Hangman's Holiday: A Collection of Short Mysteries

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘“It was you,” she said, staring into my face a little puzzled like. “Of course it was you. I knew you in a minute when I saw your face in the glass.”

  ‘Of course, I couldn’t say that it hadn’t been. I knew no more of what I’d been and done that night than the babe unborn. But it upset me cruelly, because I was an innocent sort of lad in those days and hadn’t ever gone with girls, and it seemed to me if I’d done a thing like that I ought to know about it. It seemed to me I’d been doing wrong and not getting full value for my money either.

  ‘I made some excuse to get rid of her, and I wondered what else I’d been doing. She couldn’t tell me farther than the morning of the 29th, and it worried me a bit wondering if I’d done any other queer things.’

  ‘It must have,’ said Wimsey, and put his finger on the bell. When the waiter arrived, he ordered drinks for two and disposed himself to listen to the rest of Mr Duckworthy’s adventures.

  ‘I didn’t think much about it, though,’ went on the little man; ‘we went abroad and I saw my first corpse and dodged my first shell and had my first dose of the trenches, and I hadn’t much time for what they call introspection.

  ‘The next queer thing that happened was in the C.C.S. at Ypres. I’d got a blighty one near Caudry in September during the advance from Cambrai – half buried, I was, in a mine explosion and laid out unconscious near twenty-four hours it must have been. When I came to, I was wandering about somewhere behind the lines with a nasty hole in my shoulder. Somebody had bandaged it up for me, but I hadn’t any recollection of that. I walked a long way, not knowing where I was, till at last I fetched up in an aid-post. They fixed me up and sent me down the line to a base hospital. I was pretty feverish, and the next thing I knew, I was in bed with a nurse looking after me. The bloke in the next bed to mine was asleep. I got talking to a chap in the next bed beyond him, and he told me where I was, when all of a sudden the other man woke up and says:

  ‘“My God,” he says, “you dirty ginger-haired swine, it’s you, is it? What have you done with them vallables?”

  ‘I tell you, I was struck all of a heap. Never seen the man in my life. But he went on at me and made such a row, the nurse came running in to see what was up. All the men were sitting up in bed listening – you never saw anything like it.

  ‘The upshot was, as soon as I could understand what this fellow was driving at, that he’d been sharing a shell-hole with a chap that he said was me, and that this chap and he had talked together a bit and then, when he was weak and helpless, the chap had looted his money and watch and revolver and what not and gone off with them. A nasty, dirty trick, and I couldn’t blame him for making a row about it, if true. But I said and stand to it, it wasn’t me, but some other fellow of the same name. He said he recognised me – said he and this other chap had been together a whole day, and he knew every feature in his face and couldn’t be mistaken. However, it seemed this bloke had said he belonged to the Blankshires, and I was able to show my papers and prove I belonged to the Buffs, and eventually the bloke apologised and said he must have made a mistake. He died, anyhow, a few days after, and we all agreed he must have been wandering a bit. The two divisions were fighting side by side in that dust-up and it was possible for them to get mixd up. I tried afterwards to find out whether by any chance I had a double in the Blankshires, but they sent me back home, and before I was fit again the Armistice was signed, and I didn’t take any more trouble.

  ‘I went back to my old job after the war, and things seemed to settle down a bit. I got engaged when I was twenty-one to a regular good girl, and I thought everything in the garden was lovely. And then, one day – up it all went! My mother was dead then, and I was living by myself in lodgings. Well, one day I got a letter from my intended, saying that she had seen me down at Southend on the Sunday, and that was enough for her. All was over between us.

  ‘Now, it was most unfortunate that I’d had to put off seeing her that week-end, owing to an attack of influenza. It’s a cruel thing to be ill all alone in lodgings, and nobody to look after you. You might die there all on your own and nobody the wiser. Just an unfurnished room I had, you see, and no attendance, and not a soul came near me, though I was pretty bad. But my young lady she said as she had seen me down at Southend with another young woman, and she would take no excuse. Of course, I said, what was she doing down at Southend without me, anyhow, and that tore it. She sent me back the ring, and the episode, as they say, was closed.

  ‘But the thing that troubled me was, I was getting that shaky in my mind, how did I know I hadn’t been to Southend without knowing it? I thought I’d been half sick and half asleep in my lodgings, but it was misty-like to me. And knowing the things I had done other times – well, there! I hadn’t any clear recollection one way or another, except fever-dreams. I had a vague recollection of wandering and walking somewhere for hours together. Delirious, I thought I was, but it might have been sleep-walking for all I knew. I hadn’t a leg to stand on by way of evidence. I felt it very hard, losing my intended like that, but I could have got over that if it hadn’t been for the fear of myself and my brain giving way or something.

  ‘You may think this is all foolishness and I was just being mixed up with some other fellow of the same name that happened to be very like me. But now I’ll tell you something.

  ‘Terrible dreams I got to having about that time. There was one thing as always haunted me – a thing that had frightened me as a little chap. My mother, though she was a good, strict woman, liked to go to a cinema now and again. Of course, in those days they weren’t like what they are now, and I expect we should think those old pictures pretty crude if we was to see them, but we thought a lot of them at that time. When I was about seven or eight I should think, she took me with her to see a thing – I remember the name now – The Student of Prague, it was called. I’ve forgotten the story, but it was a costume piece, about a young fellow at the university who sold himself to the devil, and one day his reflection came stalking out of the mirror on its own, and went about committing dreadful crimes, so that everybody thought it was him. At least, I think it was that, but I forget the details, it’s so long ago. But what I shan’t forget in a hurry is the fright it gave me to see that dretful figure come out of the mirror. It was that ghastly to see it, I cried and yelled, and after a time mother had to take me out. For months and years after that I used to dream of it. I’d dream I was looking in a great long glass, same as the student in the picture, and after a bit I’d see my reflection smiling at me and I’d walk up to the mirror holding out my left hand, it might be, and seeing myself walking to meet me with its right hand out. And just as it came up to me, it would suddenly – that was the awful moment – turn its back on me and walk away into the mirror again, grinning over its shoulder, and suddenly I’d know that it was the real person and I was only the reflection, and I’d make a dash after it into the minor, and then everything would go grey and misty round me and with the horror of it I’d wake up all of a perspiration.’

  ‘Uncommonly disagreeable,’ said Wimsey. ‘That legend of the Doppelganger, it’s one of the oldest and the most widespread and never fails to terrify me. When I was a kid, my nurse had a trick that frightened me. If we’d been out, and she was asked if we’d met anybody, she used to say, “Oh, no – we saw nobody nicer than ourselves.” I used to toddle after her in terror of coming round a corner and seeing a horrid and similar pair pouncing out at us. Of course I’d have rather died than tell a soul how the thing terrified me. Rum little beam, kids.’

  The little man nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Well,’ he went on, ‘about that time the nightmare came back. At first it was only at intervals, you know, but it grew on me. At last it started coming every night. I hadn’t hardly closed my eyes before there was the long mirror and the thing coming grinning along, always with its hand out as if it meant to catch hold of me and pull me through the glass. Sometimes I’d wake up with the shock, but sometimes the dream we
nt on, and I’d be stumbling for hours through a queer sort of world – all mist and half-lights, and the walls would be all crooked, like they are in that picture of “Dr Caligari”. Lunatic, that’s what it was. Many’s the time I’ve sat up all night for fear of going to sleep. I didn’t know, you see. I used to lock the bedroom door and hide the key for fear – you see, I didn’t know what I might be doing. But then I read in a book that sleep-walkers can remember the places where they’ve hidden things when they were awake. So that was no use.’

  ‘Why didn’t you get someone to share the room with you?’

  ‘Well, I did.’ He hesitated. ‘I got a woman – she was a good kid. The dream went away then. I had blessed peace for three years. I was fond of that girl. Damned fond of her. Then she died.’

  He gulped down the last of his whisky and blinked.

  ‘Influenza, it was. Pneumonia. It kind of broke me up. Pretty she was, too. . . .

  ‘After that, I was alone again. I felt bad about it. I couldn’t – I didn’t like – but the dreams came back. Worse. I dreamed about doing things – well! That doesn’t matter now.

  ‘And one day it came in broad daylight. . . .

  ‘I was going along Holborn at lunch-time. I was still at Crichton’s. Head of the packing department I was then, and doing pretty well. It was a wet beast of a day, I remember – dark and drizzling. I wanted a hair-cut. There’s a barber’s shop on the south side, about half way along – one of those places where you go down a passage and there’s a door at the end with a mirror and the name written across it in gold letters. You know what I mean.

  ‘I went in there. There was a light in the passage, so I could see quite plainly. As I got up to the mirror I could see my reflection coming to meet me, and all of a sudden the awful dream-feeling came over me. I told myself it was all nonsense and put my hand out to the door-handle – my left hand, because the handle was that side and I was still apt to be left-handed when I didn’t think about it.

  ‘The reflection, of course, put out its right hand – that was all right, of course – and I saw my own figure in my old squash hat and burberry – but the face – oh, my God! It was grinning at me – and then just like in the dream, it suddenly turned its back and walked away from me, looking over its shoulder—

  ‘I had my hand on the door, and it opened, and I felt myself stumbling and falling over the threshold.

  ‘After that, I don’t remember anything more. I woke up in my own bed and there was a doctor with me. He told me I had fainted in the street, and they’d found some letters on me with my address and taken me home.

  ‘I told the doctor all about it, and he said I was in a highly nervous condition and ought to find a change of work and get out in the open air more.

  ‘They were very decent to me at Crichton’s. They put me on to inspecting their outdoor publicity. You know. One goes round from town to town inspecting the hoardings and seeing what posters are damaged or badly placed and reporting on them. They gave me a Morgan to run about in. I’m on that job now.

  ‘The dreams are better. But I still have them. Only a few nights ago it came to me. One of the worst I’ve ever had. Fighting and strangling in a black, misty place. I’d tracked the devil – my other self – and got him down. I can feel my fingers on his throat now – killing myself.

  ‘That was in London. I’m always worse in London. Then I came up here. . . .

  ‘You see why that book interested me. The fourth dimension . . . it’s not a thing I ever heard of, but this man Wells seems to know all about it. You’re educated now. Daresay you’ve been to college and all that. What do you think about it, eh?’

  ‘I should think, you know,’ said Wimsey, ‘it was more likely your doctor was right. Nerves and all that.’

  ‘Yes, but that doesn’t account for me having got twisted round the way I am, now, does it? Legends, you talked of. Well, there’s some people think those medeeval johnnies knew quite a lot. I don’t say I believe in devils and all that. But maybe some of them may have been afflicted, same as me. It stands to reason they wouldn’t talk such a lot about it if they hadn’t felt it, if you see what I mean. But what I’d like to know is, can’t I get back any way? I tell you, it’s a weight on my mind. I never know, you see.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry too much, if I were you,’ said Wimsey. ‘I’d stick to the fresh-air life. And I’d get married. Then you’d have a check on your movements, don’t you see. And the dreams might go again.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I’ve thought of that. But – did you read about that man the other day? Strangled his wife in his sleep, that’s what he did. Now, supposing I – that would be a terrible thing to happen to a man, wouldn’t it? Those dreams. . . .’

  He shook his head and stared thoughtfully into the fire. Wimsey, after a short interval of silence, got up and went out into the bar. The landlady and the waiter and the barmaid were there, their heads close together over the evening paper. They were talking animatedly, but stopped abruptly at the sound of Wimsey’s footsteps.

  Ten minutes later, Wimsey returned to the lounge. The little man had gone. Taking up his motoring-coat, which he had flung on a chair, Wimsey went upstairs to his bedroom. He undressed slowly and thoughtfully, put on his pyjamas and dressing-gown, and then, pulling a copy of the Evening News from his motoring-coat pocket, he studied a front-page item attentively for some time. Presently he appeared to come to some decision, for he got up and opened his door cautiously. The passage was empty and dark. Wimsey switched on a torch and walked quietly along, watching the floor. Opposite one of the doors he stopped, contemplating a pair of shoes which stood waiting to be cleaned. Then he softly tried the door. It was locked. He tapped cautiously.

  A red head emerged.

  ‘May I come in a moment?’ said Wimsey, in a whisper.

  The little man stepped back, and Wimsey followed him in.

  ‘What’s up?’ said Mr Duckworthy.

  ‘I want to talk to you,’ said Wimsey. ‘Get back into bed, because it may take some time.’

  The little man looked at him, scared, but did as he was told. Wimsey gathered the folds of his dressing-gown closely about him, screwed his monocle more firmly into his eye, and sat down on the edge of the bed. He looked at Mr Duckworthy a few minutes without speaking, and then said:

  ‘Look here. You’ve told me a queerish story tonight. For some reason I believe you. Possibly it only shows what a silly ass I am, but I was born like that, so it’s past praying for. Nice, trusting nature and so on. Have you seen the paper this evening?’

  He pushed the Evening News into Mr Duckworthy’s hand and bent the monocle on him more glassily than ever.

  On the front page was a photograph. Underneath was a panel in bold type, boxed for greater emphasis:

  ‘The police at Scotland Yard are anxious to get in touch with the original of this photograph, which was found in the handbag of Miss Jessie Haynes, whose dead body was found strangled on Barnes Common last Thursday morning. The photograph bears on the back the words “J. H. with love from R. D.” Anybody recognising the photograph is asked to communicate immediately with Scotland Yard or any police station.’

  Mr Duckworthy looked, and grew so white that Wimsey thought he was going to faint.

  ‘Well?’ said Wimsey.

  ‘Oh, God, sir! Oh, God! It’s come at last.’ He whimpered and pushed the paper away, shuddering. ‘I’ve always known something of this would happen. But as sure as I’m born I knew nothing about it.’

  ‘It’s you all right, I suppose?’

  ‘The photograph’s me all right. Though how it came there I don’t know. I haven’t had one taken for donkey’s years, on my oath I haven’t – except once in a staff group at Crichton’s. But I tell you, sir, honest-to-God, there’s times when I don’t know what I’m doing, and that’s a fact.’

  Wimsey examined the portrait feature by feature.

  ‘Your nose, now – it has a slight twist – if you’ll excuse my referring
to it – to the right, and so it has in the photograph. The left eyelid droops a little. That’s correct, too. The forehead here seems to have a distinct bulge on the left side – unless that’s an accident in the printing.’

  ‘No!’ Mr Duckworthy swept his tousled cow-lick aside. ‘It’s very conspicuous – unsightly, I always think, so I wear the hair over it.’

  With the ginger lock pushed back, his resemblance to the photograph was more startling than before.

  ‘My mouth’s crooked, too.’

  ‘So it is. Slants up to the left. Very attractive, a one-sided smile, I always think – on a face of your type, that is. I have known such things to look positively sinister.’

  Mr Duckworthy smiled a faint, crooked smile.

  ‘Do you know this girl, Jessie Haynes?’

  ‘Not in my right sense, I don’t, sir. Never heard of her – except, of course, that I read about the murders in the papers. Strangled – oh, my God!’ He pushed his hands out in front of him and stated woefully at them.

  ‘What can I do? If I was to get away—’

  ‘You can’t. They’ve recognised you down in the bar. The police will probably be here in a few minutes. No’ – as Duckworthy made an attempt to get out of bed – ‘don’t do that. It’s no good, and it would only get you into worse trouble. Keep quiet and answer one or two questions. First of all, do you know who I am? No, how should you? My name’s Wimsey – Lord Peter Wimsey—’

  ‘The detective?’

  ‘If you like to call it that. Now, listen. Where was it you lived at Brixton?’

  The little man gave the address.

  ‘Your mother’s dead. Any other relatives?’

  ‘There was an aunt. She came from somewhere in Surrey, I think. Aunt Susan, I used to call her. I haven’t seen her since I was a kid.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Yes – oh, yes – Mrs Susan Brown.’