The Hangman Page 11

  “I don’t think there’s any question of that,” said the dramatist, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “No, it isn’t that.”

  He proceeded to tell White what it was.

  “I see,” remarked the secretary when he finished. “What chance is there of finding a loophole in the evidence against this chap?”

  “About one in three million, I should say,” retorted his employer. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

  He pulled a chair up to the fire and sat down.

  “Now listen,” he said, “and if you can find any flaw in the evidence against Smedley, I should be glad if you’d point it out.”

  Slowly and in detail he recounted everything that had been discovered while he was at Hill Green, and White listened attentively. At the conclusion he shrugged his shoulders.

  “It seems a clear case to me,” he remarked.

  “So it does to me,” agreed Lowe. “There isn’t one single point where it’s possible to establish a case for the defence.”

  “There’s just one,” said Arnold White after a thoughtful pause. “I don’t suppose it would lead to anything but it’s worth trying.”

  “What’s that?” inquired the dramatist.

  “That broken nail,” answered White. “You might see if it fits the broken nail on Smedley’s finger.”

  Trevor Lowe sat up suddenly.

  “That’s one up to you, White!” he exclaimed. “I never thought of that.”

  White looked rather pleased with himself.

  “I expect you’ll find it’ll fit all right,” he said.

  “I’ve no doubt of it,” said the dramatist. “But it’s a good suggestion and worth trying. Look up the number of Hill Green police station and get on to Shadgold.”

  The secretary complied and a few seconds later turned from the desk with the receiver in his hand.

  “Here you are, sir,” he called. “Inspector Shadgold’s on the phone now.”

  Lowe went over and put the black cylinder to his ear.

  “Hullo, Shadgold,” he said. “I want you to do something for me and let me know the result.”

  “What is it?” asked the Scotland Yard man over the wire.

  “I want you to find out,” said the dramatist, “if that piece of nail we found coincides with the missing piece on Smedley’s finger. Will you do that, and phone me?”

  “Yes, if you think it’s going to be of any help,” was the reply.

  “I don’t,” said Lowe frankly. “But White suggested the idea, and it would be interesting to see.”

  “All right, I’ll try it and let you know in a few minutes,” said Shadgold

  Lowe hung up the receiver and turned to his secretary.

  “Shadgold is going to test your idea and we shall have the result in a few minutes,” he said.

  He lit another cigarette and they waited in silence. Neither expected anything from this test of the broken nail, and yet admitted to themselves that there was a possibility. The time went by, five minutes stretched into ten, ten into fifteen, and then the telephone bell rang persistently.

  Lowe crossed to the instrument.

  “Well, Shadgold?” he said, and there was another silence while the man at the other end of the wire spoke rapidly.

  Watching, White saw Lowe’s face change. An eager look replaced the almost expressionless one with which he had gone to the telephone. Presently he spoke.

  “I’ll be down in about an hour and a half,” he said. “There may be nothing in it, but I’ll come all the same. Don’t trouble to send the copies of those reports, I can see them when I arrive.”

  He hung up the receiver and walked over to the fire-place.

  “Well?” asked Arnold White.

  Lowe looked at him queerly.

  “Pack your bag and get the car round,” he said. “We’re both going down to Hill Green at once. That shred of nail found in the fur collar of Miss Mortimer’s coat does not fit the torn nail on Smedley’s finger.”

  Chapter Twenty – the compact

  There is a small shop in Hill Green which in any other neighbourhood would have been referred to as a café or a restaurant, but which, since Hill Green had to be different at all costs, was called the Tea House.

  It was quite a small establishment and run by two angular maiden ladies of uncertain age, who regarded the few customers they ever got with malignant expressions from behind a screened-off portion of the shop that served as an office. The Tea House was never very full, for the residents of Green Hill preferred taking that soothing and cheerful beverage in the privacy of their own houses, and the single waitress was never very busy.

  This particular afternoon was no exception, for, apart from the table at which Mr. James Bryant sat frowning and glancing at the door, only one other was occupied. The two women who had been drinking tea when he had entered had continued to sit on smoking and gossiping, much to the young man’s annoyance, for he had hoped to find the place empty, or at any rate that the two women would go as soon as they had finished their tea.

  Joyce, too, was late—a good twenty minutes—and he was beginning to get impatient. He had already stalled the waitress by saying he was waiting for a lady, and he felt rather a fool that the expected lady had not materialized.

  He crushed out the stub of his second cigarette and was feeling for a third when the door opened and Joyce Elliot came in.

  She was smartly dressed as usual, but under the small hat her face looked pale, and the pallor was accentuated by the dark rings under her eyes.

  Jim rose as she came towards him, and at the same time became conscious that the hissing flow of gossip from the table occupied by the two women from Hill Green had ceased. It had ceased suddenly, like the turning off of a tap, and from the corner of his eye he saw that they were surveying Joyce with open curiosity. The waitress too was gazing at the newcomer with open-mouthed interest.

  Jim’s colour was a little heightened as he greeted the girl. Of course, these people had heard that her uncle had been arrested that morning, and looked upon the girl as an interesting exhibit.

  “I’m sorry I’m late, Jim,” she murmured as she sat down in the chair he pulled out for her and began to strip off her gloves. “But Pops has been a little trying.”

  “That’s all right, dear,” said Jim quickly. “You’d like some tea, wouldn’t you?”

  He beckoned the still staring waitress. Joyce nodded. “Please,” she said.

  The waitress came over to take the order with alacrity.

  “Tea for two,” snapped Bryant, “and——” He looked across at the girl. “Toast or something?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Nothing for me, thank you,” she said.

  “Just tea,” continued Jim; and when the waitress had drifted away to give the order: “Now what’s the idea of this conspiratorial meeting?”

  Joyce smiled—not a very successful attempt, but still undoubtedly a smile.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” she said, “and I thought this place would be quiet.” She looked round. The two women with heads very close together were whispering excitedly. “I wanted to talk to you about Uncle Harold, and what we ought to do,” the girl went on.

  “What do you mean?” asked Jim.

  “Well, we must do something,” said the girl quickly. “We can’t just sit down and do nothing.”

  “I don’t exactly see what else we can do,” he replied.

  “What we can do is to prove that he’s innocent,” said Joyce.

  Jim looked at her in surprise.

  “Oh!” he said. “How can we do that?”

  “By finding out who really did commit these murders,” she answered.

  Jim’s expression was a little dubious.

  “I don’t see how we’re going to do that,” he remarked.

  “Neither do I at the moment,” said Joyce. “That’s what we’ve got to discuss.”

  The waitress brought the tea, and they waited until she had gone
.

  “It seems to me,” said Jim as Joyce poured out the tea, “that it’s going to take a jolly lot of discussion.”

  “It’s not going to be easy,” admitted the girl. “But somebody committed these crimes, and I’m going to find out who it was.”

  She handed him his cup, and he took it with a little worried frown.

  “I suppose,” he said hesitantly, “I suppose you are quite—— I don’t like to say it, dear——”

  “You mean, am I quite certain that Uncle Harold is not the murderer?” she broke in calmly. “No, I’m not certain of that at all. I’m quite willing to admit that he may be, but I’m fair enough to give him the benefit of the doubt, which, under the circumstances, is more than the police and a jury will.”

  “And you can scarcely blame them with the evidence against him,” said Jim.

  “I’m not blaming them any more than I’m blaming you for believing him guilty,” said Joyce. She stopped him with a gesture as he opened his mouth to protest. “You know you do think he’s guilty so what’s the good of denying it?”

  “I’m afraid,” he confessed, “that I do—much as I would like to think otherwise.”

  “There you are, you see,” she said. “So somebody has got to keep an open mind if they’re to help him. That’s just what I’m trying to do, and what I want you to do.”

  “What exactly do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “I’ll tell you,” she said and pushing aside her cup, she leaned forward. “I want you to try and believe that Uncle Harold is innocent. I want you to forget the evidence against him, and that experience in his past.”

  “That’s a little difficult,” he said.

  “I know it is,” she went on quickly. “But I’m trying to do it myself. I’m saying to myself Uncle Harold is innocent. He didn’t kill Doctor Wallington; he didn’t kill Miss Mortimer; he didn’t kill that man Tidd. He’s not ‘The Hangman.’ I’ve been saying it ever since this morning, and I’m beginning to believe it.”

  “Supposing you are,” he said as she paused, “what good is that going to do?”

  “It’s going to do this good,” she answered. “If we start from the point that Uncle Harold, in spite of appearance, isn’t the murderer, then the murderer is still at large, and to save Uncle Harold we’ve got to find him.”

  “The police——” he began.

  “The police will do nothing more,” she said impatiently. “They believe they have got the man, and they won’t look further. And if Uncle Harold ever comes before a jury, he’ll be convicted. The only hope is that somebody—outside the police—can find the real murderer, and that’s you and I.”

  “You suggest that we take up the role of amateur detectives?” said Jim.

  “Yes,” she nodded. “I suggest that we go on as if Uncle Harold didn’t exist—as if the mystery was still unsolved—and see if we can find anything out. Must I do it by myself, or will you help me?”

  He hesitated for a moment, and then against his better judgment, he nodded.

  “I’m with you,” he said. “When—and how—do we start?”

  She flashed him a grateful look, and he wished heartily that the Tea House had been completely deserted.

  “We can start at once,” she said. “How—I can’t answer that quite so easily.”

  She smiled ruefully.

  “I’ve read quite a lot of detective stories,” said Jim, “and the proper procedure in these cases is to look for the person who benefits by the death of the victims.”

  “How are we going to do that?” asked the girl.

  “I think you’d better leave that side of it to me,” said Jim. “I’ve got a friend who’s a reporter on the Post-Courier and has access to all sorts of information. I’ll run up to town and look him up in the morning. He may be able to give me some information regarding the private lives of these people. That will help us.”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” said the girl approvingly. “What can I do?”

  Jim wrinkled his brows in thought.

  “I think the best thing you can do,” he replied, after a short pause, “is to make a list of all the people who could have got hold of that key to the gardens. Try and find out when the three keys were last seen together, and then make a note of the people who called at the house after that, and were in a position to pinch one.”

  “That’s splendid!” she cried enthusiastically. “We’re getting on, aren’t we?”

  He nodded. He wasn’t at all sure where they would get to, but he did not tell her that. And it was just as well he did not know, for their interference was destined almost to cost Joyce Elliot her life!

  Chapter Twenty-One – a new angle

  Lowe and Arnold White arrived at Hill Green well within the time the dramatist had stipulated, and having, to the open surprise of the staff, booked rooms at the “Hillside Hotel,” went straight on to the police station. A rather perturbed Shadgold was waiting for them in the charge-room.

  “You know, Mr. Lowe,” he said after they had shaken hands, “you mustn’t set too much store on this nail business. If you come to think of it, Smedley’s nail would have had time to grow. So it isn’t really extraordinary that the piece we found in Miss Mortimer’s coat doesn’t fit.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” replied Lowe. “That’s why I’ve come down. So far as I can see, what we want to prove is whether that scrap of nail came from Smedley’s finger or not.”

  “Which,” grunted the stout inspector, “is not going to be so easy.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to be difficult,” answered Lowe; “in fact, I think we can test it at once. I’ve brought the necessary apparatus with me.”

  Shadgold raised his eyebrows.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked. “You can’t do anything that will damage that piece we’ve got. We shall want to put it forward as evidence.”

  “I’m not going to injure it in any way,” replied the dramatist. “I merely want to borrow it for a quarter of an hour, together with a paring of one of Smedley’s other nails.”

  He took an oblong mahogany case that White was carrying and stood it on the table.

  “This is a microscope,” he said. “I hired it from an optician’s on my way down. It’s a very powerful one and a glance at the two pieces of nail ought to tell us what we want to know.”

  The Scotland Yard man looked a little anxious.

  “Not a very convincing proof, is it?” he asked doubtfully.

  “I think you’ll find it most convincing,” said Lowe.

  “Well, there’s no harm in it so far as I can see,” said the inspector. “What is it you want? Our bit of nail and a fresh bit of nail from one of Smedley’s fingers?”

  Lowe nodded, and Shadgold turned to Lightfoot.

  “Will you see about that?” he asked.

  The local inspector gave a grudging consent. Clearly he thought the whole proceeding a waste of time. While he was gone, Shadgold watched the dramatist unpack the mahogany box, assemble the microscope and set it up under the light.

  “The result of this experiment should lead to rather interesting conjectures,” he said, “that is, if the nails do not correspond.”

  “I don’t think there’s much likelihood of that,” grunted the inspector. “If you’ve got any idea in the back of your head that Smedley is the wrong man, you’re making a big mistake.”

  “I haven’t any such idea,” replied Lowe. “I’ve no ideas at all at present. I’m merely following up White’s suggestion.”

  Lightfoot came back, and approaching the dramatist, held out his hand.

  “Is that what you want, sir?” he said.

  In the palm was a small shred of nail.

  “That’s exactly what I want,” said Lowe, and picked it up between his finger and thumb. “You are prepared definitely to identify this nail paring as having come from one of Smedley’s fingers?”

  Lightfoot smiled rather sourly.

  “Cer
tainly I am,” he answered, “seeing as I cut it off myself.”

  “Right,” murmured the dramatist, and put the scrap carefully between a cover glass.

  This he placed on the stage of the microscope, and adjusted the mirror, so that the light was concentrated on the small object. Applying his eye to the eyepiece, he slowly twisted the milled wheel that controlled the focus until it was sharp and clear.

  “Now take a look at that, Shadgold,” he said, straightening up.

  The Scotland Yard man looked.

  “Great Scott!” he ejaculated. “Is that a piece of Smedley’s nail? It looks like a bit of Mount Everest!”

  “It’s Smedley’s nail all the same,” replied Lowe.

  He invited Lightfoot and White to look through the eyepiece, which they did.

  “Now,” he went on when they had finished, “let us compare that with the piece that was found in Miss Mortimer’s fur collar.”

  Lightfoot went into his office and returned with the piece of nail in a small box. Lowe took it and put it under the cover glass beside the other piece. Once more he looked through the microscope, and they heard his breath hiss through his teeth as he drew it in sharply.

  “Well?” asked Shadgold.

  “Well?” said Lowe, and his face held a peculiar expression. “I am willing to go before any jury and swear that these two pieces of nail do not belong to the same man.”

  There was a silence.

  “Nonsense!” exploded Shadgold. “They must!”

  The dramatist shrugged his shoulders.

  “Look for yourself,” he said.

  Shadgold bent down and peered through the microscope.

  “They certainly don’t look alike,” he admitted, “but that’s probably because they were taken from different fingers.”

  “It’s nothing of the sort,” said Lowe. “It’s because they did not come from the same man. Smedley’s nail is a finer texture. The nail taken from Miss Mortimer’s coat is very coarse. You can see that.”

  Shadgold ran his hand through his close-cropped hair.

  “But it’s absurd,” he protested. “Do you realize what you’re inferring? That by a most extraordinary coincidence, both Smedley and the murderer have each lost a piece of finger-nail. It’s too impossible to be taken seriously.”