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  Why the man should have kept such a dangerous record was a psychological curiosity. Paul put it down to his colossal vanity, which had forced him to keep an account of his cleverness. All through it there were references to his skill in having planned and carried out what he referred to as the ‘perfect crime’, but which had turned out to be not so perfect after all.

  Shorn of these frequent interpolations, the story was fairly clear and simple. Hallows had apparently always been a crook, for there were items concerning petty thefts that he had committed, and he had always been clever enough to evade the law. His favourite method had been to find a scapegoat and saddle him or her with the guilt of his own crimes.

  ‘So long,’ he wrote on one page, ‘as you can supply the law with a victim, and manufacture sufficient evidence against the person to be convincing, you are fairly immune from discovery.’

  And this was the method he had employed in the Hooper case. During one of his visits to America on business connected with the firm of Sampson and Renning, he had made the acquaintance of Leslie Craven. Craven was a man of no morals, whose only aim in life was the acquiring of money that would enable him to live in the manner that he liked; and Hallows at the first meeting saw the possibility that this man might prove useful to him. He cultivated his acquaintance, and when he learned — as he did very quickly — that Craven was the stepson of a millionaire, William Hooper, and the potential heir to the Hooper millions, he began to scheme as to how he could divert this large sum into his own pocket. However it was done, it must leave no possible breath of suspicion against himself, and for a long time he was unable to see how he could achieve the result he wished.

  It was chance that supplied him with the foundation stone on which he reared his amazing edifice of crime that culminated in the murder of William Hooper. Craven was leading a pretty wild life in New York, and spending far more money than he ought to have done; and, what was more, he was heavily and hopelessly in debt. His relationship to Hooper made it easy for him to obtain credit, and he pledged this up to the hilt.

  The thing that started the whole plot in Hallows’s mind was when, on one of his visits, Craven came to him in a frantic state of worry, and tried to borrow four thousand pounds. Hallows at first refused; but Craven begged so hard that he eventually compromised, and said that if he could tell him what he wanted it for he would consider the loan.

  It was a long time before he could get the true reason out of Craven, but at last he did. Craven had forged a cheque for that amount, and unless he could make it good within the next three days he would be arrested. There was nowhere he could raise the money. He had gone the limit with all his friends, and had already squeezed all he could put of the professional moneylenders on the expectations from his stepfather’s will. It was the mention of the will that did it. Like a picture suddenly thrown on a screen, Hallows saw the chance he had been waiting for.

  He had always been a careful man, and he had just about five thousand pounds of his own in the world. He agreed to let Craven have four thousand of this on condition that he — Hallows — negotiated the business of the forged cheque and that Craven signed a confession. Driven into a corner, Craven agreed, and now Hallows had him in the hollow of his hand. A word from him would send Craven to prison, and Craven knew it.

  As soon as the cheque business was settled, Hallows put up his scheme. Craven wanted money; well he — Hallows — would see that he got what he wanted if he would agree to do as he was told. If Hooper died, Craven, under the terms of the will — which Hallows had seen at the American lawyers’ — would come into over two million pounds. Hallows was prepared to murder Hooper if Craven would agree to pay Hallows half the money as soon as he got it. No suspicion could possibly attach to Hallows, because he had no motive. All the suspicion would be against Craven, and therefore an alibi must be provided, and this he had worked out.

  Craven would fake a car crash under the eyes of a police patrol. He would become sufficiently quarrelsome to ensure arrest, and while he was locked in the police station, Hallows would dispose of William Hooper.

  The whole plan was completely watertight. The alibi was cast-iron. Craven, after some argument, agreed. The murder was fixed to take place on Hallows’s next visit to New York, for the whole of their first plot was laid in America.

  And then Hooper himself exploded a bombshell and blew the scheme sky-high. Craven had told Hallows all about the kidnapping of his stepfather’s son, and when Hallows arrived in America he learned that a clue to this son had been discovered. It was Hooper himself who told him. Hallows had lied when he said he had never met the old man. He met him once in America and twice in England, but nobody knew of any of these meetings except Hallows, Craven, and Hooper himself.

  Hooper told him that for years he had employed a firm of enquiry agents to track down his son, and the English branch of this firm had found a clue. He asked Hallows if he knew the firm, and Hallows said that he did, and Hooper then told him that he was coming to England. Hallows was furious, although he didn’t show it. If by killing Hooper there and then he could have done any good, he would have done so, but he remembered that in the will in which he left his property to Craven there was a clause making it conditional on his own son being still untraced.

  Hallows hurriedly changed his plans. He saw Leslie Craven and arranged that he should leave for England at once, and he then perfected the plot that he eventually earned out. Unknown to his firm, he met Hooper on his arrival, taking care that their meeting place should be one in which there was little likelihood of their being recognised, and learned from Hooper the identity of his son.

  Hooper told him about the will he had made — as a matter of fact it was Hallows who drew up the rough draft — and also that he intended to take the journey on the Blue Moon and make known his identity at the end of the trip. It appealed to the old man’s sense of the dramatic to do this, and he made Hallows promise to keep his secret.

  Hallows was only too willing to do this, because he had fixed on part of his plan already. The plan that should kill two birds with one stone. He took the journey on the Blue Moon from Charing Cross to the Barley Mow twice before the night of the murder, and found that from Homesdale Road onwards the bus was empty.

  The next move was to make sure that Dick Lonsdale was sufficiently implicated. The motive against him was strong enough, but there must be no possibility of his slipping out of the net. By chance, as he was getting off the bus on the second journey, he heard Lonsdale mention the revolver to Mace. He mentioned that it was in a drawer in his bedroom, and said he was sorry that he had forgotten it.

  Hallows made himself up in a red wig and called at Mrs. Mace’s with the express purpose of getting hold of this revolver. He got it, and on the night of the murder he killed Hooper with it, after affixing a silencer to the barrel. Just after the bus had passed Homesdale Road, he took off the silencer, wiped the weapon clean of prints, and threw it away, afterwards jumping off the bus. He had planned this spot for the murder to be committed, because he had noticed on his previous journey that Lonsdale went upstairs at this point to change the indicator boards.

  He didn’t expect anybody would penetrate his disguise as the old man, but in case it should be thought that he was disguised at all, he wore a replica of Craven’s ring. Craven had already prepared his alibi and couldn’t be implicated, but he hoped that Lonsdale would notice the ring and mention it to the police, in which case they would, when they discovered where Craven was and that the ring he wore couldn’t be removed, jump to the conclusion that he was trying to throw suspicion on Craven to save his own skin. He hoped that suspicion would attach to Craven, because it would confuse the issue and would do no harm eventually to his scheme.

  The one person he had been afraid of was Paul Rivington, and he had tried to put him out of the running when he had shot at him from the motorcycle. Failing in this, he had tried to get Paul to let him help, so that he could be kept informed of what was going on.


  ‘It was a devilishly clever scheme,’ said Paul when he had digested the contents of the black diary, ‘and might quite easily have been successful. I’m rather glad to see that it practically follows what I had imagined had taken place.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got ample evidence to get a conviction against both of them,’ said Mr. Robin with satisfaction. ‘I shouldn’t think the jury would want to leave the box.’

  ‘When did you first suspect Hallows?’ asked Bob.

  ‘To be perfectly candid, I don’t know, old chap,’ said Paul. ‘The conviction that he was the man we were after grew on me by degrees. He fitted so perfectly the requirements of the murderer, and the way he tried to force his help made me suspicious. I had no atom of real proof against him, and yet I gradually became certain that he was the man.’

  ‘Well, you were right,’ grunted Round Robin good-temperedly. ‘I didn’t think you were at first, but I’m always willing to alter my opinion.’ He gave Paul a fatherly pat on the shoulder with a plump hand. ‘It’s a pity you left the force,’ he went on. ‘We could do with you at the Yard.’

  ‘Well, I’m always willing to help,’ said Paul. ‘Just let me know when you want me and I’ll be there.’

  29

  Last Words

  The trial of Edgar Hallows and Leslie Craven was a short one, but it sent up the circulation of the newspapers to absurd figures while it lasted.

  Joseph Crick, who was first to know the full story, achieved the scoop of his career, for his paper was on the street with the story an edition ahead of all the rest.

  As Mr. Robin predicted, the jury brought in their verdict without leaving the box, and both Hallows and Craven were given the death sentence. Hallows heard the verdict stoically, but Craven was carried screaming from the dock, a broken, shattered man.

  If Paul had had any doubt that William Hooper’s real identity was Warne — which he had not, for it was the only theory that exactly fitted the facts — this was set at rest once and for all when, ten days after the trial, Mr. Robin showed him a letter from the New York police bureau.

  It appeared that they had succeeded in finding a box in a safe deposit rented in the name of Hooper, the contents of which proved his identity without any doubt. It was a curious thing that this box had not come to light before, but apparently the manager had not associated the name of Hooper with the man who had been killed in England. The reason for this might to a large extent have been due to the fact that the box had been deposited some years previously, and although the rental money had been paid regularly, Hooper had not been near the safe deposit in person.

  The documents and papers it contained had been forwarded to Scotland Yard at the same time as the letter under separate cover. And when Paul had gone through these with the little inspector, he discovered that the theory he had evolved was practically correct in every detail. Warne had double-crossed his friend, Lonsdale, and made his getaway with the entire proceeds of the Canadian Bank robbery.

  It was this money that had formed the basis of his Wall Street operations and had eventually made him the rich man that he became. This was the motive for kidnapping the child. Lonsdale had tracked his old associate down, and had taken this means of revenging himself, just as Paul had thought.

  ‘Of course,’ he said to Mr. Robin, ‘my theory was the only possible one under the circumstances. We knew that Lonsdale must have done the kidnapping, since Richard had been given his name and passed off as his own child. But there was no motive, unless it had been one of ransom, and we knew it wasn’t that, for him to have stolen the baby son of Hooper, unless it was one of revenge. The most likely person for him to wish to revenge himself against was Warne. Therefore, it didn’t require a great stretch of imagination to connect Hooper and Warne, particularly when we knew that Hooper had married the widow of Craven, who was the third man in the bank robbery.’

  ‘All the same,’ said Round Robin, ‘it was pretty clever the way you worked it out.’

  Dick Lonsdale was rather upset when he heard the news, and not unnaturally, for there was no doubt that his father had been a crook, and, as well as this, had served his associates very shabbily. He said as much to Paul, and Rivington was forced to agree with him.

  ‘I wish, Mr. Rivington, you’d find out,’ said Dick, ‘how much the original amount was that was stolen. I feel that now I’ve got all this, money I should like to make reparation. After all, it’s the most I can do, and I’ve got an idea that the old man would have wished it.’

  Paul agreed readily. He got in touch with Canada by cable, and the reply he received surprised him. The bank had been fully compensated for the robbery. The full amount, plus five percent, had reached them some years previously. They had no idea where this came from, except that the postmark was New York. Paul thought that, having got the money, they had probably taken very little trouble to find out, and in this he was right.

  Dick was pleased when he was told. ‘I’m glad he tried to put matters right,’ he said. ‘After all, I suppose we shouldn’t be hard on him because he made a slip. We don’t know what his early life was like, or what circumstances brought him in touch with Lonsdale and Craven. Anyway, we have no right to judge.’

  *

  In the grey light of a cold morning a warder unlocked a cell door in Wandsworth Prison, and the man who was lying on the pallet bed raised his head.

  ‘What would you like for breakfast, Hallows?’ asked the warder, and Edgar Hallows sat up, rubbing his eyes.

  So this was his last morning. In less than two hours he would have ceased to exist. A little shiver ran down his spine, but by an effort of will he checked the momentary spasm of fear; he would face it at least without showing the white feather. He chose his breakfast coolly and carefully, and when it was brought to him he ate every morsel.

  They said of him afterward that he was the most composed man who had ever occupied the condemned cell.

  When he had finished his food he asked for a cigarette, and a packet was given him. He smoked calmly while he waited for the last summons, and when they came for him he showed less emotion than anyone present.

  ‘Is there anything you have to say?’ asked the chaplain as he stood on the trap.

  Hallows shook his head. ‘Other people have said everything for me,’ he answered.

  The hangman slipped the bag over his head, and stretched out his hand to the lever …

  The crowd outside the prison waited until a warder came out and posted up the notice that briefly and officially stated that on that morning the double execution of Edgar Hallows and Leslie Craven had duly taken place.

  ‘Serve ’em right!’ grunted a woman as she moved away to hurry to her day’s work. And that was their epitaph.

  A fortnight after the execution, when the whole case had been forgotten by the public, a quiet and unassuming little wedding took place at a small church at Bromley. Paul Rivington, at the express wish of the bride, gave her away, and Harry Mace, looking remarkably uncomfortable in a new and unaccustomed morning suit, acted as best man. In spite of the fact that the ceremony had been kept as quiet as possible, Fleet Street had got wind of it, and a number of reporters were waiting with cameras to snap the bride and bridegroom as they left. Nearly every evening paper earned a picture, for the romantic circumstances in which Dick Lonsdale had been transported from a humble bus conductor to a millionaire was good copy, possessing just that human touch that is of universal appeal.

  Among the guests who gathered at Mrs. Mace’s for the wedding breakfast were Round Robin, Bob, Joseph Crick, and Emily Boulter. It had required a great deal of persuasion to get that extraordinary woman to be present, but at last she had consented, and looked even more repulsive than usual.

  Paul, looking round at the laughing faces on every side, found it hard to believe that such a short time ago Fate had taken hold of these people’s lives and offered them a glimpse of tragedy. Was it so that they should, by the contrast, more thoroughly realise and a
ppreciate their present happiness?

  Anyway, the sky was clear again now, and should remain clear so far as he could see. Sally, flushed with joy, was a wife that any man might be proud of, and if Paul felt a momentary pang that he was but an onlooker at this, the beginning of romance, it soon went when he saw the obvious pride of the bridegroom and felt that he had, to a large extent, been responsible for this being possible.

  ‘How long are you going to be away for?’ asked Emily Boulter during a lull in the general conversation, her harsh voice sounding extraordinarily out of place at such a gathering.

  ‘Three months,’ answered Dick. ‘At least, that’s what we’ve planned.’

  ‘Are you going to live in Bromley?’ asked the laundress.

  ‘I think so,’ said Sally. ‘Dick has found a beautiful house, which he’s instructed Mr. Renning to buy if the surveyor’s report is satisfactory.’

  ‘Hm,’ grunted Emily Boulter. ‘Well, I’ll do your washing for you.’

  ‘That,’ said Paul Rivington, ‘is a great concession, Mrs. Lonsdale. I hope you appreciate it.’

  ‘I do,’ said Sally. ‘I think it’s awfully kind of Miss Boulter.’

  ‘It’s nothing of the sort,’ snapped Emily Boulter. ‘I’ve seen all those lovely things you’ve bought, and it would be a sin to let them go to an ordinary laundry.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Paul, turning to Harry Mace, ‘you’ll continue to run the bus?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, when I’ve found a new conductor. But it won’t be the same without old Dick.’

  ‘I hope the new conductor won’t go through what I did, Harry,’ said Dick. ‘It would be dreadful if anything like that happened on the bus again.’