The Hangman

by Gerald Verner

  “Didn’t you notice?” asked the dramatist. “He tried to hide it but the second finger of his left hand was covered by a finger-stall.”

  They both stared at him in silence.

  Chapter Ten – “monkey” george

  The weather broke at twelve o’clock on that Sunday night, and the rain came down in torrents. It hissed and splashed with almost tropical violence, and made every gutter a miniature cataract. At one o’clock the fields and lanes surrounding Hill Green were wastes of liquid mud. The trees and hedges masses of dripping foliage.

  Mr. George Tidd looked out of the tiny kitchen window of his equally tiny cottage, and his habitual scowl deepened. Mr. Tidd was not a prepossessing individual. His face was cast in the Simian mould, with coarse black hair that grew low down on his narrow forehead. To the farmers and traders of the district he was known as “Monkey” George, not so much on account of his appearance, as because of his reputation for petty pilfering. He had, in fact, twice been up before the bench, once on a charge of stealing agricultural implements, and once for poaching. Poaching was, in fact, Mr. Tidd’s strong suit, and most nights found him prowling round the woods and coverts, his pockets full of snares, carrying on his livelihood. It was during one of these excursions that he had stumbled on his great adventure. His small eyes glistened in the light of the cheap oil lamp that illumined his abode, as he turned away from the window and came over to the fire-place. That accidental piece of luck was going to put a fortune in his pocket—easy money which would put unlimited beer within his reach. Mr. Tidd liked both beer and money so long as neither had to obtained by work. Work was one of the things that in “Monkey” George’s eyes constituted the greater part of the seven deadly sins. “Thou shalt not work” was to him an eleventh commandment which he did his best to break as seldom as possible. How he lived and managed to pay even the small rent demanded for his tumble-down cottage on the fringe of Leeman’s wood was a mystery to the majority of Hill Green. It was, however, no mystery to Mr. Tidd, nor to certain unscrupulous shopkeepers in the neighbouring districts who purchased from him at bargain prices the results of his midnight prowling and asked no questions. This amazing piece of luck which had come his way would alter all that; in future he would be able to live in comfort, without having to dodge keepers and other unpleasant people who so consistently tried to rob him of his living. Before the sun rose he expected to be in possession of five hundred pounds, and he rubbed his dirty hands, and licked his thick lips in joy at the prospect. For Mr. Tidd held in his small and cunning brain the secret of the hanging murders, and had decided to exploit it to his own financial benefit. Attending to his illegal profession on the Friday night, he had been an unseen witness of the murder of Irene Mortimer, and the identity of “The Hangman” was no mystery to him. His first inclination had been to go to the police, and then this greater and more pretentious scheme had suggested itself, with its prospects of unlimited wealth. He had thought it over slowly and with care, his limited intelligence awed by the magnitude of the prospect, and that afternoon had seen the budding of his plans. The result of his telephone call, couched in guarded language, had sent him home jubilant with the knowledge that the night would see the bud blossom into full flower. He glanced at the cheap tin clock on his mantelpiece. A quarter past one. In fifteen minutes it would be time to make a start to keep his appointment. He poured himself out another glass of beer from the bottle on the table, and drank it noisily and at a draught. Setting down the glass and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he took a packet of limp cigarettes from his waistcoat pocket and lit one. Life was very pleasant at that moment to “Monkey” George; the future a dream seen through the rosy glasses of continuous affluence. He went over again to the window and looked out. The night was very black, and the rain still falling heavily. He cursed softly. He had a long way to go, and five minutes in that downpour would soak him to the skin. However, it had its advantages perhaps, for there would certainly be nobody else abroad to see his meeting with the man who represented the practical side to his dream of wealth. He began to struggle into his ragged overcoat, buttoning it tightly about his thick-set figure. He might as well go now and give himself plenty of time. The short cut across the field would be impossible to-night; he would have to take the longer way round by the road. But he had allowed for this in fixing his time for starting. He pulled on his cap, blew out the lamp, and opened the door of the cottage. The rain lashed his face as he shut the door behind him and set off into the wet darkness of the night. The junction at the four cross roads, which was his objective, was nearly a mile and a half away, but he would be able to do it easily. He stumbled along the rutted lane that wound round the edge of the wood, and presently came out upon a secondary road. It was easier walking here, though the darkness was so great that he could scarcely see more than two or three yards ahead. He hummed a tuneless dirge below his breath as he stumbled along, scraps of songs that he had heard on the wireless at the “Load of Hay,” although nobody but he would have recognized any of them. It was, as near as he could judge, getting on for two o’clock when he reached the end of his journey, a rain-swept, deserted place where another road bisected the one by which he had come. Slowing down a little, he looked keenly about him. There was no sign of any living thing near. “Monkey” George grunted. Of course, it was barely time, he was early, but supposing the bloke didn’t come? Perhaps the rain would stop him? A moment’s thought convinced him that this was unlikely. He’d come right enough. His life depended on his keeping the appointment. He, George Tidd, was a person to be treated with respect. One word from him to the police—his eyes narrowed. Away in the distance two dim star points of light were approaching. He watched them as they came nearer, drawing wider apart. Was this the man he was expecting or somebody who was out late? He drew back into the shadow of a dripping hedge. If the car stopped he would be sure. He could hear the hiss of the tyres on the wet surface of the road now, and the faint rhythmic throbbing of the engine. . . . A long, low blot of darkness, the car slid past him, slowed and—stopped! “Monkey” George came out from the shelter of the overhanging hedge, and approached it. At the sound of his footsteps a head was thrust out of the near side window.

  “Is that you, Tidd?” whispered the solitary occupant, and Mr. Tidd grunted.

  “’Corse it’s me,” he growled. “Do you think anyone else ’ud be at this adjectival place as late as this?”

  He waited, expecting some reply, but none was made.

  “Well,” he said impatiently, “’ave yer brought the dough?”

  This time he got an answer.

  “I have,” came the same low whisper.

  “’And it over then,” said “Monkey” George, stretching out his hand, “an’ let me get back ’ome out of this perishin’ rain.”

  “Not so fast,” said the man in the car. “How am I to know that you’ll keep your mouth shut, after I’ve given you the money?”

  “You’ll ’ave to risk that,” replied Mr. Tidd with a grin. “You’ve just got to take my word for it. But you can bet yer life if you don’t ’and over that money, I shall open me mouth darned wide!”

  There was another silence and it continued for so long that “Monkey” George got impatient.

  “’Ere, don’t go ter sleep!” he snarled. “I don’t want to stop ’ere all the blasted night.”

  There was a click and the door of the car swung open. The occupant got out. For a moment he stood surveying the other, and then from the breast pocket of his heavy overcoat he took a packet.

  “When I have given you this money,” he said softly, “you must clearly understand that it will be the last. There will be no more.”

  Mr. Tidd grinned evilly.

  “We’ll see about that later,” he growled. “I dessay that’ll do fer a bit, anyway. ’Ow much ’ave you got there?”

  “The amount you asked for,” said the other. “Five hundred pounds.”

  “Monkey” George’s little eye
s glistened with greed. Five hundred quid! All the money in the world—and his! He stretched out his hand eagerly.

  “Give it me,” he whispered hoarsely.

  The man in the heavy coat held out the packet. “Monkey” George snatched it, and as he did so the man’s other hand came from behind his back and gripped his wrist. A quick jerk and the poacher fell forward on his knees with a little gasping cry of fear. It was the last sound he ever uttered. Something soft was slipped round his neck and drawn tight, choking the scream that was forming in his throat. Tighter and tighter it drew until his lungs were bursting, and his heart was thumping madly. . . . His head felt as if it were swelling to an enormous size, and his eyes began to start from their sockets. . . . The blackness of the night turned red, a mottled red shot with huge flashes of orange flame. . . . A roar like the rushing of a mighty torrent filled his ears, and then suddenly silence. Silence and blackness.

  The murderer rose panting, and wiped his face. Quickly he glanced about him, and then picking up the dead man and kicking aside the packet—it only contained sheets of newspaper—carried him to the car. Unceremoniously he bundled the limp body into the back and took his place behind the wheel. The car jerked forward, gathered speed, and the red tail lamp faded into the mist of the rain-swept night. . . .

  Chapter Eleven – the third crime

  Trevor Lowe spent a very pleasant evening with the chief constable. Major Payton was a well-read man, and his conversation was interesting and sometimes brilliant. They discussed the drama, art, music and came by easy stages to criminology. He was obviously delighted that Lowe had come to Hill Green, and expressed a hope that the dramatist would succeed in helping to find a solution to the problem that was worrying them.

  “For until this fellow, whoever he is, is run to earth,” he said, “the whole community will be in a state of terror.”

  They discussed the matter in detail, and it was with a feeling of real regret that Lowe took his leave shortly after ten o’clock. He elected to walk home to the “Hillside Hotel,” for although the night was dark and cloudy, the rain had not yet started. He had much to occupy his mind, for apart from his anxiety to help Shadgold, the case interested him to a marked degree. It appealed strongly to his imagination, and to that sense of the dramatic which was naturally, considering his profession, such a large portion of his make-up. The methods of the unknown killer were so unusual. He tried to recollect from the accounts he had read of past crimes a case that was at all similar, and he found it difficult. Hanging as a means of murder was rare. There was the isolated case of Peter Bargoyne who hanged his father-in-law and tried to make it appear like suicide, and there was the other case of that fellow—what was his name—who had hanged his wife and little daughter. That was an old case, nineteen or twenty years old at the least. The man—what was his name—had been found insane and been sent to Widemoore. Smedley, that was the name! It suddenly came to him. Harold Smedley. These two cases were the only two that Lowe could remember, and even they were not quite like this one. Either the man who signed himself “The Hangman” was stark, staring crazy, and killed for the mere pleasure of killing, or there was some very deep and subtle plot behind the whole thing. Now which was it? Lowe was a trifle reluctant to accept the homicidal maniac theory without more definite proof, and yet the alternative was even more difficult to believe. For if the murders were not the outcome of a madman’s distorted brain, where was the motive?

  Walking along through the silent streets he tried to imagine some plausible motive that would fit the facts. There were roughly three basic motives for murder. Gain, jealousy and revenge. These, of course, could be split up into varying groups under each main heading. There was a fourth motive, self-preservation, but it was less common than the other three. Under which heading—supposing the crimes were not the work of a lunatic—could he place a possible motive? Mentally he took them in order. Gain. This was the most common of all motives, but how did it come into this case? Apparently neither Doctor Wallington nor Miss Mortimer had been well off. Of course, as yet the inquiry into their personal affairs had not progressed far enough to be sure of this. Quite a large sum might be involved, and if this should turn out to be the case, then the next step would be to find out who benefited by their deaths. It was worth looking into, but Lowe was rather sceptical that it would prove to be as easy as this. The next possible motive was jealousy. Here again, as yet there was not sufficient data. Doctor Wallington and Miss Mortimer had been cousins, and there was the possibility that they might have been contemplating marriage and so aroused the jealousy of a third party. But this was merely a vague supposition unsupported by any tangible evidence. Revenge, the third motive on his list, Lowe had to treat in the same way. It presupposed that these two people had been instrumental in so injuring, directly or indirectly, another person that only their joint deaths could wipe out the wrong. The dramatist decided that this was rather far-fetched, and that brought him to the fourth and last category, self-preservation. Had Wallington and Miss Mortimer known something between them about a third person that rendered it absolutely necessary for them to be killed to preserve that person’s safety. This was by no means impossible. It was, when he came to consider it, the most possible of the lot. If they had been in possession of such a secret, it must have been a very serious one. Of such magnitude as to warrant the risk of murder to preserve it. Perhaps when the police inquiries into their past lives had been completed, something of this nature would come to light. In the meanwhile, Lowe was back where he had begun. The stumbling block to all his hypotheses was lack of sufficient data. The pencilled message found pinned to each of the victims, why that? Why “The Hangman”? Was it just the result of a disordered brain, or a gesture to try and make the crimes look like the work of a maniac. He had found no satisfactory answer to any of these questions by the time he reached the hotel. As he entered the rain began to fall, and he congratulated himself on having just missed a wetting.

  He went straight up to his room, a large bedroom in the front of the house, with many windows that overlooked the street, and after smoking a cigarette, undressed and got into bed. But for some reason he found sleep difficult. Perhaps it was the lashing of the rain on the windows, or perhaps it was his own disjointed thoughts. Whatever it was, he kept twisting and turning restlessly, and it was some time before he dropped off into a troubled doze.

  He awoke early, a glance at his watch showed him that it was barely six, and getting up, looked out at the morning. The rain had stopped, and by the look of things the day was going to be a fine one. In spite of his troubled night, he felt very wakeful, and decided to remain up. He rang the bell, and to a surprised and yawning chambermaid gave the order for his bath and breakfast. When he had dressed and finished the breakfast that was brought him, he lit a cigarette and opening the centre window, leaned out, resting his arms on the sill. The morning air was fresh and sweet, and he drew in deep breaths of nature’s best tonic. The countryside looked very peaceful and still. A pale sun was just beginning to make its presence known, gilding the roof of the station with primrose light. He heard the measured tread of somebody approaching, and craning his neck to see who it was who was so early abroad, saw the blue-clad form of a policeman. He went by with the same unhurried tread, and his footsteps faded in the distance. Lowe smoked thoughtfully. The world—or rather that small part of it which lay within the range of his eyes and ears—was beginning to wake up. There came the rattle of a milk barrow, and the clang and hiss of a shunting engine. A paper-boy made his appearance, delivering the early newspapers. And then by ones and twos people began to make their way towards the station. Not the black-clad business population of Hill Green, but the earlier workers bent on catching the workman’s train which would be due in three minutes. These people came not from Hill Green proper—nobody in Hill Green worked, they went to business—but from the less aristocratic part which lay in the vicinity of the railway. Lowe watched them vanishing into the station like in
dustrious ants. He heard the train come in with a great deal of noise and puffing, and he heard it go out again with a great deal more. Presently he crushed out the end of his cigarette on the sill, and stretched out his hand to close the window, but he did not close it. A sound came to his ears, the sound of running steps, hurrying, stumbling footsteps. He leaned out, looking in the direction from which the sound came. A man was coming down the road, a man who was running with little jerky steps, as though he was almost spent.

  Shadgold!

  Lowe recognized the stout figure and red face of the Scotland Yard man. Nearer he came, and now the dramatist could hear the laboured gasping of his breath. At the entrance to the hotel he stopped, and tugged at the bell. Lowe drew in his head sharply, and strode across to the door. He was half way down the stairs when he heard Shadgold’s voice demanding to see him, and a second later met the stout inspector in the lounge.

  “Thank the Lord you’re up, Mr. Lowe,” panted Shadgold. “I was—afraid I’d have to wait—until you’d dressed. . . .”

  “What is it? What’s happened?” asked Lowe, although he guessed the answer.

  “Another of ’em!” breathed the Scotland Yard man, “found hanging—in the Square this morning!”

  Chapter Twelve – tar

  There was a gardener provided by the local council whose duty it was to see that the enclosed space on which the houses of the Square looked out was kept in a condition suitable to the refined views of the residents. He began work at six in the summer, and eight in the winter, leaving at four and six respectively, and he tended the flower beds, kept the tennis courts in order, and saw that the trim paths were properly rolled and swept. He was an elderly man with a wife and a large family, and the small wage he received for his labours made just sufficient difference to his pension—he was an ex-sergeant of infantry—to keep a roof over his head and feed the hungry mouths that were dependent on him. Mr. Flock was a small man, with a thin, reddish-brown face, and a voice that was permanently husky from the gas which had played havoc with his vocal chords in 1917. He was a cheerful man in spite of his responsibilities, and the Square was his hobby as well as his job.