The Hangman Read online

  He had taken every precaution and left nothing to chance. In one respect fate had played into his hands. In the formulating of his plans it had struck him that when Mrs. Conner heard about the deaths of her cousins she might—remembering his financial state, and what she had told him—suspect something. It had been his intention to guard against this by seeing that she was too ill to take any interest in the happenings of the outside world.

  There was a drug untraceable by the medical profession unless they were specially looking for it by which this could have been achieved, but nature had stepped in and saved him the trouble.

  Mrs. Conner had caught a chill, and this had developed into acute influenza. She had been so ill, as a matter of fact, that Payton had been alarmed that she might die, and so effectually prevent his carrying out his scheme, for if she had done that it would have been too dangerous, even with the precautions he had taken for throwing suspicion on to Nethcott. Doctor Wallington and Irene Mortimer would have inherited the money, and the motive would have been too plain.

  But she remained too ill to see anyone but the nurse and her doctor—who absolutely forbade the news of her cousins’ deaths being told her—keeping just outside the danger list. By the time she was well enough to hear about the murders Payton had made up his mind to put the final part of his scheme into execution.

  He finished his drink, and helped himself to another. Beyond a slight acceleration of his pulses, he was feeling perfectly cool. In fact, he prided himself that only once during the whole business had he felt anything else.

  That was when he had learned of Lowe’s experiment with the nail. He had almost given way to panic then. It had been panic that had sent him to the “Hillside Hotel” in a futile attempt to put the dramatist where he could do no harm. It had been a mistake, and he realized it, for it had definitely proved that Harold Nethcott was not guilty, since he was locked up in the police station at the time.

  Well, the unpleasant business was nearly over. He drank his second drink with a sigh of relief. He wished with all his heart that Joyce Elliot had kept out of it. He was not looking forward to what he had to do. But it had to be done, and there it was.

  It was time now. He crossed to the door, opened it, and listened. The whole house was still and quiet. Franklin, his man, had been in bed for at least two hours, and the woman who came morning and evening to do the cooking had long since gone. Leaving the door open, he went into the hall and slipped into a coat, pulling a cap down low over his eyes.

  Going back to his study, he went over to the door of the little smoking-room that adjoined it, and unlocked it. Switching on the light, he crossed over to the low couch on which Joyce was lying. This time he spoke no word, but, picking up the terrified girl in his arms, he carried her out into the hall. Laying her softly down, he listened again, and then began cautiously to undo the front door. The most risky part of his task was now to come. He picked the girl up again and carried her out into the cool darkness of the night, turned, and with difficulty because of his burden, gently closed the door.

  The garage was round at the side of the house, and he took the precaution to walk on the strip of grass at the side of the path, so that his footsteps would make no sound.

  With infinite care he opened the big door, and going inside, put the girl in the car. It was a peculiar characteristic of this man that he avoided looking at her, and the terror-laden eyes that followed his every action never once met his.

  It was impossible to start the engine. He had to wheel the car out, and round to the drive. Fortunately for him, the drive ran down a slight slope to the road, and the car almost ran of its own accord. He got it into the road, and took his place behind the wheel. His heart was in his mouth as he started the engine, but his house stood by itself, and there was nobody to hear.

  Slowly he let in the clutch, and the car began to move. As it glided along the dark thoroughfare a load lifted from his mind. So far so good. Another two hours at the most and he would be back, his task accomplished, and not a single breath of suspicion against him.

  It was only a matter of a few days now before the reward for which he had risked so much would be his. He didn’t know it, but he had taken all his risk for nothing, and steeped his hands in blood for a shadow!

  A woman’s prerogative of altering her mind had definitely put his reward out of his reach a fortnight after she had dangled the possibility before his eyes!

  Chapter Twenty-Nine – through the night

  Payton drove with care. This was the one risky part of his whole plan. A description of the car had been broadcast, and if, by any unlucky chance he should be seen by a patrolling constable and stopped, it would be the end of everything—or the end of the constable. In the pocket of his coat he carried a fully-loaded automatic as a precaution against just this possibility. He hoped that it would not be necessary to use, for, strange as it may seem, Major Payton really had a distinct dislike of taking human life. What he had done—the crimes he had committed had been forced upon him. He was a proud man and the possibility of losing the prestige which he had laboriously acquired in the district around Hill Green, of being pointed out and whispered about by his friends and neighbours as a bankrupt, had been sufficient to break down this distaste for violence. But it was there. Even in the Army during the war he had hated the sight of death, and had never succeeded in becoming inured to it as had so many of his brother officers.

  Psychologically, Major Wilfred Payton was a very curious mixture of contradictory characteristics.

  He took a circuitous route in order to reach the road that would take him to his objective in order that he should not have to pass through the village, and the little car bumped and lurched over the rutted surfaces of the narrow lanes that he traversed.

  How glad he would be when this night’s business was over! He hated the whole thing! Why in the world had Joyce Elliot wanted to interfere? Why couldn’t she have kept out of it and left him in peace, without inflicting this unpleasant and distasteful business on him? He felt a wave of annoyance pass over him. Everything had been planned so well and had gone so smoothly, and now, at the very last moment, this infernal girl had to butt in and almost spoil everything.

  Well, it was a good job she had come to him instead of going to the police—or Lowe.

  He swung the car round a sharp bend, and, crossing a secondary road, turned into what was little more than a cart track. He was driving here without lights, and twice he almost fouled the banks at the side. He would have to be more careful. An accident now would be an appalling disaster, and absolutely ruin all his carefully conceived plans. To his surprise, he found that the perspiration was running in streams down his face. He took out his handkerchief and wiped it away. This would never do. It was nerves, of course, but he mustn’t give way to his nerves.

  He had not done so far; it was silly on this, the last lap. This dark and twisting lane seemed endless, particularly at the slow speed he was forced to travel at, and yet he felt that he had chosen his route well. Except for the moment when he had crossed the secondary road, and at the very beginning when he had left his house, he had not gone near anywhere where he was likely to be seen.

  Nobody would ever dream of looking for a car the way he had come. This was probably the first car that had passed that way in years. The surface was too bad and the way too narrow. The hedges on either side brushed against the car as he forced it through. He wondered if the branches would leave scratches on the paint and whether when the car was found at the bottom of the hollow these scratches would puzzle the police, and concluded that there would not be enough of the machine left to worry over that.

  The narrow road began to widen and presently he came out on to a broad, macadamed highway. This was his real risky part of the journey. He dropped his right hand from the wheel, and feeling in his pocket, drew out the automatic, and laid it in his lap. He wasn’t taking any chances. If anyone tried to stop him—well, so much the worse for them!

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nbsp; He swung round into the highway and pressed his foot on the accelerator. The car gathered speed, and, leaning forward, he switched on the lights. It would be better and safer to travel here with lights in case he met or overtook any other traffic. A lightless car would tend to rouse suspicion.

  The engine purred rhythmically, and, responding to the pressure of his foot on the pedal, the car gathered speed. The headlights danced and quivered on the road ahead, and sprayed on to the hedges at the side, picking out the leaves in a bright emerald green. Payton’s heart began to grow lighter as he decreased the distance to his destination. Another quarter of an hour—twenty minutes at the most—would see the end. Another hour and a half at the outside, and he would be back home and snuggling between the sheets, his task accomplished.

  Suddenly he frowned and listened. Away behind him he heard above the gentle hum of his own engine the sound of another car. Slowing slightly, he glanced in the mirror attached to the windscreen. Behind him blazed two great white discs of light. Blindingly they blazed along the road, and even as he looked they drew nearer.

  He increased his speed, but those circles of molten fire showed no sign of dropping behind. Payton muttered a curse. This was a nuisance. Whoever it was, they had a more powerful car than he, and it would be just as well to let them pass.

  He was at the foot of the hill which led to the place he was making for, and it was essential that the other car should go by and get well away before he put his plan into execution. It would never do for anyone to see the car stop. When later they heard of the accident they might come forward and make a lot of trouble.

  He decided on his course of action, and swerving to the side of the road slowed down. The great blinding lights swept nearer, and then the car was level with him. He expected it to roar past, and his heart jumped and he suddenly felt physically sick as it, too, slowed down and ran level.

  And then he recognized it. It was Trevor Lowe’s Rolls!

  His teeth met in his lower lip until blood streamed down his chin. Had the dramatist found him out, after all? Was Lowe aware who “The Hangman” was? Had he known all the time, and been playing with him like a cat with a mouse?

  No, of course not. This was pure accident, but fatal for all that. Lowe must have been out for some reason and recognized the car. That was it. If he could get away, there was still a chance that everything would be all right.

  He heard a shout from the big car, and took a quick glance at it as he increased his speed. The dashboard light was on, and in its rays he saw the face of the driver. Harold Smedley! Good God! But Smedley was in prison locked in a cell. Was he going mad? The wild face of the man in the other car couldn’t belong to Harold Smedley. He opened the throttle to its fullest extent, and shot ahead, but only for a moment. The big, powerful machine that was chasing him drew level again. They were racing up the hill now, and at one side of the road was, as Payton knew very well—nothing!

  And towards this side—the right hand side—the big car was slowly and relentlessly forcing the smaller one!

  The sweat was running down Payton’s face in streams and mingling with the blood from his bitten lips. His brain was working busily to try and hit on some plan to circumvent the other man, who was driving him to death. And then suddenly the car level with him shot ahead. Like a greyhound it bounded forward and silhouetted in the reflected glare of its powerful lamps, he saw it speeding away in front of him.

  This new move puzzled him! What was Smedley up to? Had he given up and gone on? And then the meaning of the manœuvre flashed on him. Smedley was going to block the road!

  Payton considered the possibility of turning and going back the way he had come, but discarded it almost as soon as he thought of it. The other car would overtake him easily—could overtake him even given a start. No—his hand touched the cold steel of the pistol on his lap—he would fight for it. It was very doubtful if Smedley was armed, and he would have the advantage.

  A scheme came to him—a scheme that was simple and perfect in its completeness if he could carry it out. He would overcome Smedley and then send him and Lowe’s car over into the void, together with the car containing Joyce Elliot. The whole thing would look natural. The two cars meeting on the narrow road, the collision, and both plunging over the precipice! So vivid was the picture in his mind that he could almost see it happening, and it would be better than his original idea—infinitely better. The pistol must only be used to scare Smedley. He mustn’t shoot the man. That would spoil the whole plan.

  The car in front, slowed, turned, and ran into the left-hand bank, forming an impassable barricade.

  Payton set his teeth, gripped the butt of his automatic, and, bringing his own car to a halt, got out. As he did so, he saw Smedley advancing towards him.

  Chapter Thirty – tragedy!

  Harold Smedley sat exultantly at the wheel of Lowe’s car. The cool wind blew against his heated face as he urged the machine forward and he could have shouted aloud at the sheer joy of it. He was free, free as the air that ruffled his hair and whistled past his ears.

  Seated dejectedly in the little cell at the police station, his mind a chaotic whirl of doubt and fear, something had suddenly clicked in his head. An intense and savage desire to get away from the confining walls that hemmed him in took possession of him. He felt that unless he could get out he would have to beat his head against those stone walls.

  He had experienced the same sensation once as a child when he had been shut up for some slight misdemeanour—the same craving for freedom. After that peculiar snapping in his brain his mental alertness seemed to have increased. It was as though a fog had rolled away and the plan by which he could escape had come to him like a flash. And he had done it!

  His spirit sang as the car throbbed its way along the dark road. He had no idea where he was going and cared less. He only had a fierce desire to go on and on and on.

  His foot pressed hard on the accelerator, and the car leaped and quivered like a living thing. The rhythmic purr of the engine was like music in his ears. His pale face was flushed, and his eyes, staring ahead at the road, revealed in the dancing splash of the headlights, were unnaturally bright.

  He came to a turning and swung round almost on two wheels. He was in the main road now, a long stretch of smooth macadam with open fields on either side.

  Staring at the black surface shining in his lights, all kinds of fragmentary scenes flashed and jostled each other through his brain. They had neither beginning nor ending, but unrolled before him like a crazy film. He was driving mechanically, without consciously knowing what he was doing, soothed by the hiss of the tyres and the steady purring of the engine.

  And then suddenly in the glare of his lights he saw a car ahead. It was travelling at a good speed, and as he drew nearer he saw its number-plate, the white figures standing out sharp and clear-cut: XZ0360.

  As he watched them they began to run through his head to a sort of tune: “XZ0360 . . . XZ0360 . . . XZ0360 . . .” It was peculiar. Why was it peculiar? XZ0360 . . . XZ0360 . . . XZ0360 . . . XZ03 . . . Of course! It was the number of his own car!

  His own car? His brows drew together in a frown. Who could be using the car at this hour of the night? Not his brother. Through his crazed brain came a vague vision of Francis Nethcott. It must be Joyce, but why should Joyce be out so late? He was puzzled and being puzzled began to feel curious.

  The car had increased its speed as though anxious to get away from him. He moved his foot, and brought it down harder on the accelerator. The great car bounded and quivered under him as he increased the speed. The receding number-plate of the car in front came closer. Above the roar of his own engine he could faintly hear the sound of the other. Steadily inch by inch he crept nearer, nearer yet——

  Suddenly the car in front swerved and drew in to the side of the road. The move had been unexpected and Smedley shot by before he could apply his brakes. He came to a stop with a shriek from the protesting drums, and looked back. The o
ther car was moving forward again, gathering speed. A moment or so and it would pass him. Whoever was driving it was apparently anxious to give him the slip. A wave of unreasoning anger took possession of him. He was going to see who was in that car. If it was Joyce, he would have something to say.

  He released the brakes, and as the other machine drew level he shot forward and kept beside it. Behind the driving-wheel he caught sight of a white face glaring at him. A man’s face that he seemed to know, but that had no right in that car.

  He shouted, but the owner of the face took no notice, and Smedley felt his temper rise, and the blood began to hammer in his head. How dare the driver of his own car treat him like that. He swung in nearer, forcing the other car towards the side of the road.

  They were running up a steep incline now, through wild and wooded country. At least it was wooded on one side; on the other there seemed to be nothing but blackness. Slowly towards this void he forced the smaller machine, and then he saw for the first time, pressed against the back window, another face—the face of a girl with wide, terror-filled eyes and something about her mouth that hid lips and chin.

  Joyce!

  What was she doing—like that? What was that thing bound round her mouth, and why did she look so terrified? The answer sprang to his mind, clear and illuminating. She wasn’t in the car because she wanted to be. She was there because she couldn’t help it. The thing about her mouth was to prevent her screaming.

  He laughed, a harsh, mirthless sound that was blown back behind him and carried away on the wind. He knew now who the man was who was behind the wheel. Payton, the chief constable. He had got Joyce, and was taking her away—taking her away to that big house where they had shut him up for so many years—where they would have shut him up again if he had given them the chance.