The Hangman

by Gerald Verner

  He was a little late on the Monday morning. He had spent Sunday night at the “Load of Hay,” celebrating his birthday, and some hilarious wag had suggested that he should drink a glass of beer for every year of his age. He had got as far as eighteen when the proceedings no longer interested him. Reaching the Square he inserted his key in the lock of the west gate with a hand that was slightly shaky. His job that morning was the weeding of the large circular bed that occupied the centre of the smooth lawn. Closing the gate behind him, he made his way to his little lock-up shed where he kept his tools. His head was a little bit muzzy, but he hoped that the air would have the effect of clearing it. As he crossed the green strip of grass towards the bed, he reflected rather sorrowfully on the remarks that his wife had passed on the previous night, and repeated with additions that morning. And then he glanced at the oak tree on his left. The ruddiness left his face and he dropped his tools, staring with horrified eyes at the thing that swung gently from one of the lower branches. He felt his heart come leaping into his throat, and then he sighed with sudden relief. Of course, there was nothing there really. This was the result of those eighteen beers. If he closed his eyes the vision would go away. He closed his eyes very tightly, and then cautiously opened them again. The thing was still there. Mr. Flock nearly collapsed. His knees wobbled unpleasantly, and his throat felt suddenly dry and rough. He looked quickly from side to side, and then over his shoulder. He must tell the police at once. . . . And then a doubt assailed him. Supposing there really was nothing there after all? He’d look a nice fool. . . . He forced himself to go closer, and with every step he took it became more and more evident that this was no vision of a beer-disordered mind, but real. He was almost underneath the swaying horror now; could see the bloated face. . . . His nerve gave way, and with a hoarse yell he turned, and fled madly to the gate, reached it, opened it and dashed out of the Square as if all the fiends of hell were at his heels. And he never stopped until he reached the police station, and poured out his disjointed story to the incredulous ears of Sergeant Bolton.

  “Bolton turned him over to Lightfoot,” said Shadgold, as he accompanied Trevor Lowe towards the police station, “and then came along and informed me.”

  “None of you has seen the body yet then?” said the dramatist.

  Shadgold shook his head.

  “I haven’t,” he answered. “I came straight along to fetch you. Lightfoot will be up there, of course.”

  They found that this supposition was correct, for only Sergeant Bolton was waiting for them when they reached the police station.

  “The inspector’s gone up to the Square, sir,” he said. “He asked me to bring you along.”

  Shadgold nodded and heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the police car that was waiting to take them. He had had quite enough exercise for one day.

  Ten minutes later they were standing beside Inspector Lightfoot gazing at the object that still hung suspended from the low branch of the tree.

  “Have you identified him?” asked Lowe.

  “Yes, sir,” answered Lightfoot. “It’s a man called George Tidd. Everybody round these parts called him ‘Monkey’ George.”

  “Who was he?” grunted Shadgold.

  “Rather a bad character from all accounts,” said the inspector. “We was always having trouble with him.”

  “Well, you won’t have any more,” remarked the dramatist, eyeing the thing on the tree.

  “We may as well cut him down, don’t you think?” said Shadgold, and Lightfoot nodded.

  “Yes,” he said, “I was only waiting for you to see him.”

  He gave an order to a constable, and in a few seconds the remains of “Monkey” George, a pathetic spectacle, were laid out decently on the fresh grass.

  “May I have a look at that rope?” asked Lowe, and it was passed to him.

  He ran it through his fingers, frowned, and turned to Shadgold.

  “There’s nothing of any use here,” he remarked. “It’s ordinary clothes line. You could buy it at any shop that sells that sort of thing, and it’s new. By the way, were the other ropes new?”

  Lightfoot, who was bending over the body, heard him and looked round.

  “Yes, sir,” he answered.

  “Bought specially for the purpose,” murmured the dramatist.

  He joined the local inspector by the body, and watched him while he searched the pockets.

  “Anything useful?” asked Shadgold.

  “Nothing so far,” replied Lightfoot. “Only one or two snares. Hullo, here’s something.”

  He pulled out of the breast pocket of the ragged overcoat a square, white object, glanced at it, grunted and handed it to the Scotland Yard man. Shadgold’s mouth set grimly as he looked at the pencilled words: “With the compliments of The Hangman.” He passed the card on to Lowe.

  “The murderer’s signature tune!” he grunted. “Apparently he’s very anxious that nobody else shall get the credit for his crimes.”

  “Yes, isn’t he?” said the dramatist. “Rather peculiar, don’t you think?”

  Shadgold shrugged his shoulders.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he answered. “It’s vanity, I suppose. They’re all as vain as turkey cocks.”

  He looked round quickly as somebody rattled the gate.

  “Hullo! Here’s your police surgeon. Doctor Murford.”

  The constable went over and unlocked the gate. The little doctor came hurriedly in, practically ignored Lowe and Shadgold, and addressed himself to Lightfoot.

  “Got your call,” he said. “What’s all this? Another?”

  “Looks like it,” said Lightfoot shortly.

  Murford grunted, and dropped on to one knee beside the body.

  “Good God!” he ejaculated as he saw the face. “It’s that fellow Tidd! Why on earth should anyone want to kill him?” He looked fiercely from one to the other as though he really expected a reply.

  “We don’t know that, Doctor, any more than we know who killed him,” said Shadgold.

  Murford grunted, shot him an unpleasant glance, and turned once more to the body. His examination was brief, and rising to his feet he brushed the knees of his trousers.

  “Death was due to strangulation, same as the others,” he said curtly. “You don’t need me to tell you that.”

  “Can you tell us how long he’s been dead?” asked Lightfoot.

  “Not less than four hours,” said the doctor. “That’s as near as I can put it.”

  “That makes the time that he was killed somewhere before three o’clock,” remarked Shadgold, glancing at his watch.

  The police surgeon nodded shortly.

  “About that time,” he agreed. “I can’t be more accurate.”

  “What time did the rain stop?” inquired the dramatist.

  Apparently nobody knew, for they all shook their heads.

  “If you can find that out,” said Lowe, “it might help to fix the time more definitely. His clothes are soaked through.”

  “That doesn’t say he was dead when they got soaked through,” argued Doctor Murford. “He could have got wet just as easily alive.”

  “Quite,” murmured the dramatist. “What I’m trying to point out, though, is that if for the sake of argument, the rain stopped at three let us say, then Tidd was killed before that time.”

  Shadgold frowned.

  “I don’t quite follow you, Mr. Lowe,” he said.

  Lowe went over to the dead man.

  “Look here,” he said. “The man’s clothing is wet, but it’s not wet evenly. It’s considerably wetter in front than it is at the back. It’s wetter because for some time he was lying on his back in the pouring rain.”

  “I see,” Shadgold nodded. “But that’s—hullo, what have you found?”

  To demonstrate his argument the dramatist had turned the body gently over, and the stout inspector heard the smothered exclamation he gave.

  “Only that he was not killed in this Square,” remarked Lowe.
“Look at this—and this.” He pointed to stains on the back of the ragged coat. “That’s tar,” he went on. “Fresh tar, and there are several pieces of flint sticking to it. This man was killed, or was lying just after his death, on some place which had been freshly tarred, and sprinkled with broken flint.”

  The constable, who had been staring with rapt attention, gave vent to an ejaculation.

  “They’ve been tarrin’ the cross roads!” he exclaimed. “Tarred ’em Saturday, they did.”

  Lightfoot looked at him sharply.

  “You mean the cross roads up by Linden?” he asked.

  The policeman nodded.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “I was up that way while they was doin’ ’em.”

  “Then it was there or near there that the actual murder took place,” said Lowe. “Unless they’ve been repairing the roads anywhere else in the district.”

  “I’ll soon find that out,” said Lightfoot. “I’ll put an inquiry through when we get back to the station.”

  “If we can be certain that this man met his death at the cross roads,” said Shadgold, “we might find something there that would help us.”

  “Might I suggest,” said Lowe, “that there’s another clue that it would be as well to follow up without delay.” They looked at him inquiringly.

  “What’s that, sir?” asked Lightfoot.

  “This garden is private property,” explained the dramatist. “Whoever brought the body here and hanged it to that tree must have had a key.”

  Lightfoot looked a little dubious.

  “That applies to everyone living in the Square,” he said, shaking his head. “All the residents have got keys—some of them more than one.”

  “Then we must make house to house inquiries,” said Shadgold. “This may be the means of narrowing our search for the killer down to one locality.”

  Trevor Lowe pursed his lips.

  “Keys are easily lost,” he said, “but if you can find somebody living in this Square who has also lost part of one of his finger-nails, then I think the search will be over.”

  Chapter Thirteen – the third finger

  A stretcher was sent for from the police station and the body of “Monkey” George was taken away to rest side by side with those other victims of the unknown killer. The trembling Mr. Flock, whose indiscretions of the previous night, combined with the shock of his discovery, had reduced almost to a state of hysteria, was sent home, after a close questioning had added nothing to his original story. Lowe and the others were debating among themselves where they should start on their house-to-house inquiries in the Square when a hail from the gate attracted their attention. Turning, they saw Major Payton. The chief constable was admitted and came over to the group excitedly.

  “I got your message from the station, Lightfoot.” He greeted and nodded to Lowe. “This is a terrible business. Have you discovered anything?”

  Lightfoot told him briefly and Payton frowned.

  “So you think he was killed at these cross roads, eh?” he commented.

  “That’s Mr. Lowe’s opinion, sir,” replied the inspector, “and the fact that he was found in this garden certainly seems to point to somebody in the Square.”

  “But that’s impossible,” protested the chief constable. “I know nearly everyone in the Square personally. They’re most respectable people.”

  Trevor Lowe smiled.

  “So was Crippen,” he remarked. “Some of the most callous murderers have been recruited from the ranks of respectable people. Respectability is after all only a very thin veneer.”

  Payton made a grimace.

  “I suppose there is something in that,” he agreed. “But to think, to imagine that any of these people——” He waved his hand in the direction of the surrounding houses. “It’s incredible, unbelievable!”

  “It is equally unbelievable that these people should have been hanged for apparently no reason,” said the dramatist. “By the way, how long has Doctor Murford been at Hill Green?”

  The chief constable shot him a surprised glance.

  “Ever since the place was built,” he replied, “and that’s, let me see, getting on for three years. Why?”

  “I’m rather interested in Doctor Murford,” said Lowe. He turned to Shadgold. “Did you notice that he kept his glove on his injured hand this morning?”

  The Scotland Yard man nodded, and Payton looked rather bewildered.

  “Injured hand,” he said. “What are you talking about?”

  “Doctor Murford has some sort of injury to the second finger of his left hand,” said Lowe. “We noticed it yesterday, he was wearing a finger-stall so it was impossible to see what was the matter.”

  “Good God!” The chief constable was genuinely startled. “Are you suggesting——”

  “No,” broke in Lowe quickly. “I’m not, but I’m naturally interested in anyone who has hurt their finger since the discovery of that nail.”

  “But, Murford!” ejaculated Payton. “He’s the divisional-surgeon.”

  “One of the greatest criminals that ever lived,” said the dramatist, “was also a surgeon. Anyhow I’m not making any accusation against Doctor Murford. All I say is, that it’s an odd coincidence.”

  “I agree with you there,” said Payton. He looked at Lightfoot. “Are you ready to begin this house-to-house inquiry?” he asked.

  The local man nodded.

  “Quite,” he answered. “Are you willing to help us with it, Mr. Lowe?”

  “I should like to,” answered the dramatist, “and since there are three of us, we may as well split the business up between us. We can get it done quicker that way.”

  “You mean each take a house,” said Shadgold. “Yes, that’s a good idea.”

  “I’ll be getting along, I think,” said Payton. “There’ll probably be an avalanche of phone calls and what not as soon as this latest tragedy becomes public. I’ll see you later, Lightfoot.”

  “Very good, sir,” replied the inspector. “You’ll find Sergeant Bolton at the station. He went back with the body.”

  The chief constable nodded.

  “Let me know directly you get on to anything, won’t you?” he said. “I hope to heaven we shall have something tangible soon. There’s going to be the devil of a commotion over this last business.”

  He bade them a hurried good-bye, and as soon as he had driven off in his little car, the others left the Square, locking the gate behind them.

  “Now,” said Shadgold. “We’ll start these inquiries. I’ll take the first house, you take the second, Lightfoot, and you, Mr. Lowe, the third. We’ll go right round the Square in that order. What we want everybody to do is to account for their keys, and also to find out if they saw anything.”

  It was a weary and monotonous job, and by the time the dramatist had done his fourth house, he was beginning to wish that he had not offered to help. The people of the Square were indignant at the tragedy that had happened in their select retreat; they were curious and apt to be talkative, one enterprising lady tried to secure Lowe’s autograph; they were horrified and talked about the incompetence of the police, in fact they were everything but helpful. Lowe was shown a multitude of garden keys until he could have drawn the shape of the wards from memory. But every key so far was accounted for, and nothing about the people he had interviewed could be called suspicious. He wondered as he approached his fifth front door whether Lightfoot and Shadgold had been more successful. Of course, the whole thing was more a forlorn hope than anything else, even if the murderer was to be found among the residents of this Square, it was unlikely that he would do anything to give himself away. Except, of course, the broken finger-nail. He could not hide that even if he realized there was any need. Lowe’s thoughts returned to Doctor Murford. He knew of the significance of the broken nail, he had heard Lowe relate the discovery to Payton over the phone. It had been after that that the dramatist had noticed his injured finger, and Murford had hurried away very quickly. A p
eculiar coincidence that, if nothing more. He opened the little white gate of the house next on his list, and walked up the drive. It was a nice house with a neat door, and neat curtains. In fact that adjective neat very aptly described it. He raised his hand and pressed the bell, there was a long interval and then the door was opened by an elderly silver-haired man, whom Lowe judged to be the butler. He looked at the dramatist inquiringly.

  “Good morning,” said Lowe pleasantly. “Could I have a word with the owner of this house?”

  “Mr. Nethcott, sir?” said the old man. “I think he’s rather busy at the moment, but I’ll see. What name shall I say, sir?”

  “Lowe, Trevor Lowe,” replied the dramatist. “Here is my card. I am helping the police in connection with the murder——”

  He stopped, the old man had uttered a startled exclamation and his face had suddenly gone white.

  “Will—will you come in, sir,” he quavered uneasily.

  He stood aside and Lowe stepped across the threshold, noting as he did so that the servant’s hand was shaking.

  “If you will—will wait here, sir,” the old man indicated a chair, “I will inquire if Mr. Nethcott will see you.”

  He gave Lowe a frightened glance and went towards a door at the rear of the hall. He tapped, and after pausing for a moment, went in, closing the door behind him. Trevor Lowe frowned. Here was something odd. At the mention of his name and business he had seen fear in the old man’s face and eyes. Now why was he afraid? It was not just the natural fear occasioned by the close proximity of a murder. It had been more than that. This man had something to hide. The dramatist felt a little excited. Had he at last stumbled on something? Before he could even answer the question in his mind, the door through which the old man had made his exit opened again, and as he came out Lowe heard somebody say, a woman: “We’ll have to be careful,” and then the butler was speaking: