The Hangman

by Gerald Verner

  “You’re sure it was—Harold—not one of the servants?” he asked.

  “I’m sure,” she answered. “I was awake, and I heard his steps coming upstairs. I wondered who it could be at that hour, and I opened my door. I saw Uncle Harold just going into his room.”

  He made a gesture of despair.

  “The terrible thing is that I don’t know what to do,” he said huskily. “I know what I ought to do. What it is my duty to do, but I—can’t.”

  She came over to him and put her hand on his shoulder.

  “Poor Pops,” she said softly. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  He patted her hand gently.

  “It’s as bad for you—almost, my dear,” he said. “It’s a dreadful responsibility for both of us.”

  For a moment there was a silence, which Joyce broke.

  “I suppose—he hasn’t—said anything?” she asked.

  The little man shook his head.

  “No, no, not a word. After that outburst on—on Friday he’s been just his usual self.” He sighed heavily. “If he’s in any way responsible, I’ll swear he doesn’t know it.”

  “He mustn’t be allowed to go out by himself,” said the girl decidedly. “You must see to that, Pops.”

  “Oh, I shall, my dear,” said Francis Nethcott.

  “The danger is,” went on the girl quickly, “if anybody should suspect—the police——”

  “That’s what’s worrying me,” admitted the little man. “But I don’t see how they can. I changed my name to Nethcott when the first trouble came, and that was before I came to live here when you were quite a baby. When I brought Harold back—last year—he adopted the name of Nethcott, too.”

  Joyce frowned. Since the previous night she seemed to have aged appreciably.

  “But surely he must remember—all that——” She broke off and shivered.

  “He doesn’t remember anything,” declared Nethcott. “Even the report in the newspapers didn’t have the effect of awakening his memory. It upset him, but he couldn’t say why. Thank God he doesn’t remember,” he added vehemently.

  “What about the servants,” said Joyce. “Supposing they talk——”

  “The only one who knows the truth is Lane,” answered Nethcott, “and he won’t talk.”

  The girl smiled—a rather anæmic attempt, but still a smile. Lane, the silver-haired old butler, was a particular favourite of hers.

  “No, Lane is safe enough,” she agreed. “So long as the police don’t trace any connection we are all safe——”

  There came a gentle tap at the door, and in answer to Nethcott’s invitation, a maid entered.

  “What is it, Ann?” asked the girl.

  “If you please, Miss,” answered the servant, “Mr. Bryant has called.”

  “Oh, yes, ask him to come in,” said Joyce; and then, as the maid withdrew: “I’d forgotten Jim was coming. I’ve promised to go for a walk with him this afternoon.”

  Nethcott nodded.

  “It’ll do you good, my dear,” he said and going to the girl he squeezed her arm. “Don’t let yourself worry too much.”

  He looked round as a young man came in unannounced.

  “Hullo, Joyce, I think I’m a bit early,” he greeted. “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Afternoon, Jim,” said Nethcott. “How’s your father? That spasm any better?”

  “Pretty nearly all right now,” replied Bryant. “I expect he’ll be about again in a few days. You’re not looking too well, though, sir.”

  Nethcott laughed, a rather mirthless sound.

  “I feel fairly all right,” he said. “Slight touch of indigestion but nothing serious.”

  “I’ll go and put my things on,” said Joyce. “I won’t keep you a minute, Jim.”

  “Right-ho!” He smiled, and she went quickly out.

  Jim had known Joyce Nethcott since she was a small child. They had played together and grown up together—and—so said the people of the Square—fallen in love together, though no word of this had ever been mentioned between themselves. They were, however, inseparable friends, and were nearly always in each other’s company. The elder Bryant, a widower, was a great friend of Francis Nethcott’s, and the possibility of Joyce and Jim eventually marrying and settling down had often been discussed between them.

  Nethcott thought of this as he looked at the pleasant-faced boy before him, and sighed. What would be the attitude of his old friend if he knew the truth?

  “Have you heard the latest news about these murders, sir?” said Jim, and the little man started.

  “No,” he stammered. “What—what is it?”

  “It’s all over the place,” answered Jim. “I heard it from the Vennings. Trevor Lowe’s come down.”

  Nethcott gripped the back of a chair, and his grey face went ashen.

  “Came down this morning,” Jim continued, smiling pleasantly. “At least that’s what they say. I don’t know whether it’s true or not. He’s rather good at this sort of thing. Does it for a hobby in between writing plays, and I should think he might be pretty useful in getting this business cleared up. Why, what’s the matter, sir?” His voice changed to a note of concern, and he sprang forward as the little man swayed.

  “It’s nothing—nothing, my boy,” croaked Nethcott quickly, and made a violent effort to recover himself. “Rather a sudden pain from that indigestion I was talking about.”

  “You ought to see a doctor, sir,” said Jim. “By Jove, you look pretty bad!”

  “I’m all right, quite all right,” he had gained control of his voice, but the perspiration stood out in little beads on his forehead. “Yes, perhaps I will see a doctor——” He broke off as Joyce came in, ready for her walk. “Off you go, you two,” he said lightly. “Don’t make her late for tea, Jim.”

  Going to the window, he watched them leave the house, and then with unsteady steps came back to the settee. With almost a groan he sank down on the soft cushions and buried his face in his hands. Another one had been added to the people who were looking for the Hill Green murderer. And the man they were searching for, the man who signed himself “The Hangman,” was at that moment, so Nethcott believed, in the room above sleeping as peacefully as a child.

  Chapter Nine – the nail

  The news of Trevor Lowe’s presence in Hill Green spread with the rapidity of an epidemic. The booking clerk at the “Hillside Hotel” mentioned it to the porter, and the porter told the barman. Before Shadgold and the dramatist had finished their lunch it was half way round the community.

  After they had had coffee in the smoking-room they went down to the police station, and Lowe was introduced to Inspector Lightfoot. This needed rather careful handling, for the dramatist’s reputation was well known since the publicity afforded by the affair at Phantom Hollow. But Shadgold rose nobly to the occasion. After Lowe and the inspector had shaken hands, the Scotland Yard man drew Lightfoot to one side.

  “Mr. Lowe and I are old friends, Inspector,” he said, “and I thought he might be very useful to us in this business. Having no official capacity, we need have no fear of his stealing our thunder in any way.”

  Lightfoot nodded rather grudgingly.

  “It’s your business Mr. Shadgold,” he said. “You’re in charge of this case now, not me.”

  “That’s all nonsense!” remonstrated the stout inspector. “We’re acting together. I shouldn’t dream of doing anything without your consent.”

  Lightfoot was a little mollified, but still rather obviously resented Lowe’s presence. The dramatist quickly saw how the land lay, and during the ensuing quarter of an hour while they chatted over the business that had brought them together, he laid himself out to remove the slight feeling of constraint that existed. There were few people who could resist his charm of manner when he chose to exert himself, and certainly Inspector Lightfoot was not one of them. When they left the station to go to the mortuary he had entirely capitulated.

  The mortuary at Hill Gr
een was a converted shed, in charge of a very young and very rural policeman. It was a gloomy building, lighted by one small window high up near the roof. In consequence, the interior was in a state of semi-twilight. Side by side against the wall were two trestle tables, their contents covered by white sheets.

  “We have no proper mortuary at Hill Green,” explained Inspector Lightfoot unnecessarily, “so we had to make shift as best we could with this.” He turned to the gaping policeman. “Light the lamp, Rogers,” he ordered.

  Rogers took down from a shelf a powerful incandescent oil lamp, fiddled about with it for a moment or two, and then applied a match to the mantle. A pitiless white glare lit up the shed.

  “Now, Mr. Shadgold,” said Lightfoot, “if you want to look at the bodies you’ll be able to see what you’re about.”

  Shadgold thanked him, and together with Lowe approached the first of the trestle tables. Gently he pulled back the sheet, and bent over the thing that lay beneath. In spite of the fact that he was used to such sights, he had to repress a shudder as he looked at what had once been Doctor Wallington.

  “God, how horrible!” he said below his breath.

  “Not very pleasant, is it?” muttered Lowe, and steeling himself against his natural repugnance, he bent closer to look at the throat.

  The mark where the rope had gone was still visible, a blue-black circle on the purple flesh, but it was impossible to come to any conclusion as to whether death had actually been the result of the hanging, or had taken place before. Shadgold gently replaced the sheet, and they turned to the other table. Here the result was practically the same. Both the victims of the unknown killer could quite easily have been dead before they had been hanged, provided death had been brought about by some form of strangulation. Lowe whispered something to Shadgold and he nodded. Straightening up, he turned to Inspector Lightfoot.

  “Have you got the clothing?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Lightfoot, and went over to a box that stood in one corner.

  Taking a key from his pocket he unlocked it, and came back with his arms full of clothes.

  “There you are,” he said, putting them down on a plain wooden table. “I don’t think you’ll get much from them, though. I’ve been over every inch of them.”

  Shadgold said nothing, but sorting out the various articles, he submitted them to a perfunctory scrutiny, and then passed them on to Lowe, who looked at them a little more closely.

  Irene Mortimer had apparently been wearing a cloth coat trimmed with fur, and at the collar of this the dramatist stared intently.

  “What have you found, Mr. Lowe?” asked the Scotland Yard man quickly.

  Lowe extracted something that was caught up among the fur, and put it in the palm of his hand. Peering over his shoulder, Shadgold and Lightfoot gazed at the tiny object interestedly. It was a ragged portion of finger-nail, jagged and uneven.

  “By Jove!” breathed the red-faced inspector excitedly. “That’s something, anyway.”

  “It must have been ripped off during some sort of a struggle,” murmured the dramatist. “As you say, it’s something and it tells us two things.” He turned the little scrap over with his finger.

  “Two things?” repeated Lightfoot inquiringly.

  Lowe nodded.

  “Yes,” he replied. “It tells us that the person we have to look for is a man—this obviously never came from a woman’s hand—and that he is probably fairly well off, and to be found among the middle or upper classes. It tells us a third thing, too, but that is so obvious that I needn’t mention it.”

  “How do you get the second thing?” asked Lightfoot, frowning.

  “The nail has come from a hand that has been regularly and carefully manicured,” explained the dramatist.

  “What about the third point?” said Shadgold, and Lowe smiled.

  “The third point is simply that you have to look for a man minus half a nail on one of his fingers,” he replied, “and that’s going to narrow things down considerably.”

  “I should say it is!” exclaimed Lightfoot excitedly, and then with a sudden contraction of his red eyebrows: “I don’t know how I came to miss it.”

  “It was probably buried deep in the fur when you looked,” said Lowe. “And later, perhaps in putting the things in that box, became shaken loose.” He handed it over to Shadgold. “You’d better take care of it,” he said, “it’s going to be an important piece of evidence. Now, let’s see if there’s anything else.”

  They continued their search of the clothing, but found nothing more.

  “Is it possible to have a word with your divisional-surgeon?” asked Lowe, when Inspector Lightfoot had replaced the things in the box and locked it.

  The inspector nodded.

  “I asked him to come down to the station,” he replied. “We’ll probably find him waiting when we get back.”

  They did find him, an impatient, fussy little man, who was not best pleased at being dragged out on a Sunday afternoon from the bosom of his family.

  “Couldn’t you have waited till Monday?” he grunted irritably. “You’ve got my statement properly written out and signed. What more do you want?”

  “This gentleman would like a little chat with you, Doctor,” said Inspector Lightfoot soothingly.

  The little man swung round on Lowe.

  “And who may you be, sir?” he snapped testily.

  The inspector hastily introduced the dramatist.

  “I’ve heard of you, of course,” grunted Doctor Murford, “but I can’t see why you want to talk to me.”

  Lowe was tempted to reply that if he was always as disagreeable as this he could not see why anybody ever wanted to talk to him, but he tactfully refrained.

  “It’s just a question as to the cause of death, Doctor,” he began pleasantly, but the other interrupted him.

  “Cause of death?” he snapped. “Good God, isn’t that obvious enough! What do you think killed ’em?”

  “I’m waiting for you to tell us,” answered the dramatist quietly.

  “Oh, I see,” the doctor’s thin lips curled into a slight sneer. “Well then, death was caused in both cases by asphyxiation due to hanging.”

  “You are sure of that?” persisted Lowe, and the divisional-surgeon glared.

  “Sure?” he exclaimed angrily. “Of course I’m sure, man! What are you driving at? Do you think they were shot?”

  By a great effort the dramatist kept his temper.

  “No,” he said, “but what I’m driving at is this. Could they have been killed by strangulation first and afterwards hanged?”

  “I should think it very unlikely,” began Doctor Murford irritably, but Shadgold cut him short.

  “However unlikely you may consider it, Doctor,” he said gently, “doesn’t concern the question. “What we want to know is whether it could have happened.”

  “Of course it could have happened,” admitted the doctor ungraciously. “But it’s impossible to say with any certainty whether it did or not. There are no other marks on the bodies, except those caused by the rope.”

  The shrill ringing of the telephone bell broke in on the end of his sentence. Lightfoot answered the call.

  “Oh, is that you, sir?” he said respectfully, and after a slight pause: “Yes, it’s quite true, sir, as a matter of fact he’s here now. Would you like to speak to him?” With the receiver in his hand he turned to the dramatist. “Major Payton, the chief constable, has heard that you are down here, Mr. Lowe,” he said. “He’d like to speak to you.”

  Lowe went over and took the black cylinder from his hand.

  “Hullo!” he called into the mouthpiece.

  “Is that Mr. Lowe?” a crisp voice came over the wire. “Payton this end. I’ve just heard that you are at Hill Green and taking an interest in our murders.”

  “I’m helping my friend, Inspector Shadgold, if that’s what you mean,” replied Lowe.

  “I don’t mind who you’re helping so long as you’
re here!” the voice chuckled. “Perhaps if you’re not doing anything better this evening you’d come along and dine with me, eh?”

  “That’s very nice of you,” answered the dramatist. “I should be delighted.”

  “Good!” said the chief constable. “You’re staying at the ‘Hillside,’ aren’t you?”

  “I am,” Lowe smiled. “Have they told you what I had for lunch?” The other chuckled.

  “Not quite as bad as that,” he said, “but you must remember that ours is a small community. News travels fast, and you’re rather a celebrity, you know. I’ll send my car for you at seven-thirty. Don’t bother to dress. I’m a bachelor myself, and I prefer to eat in comfort.”

  “I’ll be ready at seven-thirty,” said Lowe.

  “Good,” said Payton again, and then: “I suppose you haven’t got hold of anything yet? But of course you haven’t.”

  “As a matter of fact we have,” answered the dramatist, slightly stressing the “we,” and briefly told the interested man at the other end of the wire of the discovery of the finger-nail.

  “I say, that’s excellent,” said Payton when he had finished. “That’s going to be an immense help. Well then, I’ll see you to-night.”

  He rang off and Lowe hung up the receiver.

  “If you don’t want me any more,” said Doctor Murford, “I’ll be getting back home. Perhaps I can spend the rest of the afternoon without being disturbed.”

  “I don’t think we need detain you any longer,” said Shadgold, and with a curt nod the doctor left the station.

  “Rather a surly fellow, isn’t he?” remarked the Scotland Yard man.

  “He’s always like that,” said Lightfoot. “It’s more bark than bite, though. He suffers rather badly from migraine.”

  “What’s that?” asked Shadgold.

  “Sort of extra bad headache,” explained Lightfoot. “He gets an attack every now and again. As a matter of fact he’s only just got over the last one. They always leave him in a bad temper.”

  “What I should like to know,” remarked Lowe thoughtfully, “is how he came to injure his left hand.”

  “Eh, what’s that, Mr. Lowe?” demanded Shadgold quickly.