The Hangman Page 15

  “Good God!” shouted Lowe. “It’s Smedley! Stop him!”

  He flung himself in the way of the racing man, received a violent blow on the chin, and staggered back. His foot collided with the base of the desk and he fell heavily to the floor. Before he could recover himself, or Shadgold could make a move, Harold Smedley had disappeared through the entrance to the police station into the night. The whole thing had happened so quickly that the stout inspector and the desk sergeant were taken completely by surprise. They recovered themselves however, and as Lowe scrambled to his feet they darted out of the door in pursuit. But the escaping man was already at the wheel of the dramatist’s car which had been left by the kerb, and was frantically kicking at the self-starter. As Shadgold and the panting sergeant leaped down the steps the car began to move. Exerting all his energy, Shadgold ran forward and sprang on to the running board. His hands clutched at the side of the body, and then he received a heavy blow in the chest that sent him sprawling into the roadway. The sergeant helped him to his feet as the others came running out.

  “He’s got away!” panted Shadgold breathlessly, rubbing his right knee. “Tell Lightfoot to phone for a car, we’ll have to go after him.”

  “How on earth did he manage to get out of his cell?” asked Lowe, and the stout inspector shrugged his shoulders.

  “Heaven knows!” he grunted. “Somebody’s carelessness. We’d better go back and see.”

  The car with Harold Smedley had disappeared into the blackness of the night as they turned and re-entered the police station. Inspector Lightfoot met them on the step looking worried and anxious.

  “I want a car at once,” snapped Shadgold, and Lightfoot barked an order to the flustered sergeant.

  A dishevelled constable was leaning against the desk, mopping at his nose with a large and none too clean handkerchief.

  “’E took me by surprise,” he said. “Asked for a glass of water. An’ when I brought it, ’it me on the nose, an’ was out of the cell before I knew what ’ad ’appened.”

  “Well, what we’ve got to do is to get him back again as quickly as possible,” growled the Scotland Yard man. “Tell them to hurry up with that car, will you?”

  It was fifteen minutes before the car could be obtained, but within four seconds of its arrival it was racing along the road in the direction taken by Harold Smedley.

  And neither Shadgold, Lightfoot nor Lowe, who were in it, even so much as guessed what the night held in store.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven – peril!

  Lying in the darkness, with strained ears and thumping heart, Joyce heard those slow, measured footsteps fade to silence—a silence so great that the pounding of the blood which her wild heart was pumping through her veins sounded like a steam-hammer.

  While the stranger had been speaking, she had scarcely realized the portent of his words. He had been so quiet and matter-of-fact that what he had said had been robbed of half its meaning. Now, however, that she was alone, full realization broke upon her like the suddenly released waters of a dam. If the threat that had been uttered was carried out, she had only a few hours to live! And she had no doubt that it would be carried out—to the letter. There had been something convincing in the very softness of his voice.

  She frowned. Surely there was some way out! Over and over again she had read of the same kind of situation in books. She racked her brains to try and remember how, but she could think of nothing feasible. In the stories the hero had turned up at the psychological moment, but so far as she was concerned there was no hero to turn up either at the psychological moment or any other moment. Unless, of course, one could call Jim a hero. She smiled at the thought. Anyway, he did not know where she was, and was certainly not likely to guess.

  Over and over again she wished that she had not been so foolish as to beard the lion in his den—or, at any rate, been less open regarding her suspicions.

  If only she had gone to the police when she had found that cuff-link. Well, it was too late now—would, unless a miracle happened, be too late for ever.

  She pulled herself up sharply, and found herself murmuring that well-worn cliché, “while there’s life there’s hope.” Was there any hope? Was there any possible chance of getting out of this terrible position? She thought hard, staring into the darkness. Perhaps, if she could free herself from the cords that bound her, she would be able to find some way out of the room!

  She set to work to try, twisting her wrists this way and that in the hope that the cords would loosen. But the man who had bound her had been careful over his job, and after ten minutes all she had succeeded in doing was to make her wrists sore. She lay still, feeling a little exhausted. A clammy perspiration had broken out on her forehead, and the atmosphere of the room seemed to have become unbearably hot. She knew that this was purely imagination, the result of over-strained nerves and panic.

  Rigidly she schooled herself to control emotions. Panic would get her nowhere. After a little while she felt better, and set to work again to try and free her wrists. Clenching her teeth against the pain it caused, she strained her hands apart. The thin cords burnt into the flesh, but she thought that she felt them give slightly. If only they would stretch sufficiently to enable her to slip one hand free!

  She redoubled her efforts, but her heart sank, and the momentary hope suffered eclipse. The cords may have given a little, or more probably she had imagined that they had, but they remained obstinately tight.

  Panting and breathless, she was forced at last to rest. Once more in the silence of that oppressive room she almost gave way to panic.

  The prospect was hopeless. There was really nothing that could save her from the fate her captor had planned. She tried to look at things logically and from a detached view-point. In a short space of time she, as Joyce Elliot, would cease to exist. She wondered if she would know when she ceased to exist. Would she be conscious of anything after death, or would she just go out—like a candle in the wind? She had heard many views expressed, but now, when the time was drawing so quickly near to actual knowledge, she found that none of them seemed feasible.

  The muffled chime of a clock broke in on her thoughts, and she began to count the strokes, but became uncertain half way through, and gave it up. She found herself wishing that the time would go quickly. If this was to be the end, she would rather get it over. This waiting was a dreadful ordeal—far worse, she was sure, than ever the reality could be. She was afraid that her nerves would give under the strain.

  Obstinately and determinedly she tried to think of something else. Her schooldays; little half-forgotten episodes and incidents that had occurred in her short life. Curiously enough, she found herself becoming absorbed in this retrospection, to the exclusion of the doom that menaced her.

  And then she was brought back from the past to the present suddenly, roughly. It was the sound of the key turning in the lock that jerked her back and sent the blood pounding madly through her veins. She turned her head towards the door, and saw a dim light filter into the darkness as it opened. There was a click, and the room was ablaze with light—light that threw up vividly the figure of the man she feared.

  He advanced quickly and silently towards her, and, stooping, picked her up in his arms. She almost fainted with fright in spite of her determination to be brave, for she knew that the time had come.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight – nothing to chance

  Major Wilfred Payton replaced the telephone receiver on its hook and smiled. The smile showed his even white teeth, of which he was inordinately proud, and also reflected his inward satisfaction. Major Payton was feeling extremely pleased with himself. That telephone message had been a touch of genius. It was a most natural thing for him, under the circumstances to have rung up Lowe and inquire if there was anything fresh, and the dramatist, as he had hoped, had introduced the subject of Joyce Elliot and so given him the opportunity of informing him that the girl had called at his house that afternoon—and left.

  It was impossi
ble to conceal the fact that the girl had been. His servant knew that because the man had admitted her. Payton had racked his brains for a long time over that problem and he had found a solution and such a simple one.

  When he had discovered that Joyce knew a great deal more than she ought to know—and this had been absurdly easy, for the girl’s questions had admitted of no mistake on that point—he had realized that some very drastic action must be taken if his own safety was to be assured. The drug he had administered was a harmless one, for then he had not decided what he was going to do with the girl—that had come after. But he realized that he had to act quickly, and he had done so.

  As soon as she lost consciousness he had called Franklin, the man who attended to his wants, and sent off to the town for a restorative, and before the man had got back he had taken Joyce, bound and gagged her, and locked her in the small smoking-room adjoining his study. The car he had managed to squeeze into the garage beside his own—there was just room—and when Franklin had returned he had calmly informed the man that Miss Elliot had recovered and gone.

  His telephone message to Lowe would bear out this story, and when the wrecked car was found no suspicion whatever would attach to him.

  He glanced at his watch and lighted a cigarette. There was time yet, nearly an hour before he need start for the final scene of the drama—or rather the penultimate scene—for there would be one more, perhaps a week or a month later.

  He poured himself out a drink, and carrying it over to a big easy chair, sat himself down at ease.

  His schemes had been a long time maturing. Almost unconsciously his thoughts travelled back over the past months. It was difficult to say with exactitude when the first idea of murder had entered his brain. It had been such a gradual transition from the wish to the plan, and then the deed. At first it had been merely an idea over which he had pondered more to amuse himself than with any thought of actually putting it into practice, although the necessity was urgent and pressing enough, heaven knew. For Major Wilfred Payton, D.S.O., Chief Constable for the county of Blankshire, had for the past year been face to face with ruin.

  He was willing to admit, and did admit, for in that respect he was an honest man, that it was entirely his own fault. His love of gambling had brought him to the verge of bankruptcy, and eventually to the terrible crime of triple murder. There was a house near Park Lane which had seen him three nights out of the seven—a house innocent enough in its exterior, but within whose large and brightly-lighted rooms huge fortunes were nightly lost and won—won for the most part by the people who ran the place.

  The ample fortune that he had inherited from his father had gone this way, and had been quickly followed by the large sums he had been able to raise from moneylenders.

  Six months ago he had seen ruin and disgrace overwhelming him and had contemplated suicide. An appeal to his cousin, Mrs. Conner, had met with a blank refusal from that elderly lady and everything had looked hopeless. The three firms of moneylenders who held his promissory notes had threatened proceedings, and if that happened he knew it would mean his having to resign his position of chief constable. And then gradually had come the idea that had offered a way out.

  It owed its inception to a remark made by Mrs. Conner at his second interview with her. He had made a last appeal, but the old lady had proved obstinate.

  “No, Wilfred,” she had said, with a shake of her grey head, “it’s against my principles to lend anybody money. If you live long enough there’s a very slender chance you may come into my property, but you won’t touch any of it before.”

  He had asked her what she meant, and she had replied:

  “If anything happens to me my money will go to Alec Wallington and Irene Mortimer—equally distributed between the pair of them, but in the unlikely event of them dying before I do the whole of it will go to you. That’s how I’ve made my will.”

  Payton had left with blank despair in his heart, and the letters he had found waiting for him when he got home had done nothing to raise his spirits.

  They were peremptory, and not very civilly-worded epistles from the moneylending firms, giving him three months to redeem his promissory notes with a penalty of bankruptcy proceedings if he failed.

  The total sum involved was in the region of 30,000 pounds, and Payton, if his life had depended on it, could not have laid his hands on 30,000 pence. And this to him was more than his life. It was disgrace and ostracism by the people of the county with whom he did, and wished still, to stand well.

  As he undressed that night and sought his disturbed rest, he remembered he had wished fervently that some form of disaster would overtake his cousins and Mrs. Conner, and place within his reach the means of getting free of his troubles. But even then the idea of murder had not occurred to him. That was to come later, and it was to be inspired by an innocent inspector at Scotland Yard.

  In the course of his duties as chief constable, Payton had visited the big building on the Thames Embankment, and after his business was completed he had been shown over the place. In the Record Office among many other photographs he had been shown one as a special curiosity.

  “That’s Smedley, the Hereford murderer,” said his guide, “killed his wife and child by hanging them. The jury found him insane, and until recently he was shut up in Widemoore. You wouldn’t think he’d kill anything to look at him, would you?”

  Payton, his heart thumping wildly, made some conventional reply, for he had recognized the photograph as the brother of Francis Nethcott who had just come to stay with his brother at Hill Green. There was no mistake. He had been to the Nethcotts’ to dine on the previous night.

  “You say he was at Widemoore until recently?” he asked.

  The inspector who was showing him round nodded.

  “Yes, he’s been let out now,” he answered. “Supposed to be cured. His brother took him away.”

  They passed on to other exhibits, but the information he had so accidentally learned kept flashing through Payton’s brain. That night in the silence and darkness of his bedroom, the beginnings of the plan that was to develop into “The Hangman” were born.

  At first it was merely a wild idea that might be practical. Supposing Alec Wallington and Irene Mortimer were found hanged and supposing sufficient evidence was left that pointed to Harold Nethcott as the guilty man? With his record there wasn’t a jury in existence who wouldn’t bring in a verdict against him without leaving the box. He wouldn’t suffer the extreme penalty of the law. They would be sure to say that he had never really recovered—that he was still insane and had broken out again. He would, at the worst, only be sent back to Widemoore.

  The idea grew and became an obsession. With Wallington and Irene Mortimer removed only one other life—an old woman—stood between him and fortune and relief from the worries that were tormenting him. If the first two could be removed without any suspicion attaching to himself the third stumbling block would surely be easy. A dose of poison administered after a lapse of time would settle Mrs. Conner.

  He began to work the whole thing out in detail. By degrees it took shape as he added pieces until it was a concrete edifice without a flaw. The accidental sight of Harold Nethcott’s torn nail gave him the idea of leaving a piece of nail behind as a clue. It was some time before he could make up his mind where he was going to obtain this necessary piece of nail. He could not take it from his own hand. That would be too dangerous because it would show. And then the solution had flashed on him. Of course! There was very little difference between a finger-nail and a toe-nail. A little special manicure and trimming was all that was necessary.

  He had succeeded in obtaining an extension from the moneylenders, for now he had decided to put what had only been an idea into a practical fact, and having made all his plans, even to securing a duplicate key to the shed, where the Nethcotts’ kept their car, he had killed Doctor Wallington.

  It had been easier than he expected. He had made arrangements on the previous day for W
allington to meet him at seven-fifteen at the junction of Rose Lane and Meadow Road—a lonely spot at that hour. He asked him not to mention the appointment to anyone as it was connected with police business.

  Wallington kept the appointment, and Payton met him in the Nethcotts’ car, which he had surreptitiously borrowed for the purpose, using his duplicate key. If anybody had seen the car waiting and witnessed Wallington get into it, it would only have been another nail in the coffin of suspicion against Nethcott.

  Payton had killed Wallington in the car, strangling him with the rope which he used after to hang him.

  It had not been part of his plan to use the lamp-post on Milton’s Rise, but the road had been deserted, and the idea had suddenly occurred to him. He had already provided himself with the card, and it had been easy to lift the body of his victim up until the loop of the rope had slipped over the bar on the lamp-post. It had only taken a few seconds all told, and then he had returned the car to the shed and gone home.

  Irene Mortimer had been even more simple. He had known she was going to visit friends at Mrs. Topliss’ and had waited near her home again in the Nethcotts’ car. She had been surprised, when he called her to see him at that hour, but unsuspecting naturally had come near enough for him to seize her and pull her into the car. After that the rest was easy.

  After the murder he had left the nail carefully concealed in her fur collar—he had originally intended leaving this clue on the body of Wallington, but had changed his mind.

  Unfortunately for him “Monkey” George had seen him enter and leave the barn, and demanded blackmail. Payton had dealt with him without a qualm, and—he smiled as he remembered this—it was the only one of his three crimes for which he had felt no compunction. He had hated killing poor Wallington and Irene Mortimer.

  The putting of “Monkey” George’s body in the gardens in the centre of the Square had been the outcome of a piece of luck. Without any clear idea of how he was going to use it he had, on one of his visits to the Nethcotts’ house, seen the keys hanging up in the hall, and taken one. After killing George Tidd he blessed his foresight, and used the key, throwing it away afterwards, so that it was sure to be found.