The Hangman

by Gerald Verner

  “I’m sorry, Miss,” began Shadgold, “but——”

  “Of course there’s some mistake,” she interrupted. “It’s perfectly absurd that you should suspect my uncle.”

  The Scotland Yard man looked uncomfortable. These were the sort of scenes he hated, and in spite of his experience he had never got used to them.

  “There may be a mistake, Miss,” he replied, “but that’s for other people to decide. On the evidence we’ve got, it’s my duty to arrest Mr. Nethcott. If you will allow me to see him——”

  She turned on Lowe, her eyes suddenly hard and accusing.

  “I suppose this is your doing,” she said contemptuously, and her voice was like ice. Ice with a core of tempered steel. “That’s why you came here this morning. I have heard of you. Why don’t you attend to your own business? You’re nothing to do with the police. You have a great reputation as a playwright. Isn’t that enough for you? Why do you mix yourself up with this kind of thing? I demand to know what this concocted evidence is that you and the police have hatched up between you.”

  “There is no concocted evidence,” answered Lowe, the colour in his face a little deeper, “the evidence against your uncle, sorry as I am to say so, is conclusive. I certainly should not connect myself with what is commonly called a frame-up, neither would my friend, Inspector Shadgold.”

  “What is it, Joyce?” A fresh voice interrupted the proceedings as the young man who had been lurking in the background came forward. “Are these fools accusing Mr. Nethcott of being ‘The Hangman’?”

  She nodded.

  “But,” he turned to Shadgold, “surely there must be some mistake.”

  “I’m afraid there isn’t, sir,” answered the stout inspector patiently. “We hold several clues and they all point to Mr. Harold Nethcott.”

  “Is anything the matter?” a gentle voice broke in on his sentence and they looked up.

  Harold Nethcott, pale, with dark circles under his eyes, looking even frailer in his dinner-suit than he had done when Lowe had seen him that morning, was half way down the staircase. Joyce choked back a little sob.

  “Come down, Harold,” said Mr. Nethcott huskily, “these—er—people wish to speak to you.”

  “To me?” The pale man raised his eyebrows as he came down the rest of the stairs. “Why do they wish to speak to me?”

  Shadgold cleared his throat and took a step forward.

  “Your name is Harold Nethcott,” he said and the other nodded. “I have a warrant here for your arrest on the charge of wilful murder,” went on the Scotland Yard man, “and I must warn you that anything you say may be taken down and later used in evidence——”

  Trevor Lowe sprang forward. He was just in time to catch the girl as she fainted.

  Chapter Eighteen – for the defence

  With the assistance of the young man, Lowe carried her into the drawing-room and laid her on the settee by the fire-place. The old butler brought brandy, and in a few minutes she had recovered.

  “Have—have they gone?” she asked, sitting up and smoothing her hair.

  Lowe shook his head.

  “No, not yet,” he answered. “They’re in the dining-room with Mr. Nethcott.” He turned to the young man. “If you will look after Miss Elliot,” he said, “I’ll join them.”

  Jim Bryant nodded.

  “Mr. Lowe,” the girl’s voice stayed him as he was crossing to the door. “Will they—will they be taking Uncle Harold away to-night?”

  “I’m afraid they will,” answered Lowe gently.

  “Oh!” She dropped her eyes and stared at the floor.

  The dramatist hesitated a moment, and then seeing that she had nothing more to say to him, he quietly went out and made his way to the dining-room. Lightfoot and Shadgold were standing just inside the door, Francis Nethcott occupied his favourite position in front of the fire-place. His brother was sitting a worried and dejected figure in an easy chair facing all three of them. They looked at Lowe as he entered.

  “How is Joyce?” asked Mr. Nethcott anxiously.

  “She is better,” replied the dramatist.

  The man in the chair uttered a little sigh.

  “Poor child,” he murmured, “this must have given her a terrible shock.” He looked at Lowe with a faint smile. “Do you believe that I am responsible for these atrocious crimes?” he asked suddenly.

  The dramatist hesitated, and then before he could reply, Harold Nethcott went on:

  “I see that you do,” he said quietly. “Well, if I am, I assure you I have no knowledge of my guilt.”

  “Don’t worry, Harold,” put in his brother. “You can rest assured that no effort will be spared to prove your innocence.”

  “I’m not worrying about that,” was the reply.

  “I’m sure you quite realize, sir,” said Shadgold, “that in the circumstances we could act in no other way.”

  “Yes, I realize that, now that I’ve heard the evidence against my brother,” said Mr. Nethcott reluctantly. “I suppose you will want him to—to go with you to the police station.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Shadgold. “We have a car outside and as soon as Mr. Nethcott is ready——”

  He was interrupted by a tap on the door and the entrance of Lane.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said the butler, addressing his master, “but there is someone on the telephone for Detective-Inspector Shadgold.”

  “For me?” said the Scotland Yard man in surprise.

  “Yes, sir,” answered Lane. “From the police station, sir.”

  “I wonder what it’s about,” muttered Shadgold. “Where is your phone?”

  “In the hall, sir.” The butler held open the door. “If you will follow me, sir, I’ll show you.”

  Shadgold went out, and presently they heard the sound of his voice at the telephone. Nobody spoke while he was away. Lightfoot with official stolidity gaped at nothing. The man in the chair, his brows drawn together over his sunken eyes, had dropped into a reverie. His brother before the fire-place shifted uneasily from one foot to another, and pulled jerkily at a loose piece of flesh under his chin. Shadgold’s conversation was a long one, and when he came back his face had changed. It was sterner and graver. He closed the door behind him, and stood for a moment looking from one to the other, then he spoke.

  “Scotland Yard has been trying to get me at the station,” he said. “A certain item of information has come into their possession that they thought necessary to pass on to me at once.” He stopped and rubbed at his small moustache. “I should like a few words with you, Mr. Nethcott, in private, if you don’t mind, if there is anywhere we can go.”

  Francis Nethcott’s face was even paler than before as he said quickly:

  “Come into my study, Inspector.”

  “Will you come to, Mr. Lowe?” said Shadgold. “Inspector Lightfoot can stay here.”

  Lowe nodded wonderingly, and followed Francis Nethcott and Shadgold into the hall.

  “This way,” said the little man, and began to mount the staircase.

  Opening a door on the first landing, he switched on the lights, and ushered them into a large plainly-furnished room.

  “Now,” he said when he had closed the door, “what is it, Inspector?”

  Shadgold came straight to the point.

  “Mr. Nethcott,” he said, “was your brother once known as Harold Smedley?”

  Lowe checked an exclamation, and Francis Nethcott appeared to shrink until he seemed even more haggard than before. His answer when it came was so low as to be barely audible.

  “Yes,” he muttered.

  “Until a year ago he was confined in Widemoore Asylum,” the Scotland Yard man went on. “He was confined there because twenty years previously he killed his wife and child. At the trial, on the evidence of two specialists he was found to be insane, and so escaped the death sentence. The method he used to kill his wife and child was the same as in the present case. He hanged them.”

  Francis
Nethcott licked his dry lips.

  “Yes,” he whispered huskily, “but a year ago he was released. They said he had recovered, and on condition that I promised to look after him they let him out.”

  “I know,” Shadgold nodded. “The governor of Widemoore telephoned Scotland Yard after reading about the latest murder here, and they at once got into touch with me.” His voice took on a sterner note. “Knowing this, Mr. Nethcott, it was your duty to have told the police about your brother.”

  Francis Nethcott looked up and his eyes flashed.

  “My duty to whom?” he demanded harshly.

  “To the community at large,” retorted Shadgold. “If we had known this before we might have saved the lives of Tidd and Miss Mortimer.”

  “I was not certain that my brother had anything to do with the murders,” said the little man. “I’m not certain now. I can’t bring myself to believe anything so terrible. And if he was innocent, and I had revealed his past it would have been sufficient to stamp him as guilty.”

  “There’s no doubt about his guilt,” said Shadgold. “It’s obvious that in spite of the medical report he never really recovered.”

  “I’m afraid there can be no doubt, Mr. Nethcott,” interjected Lowe quietly as he saw the distress on the other’s face. “It’s a very dreadful business and very sad, because I’m certain that your brother has no knowledge that he has killed these people.”

  “The verdict will almost certainly be ‘guilty but insane,’” said Shadgold. “Of course, he will have to be examined by a specialist appointed by the defence in consultation with one from the Home Office. That is the only consolation I can offer you, Mr. Nethcott.”

  “And he will be sent back to—to Widemoore?” muttered Francis Nethcott brokenly.

  “That I’m afraid is inevitable,” agreed Lowe.

  The little man stood with bowed head for a moment, and then suddenly he squared his shoulders and looked up.

  “Mr. Lowe,” he said earnestly, “I have heard a lot about you. In one or two cases you have helped the police and been successful. Although everything seems to be against my brother, I personally am by no means convinced that he is guilty, and I shall do all in my power to prove that he is not.” He paused for a second as though considering his next words. “You came down, I believe, to help your friend Inspector Shadgold with this dreadful affair. Would it be too much to ask you to remain and look into the matter for me?”

  The dramatist was silent. He was rather at a loss to answer this request. In his heart he had no doubt at all regarding Harold Nethcott’s guilt.

  “I’m afraid I must decline,” he replied slowly. “Candidly I do not share your belief in your brother’s innocence. If I did I would do all I could to help you, but the evidence is too strong to admit of doubt.”

  Francis Nethcott’s eyes clouded.

  “I beg your pardon for asking you, Mr. Lowe,” he said a little stiffly. “I shall, however, engage the best counsel I can obtain for the defence, and I would have liked you to have worked with him. If Harold is guilty, then much as it will grieve me, I can wish nothing else than he should be placed under restraint. If on the other hand he is not, I feel that nothing should be left undone to save him from the disgrace and suffering that will inevitably ensue. That was all I was asking you to do, since you have before been successful in similar cases.”

  There was another silence. Shadgold shifted impatiently on his feet, while Lowe stared at the fingers of his left hand with knitted brows. Presently he raised his eyes and looked steadily at Mr. Nethcott.

  “I am prepared to do one thing if it will satisfy you,” he said.

  A small gleam of hope showed for a moment in the little man’s tired eyes.

  “What is that?” he asked quickly.

  “I will continue to look into this affair,” said the dramatist, “on the condition that whatever I find I make public. I will not act solely for the defence, and suppress any further evidence that might strengthen the case against your brother. Whatever I discover, if anything, must be placed at the disposal of the proper authorities.”

  Francis Nethcott hesitated for the fraction of a second, and then he nodded.

  “Very well,” he said. “I agree—and thank you.”

  “And now, sir,” said Shadgold, breaking in impatiently. “We had better go back to Mr.—er—er—Smedley, and get him to prepare to accompany me to the police station.”

  Chapter Nineteen – white has an idea

  The arrest of Harold Smedley, alias Nethcott, provided Hill Green with an even greater sensation than the murders. The carriages of the 8.20 were little cells of animated discussion. Mr. Stott from the corner of his first-class compartment expressed his views to a group of interested listeners, and talked as one having an inside knowledge of the affair.

  “I’m not at all surprised,” he said, shaking his head profoundly. “Not at all surprised. Those people up at the Square are a peculiar lot. That girl, for instance, always flying about here, there and everywhere with that fellow Bryant, and they’re not even engaged. It’s not right, you know. I wouldn’t allow a daughter of mine to behave like that.”

  His listeners, whose daughters mostly did as exactly as they liked, agreed with him that it was not right.

  “And then these Smedleys living there all this time under an assumed name,” Mr. Stott continued, “that’s a bit of an eye-opener for some of them. Fancy having a crazy man, who had already murdered two people, wandering loose about the place. It’s disgraceful! I rather think the authorities will get into trouble over that.”

  He continued in the same strain until the train drew into Waterloo, and discharged its cargo, scattering them to the four winds of heaven.

  Trevor Lowe, breakfasting at the “Hillside Hotel,” heard the matter discussed by various members of the staff and frowned. He had ordered his car for nine o’clock with the intention of going back to London. That he had not gone on the previous night had been due to Francis Nethcott, who had insisted on his remaining behind after Shadgold and Lightfoot had taken Harold Smedley away, to discuss in more detail the task that Lowe had undertaken. The result had not been helpful in any way, but Lowe had arrived back at the hotel much too late and too tired to think of going back to London that night. In his own mind he was certain that no amount of investigation would help Harold Smedley in the least, and the more he thought about it the more he became annoyed with himself for having agreed to do what he had. It was, he felt, going to be a complete waste of time, and at the moment he had no idea where to make a start. The evidence against Smedley was absolutely conclusive. His past, the broken nail, the key, the fact that he was out on each occasion when a crime had been committed, and finally—a fact he had learned that morning over the telephone from Shadgold—that the car owned by the Nethcotts had a patched tyre coinciding with the impressions that had been found at Linden cross roads. In face of all this evidence it seemed futile to attempt to find anything for the defence. Lowe candidly admitted that he had not the remotest idea how to make a start.

  He finished his breakfast, paid his bill, and went out to his waiting car. The porter brought his suit-case, accepted a tip with a smiling salute, and the dramatist drove away. Acting on an impulse he called at the police station. Shadgold and Lightfoot were in the charge-room, and the Scotland Yard man looked surprised to see him.

  “Hallo, Mr. Lowe!” he greeted. “I thought you were on your way to London.”

  “So I am,” said Lowe smiling, “but I’ve just thought of something. Have you got the reports about the past lives of Doctor Wallington and Miss Mortimer?”

  It was Lightfoot who answered.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, “the last one came in this morning.”

  “I wonder,” asked Lowe, “if you could let me have copies of them?”

  Lightfoot looked at Shadgold and the Scotland Yard man wrinkled his nose.

  “You can have copies of them, if you want them,” he said. “What’s the
idea, Mr. Lowe?”

  “Nothing particular,” replied the dramatist, “only I’d just like to glance through them. When can I have the copies?”

  “Well, I shall have to get them made, sir,” said Lightfoot. “We’ve only one copy here, and I can’t very well let you have that.”

  “Get somebody in the place to type them,” said Lowe, “and have them sent to me at Portland Place by special messenger. I’ll pay all expenses of course.”

  “All right, sir, I’ll do that,” agreed the local inspector.

  Lowe thanked him and took his leave. Shadgold followed him out to the waiting car.

  “Have you got any doubt about this fellow, Smedley, being the right man?” he asked.

  “Candidly, no,” answered the dramatist, “but you heard what I promised his brother?”

  “You’re only wasting your time, Mr. Lowe,” said the Scotland Yard man, shaking his head. “We’ve got all the evidence we want for a conviction, and you won’t find any of the other sort.”

  “I quite agree with you,” said Lowe ruefully, “but I’ve promised and there you are.”

  They shook hands and the dramatist took his place behind the wheel.

  “When are you coming back to London?” he asked as he slipped the gear lever out of neutral.

  “Maybe to-night, anyway to-morrow morning,” replied Shadgold. “I’ll look you up when I do.”

  He waved his hand as the big car glided away, watched it out of sight and went back to rejoin Lightfoot.

  Trevor Lowe arrived in London shortly after eleven and found his secretary, Arnold White, engaged in sorting over the morning mail.

  “Hullo, sir!” he greeted. “I see by the paper that the villain of the piece has been rounded up. It doesn’t mention you, by the way, but I conclude that you had something to do with it.”

  Lowe helped himself to a cigarette.

  “A little but not much,” he remarked. “However, I haven’t finished with the business yet.”

  White looked round interestedly.

  “What’s in the wind?” he said. “Isn’t the guilty man guilty after all?”