The Z Murders by J Jefferson Farjeon Page A

funny?” asked Richard, wondering how to choke him off without being rude.
    â€œWell, I’m not meanin’ hoomerous, lad,” observed the countryman, solemnly, “but— funny !” Then, as Richard refused to press him further, he went on, “Do ye s’pose, now, second murder had aught to do wi’ first murder?”
    The countryman could hardly have asked a question more likely to force his companion’s interest. Noting its effect and the sudden gleam in Richard’s eye, he leaned back against the cushion in a sort of triumph.
    Richard, on his side, regretted the gleam. His interest was genuine, but he was not disposed to reveal, even to a simple countryman, its extent. As casually as he could, he observed: “That’s rather an odd idea of yours, isn’t it?”
    â€œMebbe ’tis, sir,” answered the countryman, “but then so was war in 1914. There’s many an odd idea that turns out to be right idea.”
    â€œQuite true,” agreed Richard, “but that doesn’t prove every odd idea to be right. How on earth do you connect a murder committed at Euston with another murder committed at Bristol on the same day? Euston and Bristol aren’t exactly next door to each other, you know.”
    The countryman, now definitely challenged, closed his eyes, and it seemed as though he were defeated. The guard blew his whistle. Some one was told to “Stand away there!” and disobeyed. The train began to move.
    â€œYou can go from one place to t’other, can’t you?” said the countryman. His eyes were wide open again. “Same as we’re doin’ now?”
    He goggled his eyes. He reflected the attitude of a man who has just made a good move at draughts, and all at once Richard, realising the possibilities of the game, decided to finish it. After all, two minds are better than one, even if the second mind has expanded among cabbages.
    â€œYou’ve evidently got something up your sleeve,” smiled Richard subtly, “but I’m bothered if I can make out what it is!”
    â€œWell, you see, I’ve bin thinkin’, ” replied the countryman, in the manner of one imparting an unusual fact, “and I’ve bin puttin’ two and two together—”
    â€œDon’t you mean, one and one?”
    â€œEh? Oh! The murders! That’s right, sir! And I come to this. First murder, she was committed, as they say, at five in the mornin’. Or thereabouts. Second murder, she was committed at one.” He fished for a cigarette, found it, and lit it. He was a bit of a dramatist. “Well, sir,” he remarked, as he threw the match away, “that’s eight hours. Now, it ain’t takin’ us eight hours to go to Bristol!”
    Richard nodded, and expressed his appreciation of the point. “But I still don’t see the precise connection,” he added.
    â€œTrain connection,” the countryman pointed out.
    â€œI mean between the two murders themselves,” explained Richard, “not between the places they were committed at.”
    â€œIf the murders was committed by same person, lad,” asserted the countryman, doggedly, “there must be connection!”
    â€œYou’re putting it the wrong way round,” Richard retorted. “You’ve got to prove the connection before you can say that the murders were committed by the same person.”
    The countryman found this a little difficult, and he puzzled over it while they went through Ealing Broadway. Then he blinked and asked:
    â€œWell, sir! What’s your idea, now?”
    Richard shook his head.
    â€œI didn’t say I’d got any idea,” he parried. “We’re discussing yours, aren’t we?”
    â€œAy, but I thort, with smart mind like your’n, you’d hit on somethin’. ”
    â€œNot a thing. I’m waiting to hear what you’ve hit