The Hangman

by Gerald Verner

  “It’s incredible,” he said in a low voice. “I know these people well. In fact only last week I had dinner with them. I can’t believe that Harold Nethcott can be the murderer.”

  “It may be difficult to believe, sir,” said Shadgold, “but the evidence seems to be fairly conclusive. In fact, sufficient to justify applying for a warrant.”

  Inspector Lightfoot nodded slowly.

  “I think that too, sir,” he remarked.

  “But why in the world should he kill these people?” exploded Major Payton. “Can you tell me that?”

  “The man is without question unbalanced,” said Trevor Lowe. “I don’t think he’s quite responsible for his actions. I’m sure that he’s not aware that he’s killed anyone. Mention of the murders worries him. But he can’t say why, and I’m inclined to believe that he’s perfectly genuine.”

  “Do you mean to tell me,” said the chief constable, “that a man could go round hanging people and not know that he’s done it?”

  “Certainly,” replied the dramatist. “It is quite possible. Any doctor will tell you so. I have also found out that for the past week Harold Nethcott has been in the habit of taking long walks at night because he couldn’t sleep. He was out on each occasion when a murder was committed.”

  The chief constable rolled a pencil up and down Inspector Lightfoot’s blotting-pad.

  “There seems very little doubt, I must admit,” he muttered. “But I wouldn’t like to do anything in a hurry. There may be some mistake. After all, circumstantial evidence has proved to be wrong on more than one occasion and there is such a thing as a coincidence.

  He broke off, looked at Shadgold, transferred his gaze from that wooden countenance to Lightfoot, received no encouragement there, and finally looked at Lowe.

  “There is such a thing as one coincidence,” admitted the dramatist. “But scarcely as many as in the present instance.”

  “I don’t think we need look any farther,” grunted Shadgold.

  “All the same,” Lowe continued, “I rather agree with Major Payton about acting precipitately. I think with the information you already possess you ought to be able to prove your case up to the hilt before you make the final move and arrest the man.”

  Payton heaved a sigh of relief.

  “I’m glad to hear you say that, Mr. Lowe,” he said. “I suppose I ought not to take the matter into consideration, but—well these people are friends of mine, and I should like to make definitely sure that there can be no mistake.”

  Lowe nodded.

  “I should feel the same way myself,” he said.

  “In the meanwhile, the man will get away, or murder someone else,” growled the Scotland Yard man.

  “Oh no, he won’t,” said Inspector Lightfoot grimly. “I’ve got a man watching the house, with instructions to follow Nethcott wherever he goes.”

  Shadgold brightened visibly, and the chief constable nodded.

  “I think that was a wise move,” he said.

  “In my opinion,” said the stout inspector, “the finger-nail is the best bit of evidence we’ve got. It practically clinches the matter, and would be quite sufficient to convince a jury.”

  The chief constable rubbed his chin gloomily.

  “It will be a terrible thing for his brother and the girl,” he began, and was interrupted by the entrance of Sergeant Bolton.

  “About that tar, sir,” he said, addressing Lightfoot, “the only place where there’s been any tar used recently is up at Linden cross roads.”

  “Then that’s where you’ll find Tidd was killed,” interjected Lowe. “Don’t you think it would be a good idea to have a look at the place?”

  “Not much point in that now, is there, Mr. Lowe?” said Shadgold, and the dramatist shrugged his shoulders.

  “That’s for you to say,” he remarked. “But you never know what you might find. Besides, I thought you had decided to try and find all evidence you possibly could.”

  The Scotland Yard man looked rather dubious but rose to his feet.

  “We may as well go along there now, then,” he said. “The longer we leave it, the more likely it is that any traces there are will be effaced.”

  “I’ll drive you there,” volunteered Payton. “I’ve got my car outside.”

  They came out of the little police station, and squeezed into the chief constable’s car.

  It was a fair distance to the cross roads, but Payton drove without considering speed limits, and landed them at their destination in under twenty minutes.

  “Lonely sort of place,” remarked Lowe as he got down, and stared about him. “Particularly at night, and such a night as last night.”

  A triangular patch of grass occupied the centre where the four roads met, from the middle of which stuck up a sign-post. Ahead was a wide expanse of ploughed field that ended in a thick belt of trees. Straggling hedges lined the road along which they had come. There was no sign of life anywhere. As the dramatist remarked, it was a lonely place, and ideal for the purpose to which it had been put. The repairs were plainly visible, and stretched for some hundreds of yards along the main road, but only a comparatively short distance along the secondary road.

  Shadgold surveyed the tarred surface with a gloomy face and pursed lips.

  “We shan’t find much here,” he commented. “In spite of the rain this stuff doesn’t hold marks. At least not marks that are going to be of any use to us.”

  He allowed his eyes to wander over the grey expanse.

  “There are one or two tyre impressions,” he continued, “but that’s all.”

  Lowe was looking about in silence, walking slowly along towards the grass island where the roads intersected. Major Payton remained in his car watching interestedly, and presently he saw the dramatist stop, and peer more closely at the ground at his feet.

  “Found something, Mr. Lowe?” he called.

  Trevor Lowe straightened up and looked round.

  “Nothing much,” he replied. “There are signs of a small car having stopped here for some time. The tyres have sunk into the tar.”

  “Somebody stopping to read the sign-post, most likely,” suggested Shadgold, but Lowe shook his head.

  “It seems to have stopped too long for that,” he said. “More likely, if it was nothing to do with the murder, it was a breakdown.” He looked across at the chief constable. “Have the Nethcotts got a car?” he asked.

  “Yes,” answered Payton, “a Comet coupé.”

  “I didn’t see any garage at the house,” said the dramatist. “Where do they keep it?”

  “They used to keep it at the garage at Hill Green,” answered Payton, “but about three months ago a shed became empty near the Square, and Nethcott thought it would be more convenient to rent that.”

  Lowe looked interested.

  “Then it would be possible for any one of them to take the car out without anybody being the wiser,” he said.

  “Yes, quite,” said the chief constable.

  The dramatist pulled thoughtfully at his nose.

  “The car that stopped here had a small patch on the nearside back wheel,” he remarked, “the tyres were Dunlops non-skid.” He turned to Shadgold. “It would be interesting to see the car that belongs to the Nethcotts.”

  “I’ll attend to that, sir,” put in Lightfoot, “this evening.”

  “There doesn’t seem to be anything else here,” remarked Shadgold, “so we may as well be getting back. Hullo, what’s that?”

  He walked over to the side of the road and picked up from among a tuft of weeds a small packet. It was dirty and sodden with rain. He carried it over to the others.

  “What is it?” asked Payton as he approached.

  “A parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string,” answered the inspector frowning, and turning it over in his fingers. “I wonder what it is and how it got here.”

  “Sandwiches that somebody has thrown away,” suggested the chief constable, “that’s what it looks
like.”

  “Suppose you open it and see,” remarked Lowe, and taking a penknife from his pocket, he held it out to Shadgold.

  The Scotland Yard man cut the string, and unwrapped the brown paper and then he laughed. Inside was a wad of neatly-folded newspapers.

  “What a sell!” he said, and was going to throw the whole thing away when Lowe stopped him.

  “It’s rather suggestive, don’t you think?” said the dramatist.

  “Suggestive of what?” asked Shadgold.

  “Well,” said Lowe, “why should anyone have taken so much trouble to make a neat parcel of old newspapers.”

  “For a practical joke, I should imagine,” smiled the chief constable.

  “Or perhaps,” said the dramatist, “to make somebody think that it contained something of value.”

  “Well, anyway,” said Shadgold impatiently, “it can’t have anything to do with our business.”

  “Maybe it hasn’t,” murmured Lowe, “on the other hand it might. I think I should keep it, Shadgold, if I were you.”

  The stout inspector looked at him, hesitated, and then with a shrug thrust the sodden mass into his overcoat pocket.

  “Well, what about getting back?” he said. “We’re only wasting time here.”

  They drove back to the police station, and as they entered the charge-room Sergeant Bolton greeted them with an air of suppressed excitement.

  “We’ve made a discovery, while you’ve been away, sir,” he said, addressing Lightfoot. “One of our men ’as found the key.”

  “Key? What key?” snapped the inspector.

  “The key the murderer used to open the garden gate,” answered his subordinate.

  “Where was it found?” put in Shadgold quickly.

  “In a corner of the Square, sir,” answered Bolton, “lying in the gutter.”

  He went over to a desk, opened a drawer and took out a small object.

  “’Ere it is,” he said, “an’ what’s more it’s got the name of the owner on this little metal label!”

  He held it out and they grouped round him.

  “I think that removes the last doubt, if there ever was a doubt,” remarked Shadgold.

  The name on the label was Nethcott.

  Chapter Seventeen – the arrest

  Owing to the small staff at Hill Green police station, the two men whom Shadgold had brought down with him from London were put temporarily at the service of the local police. Larson was therefore given the job of examining the Nethcotts’ car, and reporting on the state of the tyres. And Nares towards evening was sent to relieve the man who was watching the Nethcott house.

  Whatever slight doubt Trevor Lowe might have had regarding Harold Nethcott’s guilt had been completely dispelled by the discovery of the key. Every fresh clue, small though they were, pointed to the fact that he was the murderer. After returning from the cross roads and learning of the finding of the key, Shadgold, the chief constable and Inspector Lightfoot had had a short conference to which the dramatist had been invited; and the result of that conference was to send Lightfoot in search of a certain Mr. Crablett, who was also the chief magistrate for the district, to swear out a warrant for the arrest of Harold Nethcott.

  “We’ll take him to-night,” mumbled Shadgold, his mouth full of beef sandwich which had been sent in to the station.

  Lowe nodded, but his face was a little troubled.

  “What’s the matter, Mr. Lowe?” demanded the Scotland Yard man, “you look pretty glum.”

  The dramatist helped himself to a sandwich from the heaped pile, and shrugged his shoulders. They were alone, for Payton had taken his departure with Lightfoot.

  “I don’t like it at all, Shadgold,” he admitted after a pause.

  The stout inspector stared at him in surprise.

  “Don’t like what?” he said with difficulty.

  “The whole business,” answered Lowe, shaking his head. “It’s nasty. I wish I wasn’t mixed up with it.”

  “Do you mean that you don’t think that this man Nethcott is guilty?” asked Shadgold.

  “No, no,” replied the dramatist quickly. “I don’t think there’s any doubt of that. But I’m equally convinced that he’s not responsible for his actions.”

  “That’s nothing to do with us,” growled the inspector. “That’s for the doctors, and the judge and the jury to decide. Our job was to find the man responsible for these murders, and we’ve done it.”

  Lowe smiled wryly.

  “There wasn’t much to do, was there?” he said. “It was all done for us. Anyway, I’m glad it’s over, it’s been a most unsavoury business and the worst part’s to come.”

  In his mind’s eye he saw the little harassed, nervous man who was the brother of the man they were going to arrest. It would be a terrible shock to him, and to that girl. They had suspected, of course, that was why they had been so scared. But that wouldn’t mitigate the force of the blow.

  “I suppose you’ll be going back to town to-night, Mr. Lowe,” said Shadgold presently.

  “Yes, I think so,” replied the dramatist. “I’ll give you a lift if you like.”

  “I shan’t go back till to-morrow, thanks all the same,” said the Scotland Yard man. “I’d like to thank you, Mr. Lowe, for coming down and giving me a hand. Bringing this affair to a successful climax is going to do me a bit of good at headquarters.”

  “As things turned out you would have done just as well on your own,” answered the dramatist. “Finish the sandwiches: I don’t want any more.”

  Shadgold obeyed with alacrity. He was just eating the last crumb when Lightfoot came in.

  “I’ve got it,” he announced. “When shall we go and pull the fellow in?”

  “Might as well go now, and get it over,” said Shadgold, rising to his feet. “Are you coming, Mr. Lowe?”

  Lowe shook his head, and then for some reason which he was never able to account for, he changed his mind.

  “Yes I will,” he said quickly, and followed Shadgold and the inspector out to the police car.

  The Square was dark and gloomy when they came to a halt before the Nethcotts’ house. As they got out a man detached himself from the shadows and came towards them.

  “Anything to report, Nares?” asked Shadgold.

  “No, sir,” said the watcher, “nothing special. Our man’s inside, and about half an hour ago a young fellow called.”

  The Scotland Yard man nodded shortly.

  “All right.” He turned to Lightfoot. “Are you ready, Inspector?”

  The local man inclined his head, and Shadgold thrust open the gate. Followed by Lowe and Lightfoot, he made his way up to the front door. He had scarcely removed his hand from the bell when the door was opened, and silhouetted against a flood of yellow light Lane peered out at them. He recognized Lowe and his face changed. He made a quick movement as though to shut the door, thought better of it, and waited inquiringly.

  “I am Detective-Inspector Shadgold of Scotland Yard,” said that individual, “and I want to see Mr. Harold Nethcott. Is he in?”

  The butler’s face was grey as he stood aside.

  “If you will come in, sir,” he muttered with a slight shake in his voice, “I’ll see.”

  They crossed the threshold and grouped themselves in the hall. Lane closed the door, hesitated for a second, and then walked slowly across the hall towards the door of the room in which Lowe had had his interview in the morning.

  “That fellow looked as if he had expected us,” whispered Shadgold to Lowe. “Did you see his face?”

  The dramatist made no reply. He was certain that Lane had expected them.

  He watched the old man as he raised his hand, tapped at the door, and after waiting a second went in. As the door opened there came the low hum of voices, which ceased suddenly. There was a startled exclamation, a smothered cry, and then Mr. Francis Nethcott came out. He came hurriedly, excitedly, his face drawn, and his fingers twitching.

  “What�
�s all this? What’s all this?” he demanded angrily. “You wish to see my brother. I’m sorry but you can’t! We gave all the information we could to—er—this gentleman this morning.” He jerked his head towards Lowe. “We cannot be continually pestered in this way. It’s outrageous!”

  “I’m afraid, sir,” said Shadgold gently when this outburst had subsided, “that we have not come on this occasion for information.”

  Lowe heard a sudden gasp from the door through which Francis Nethcott had entered. Standing in the doorway, her face white, was the girl Joyce. Behind her hovered a young man.

  “You have—not come—for information?” stammered Mr. Nethcott. “Then may I ask what you have come for?”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to give you an unpleasant shock, sir,” said Shadgold apologetically. “I have come to execute a warrant for your brother’s arrest on a charge of murder.”

  The sallow, strained face of the little man went a dirty yellow. He staggered as though someone had given him a heavy blow, and something very like a groan escaped his ashen lips. The girl came hurriedly forward and put an arm round his neck.

  “Pops,” she said huskily.

  He recovered himself, and putting up a hand patted her arm.

  “I’m all right, Joyce,” he muttered, and then: “They’ve come—for Harold.”

  Her face was pale, but she kept her composure.

  “Come for Uncle Harold?” she said. “What do you mean?”

  “The police,” said Nethcott jerkily. “They think—they think he’s responsible for these murders.” He stopped, and the girl looked up, letting her glance stray from one to the other.

  “But how absurd!” she exclaimed angrily. “Uncle Harold of all people! It’s ridiculous!”

  Lowe felt a sudden admiration for her courage. She was bluffing gamely, but she knew. He could see she knew. This was no unexpected shock; it was something she had dreaded for a long time. Dreaded yet expected.