The Hangman Page 3

  “How are you, Shadgold?” he said, holding out his hand. “It’s some time since I’ve seen anything of you. White was only wondering this morning what had become of you.”

  “I’ve been pretty busy lately, Mr. Lowe,” said Shadgold, laying his hat down on the settee. “Nothing big, but a thundering lot of little niggling affairs. And now just as I thought there was a chance of getting a little easier time, they’ve landed me with a real snorter.”

  Trevor Lowe smiled. He had guessed that this sudden visit portended something unusual that Shadgold had come up against.

  “Sit down and tell me all about it,” he said, pushing forward a chair. “Will you have a drink?”

  “Thanks, just a spot,” replied the inspector gratefully, sinking into the comfortable embrace of the chair.

  The dramatist went over to the sideboard and poured out a stiff whisky. Carrying this back, he gave it to Shadgold.

  “Now when you’ve got rid of that let’s hear all about it,” he said.

  Shadgold swallowed half the contents of the glass at a gulp, and set it down.

  “It’s this Hill Green business,” he explained. “The locals have asked for help and the Yard’s sending me down. I’m leaving at seven-thirty.”

  The smile vanished from Lowe’s face.

  “You’re going to find yourself up against a tough job,” he remarked.

  “I know,” answered the inspector. “It’s going to be about the toughest I’ve ever tackled, and that’s why—er—I thought—you see—I don’t want to——” He reddened and stopped.

  “You want to know if I’ll help you,” said Lowe. “Is that it?”

  “That’s it, Mr. Lowe,” said Shadgold with a sigh of relief. “I know it’s a lot to ask and of course, if you’re busy——”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m not at the moment,” interrupted Lowe. “I finished my new play last night, and I was intending to take a holiday. I’ve read all that the newspapers have to say about these murders, and I must admit that I am very much interested.”

  Trevor Lowe’s hobby, when he found time to indulge in it, was crime. He was intensely interested in police work, and it was during the time that he was engaged in writing a murder play that he had met Inspector Shadgold. He had gone to Scotland Yard in order to get some facts, regarding police procedure, and had been interviewed by the inspector. Shadgold was at the time investigating the murder of Thomas Carraway, the ex-member of Parliament who had been found stabbed to death in the grounds of his house in the country. He had discussed the case with Lowe, with the result that when he had found himself completely at sea, the dramatist had been able to suggest a theory which eventually solved the mystery. Since then he had taken a tremendous interest in any case with which Shadgold was concerned. They had worked together over the affair at Phantom Hollow, and the other business connected with the murder of Elmer N. Jensen.

  “Well, if you’ll give me a hand, I shall be very grateful, Mr. Lowe,” said the inspector.

  “I know nothing more about the matter than I’ve read in the newspapers,” said Lowe, lighting a cigarette.

  “Neither do I,” replied Shadgold. “I shall probably hear some more when I arrive at Hill Green to-night—if there’s anything they’ve kept back.” He reached out a hand and finished the remainder of his drink. “As I said before,” he went on, “I’m leaving at seven-thirty from the Yard. I suppose”—he hesitated—“you couldn’t come along too, if I called for you?”

  “Not to-night,” Lowe shook his head. “Besides, I don’t think it would be good policy for us to go down together. These county people may put up with Scotland Yard, but I’m sure they’d resent a private individual butting in.”

  “Let ’em go on resenting!” growled Shadgold. “If you’re there at my invitation——”

  “It’s not going to make things any easier for you,” ended Lowe. “No, I’ll tell you what I will do. I’ll come down to-morrow during the morning, and if you’ll let me know by phone where you’ll be, we can meet and chat matters over. How’s that?”

  “That’s O.K. with me,” said Shadgold. “I’ll give you a ring first thing in the morning, and we might have lunch together.”

  “Then that’s settled,” remarked the dramatist. “In the meanwhile I’ll re-read everything that’s been printed about these murders, so that I’ve got the whole thing at my fingertips.”

  Shadgold rose and held out his hand.

  “Well, thank you very much, Mr. Lowe,” he said. “I must be off now. I’ve got to get some sort of a meal before I leave.”

  Trevor Lowe accompanied him to the door, and then returning to his study he searched among a file of newspapers and carried a number of them over to his desk. With a writing-block beside him he waded steadily through the papers, making an occasional note as he proceeded. It was eight o’clock when he finished, and got up and stretched himself with a yawn.

  “Shadgold was right,” he muttered, as he poured himself out a drink. It’s not going to be at all easy.”

  Just how difficult it was really going to be the events of the next few days were to show him.

  Chapter Six – a conference

  Detective-Inspector Shadgold arrived in Hill Green shortly before nine and made straight for the police station in order to introduce himself to the local inspector with whom he was going to work.

  He was conducted through the charge-room to a large and spacious office at the back, and to his surprise found not only Inspector Lightfoot waiting to receive him, but Major Payton, the chief constable, as well.

  The reason for Payton’s presence was because he expected a certain amount of constraint. He had overruled his subordinate in asking the aid of Scotland Yard, and he knew that Inspector Lightfoot was feeling a little sore at the case of his life being taken out of his hands. Therefore, Payton, who wanted to avoid as much friction as possible, when he learned by telephone that Shadgold was on his way down, decided to be present and, if necessary, pour oil on any troubled waters there might be.

  He greeted Shadgold with a pleasant smile, and asked him if he would like any refreshment after his journey.

  “No thank you, sir,” replied the red-faced inspector. “I dined before I left London.”

  “That’s excellent,” said Payton. “Then we can get to business at once. Let me introduce you to Inspector Lightfoot and Sergeant Bolton.”

  Shadgold turned towards the two stiff figures seated at the table and tried to smile genially. It was difficult.

  Inspector Lightfoot, red-haired and stern of eye, regarded him stonily. His face was hard and wooden, and, if he had any feelings, a mask for those feelings. Sergeant Bolton was thin and dark. A lugubrious, melancholy man whose blue, watery eyes looked reproachfully at this cuckoo that had invaded their nest.

  Shadgold summoned up his courage.

  “How d’you do?” he said. “Pleased to meet you!”

  He received in return a slight bow from Lightfoot and a grunt from Bolton. The chief constable, hastily stepping into the breach, pushed forward a chair.

  “Sit down, Inspector,” he said cheerfully, “and let’s talk the thing over.”

  Shadgold sat down on the right of the chief constable, and, facing the other two, waited. There was a silence. The chief constable moved uneasily in his chair and glanced at Inspector Lightfoot. Inspector Lightfoot glanced at the chief constable and cleared his throat. Shadgold had been in similar situations not once but many times, and he had his own methods. He thrust down his naturally truculent impulses and became as pleasant as possible. He smiled impartially at all three.

  The chief constable coughed.

  “I think it would be as well if Inspector Lightfoot gave you a detailed account of the case,” he said. “I presume you know little or nothing about it at present?”

  “I know nothing except what I have seen in the papers,” replied Shadgold. “I shall be grateful if Inspector Lightfoot will let me have all details and also tell me how f
ar he has got with his investigations.

  The graciousness of his manner had its effect. The inspector visibly thawed. The hardness of his face softened. He felt in his pocket and produced a bulky notebook. Opening it, he laid it on the table in front of him, and began in an official voice to tell his story, refreshing his memory every now and again by consulting his notes.

  Shadgold listened intently without making any comment. There was very little more than he had already seen in the newspapers. He gathered that everybody remotely connected with the deceased people had been interviewed and questioned, but without any very useful result. Boiled down to the bones what Inspector Lightfoot had to tell him was simply this: Two people within two days had been murdered by hanging, and there was absolutely no clue at all to the identity of the murderer.

  “That’s all,” said Lightfoot, closing his book with a snap. “And precious little it is.”

  “I don’t see what more you could have done, though, Inspector,” said Shadgold tactfully. “It’s a very difficult job—very difficult indeed.”

  “It’s an impossible job,” grunted Lightfoot, though he looked rather pleased at the Scotland Yard man’s praise.

  “What we have got to do is to make it possible,” said the chief constable. “This unknown killer has got to be caught, and before he can do any further damage.”

  Shadgold nodded thoughtfully.

  “Have you any suggestions to make, sir?” he asked, respectfully. “I mean, have you thought out any line of investigation you’d like us to follow?”

  Major Payton rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward.

  “I have, as a matter of fact, got a suggestion to make,” he admitted.

  Inspector Lightfoot leaned back in his chair, and his attitude suggested that he was prepared for the worst. Sergeant Bolton yawned, hastily realized what he was doing, and converted the yawn into a sneeze. Shadgold, inwardly amused, regarded the chief constable with respectful interest.

  “Both you, sir, and Inspector Lightfoot are so much better acquainted with the neighbourhood and its residents than me,” he said, “that I shall be very glad to hear what you suggest.”

  Major Payton coughed.

  “I’m afraid,” he began a little apologetically, “that it isn’t much of a suggestion, but it may prove helpful.” He looked from one to the other and then went on: “I think we are all agreed that the possibility that these murders are the work of a lunatic is a very likely one.”

  “It seems the only sensible solution,” grunted Lightfoot.

  “Up to now,” amended Shadgold. “Personally, I should like to exhaust all other explanations before definitely agreeing with that one.”

  “Quite, quite!” said the chief constable hastily. “But I think it’s a possibility that must be borne in mind, and therefore my suggestion is this; that an inquiry should be started to try and discover all the persons of weak intellect in the vicinity of Hill Green, and, having done so, check up their movements at the times these two crimes were committed.

  Shadgold looked interested. This man was cleverer than he had expected.

  “That’s a very good idea, sir,” he said approvingly.

  Major Payton looked pleased.

  “What do you think, Inspector?” he asked, turning to Lightfoot.

  Lightfoot nodded heavily.

  “I like the scheme, sir,” he said, “but it’s going to be difficult to carry out. How are we going to find out who the balmy people are?”

  “That shouldn’t be very difficult,” said the Scotland Yard man. “The doctors would probably be able to give you the information you require. No”—he shook his bullet head slowly—“that won’t be the difficulty. There are two objections to your idea, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.” He looked across at Major Payton.

  “Not at all, not at all,” said the chief constable graciously. “We are here to discuss the matter. Go on.”

  “Well, then, sir,” said Shadgold, “the objections are these: If these murders are the work of a homicidal maniac it’s quite possible that neither the doctors nor anyone else would know that there was anything the matter with him. I mean that he would probably be normal in every way except for the killing streak. That’s the first objection. The other is, supposing this isn’t the work of a lunatic but somebody who, for his own ends, wants to make it appear that it is. What then?”

  “Well, in the latter case,” answered Payton, “our inquiry will have no result, except,” he added as a sudden thought occurred to him, “it will make the killer think he has fooled us, and so give him a false sense of security, which might lead to his giving himself away.”

  “Yes, there’s something in that,” agreed the burly inspector. “It’s a very good kicking-off point, sir, anyway, and I think it should be tried.”

  “I’ll arrange to set some men at work first thing in the morning,” said Lightfoot.

  “There’s another line that I think should be followed up,” remarked Shadgold, and was secretly gratified to notice that the chilliness in the atmosphere was thawing fast. “We should try and discover if there’s anything in the lives of the two victims that connect them—apart, I mean, from the fact that they were distant cousins. A connection that might result in finding a common motive for somebody wanting these two out of the way.”

  “On to that already,” growled Lightfoot. “Expect to get the reports through on Monday or Tuesday.”

  “Good!” approved the Scotland Yard man. “Then at the moment that’s all I’ve got to suggest. To-morrow I should like to have a look at the scenes of both the crimes.”

  “I’ll meet you here at any time you like,” said Lightfoot. “How would ten o’clock suit you?”

  Shadgold nodded.

  “That’ll suit me fine,” he said. “And now I must go and see about some quarters, sir. I haven’t fixed anywhere to stay yet.”

  “We have arranged that for you,” said the chief constable. “Sergeant Bolton has booked a room for you in the house where he lodges.”

  “That’s right,” mumbled the melancholy Sergeant Bolton.

  Shadgold thanked the chief constable, but inwardly he was not at all sure that he relished sharing the same roof with the lugubrious Bolton. He would infinitely have preferred a room in some quiet little inn on his own. However, the arrangements had been made, and he could not very well alter it without giving offence, and that was the last thing he wished to do.

  The conference broke up soon after, and Major Payton departed homewards in his car, after extracting a promise that they would keep in touch with him regarding any discoveries that might be made. Shadgold said good night to Inspector Lightfoot, and was glad to find that individual a little more cordial than at their meeting. He went off with Bolton, and found that the sergeant lived quite close to the police station in one of a small row of cottages that faced some allotments.

  His room was comfortable, and when he had arranged for his car to be garaged a tasty supper, flanked by a bottle of beer, was served to him by the rosy-faced woman to whom the cottage belonged.

  Shadgold was tired, and it was not long before he was in bed, and snuggling his head into the lavender-scented pillow. But it was a long time before he was asleep. Over and over again he considered all the details of the case, and the more he thought of it the more difficult appeared the task that lay before him. The last thought that ran out of his brain as sleep took possession of it was one of thankfulness that Trevor Lowe would be coming down in the morning.

  Chapter Seven – lunch for two

  Sunday at Hill Green was neither a day of rest nor a day of toil. Providing it was reasonably fine, the golf course became a mass of colourful dots, which on closer inspection turned out to be a collection of the latest tweed suitings in many and varying designs. From midday on Saturday to seven o’clock on Monday morning the residents forgot such things as offices, banks, shops and the like where the greater part of their lives were spent, and became people of lei
sure. They played golf in the morning and bridge in the evening, and the more advanced among the community even went to the extent of throwing an occasional cocktail party.

  On Sunday the insistent call of the 8.20 from Hill Green station was forgotten. Mr. Stott and his friend Mr. Julian Rusk, clad in rather startling plus-fours, the product of a tailor whom they both patronized in the City, sallied forth after a large and leisurely breakfast to the links, and there met other and equally brilliantly clad friends.

  Mr. Rusk, who was staying with his friend while his wife was on a visit to a sick aunt, had during the last few days thoroughly enjoyed himself. He had found himself miraculously thrust into the limelight through no effort of his own, and innumerable drinks and invitations to lunch had been showered on him. Mr. Stott also had become quite a celebrity not only in Hill Green, but at his place of business. This, to them, pleasing state of affairs had been brought about merely by the fact that they had found the body of the unfortunate Doctor Wallington.