When we get to Boston—you’ll be telephoning to Bristol.”
“By Jove, you keep your mind pretty clear on details, Miss Wynne,” observed Richard, wryly. “Yes, of course, I’ll have to get in touch with Inspector James, if I can. That’s rather a matter of honour, isn’t it?”
“I agree that it is. And it’s largely because it is that I can’t tell you everything when we get to Boston until—” she paused, then added, “until after you’ve telephoned to Bristol.” His heart leapt.
“Then—after I’ve telephoned to Bristol—?”
“If I am still in trouble,” she promised, “I’ll tell you everything.”
“Thank God!” he murmured, and felt as though a great load had been lifted from him. “Believe me, you won’t regret it!”
The car slowed down again. Not far behind, another car also slowed down. Ted had heard the other car for a full minute, but his passengers had been too absorbed in their conversation to notice its approach. But when Ted stopped his car, dismounted, and poked his head in at the window, the sound of the following car was too distinct to be ignored.
“Oi!” called Ted. “Gloucester’s jest a’ead. Where’s the next stop fer Boston?” But before the reply came, he stood aside briskly. The following car had reached them and came swinging by.