The Hangman Read online

  “I agree with you,” nodded Lowe. “It is.”

  Shadgold stared at him irritably.

  “I don’t see any other explanation,” he grunted.

  “There is another,” murmured the dramatist.

  “I should like to hear it,” said the inspector.

  “You shall,” said Lowe. “As you say, it’s absurd to believe for one moment that this nail business is a coincidence. It’s about a million chances to one that it should be. Particularly with all the other evidence against Smedley. The only other explanation, therefore, is that the whole thing is a ‘frame-up.’”

  Shadgold’s jaw dropped and his eyes almost started from their sockets.

  “A frame——” he began. “What the dickens are you talking about?”

  “A frame-up,” explained Lowe, “is an American expression——”

  “Damn it!” shouted Shadgold. “I know what it means! What I want to know is how can it be a frame-up?”

  “If it is,” said Lowe, and his face was very grave, “it’s one of the cleverest and most diabolical things that have ever been done. And it means that you have not yet caught the man who calls himself ‘The Hangman.’”

  “It’s impossible!” broke in Lightfoot. “Do you mean that someone deliberately left that nail in Miss Mortimer’s coat in order to throw suspicion on Smedley?”

  Lowe nodded.

  “Yes,” he answered, “and more. Somebody knew Smedley’s past history, and planned these crimes with that in his mind. Don’t you see the cunning of it? This unknown person wanted to get rid of Doctor Wallington and Miss Mortimer. He knew that Smedley had come to live at Hill Green, and planned everything so that it should look like the work of a lunatic, knowing that sooner or later Smedley’s identity would be discovered, and that he would be suspected of the crime. The clues left were not too blatant, just sufficient to serve their purpose without looking as if they’d been left intentionally.”

  Lightfoot looked at Shadgold with a worried frown, and Shadgold rubbed nervously at his moustache.

  “Aren’t you taking a lot for granted, Mr. Lowe?” muttered the Scotland Yard man. “After all, you’re making a lot out of a very little——”

  “Shadgold,” interrupted Lowe, “yesterday I was as convinced as you were that Smedley was the guilty man. To-day I am almost equally as convinced that he is innocent. It’s that”—he pointed to the microscope—“that has changed my opinion.”

  “There may be some mistake——” began Lightfoot, but the dramatist shook his head.

  “There is no mistake,” he said stubbornly, “and anyway, you can take the opinion of experts on the matter. Both these pieces of nail can be sent up for examination, and I’m sure that the report you will receive will correspond with what I say.”

  “Smedley said he’d torn his nail in putting on his overcoat,” grunted Shadgold, “but of course, we didn’t believe him.”

  “And yet I’m almost sure he was speaking the truth,” said Lowe.

  The inspector pinched his chin gloomily.

  “If you’re right,” he grumbled, “it means we’ve got to start all over again.”

  “Yes,” agreed the dramatist, “but with the possibilities narrowed down. What you have to look for now is a man with the following qualifications.” He checked them off on the fingers of his left hand as he spoke. “One, he must have known that Harold Nethcott was Harold Smedley. Two, he must have had access to the Nethcotts’ house, and known of the torn finger-nail. Three, he must be the possessor of a cool, clever and cunning brain; and four, he must have had some strong motive for wishing the deaths of Doctor Wallington and Miss Mortimer——”

  “And ‘Monkey’ George,” put in Shadgold, “don’t forget him.”

  “I think he was killed because he knew too much,” answered Lowe. “He was a poacher, wasn’t he, and rather a bad lot from all accounts? It seems to me more than likely that he stumbled in some way on the identity of this hanging man, and tried to turn his knowledge into money, instead of telling the police.”

  “That’s quite possible, sir,” agreed Lightfoot. “It’s just the sort of thing ‘Monkey’ George would have done.”

  “This is a bit of a facer, Mr. Lowe,” said Shadgold, “and I don’t mind telling you that I’m a bit uncertain what to do. I can’t let Smedley go, that’s definite, and yet you’ve made me feel that the fellow may not be guilty after all.”

  “Why not leave things as they are for the moment?” suggested Lowe. “If ‘The Hangman’ thinks that his plan has succeeded it will give him a sense of confidence. In the meanwhile, you can go quietly to work, and try to find out the truth. It would be a good plan, I think, to discover who has access to Nethcott’s house. If you can get a list of all these people you’ll probably find the murderer among them.”

  Later on that afternoon Jim Bryant made the same suggestion, unaware that the police were going to work along similar lines.

  Chapter Twenty-Two – the knife in the dark

  “Among your list of the murderer’s qualifications, Mr. Lowe,” said Shadgold, “you forgot to include the fact that he must also have a portion of nail missing from one of his fingers.”

  “I didn’t forget it,” replied the dramatist. “I think it’s very possible he has. I don’t see where he could have got hold of the piece that was left in Miss Mortimer’s collar in any other way.”

  He had removed the two scraps from the cover glass and put them in the little box. This he handed to Shadgold.

  “You’d better lock that up carefully,” he said. “It would be a good idea if we drew up a short statement regarding the result of the experiment this morning, and all signed it——”

  He broke off as the police surgeon came into the station.

  “Hullo,” said Doctor Murford with raised eyebrows. “I thought you’d gone back to town?”

  “Not yet,” said the dramatist, and went on with his occupation of repacking the microscope.

  The little doctor’s sharp eyes saw it.

  “Have I interrupted a scientific lecture?” he remarked with a sneer. “Really, this is remarkably interesting. It’s so like all the fiction I’ve read.”

  “Most fiction,” said Lowe, “has a basis of fact. Ask Inspector Shadgold and he will tell you that the laboratory at Scotland Yard is most amply equipped.”

  “Is that so?” said Murford, and shrugged his shoulders. “How’s your prisoner this morning?” he asked, turning to Shadgold. “That’s what I really came in about.”

  “He seems to be all right. Why?” grunted the stout inspector.

  He did not like Doctor Murford and took very little pains to conceal the fact.

  “Merely the natural anxiety of a doctor for his patient,” replied the other. “I’ve been treating him for some weeks for general debility, and I don’t suppose the shock of his arrest has done his health any good.”

  Trevor Lowe looked up quickly.

  “Are you the Nethcotts’ doctor?” he inquired.

  “I am,” said the police surgeon shortly.

  “You must have seen a good deal of Harold Smedley lately?” went on the dramatist.

  Doctor Murford eyed him a trifle suspiciously.

  “Certainly,” he replied. “Why?”

  “I was wondering,” said Lowe, “whether you had formed any ideas as to his mental condition.”

  “I’m not a brain specialist,” was the retort, “so I’m afraid I must decline to answer that question. In any case, my opinion would not be worth anything. If you want a report of his mental state you must engage the services of an alienist.”

  “I was only asking you for an opinion,” said the dramatist. “By the way, how is your hand? Is it better?”

  “My hand?” Murford stared at him.

  “I was under the impression that you had injured your hand,” said Lowe smoothly. “One of your fingers, wasn’t it?”

  The doctor took his left hand out of his pocket and looked at the ne
at finger-stall.

  “It’s practically healed,” he said. “I nearly cut the top off with a bread knife.”

  He turned his back deliberately on the dramatist and addressed himself to Shadgold.

  “I should like to see Smedley,” he said. “Have you any objection?”

  Shadgold shook his head reluctantly.

  “I’ve no objection,” he said. “Have you?” He glanced at Lightfoot.

  “No,” replied the local inspector. “I’ll take Doctor Murford down.”

  “Thanks,” snapped the little doctor, and he and Lightfoot went out through the door that led to the cells.

  “Unpleasant fellow, isn’t he?” grunted Shadgold.

  Lowe smiled.

  “I’m afraid Doctor Murford is rather full of—Doctor Murford!” he said. “I’d certainly like to have a look at that injured finger of his. The bread knife explanation is certainly a good one, but it may not be true all the same.”

  “It looks a bit suspicious to me,” admitted the Scotland Yard man.

  “I think it would be advisable,” said the dramatist, “to keep an eye on Doctor Murford. He may be as innocent as a babe unborn; on the other hand he may not. He was friendly with the Nethcotts and therefore has one of the qualifications possessed by the murderer.”

  “And he was a constant visitor to the house,” said the stout inspector musingly. “But it’s going a bit far to suspect the divisional-surgeon of being a murderer.”

  “At the present state of the case,” said Lowe, “I should suspect anybody and everybody, if I were you.”

  He picked up the mahogany box containing the microscope and handed it to Arnold White.

  “I’m going to get some lunch now,” he said, “and I shall be at the ‘Hillside Hotel’ all the afternoon if you want me.”

  “What about those reports?” asked Shadgold. “Do you still want them?”

  “Yes, have they been typed?” said the dramatist.

  The inspector shook his head.

  “No, but you can have the originals if you like.” He went into Lightfoot’s office and came back with a sheaf of papers. “Bolton was going to do these this afternoon,” he said, handing them to Lowe, “but there’s no need now if you can let us have them back by to-morrow morning.”

  “You can have them back this evening, if you want them,” said Lowe, and a few seconds later he and White took their leave.

  After lunch Lowe settled down before the fire in the hotel lounge to wade through the reports dealing with the private lives of Doctor Wallington and Miss Mortimer, but he found very little to repay him for his diligence. Doctor Wallington had had no money at all except what he made from his practice, and Irene Mortimer, though a little better off, had had an income that was so microscopic that it was hardly worth taking into consideration. Murder for gain, then, seemed to be improbable. Both of them had left wills. Miss Mortimer had left all her property to a Mrs. Barlow, an old school friend. And Doctor Wallington had bequeathed his books and instruments, which were all he had to leave, to another doctor named Slack, who had a practice in Greater Linden, which adjoined Hill Green. They were both distant cousins of a Mrs. Conner, a woman apparently of wealth and position who lived in Knightsbridge, and that was all the reports had to offer. Not the slightest suggestion upon which even the hypothesis of a motive could be based.

  Trevor Lowe smoked and worried over the matter throughout the entire afternoon, and he was still worrying when White, who had gone out to see the beauties of Hill Green, came back for tea.

  After tea the dramatist read the reports again in the hope that there might be something he had overlooked, but without result. He spent the evening in verbally going over the entire affair with his secretary, but when he had finished he found it had not advanced him the fraction of an inch. At eleven o’clock he decided to go to bed, but although he felt tired, it was a long time before sleep came. Lying staring up at the dim white of the ceiling, he tried to work the thing out. It was the motive that was the stumbling block. Once he could get an inkling of that, he felt that the rest would be easy. It was after one before his eyes closed and consciousness left him. . . .

  In the dark and shadowy corridors of the hotel silence reigned. There was a glimmer of light from the lounge where the night porter nodded in his glass box, but apart from that there was no sign of life. The old-fashioned grandfather clock ticked monotonously, and somewhere in the region of the kitchens the intermittent nibbling of a rat at the wainscot broke the stillness of the sleeping house.

  The clock ticked on, and presently, with a preliminary grunting, chimed two. The porter roused himself at the sound, looked sleepily about him, and relapsed once again into semi-consciousness. The noise of the nibbling rat seemed to grow louder, faded and abruptly stopped. There followed after an interval the faint creak of a floor board which mingled with the gentle snore of the now-sleeping porter. The door leading to the kitchens moved. Very slowly it began to open—widening inch by inch until there was room for a dark and stealthy form to slip through into the passage. It came cautiously and noiselessly, this thing born of the night, came forward until it reached the foot of the wide shadow-swathed staircase. It wore a long coat that reached nearly to its heels, and where normally there should have been a face, was nothing but a patch of blackness. Through the holes in the mask the man’s eyes glittered as he watched the dimly seen figure of the sleeping porter. He began to ascend the stairs, testing each before trusting his full weight upon it. He reached the first landing, paused and listened, and then made his way softly down the right-hand passage until he came to the door of Trevor Lowe’s room. Here he stopped, peered at the number to make sure, and then stooping, tried the handle. It turned, and pressing against the door, he found to his satisfaction that it was unlocked. He opened it a few inches, and looked in. The room was in pitch darkness but he could hear the regular breathing of its occupant. His gloved hand dipped beneath his coat, and came out holding a long, thin knife. He tested the razor-sharp edge, and a mirthless grin curled his lips beneath the mask. Cautiously he advanced towards the bed, guided by the deep breathing of the sleeper. . . .

  Lowe stirred uneasily, and opened his eyes. Darkness surrounded him on all sides, and he could hear no sound, but in that moment of waking he was conscious of danger. The purely animal instinct which during waking hours is so often swamped by reason, was alive and active in that transition state before the conscious mind had regained complete control. He turned his head, and at that moment something sharp and cold pricked his throat!

  Chapter Twenty-Three – a near thing

  It was sheer luck that saved his life. The point of the knife had actually pierced the skin of his throat, when there came a long and unmusical snore from the next room. The sound so startled the killer that his hand jerked the weapon aside, and in that second Lowe acted. Rolling sideways, he threw himself off the bed, clothes and all, and landed in a heap on the floor. He heard a muttered oath, and while he was trying to extricate himself from the enveloping folds of the sheet and blankets, the sound of scurrying footsteps and a banging door.

  There was a considerable lapse of time before he was able to free himself, and scramble to his feet, and as he raced to the door a sudden shout came from below, followed by a scream of pain and the thud of another slamming door. Racing along the corridor to the head of the stairs, he hurried down into the lounge, and the first thing he saw was the night porter, white-faced and clasping his wrist from which the blood was pouring.

  “I tried to stop ’im!” gasped the man. “But ’e ’ad a knife.”

  He reeled and Lowe gripped him by the shoulder.

  “Steady,” said the dramatist, “let me look at that wrist of yours.”

  The porter held out his arm. The wound was a nasty one, but not particularly dangerous, and with the man’s handkerchief, Lowe improvised a rough bandage.

  “You’d better get on the phone to the nearest doctor,” he advised, “and also the poli
ce. Which way did he go?”

  “Through the kitchens, sir,” answered the dazed porter.

  Lowe went over to the communicating door and pulled it open. Beyond, the rooms lay in darkness, but he felt for the switch and found it. A blaze of light drove away the gloom, and looking quickly round, he saw that the place was empty. A closer inspection showed the way by which the night visitant had got in and made his escape. Opening off the big kitchen was a large scullery, and wash-house. The window which overlooked the garden at the back of the hotel had been forced and was now wide open. There were several traces on the sill where the man had scrambled over, and on the floor beneath was a cake of mud which had evidently dropped from his shoes. Lowe went back to the lounge and found an alarmed and sleepy-eyed manager, and White. They demanded to know what had happened.

  “I’ve had a visitor,” said Lowe grimly. “A most unpleasant gentleman who tried to cut my throat.” He fingered the scratch on his neck tenderly.

  “Good God!” squeaked the manager. “A burglar?”

  “You can call him a burglar, if you like,” said the dramatist, “but I’ve got a worse name for him.”

  He turned to the porter as the man came dazedly out from his little glass box.

  “Did you phone the police and the doctor?” he asked.

  The man nodded.

  “The police are coming along at once, sir,” he replied, “but the doctor’s out. ’E ’ad a night call. I’ve left word for him to come ’ere as soon as he gets back.”

  “Which doctor was it?” snapped Lowe quickly.

  “Doctor Murford, sir,” said the porter. “’E’s the nearest.”

  Lowe frowned.

  So Murford was out, was he? It might only be a coincidence, of course. The manager, a little recovered from his first shock, was taking charge.

  “You’d better wake up the servants,” he said to the porter. “We must find out if anything’s been stolen——”

  “Nothing has been stolen,” interrupted the dramatist. “The man who broke in did so with only one object, and that was to kill me.”