“There must be some sort of a motive, sir,” said the inspector, knitting his ginger eyebrows, and rubbing the lowest of his chins.
“Must there?” growled the chief constable. “I’m not so sure in this case.”
The ginger eyebrows rose quickly into half-moons across the red forehead.
“What exactly do you mean, sir?” asked the inspector.
The chief constable leaned forward resting his elbows on the blotting-pad. His dark eyes under his smooth brows stared fully into the surprised blue ones opposite him.
“That card that was pinned to his coat,” he said slowly. “That looks to me like the work of a lunatic. The Hangman!” He shook his head. “It’s all too sensational. Too unreal.”
Inspector Lightfoot crossed his legs.
“Maybe you’re right, sir,” he said. “Maybe you’re not. I hope you’re not, because if Doctor Wallington was murdered by a lunatic, it’s going to make it very, very difficult.”
“That’s why I want to put a suggestion to you,” said Payton quickly. “Don’t you think we ought to call in the aid of the Yard?”
Lightfoot’s eyebrows returned to their original frown, and the chief constable added hastily:
“I don’t want you to think I doubt your ability to handle the affair, but—well it’s a peculiar case. The newspapers will get hold of it and make a feature of it, and if we don’t find out who killed Wallington they’ll go for us for not asking the Yard for help.”
The inspector sighed. He knew that it would be a big case, and that the newspapers would be full of it, and he hoped that later on they would be full of him and how brilliantly he had handled the matter.
“You must do as you think best, sir,” he said, after a perceptible pause. “It’s entirely for you to decide. Personally I don’t think the Yard can do any more than we’re doing.”
The chief constable reached for a cigarette and lit it. He pushed the box across the desk to Lightfoot, but the inspector shook his head and waited. He had not to wait long.
“I don’t want to act precipitately,” said Payton. “If you think you can manage to bring this business to a successful conclusion, go ahead. But I’m warning you, if you fail they’ll throw mud.”
“Let me try, sir,” said the inspector quickly.
The chief constable blew out a long and lingering cloud of smoke.
“All right,” he said, “but don’t forget that at the moment we’ve no more idea who killed Wallington than Adam.”
“I know, sir,” answered Lightfoot. “I’m not likely to forget it.”
“We’ve got to do something, and quickly,” the chief constable went on. “Now what are we doing?”
Inspector Lightfoot looked slightly embarrassed. He uncrossed his legs and then hurriedly recrossed them, coughing nervously.
“We’re making the usual inquiries, sir,” he began.
“Keep that stuff for the papers, Lightfoot,” broke in Major Payton wearily. “There’s no need to try and work it on me! What have you definitely found out?”
“Nothing, sir,” answered Lightfoot candidly. “Doctor Wallington, according to his housekeeper, was in his usual health, and was if anything more than usually cheerful all day, so the question of suicide——”
“Was there ever a question of suicide?” asked Payton. “The poor fellow couldn’t possibly have hanged himself to that lamp-post—apart from the card.”
“I was considering every possibility,” replied the inspector apologetically. “It would have been difficult for Doctor Wallington to have hanged himself, but it would not have been impossible. He could have done it, and he could have written the card himself.”
“But why should he?” demanded the chief constable.
“Exactly, sir,” nodded the inspector. “That’s why I dismissed the idea of suicide as unlikely. As I was saying, sir, he was in the best of spirits all day, and shortly after dinner he went out saying he would be back at nine-thirty, when he was expecting a patient to call. He never came back. At seven-forty he was found hanging from the lamp-post on Milton’s Rise by Mr. Stott and his friend.”
“What time did he leave his house?” asked the chief constable.
“At seven o’clock exactly,” replied Lightfoot.
“He must have had an early dinner,” muttered Payton.
“He did, sir,” said the inspector, “he ordered it for six o’clock.”
“He left the house at seven,” muttered the chief constable, “and at seven-forty he was found hanging from the lamp-post on Milton’s Rise. Um! Forty minutes later.”
“Yes, sir,” nodded Lightfoot.
“You haven’t been able to find out where he went at seven?” asked Payton. “The fact that he ordered his dinner an hour earlier than usual looks as though he was going to keep an appointment.”
The inspector nodded again.
“Yes, sir, it does,” he agreed, “but we haven’t been able to find out who with, or where. I have a list of all his patients, and Sergeant Bolton is making inquiries among them to find out if there was an urgent case whom he was likely to be visiting.”
“I see.” The chief constable crushed out the stub of his cigarette in the ash-tray. “Well, you seem to be doing all that can be done, Lightfoot, so for the time being you’d better carry on as best you can. For the Lord’s sake, though, get hold of something definite as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, sir,” said Lightfoot. “I’m going to——”
The telephone bell, raucous and insistent, drowned the end of his sentence. Major Payton reached for the instrument and held the receiver to his ear.
“Hello!” he said. “Yes, Payton speaking. What’s that? . . . Yes. . . . Go on, man. . . . Where? . . . What time? . . . Good God! All right, I’ll send. Eh? What’s that? Read that over again, will you . . .?” With his free hand he picked up a pencil and scribbled on his blotting-pad. “Right, I’ve got that. . . . Yes, yes, we’ll do what we can as quickly as we can. . . . Ring off now, will you, and I’ll let you have a word within a quarter of an hour.”
He hung up the receiver and looked at Lightfoot. His face was paler, and had suddenly become drawn and haggard. He was silent for so long that the inspector was forced to speak.
“What was that, sir?” he asked.
“That was Dilling,” said the chief constable. “You know him, Lightfoot, the constable at Hill Green?”
“Yes, sir?” said Lightfoot, leaning forward in his chair in excitement. “Yes, sir?”
“He was telephoning to tell me,” said Major Payton, speaking very slowly, “that at nine-fifteen this morning a labourer in the employ of Farmer Leeman, of Hill Green, went to get some tools from a barn in one of Leeman’s fields. He was surprised to find the lock smashed and the door ajar. He went in thinking that some tramp had broken into the barn, and stolen the tools that he had left there. As he entered he knocked against something—something that was hanging from the cross beam of the roof. . . .” The chief constable lowered his voice and passed his tongue over his dry lips. . . . “It was the body of a woman, Lightfoot, and she had been dead for some time.”
“Good God, sir!” The words came from the inspector like a small explosion. “Another one!”
The chief constable nodded and his hands gripped the edge of his desk.
“Exactly, Lightfoot,” he said gruffly. “Another one. To be exact, Miss Irene Mortimer, and”—he stared the inspector straight in the face—“there was a card, Lightfoot, a small square card pinned to her coat,” his eyes dropped to his blotting-pad, “on which had been printed in pencil: ‘With the compliments of——’”
“The Hangman!” breathed the inspector, and the chief constable nodded.
Chapter Four – terror!
“Another Hanging Murder at Hill Green.
“Second Crime in Two Days.
“Who is The Hangman?
“Hill Green, Saturday.
“Death has stalked through the pleasant residenti
al district of Hill Green, and within two days carried off two prominent members of the community. Death in its most dreadful form—that of murder.
“Close upon the heels of the discovery of the dead body of Doctor Wallington, which was found hanging from a lamp-post on Milton’s Rise at seven-forty on Thursday evening, comes a second and even more terrible tragedy. This morning at nine-fifteen the dead body of Miss Irene Mortimer was found hanging in a barn near Hayloft Farm. The discovery was made by Thomas Jay, a labourer in the employ of Mr. John Leeman, to whom the barn belongs. According to his own statement, Jay went to the barn with the object of getting some tools which he kept there, and which he wanted for his morning’s work. To his surprise, he found that the lock had been broken and that the door was partly open. On entering he discovered, to his horror, the body of a woman hanging from a cross beam which supports the roof of the barn. Jay at once communicated with the police, and the dead woman was cut down. She was later identified as being Miss Irene Mortimer, of 10, Oaklands Road, Hill Green. Doctor Murford, the police surgeon, who examined the body, stated that death had taken place at least six hours before, and was due to asphyxiation. The crime was in every way identical with the killing of Doctor Wallington on Thursday evening last, even to the finding, pinned to the woman’s clothing, of a card bearing the words: ‘With the compliments of The Hangman,’ printed in pencil. There can be little doubt that both murders are the work of the same hand. A wave of panic has swept over Hill Green and the surrounding district, and much speculation is rife as to whether this is the beginning to a series of outrages similar to the infamous Dusseldorf murders. There seems ample ground for this belief, since no motive has yet come to light to account for the tragic deaths of the two victims. Both were well known in Hill Green, and highly respected. Miss Mortimer was a spinster, and Doctor Wallington a bachelor. They both lived alone except for their servants, and were curiously enough distantly related, being cousins twice removed. The manner of the crimes and the cards found in both cases lead to the supposition that the murders are the work of a homicidal maniac. If this is the explanation, the police cannot be too expeditious in apprehending the criminal, for while he or she is at large nobody in the vicinity is safe.
“Later.
“Official inquiries under the direction of Inspector Lightfoot, who is in charge of both cases, have elicited the following facts:
“That the last known person to see Miss Mortimer alive is Mr. Cyril Haytor, of 14, Browning Road.
“That on the night previous to her death (Friday) Miss Mortimer was visiting friends at Mrs. Topliss’, 6, The Crescent.
“That she left Mrs. Topliss’ shortly after eleven-thirty, and was accompanied part of the way home by Mr. Haytor.
“That all her friends and acquaintances affirm that she was in excellent health, and seemed to have no premonition of the fatality that was to overtake her.
“In an interview with our representative, Mr. Cyril Haytor said:
“‘I was at Mrs. Topliss’ with Miss Mortimer, and except for a slight depression due to the death of Doctor Wallington, she was in her usual spirits. When she left at eleven thirty-five, I offered to see her home. At the corner of Browning Road, which is where I live, she refused to allow me to go any farther, and after saying good night, we parted. She went off along Beech Avenue, and I went home. That is the last I saw of her.’
“It has been ascertained that Miss Mortimer never reached her house in Oaklands Road, which is a turning out of Beech Avenue. Between the time she left Mr. Haytor—approximately five to twelve—and the ten minutes it would have taken her to reach her own house, she must have met her murderer. How this person persuaded her to accompany him to the barn where her body was subsequently found, and which is nearly three quarters of a mile away, it is impossible to conjecture.
“But the obvious inference is that Miss Mortimer was not unacquainted with the man or woman whom she met between those two points, the corner of Browning Road and Number 10, Oaklands Road. At that hour of night she would not have stopped to speak to a stranger, and there are no signs on the body to indicate that she was attacked or drugged in any way. The whole thing is an impenetrable mystery, with only one possible solution. That somewhere at large in the neighbourhood is a dangerous lunatic, whose mania takes the form of a desire to kill. This person, male or female, may be outwardly normal in every way, and therefore the more difficult to apprehend. But for the safety of the community at large, and to avenge the deaths of the two unfortunate victims of this ‘lust killer,’ he must be apprehended and put safely under lock and key. It is essential that the police should use every endeavour to bring about this result as quickly as possible, and we earnestly recommend the calling in and co-operation of Scotland Yard without further delay.
“Stop Press.
“We understand that Major Payton, the chief constable for the district, has been in telephonic communication with London, and that a detective from Scotland Yard can be expected to arrive very shortly to take charge of the campaign to run this unknown killer who calls himself ‘The Hangman’ to earth.”
Chapter Five – shadgold pays a call
At five-thirty on that Saturday afternoon, Detective-Inspector Shadgold sat behind the big desk in his cheerless office at Scotland Yard, and debated with himself the advisability of going home. He had had a busy and rather unprofitable day, for a clue which he had been following up in connection with a minor case on which he was engaged had proved useless. He yawned and stretched himself, rose to his feet and looked out of the window. It was not a pleasant afternoon by any means, and he turned away from the dreary prospect with a grunt. A drizzle of rain was falling, and the roadway and pavements were wet and glistening. It would take him, by tube, half an hour to reach his home, but once there there would be food, a warm fire, slippers, and a glass of something to remove the chill of his journey. His square, red face brightened a little at the prospect, and he went over to where his hat and coat hung behind the door. One podgy hand was reaching up to take the coat from its hook when the telephone rang. It was the house telephone, not the ordinary one. Shadgold knew the difference in the tone of the bell. He went back to the desk and picked up the receiver. Holding it to his ear he listened to the voice that came over the wire, and frowned.
“All right, sir, I’ll come at once,” he said, and replaced the receiver on its rack.
The frown deepened, clouding his previous cheerful expression. He crossed over to the door, opened it and went out into the stone corridor. Going to the end of this he descended a flight of stairs, walked half way along another passage, and stopped before a door, on which he tapped. A voice bade him come in, and he entered a large and comfortably-furnished office. At a rosewood writing-table a grey-haired man with remarkably keen dark eyes was seated.
“Sit down, Shadgold,” said the Assistant Commissioner, and waved his hand across a litter of papers towards an empty chair.
Shadgold seated himself rather uncomfortably on the extreme edge.
“I suppose you’ve read in the newspapers about this business at Hill Green,” went on the grey-haired man.
Shadgold nodded.
“Well,” continued the other, “the chief constable has phoned for assistance, and I’m sending you down.”
“Yes, sir,” said Shadgold, the vision of his comfortable evening fading rapidly away. “You want me to drop the Darnley business?”
“Yes, Arthurs can take that on,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “Anybody can do that. But this Hill Green job isn’t anybody’s meat. It needs a good man.”
Shadgold’s face became suffused with a pleasant flush at the implied compliment.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, “but it’s going to be a difficult job.”
“I agree with you,” replied the Assistant Commissioner, “but do your best. Take two men and get off by car as quickly as you like. I’ve told them you’re coming and they’ll be expecting you. Who will you take with you?”
“Nares and Larson,” he said. “They’re not on anything special at the moment, sir.”
“Right, take them then,” said the grey-haired man. “And for heaven’s sake catch this lunatic or whoever it is before we start getting any questions asked in the House. In this case the county police have acted sensibly. They’ve asked us for help at once instead of waiting until they’ve made a mess of everything. I wish they’d always do it.”
“So do I, sir,” said Shadgold. “Is there anything else, sir?”
The Assistant Commissioner shook his head.
“No,” he answered. “They’ll tell you all that is known about these crimes when you get down there.”
“Then I’ll be getting along, sir,” said the inspector rising.
“Good luck!” said the Assistant Commissioner.
“Thank you, sir,” said Shadgold, and went to the door.
With the handle in his hand, he was recalled.
“You’d better stay at Hill Green, I think,” said the grey-haired man. “You and the men.”
Shadgold nodded.
“Yes, I think that’s the best way, sir,” he agreed, and as the Assistant Commissioner turned once more to his papers, he made his exit.
Going back to his own office, he lighted a thin, black cigar and sat down at his desk. He had read everything that the newspapers had had to say about the Hill Green crimes, and he realized that he was up against a stiff proposition. Motiveless crime of any description is always difficult, for there is nothing to get hold of. The police rely to a very large degree on the motive to help them in their solution. So much so that it has become a standard saying at Scotland Yard “that if you look after the motive the rest will take care of itself!” Here, at any rate up to the present, there was apparently no motive. There was also the distinct possibility that no motive would ever come to light—that the person, responsible for the murders was insane. In that case there was the whole population of Hill Green and the surrounding district to choose from. The more he thought of it, the more he became convinced that it was not going to be an easy business, and although he was pleased at the compliment that had been paid him, he was beginning to wish that the powers that be had chosen somebody else. Drawing the telephone towards him, he got himself put through to the transport department, and arranged for a car to take him down to Hill Green. Having done this, he proceeded to arrange with Nares and Larson to accompany him. When he had finished these preliminaries he glanced at his watch. It was just on half-past six. In order to allow himself time for a meal he had ordered the police car for seven-thirty, but as he put on his hat and coat, with the intention of putting this idea into practice, a fresh one occurred to him, and with a slight lifting of the heavy frown that had settled on his brow ever since his interview with the Assistant Commissioner, he hurried from the Yard and hailed a taxi. Fifteen minutes later he was ringing the bell of a large house in Portland Place. To the elderly woman who answered his summons he put a question, and a little later was conducted up the stairs and ushered into a large room on the first floor. A man of middle height, with dark hair that was slightly grey at the temples, rose from a littered writing-table to greet him as he entered.
The Hangman Page 2