The Z Murders by J Jefferson Farjeon Page A

composure was departing again. “P’r’aps she’s got nowhere else to go to?” wondered Temperley, with a fresh wave of intense sympathy.
    â€œHere’s a perfectly mad idea—if you’ve no better,” he said. “My sister lives at 18a, Hope Avenue, Richmond—her name’s Mostyn—she’s an awfully good sort, and—”
    No, she wasn’t listening! Her eyes were on the front door once more. Temperley turned swiftly. Beyond the opaque glass of the door moved a shadowy, formless smudge.

Chapter VI
    The Person on the Doorstep
    To reach the front door you merely had to cross the little passage that connected it with the studio. Ordinarily it would take you three or four seconds. It took Temperley one. And in another second he had flung the door open. Thus it was that the origin of the shadowy, formless smudge had no time to evaporate, but stood staring at Temperley without any sign of delight in his sudden presence.
    But neither was there any sign of discomposure. The origin of the shadowy, formless smudge was a rather ordinary-looking man, belonging perhaps to the workman class, but not in working clothes, and his face was unimaginative and expressionless. This lack of flurry or of menace momentarily disarmed Temperley, who had expected a chase or a scrap, and who was primed for either. For a few moments he regarded this innocent-looking fellow with vague surprise. Then suspicion and determination returned, and he barked out a sharp question: “What are you doing here?”
    â€œEh?” replied the man.
    â€œI asked you what you were doing here!”
    â€œOh. I wanted to see the occupier.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œAre you the occupier, sir?”
    The fellow spoke quite respectfully, but Temperley refused to be put off his guard.
    â€œ I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind,” he retorted. “I’m still waiting, you know.”
    â€œVery sorry, I’m sure, sir,” murmured the man. “I come here to see if I could get a job of work.”
    â€œOh,” answered Temperley, disbelieving him. “What sort of work?”
    â€œAny kind,” said the man. “Garden. Windows. Studio, ain’t it?” He craned his neck slightly, as though to get a peep inside. Temperley tried to widen himself. “Want your windows kep’ clean in a studio, sir. Or I could do a bit of posing.”
    â€œAre you sure you’re not ?” enquired Temperley.
    â€œEh?” blinked the man, and looked hurt.
    â€œWell, there are plenty of burglars about these days,” said Temperley, without contrition. “One has to be careful, you know. What made you choose this house to call at?”
    The man thought for a moment. He seemed to be trying hard. He rubbed his chin, and then responded,
    â€œWell, sir, you don’t ezackly choose . You jest call—where you happen to be, if you take me?”
    â€œAnd you happened to be here?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œH’m. Well, I’m afraid there isn’t any work for you.”
    â€œVery good, sir.”
    â€œAnd I’m also afraid you won’t find any by trying to peep in,” added Temperley, sharply, as the man craned his neck again.
    â€œThat’s right, sir,” agreed the man. “You can’t see through a curtain.”
    Was it the man’s words, or some new quality in his voice, that caused Temperley to swing round suddenly? In any case, he did so. Curtain?…What curtain? He found himself staring at a curtain. Like the door, it was blue. It had been drawn across the entrance to the studio, shutting it entirely from view. It had not been drawn when he had left the studio. Or—had it? No, of course, it had not. He had seen the front door from the studio. And so had the girl.…
    Quickly he swung back to the man, but the man had disappeared.
    Temperley closed the front door, fighting his