The Hangman Read online

  She studied the list again after lunch, and was possessed of a wild idea to close her eyes and stick a pin in it at random. She suppressed this desire, however, and, coming to the conclusion that a little fresh air would do her good, made up her mind to take the car out.

  The garage—a somewhat glorified title for the shed which housed the car—was only a short distance from the house, and she soon had the machine out and was heading away from Hill Green towards the open country.

  There was a spot almost twenty miles away that Joyce particularly loved. The road wound its way up a steep hillside between woods to an open space from which it was possible to see for miles round.

  The view was really beautiful, and when she reached the top of the hill she pulled up, intending to pause and smoke a cigarette. She found her cigarettes all right, but no matches. There was usually a box kept in one of the pockets on the doors, but she searched in vain, and then she remembered that the police had overhauled the car, and guessed that they had taken the matches.

  Her guess was quite unjustified really, but she grew unreasonably annoyed. There was just a possibility that there might be a box in the tool compartment under the seat, and, getting out, she pulled up the cushion of the driving-seat to open it.

  Something dropped as she did so, and fell on the floorboard with a little tinkle.

  Stooping she picked it up. It was the broken half of a cuff-link. For a moment she thought it was one of Pop’s or her uncle’s, and was slipping it into the pocket of her coat when she recognized it.

  It belonged neither to Francis nor Harold Nethcott, and as she realized the significance of her discovery the blood receded from her face and left her dazed and pale.

  There was no doubt that this car had been used by “The Hangman” when he had killed George Tidd. The police had made certain of that by comparing the tyre-marks at the cross roads, and it was one of the pieces of evidence against her uncle. Then the owner of this broken piece of cuff-link was “The Hangman,” and she knew him!

  With shaking limbs she got back into the car and sat behind the wheel, staring with unseeing eyes at the view which was wont to give her so much pleasure.

  She had accomplished her task. By a piece of inconceivable luck she had found the murderer. There was no mistaking that piece of cuff-link. It was distinctive, and the person who owned it had never openly been in the car.

  Everything fitted. She could see with startling clearness one of the names on the list, the name of the man to whom that link belonged. The first shock of her appalling discovery began to wear off, and she found herself thinking rapidly and clearly.

  Should she drive straight back, and inform the police, or should she follow up this clue, that Fate had almost thrown in her lap, herself?

  For a long time she sat motionless, trying to make up her mind, and eventually she decided.

  She would not go to the police. Not yet, at any rate. If she did, her suspect might succeed in clearing himself. He was clever enough to find an explanation for that link being found in the car, and then he would not only be warned, but take precious good care that all other possible clues were destroyed.

  No, she would follow this up herself, and at once. As she started the engine and slowly let in the clutch, she wished that Jim had been at home, so that she could consult him; but still, she would, at any rate, have something to tell him when he came back.

  Swinging the car round, she drove back towards Hill Green and the house of the man whose broken link reposed in her pocket.

  *

  Joyce Elliot awoke from what seemed like an unpleasant dream. Her mouth and throat were dry and her head was aching terribly. She looked about her into utter darkness, and was for a minute or two puzzled to know what had happened to her, and then she remembered.

  The finding of the broken cuff-link—her decision to follow up the clue herself—the growing suspicion of the man with whom she had had tea—the sudden dizziness after that last cup, and then oblivion.

  She was lying on something soft, and when she tried to move she found that her wrists and ankles had been bound. The dryness of her mouth and throat was due, she discovered, to a gag that had been tied securely about her lips. She could see nothing, but she guessed where she was. In the house of the man she had been so foolish as to visit alone.

  How he had become suspicious of her she could not tell, but concluded that her questions had not been as clever as she had believed. That cup of tea—her second—had without a doubt been drugged. She remembered that he had made an excuse to leave the room just before it was poured out. He had gone, of course, with the intention of getting the drug.

  Curiously enough, she felt no fear, and wondered at herself. She put it down to the fact that her senses were still dazed by the drug she had swallowed, for there was certainly cause to fear. The man into whose clutches she had fallen would stop at nothing to ensure his safety, and she was, while she lived, a distinct menace to that safety. His action in treating her as he had was sufficient proof of his guilt, and for his own sake he dared not let her go back to the world and tell her story.

  In a detached way, as though she were considering the case of somebody else, she speculated on the method he would use to kill her. Would he treat her as he had treated the others? She rather hoped he wouldn’t. There was something dreadful at the thought of being hanged.

  A twinge of pain in one of her legs made her wince, and she moved with difficulty to try and ease the cramp that was attacking her. She succeeded in turning over on her side, and found a modicum of relief.

  Everything was very silent and still, and she wondered what the time was. She had no means of telling, for she couldn’t say how long she had been unconscious. For a long time she lay staring into the darkness, and presently found that she was hungry. This material craving almost made her laugh. It was so stupid to think about food when at any moment she might meet her death. And yet hungry she was, and would have given a lot for a good meal and a cup of tea.

  She was dozing when the sound of soft footsteps made her alert and wakeful. They stopped close at hand, and she heard the clink of metal against metal. A cold draught of air blew into her face. There was the soft thud of a closing door and the click of a switch.

  The darkness was suddenly dispelled in the blinding light of an electric globe which blazed overhead. In front of her, standing by the door through which he had entered, was the man to whom she owed her present position.

  He advanced a few steps farther into the room and looked down at her.

  “So you have recovered, eh, Miss Elliot?” he said pleasantly. “I hope that the drug I was compelled to use has left no very unpleasant after effects.”

  The gag prevented her replying, and he evidently required no answer for he made no attempt to remove it.

  “I’m terribly sorry that all this should have been necessary,” he went on, “but it was entirely your own fault, and I’m sure you will realize that under the circumstances I could hardly have acted differently.”

  He might have been addressing a board meeting, so carefully did he choose his words, and so completely without emotion was his voice.

  “It is a great pity,” he said shaking his head, “that you didn’t leave well alone, and keep out of this business. It is a most unpleasant affair. Nobody I’m sure finds it more distasteful than I do. But three people had to die for reasons which I need not go into, and one cannot pick and choose when the devil drives. But I am being quite honest when I tell you that I thoroughly dislike murder in any shape or form.”

  Joyce stared at him, her eyes wide. There was no doubting that he was in earnest. He was merely speaking the truth. He had killed because for some reason it was necessary for him to kill, but he had done it much as he would clear up a nasty mess. There was something cold and calculating about this way of looking at wilful murder that sent a shiver of horror down the girl’s spine.

  Something of this must have been visible in her eyes, for the man b
efore her smiled.

  “You can’t understand that, can you?” he said. “You’re shocked. You can’t understand that, hating murder, I should yet commit it? There is no reason on earth why I should attempt to explain or justify myself to you, but I’m going to for my own satisfaction.”

  He paused, pulled a chair towards her, and sat down.

  “My argument is based on the fact that most of us have to do things that we dislike in order to live,” he went on conversationally, “and murder is merely a degree. I disliked having to kill Wallington immensely. In fact, it was quite a long time before I made up my mind to do it. I looked at the matter from all sides, and when I had come to the conclusion that it was necessary for my—shall I say comfort?—that Wallington should die, I set about killing him in the same way as I should set about selling a house—purely as a matter of business. Irene Mortimer was even more unpleasant, but that had to be done, and I did it. I arranged to throw suspicion on your uncle in order that I might remain unsuspected—again purely a matter of business—and a particularly clever piece of business, too, I think. George Tidd I felt no compunction in killing at all. All blackmailers should be killed. It is one of the unforgivable crimes. I don’t know why I am telling you all this, but it gives me a lot of satisfaction to speak about it to someone who cannot use it against me.”

  He stopped, and Joyce wondered to what all this was leading. There was now no longer any doubt in her mind that this man, seated solemnly in front of her, was not sane.

  His views were abnormal, warped, the products of a brain that had slipped just a hair-line over the border. He was not mad in the accepted sense of the word, not mad in the same way that poor Harold Smedley had been mad, but the possessor of a kink.

  He rose to his feet and pushed back the chair.

  “And now I’m going to tell you what I came to tell you,” he said, and there was no trace of emotion in his voice. “Of course, you realize that having found me out, I can’t very well let you go and give me away to the police. Neither can I possibly keep you a prisoner for ever, so I have only one alternative. You must cease to live.”

  The girl on the low couch shrank back, and from behind the gag came a strangled cry. She had expected nothing else, but the shock was still the same.

  He surveyed her pityingly.

  “I’m really very sorry,” he said, “and when I say that I’m speaking the truth. But in the position I’m placed it’s essential. However, I have no intention of serving you the same way as the others. It is no longer necessary, for one thing, and besides, I’ve no desire for your death to seem anything else but an accident. There is, beyond Linden, as you know, a stretch of road bordered on one side by a sheer drop into a hollow.”

  He looked at his watch.

  “It is now a little after ten-thirty,” he went on. “At midnight I shall come back, carry you out to your car, and drive you to that stretch of road. Some time during tomorrow you and the car—or what’s left of it—will be found at the bottom of the hollow. I think the verdict at the inquest will be ‘Accidental death.’”

  Without another word he went to the door, switched out the light, and she heard the key turn in the lock and his footsteps die away.

  Chapter Twenty-Six – escape!

  Trevor Lowe sat in the charge-room of the little police station while Jim Bryant paced up and down, and Francis Nethcott leaned up against the mantelpiece and stared into the empty grate. Presently Shadgold came out of Inspector Lightfoot’s office.

  “The call has gone out to all stations,” he announced, “with the description of Miss Elliot and the car. We ought to have some sort of news before midnight.”

  The young man stopped his ceaseless patrol of the bare room and swung round.

  “Ought we?” he exclaimed huskily. “And is that all you can do, any of you? Just wait here until somebody rings up?”

  “Steady,” said Lowe. “We’re doing all we can.”

  Jim reddened, and then went white.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

  “It’s no good letting your nerves go,” said the dramatist in a more gentle voice. “I know how you’re feeling but there’s quite a chance that you may be worrying without cause. Miss Elliot may only have had a breakdown.”

  “She would have telephoned if she had,” said Francis Nethcott dully. “It’s something more serious than that.”

  “Whatever it is, we can’t do any more than we’re doing,” grunted Shadgold. “We’ve telephoned all the garages, and warned all stations to look out for the car. That will be passed on to the patrols and point-duty men. If there has been an accident we should have news of it soon.”

  Jim opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and said nothing. A silence fell, broken by the monotonous tramp of the young man’s feet as he recommenced his pacing, and the loud ticking of the wall clock. Lowe stared at the floor and wondered. He had heard of their compact from Jim Bryant and he wondered if this absence of Joyce Elliot was even more sinister than any of them realized. Had the girl by some strange chance come upon a clue which the police had missed, and by so doing fallen foul of the murderer? It seemed to be the only alternative to an accident, and as Francis Nethcott had said, unless she had been very seriously hurt, she would surely have telephoned her home before this. He kept the alternative to himself, however. It would do no good to add to their fears, and nothing more could be done than was being done.

  The stolid desk-sergeant stopped writing in his ledger as the telephone bell rang, and stretched out a long arm for the instrument. Four pairs of eyes fixed themselves on him as he lifted the receiver.

  “Hullo!” he called, and then in a changed voice: “Yes, sir, he’s here now. Hold the line, sir.” He looked across at Lowe. “The chief constable would like to speak to you, sir,” he said.

  The dramatist crossed over to the desk, took the receiver from the sergeant’s hand, and put it to his ear.

  “Is that Mr. Lowe?” came Payton’s voice over the wire, and then when the dramatist replied in the affirmative: “I tried to get you at your hotel, but your secretary said you’d gone to the police station. Anything fresh?”

  “Nothing,” said Lowe laconically.

  “I thought I’d ring up and see if you’d found out anything about the fellow who attacked you last night,” said the chief constable. “It’s just come to my knowledge that an encampment of gypsies have settled near Linden, and these fellows are pretty desperate. I suppose it couldn’t have been one of them?”

  “It could, but I’m sure it wasn’t,” broke in Lowe. “I haven’t the least doubt that the man who tried to kill me was ‘The Hangman.’”

  There was a moment’s pause.

  “Well, it was only a suggestion,” said Payton at length, “and as soon as it struck me I thought I’d ring you up. I’m just going to bed and if you’ve nothing to tell me I’ll ring off.”

  “No, I’m afraid there’s nothing,” said the dramatist. “We’re all rather worried here at the moment about Miss Elliot——”

  “Miss Elliot?” interrupted the chief constable in surprise. “What’s the matter with Miss Elliot?”

  “She’s disappeared,” answered Lowe. “She went out this afternoon in her car, and she hasn’t come back.”

  There was an exclamation at the other end of the wire.

  “Hasn’t come back?” repeated Payton and his voice was suddenly concerned. “Why, she left me at a little after five——”

  “Did she come to see you then?” broke in the dramatist quickly.

  “Yes,” was the reply. “She called in the car round about four. I was rather surprised to see her because, although I’ve often been to the Nethcotts’, she’s never called before.”

  “What did she call about?” Again Lowe interrupted him.

  “About her uncle—Smedley,” answered Payton. “She was terribly upset. In fact I thought she was going to be ill, but she recovered.”

  “And she left soon af
ter five?” said Lowe. He waved away Jim Bryant who was hovering at his elbow. “Did she say where she was going?”

  “No,” replied Payton. “I naturally concluded that she was going home. I say, I hope nothing’s happened. She nearly fainted while she was talking to me, and if she—I mean, if she felt ill again while she was driving her car——” He left the sentence unfinished.

  “They’ve warned all stations, anyway,” said Lowe, “and if anything like that has happened we should hear pretty soon.”

  “Well, you’ll let me know directly you do hear anything, won’t you?” said Payton anxiously. “I feel rather worried. I ought to have insisted on driving her home myself.”

  “I’ll let you know at once,” promised the dramatist, and the other wished him good night and rang off.

  Lowe hung up the receiver and turned to the others. In a few words he related the conversation he had just had.

  “Called at Payton’s did she?” said Mr. Nethcott. “Well, that’s something, anyhow.”

  “It’s nothing!” cried Jim, his face white and drawn. “It only makes it worse. She left him at a little after five and it’s now”—he glanced at the clock—“a quarter past twelve. Seven hours and not a sign of her.” He dropped into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

  “It certainly looks as though there’s been an accident of some sort,” muttered Shadgold.

  “Then she couldn’t have driven straight home,” declared Trevor Lowe, shaking his head. “If there’d been an accident between Payton’s house and the Square we should have heard of it almost at once.” He fingered his chin and frowned. “Where the devil can she have gone to when she left Payton?”

  They looked at each other in turn, but no one offered a suggestion.

  “Damn it, she couldn’t have disappeared more effectively if the ground had opened and swallowed her up!” growled the Scotland Yard man. “It’s——” He broke off as there came the sound of a sudden commotion from the passage at the back of the police station. “What the hell?” he cried, but his words were drowned as the door was flung back with a crash and a man darted across the charge-room.