The Noose

by Philip MacDonald

  ‘It’s nice in the moonlight, isn’t it? …’

  Anthony’s third shot, this. And his last. No more were needed. A clear bull’s-eye.

  Tom shivered. Tom’s eyes seemed, even while held by those of his questioner, to cringe. His body shrank. His lips worked. Little twitches of fear worked like ripples over the smooth blankness of his face.

  Anthony released the arm. He smiled. He said kindly:

  ‘That’s all right, old chap. Don’t like it myself. I tell you what, you come and have tea with me. Like buns and jam?’

  Tom straightened. Tom grinned happily. Tom nodded with rather dreadful vigour.

  Into The Horse and Hound by its back entrance Anthony led his guest. As they entered, the big clock at the stair’s foot chimed four o’clock.

  IV

  So also did the grandfather clock which towered dimly in the corner of the parlour of Ashvale Farm. A dank and airless parlour. Clean enough, but with, permeating it, the feel and odour of the room which is never used. It was very cold here, and the grey dusk of the winter afternoon seemed intensified.

  Mr Flood pulled his overcoat more closely about him. He strove to keep his shivering to himself. A notebook lay upon the oak table before him, and in the blue fingers of his right hand was a pencil. Facing him, the width of the table between them, was a short, square man of a stolid solidarity; a man whose age was not less than thirty-five and not more than fifty; a man whose tanned face seemed neither harsh nor gentle, intelligent nor stupid, interested nor interesting. His eyes were of a pale, slatey grey and the trick he seemed to have of keeping them all the time widely opened—so that no lid was ever visible—was the one remarkable thing about him. His clothes were like the rest, neither one thing nor another, neither the garb of a farmer, nor of a quiet ‘country gentleman’, nor of a man who followed business in a country town. His curt manner was neither civil nor boorish, patient nor impatient.

  For nearly an hour had Flood been in this room … and an hour had been his time. He made a final, flourishing note and beneath it dashed the line of a finale. He shut the notebook and clipped the pencil back into its pocket. He said, with the bluff yet very courteous heartiness which had been his from the beginning of the interview:

  ‘Very many thanks, Mr Dollboys. Sorry to’ve kept you so long. Very good of you to be so accommodating. Very good!’ He flipped open his notebook again and scanned its pages. He nodded decisively. ‘It’ll make a very good article,’ he said. ‘The stuff’s all there. It’ll be Number Three in the “Famous Trials by Witness” Series. And so soon as my Editor’s received it, he’ll send you a cheque, Mr Dollboys. No need for you to worry over that. By being so courteous to me for an hour, and answering all my questions, you’ll very likely be fifty guineas or so the richer.’ He laughed with hearty delight; very friendly and yet respectful was Mr Flood.

  Dollboys made a sound which was neither word nor grunt. He shifted about in his chair a little, as one trying to get another to terminate himself his visit.

  Flood got promptly to his feet. He thrust the notebook into the side-pocket of his tweed overcoat. He rubbed his cold hands together and announced his departure.

  Dollboys muttered in his throat. Something about a cup of tea. He was not enthusiastic; neither was he surlily dutiful.

  Flood shook his head. ‘I thank you,’ he said, ‘no. I’ve got to get along.’

  Dollboys rose now, and led the way out into the dark square hall with its stone floor and gloomy iciness. He opened the door as Flood took from the table his hat and gloves. He said to Flood:

  ‘Well … evening, Mister. And glad you an’ me’s done each other a bit o’ good. Not that I knew much about yon business …’

  Flood smiled with good-humoured reproach. ‘Now, Mr Dollboys!’ he said. ‘After all, you were the principal witness. And the only one, I should say, who had any head on his shoulders.’

  The flickering ghost of a smile for a moment gave semblance of life to Dollboy’s face. He said:

  ‘Well … I s’pose there’s no denying that …’

  Flood shook his bland head. ‘There isn’t, Mr Dollboys. Not a bit … Good afternoon, and many thanks. If all the people one interviewed were as pleasant over the job as you’ve been, my life ’d be a lot easier.’ He put on his hat and passed out through the door which his host held open for him; held neither fully open nor so nearly closed that egress was difficult.

  Flood’s first ten strides across the railed-in yard towards his little car were brisk and decisive. The tenth took him half of his way. And then, in gait and demeanour, there came a change. He checked in mid-stride, as a man will check who suddenly has remembered something of import; he hesitated; he went on towards the car, but he went on with a shorter pace, doubtful and hesitant. It was very well done. Dollboys, motionless in the doorway, watched him with, it seemed, neither curiosity nor idleness.

  Flood reached the car; opened its door; lifted a leg to enter; put the leg down again. As a man who has on a sudden taken a decision, he shut the car door again, turned briskly about and went back to the square house-front and the house’s owner. He smiled apologetically as he drew near—apologetically but with the inoffensive pride of one who does a kindly deed. At the house door he stood awhile with Dollboys. He talked earnestly, and with a little gesticulation. Twice Mr Dollboys nodded, neither emphatically nor wearily: no expression crossed that wooden face …

  ‘So I thought I’d mention it,’ Flood said. His tone was not without the tinge of nervousness which seemed suitable. His round, rather youthfully florid face wore a look of gravity. His blue eyes were candid, and innocent without foolishness.

  Dollboys nodded. ‘Much obliged,’ he said, ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Right,’ said Flood. ‘Thought I’d better mention it. You’ve been very patient with me and one good turn deserves another. That’s what I always say.’ He turned to go. Over his shoulder he said: ‘You can’t mistake him if you do see him, that’s one thing … Goodbye again.’ He ran towards the car.

  ‘Evenin’,’ said Dollboys. As the little car shot out of the gateway he closed the door. The cold dusk of the grey afternoon filled the yard. The square house stood solid, looking blankly out over its bare fields.

  Flood’s car bumped its too rapid way down the farm-lane to the high road; slowed; swung right in the direction of the four-mile distant Farrow; was off at speed. But halfway to Farrow it slowed and, almost stopping, swung into the obscurity of the little, perpetually overgrown lane which runs, between high and wooded banks, from the main Greyne road to Finchmere and the Hunt Kennels. A hundred yards up the lane—which is nearly as far as a car can penetrate—a figure came out of the left-hand hedge and halted him. A lean, leather-clad psittaceous figure.

  ‘Whoa!’ said Dyson.

  The car jerked; stopped. Flood pushed out his head. He grumbled:

  ‘Came far enough up the alley, didn’t you? Where’s the bike?’

  Dyson jerked his head at the hedgerow behind him. ‘Where d’you think! Seen him?’

  Flood nodded.

  ‘Go all right?’ Dyson came closer. He thrust out his beaked faced. Behind the great spectacles his black eyes gleamed in the half-light. Flood said:

  ‘Like a dream! I worked him carefully. Made real notes ’n everything. He thinks he’ll see his name all over the middle pages of Belton’s monthly. And get …’

  Dyson interrupted. ‘Cut it out! What’s he like?’

  Flood grinned. ‘Keep civil, you toad. Mr Andrew Connicott Dollboys is like nothing. So much like nothing that he makes you quite uncomfy. Most nondescript, non-committal stick I’ve ever rubbed against. Bit too much so, p’r’aps. Or p’r’aps that’s my imagination. Quite ready with his stuff on the case, though. No hesitation, no biases, no awkwardness—in fact, quite entirely straightforward …’

  Dyson cut in again. ‘Right!’ he snapped. His thin-lipped mouth seemed to disappear on the word. ‘Do the rest?’

  Flood no
dded. ‘I should say I did! You can tell the whole world that I gave Mr A. C. Dollboys such a picture of Mr Francis Dyson that he’d know you a mile off. Know you—and probably fight shy of you. You’re a shark, Mogul; an interfering, cold-blooded, most unpleasant, persistent, thick-skinned, utterly unpopular stick-at-nothing crime reporter. You are famous among those who know. It was really you who solved the Billington case, the Shop Murders, the Liverpool Arson ramp, and the Greenford poisoning job. The Police—probably by bribing you—took the credit. But all Fleet Street—though they hate you like hell—know the truth. And your name—though quite probably you’d give a different one—is Marable. And I’ve seen you in the district today and have wondered what you’re showing your beak round here for and think it just might be something to do with the Blackatter murder. And so I’ve just warned my pal A. C. Dollboys to have nothing whatever to do with you, you being …’

  ‘That’ll do!’ Dyson waved a gauntletted hand. ‘Going back?’

  ‘Yes.’ Flood started his engine and put his gear into reverse. Before the car moved he said: ‘Put the gust right up him. Might hook something.’

  Dyson’s mouth appeared again. He smiled; a curious distortion of his face. He stood a moment watching while Flood backed down the lane. He turned to the hedge and his motor-cycle …

  It was at five o’clock precisely that the chill peace of Ashvale Farm was disturbed for the second time that afternoon. A stuttered roaring drove fowls in a squawking storm. A motor-cycle came up the rutted lane at thirty miles an hour. A lean man in leather brought this to a standstill before the oaken door.

  He did not wait, this man, even to push up upon his helmet the talc goggles which were over his eyes. He fell upon the door and beat it with its heavy wrought-iron knocker. Thunder ensued.

  The knocker was still in play when the door was flung open. Almost the man who knocked fell into the house. But his rush, voluntary or no, came to an end upon the chest of the house’s owner.

  ‘What the blasted? …’ began Dollboys. His face, for that first instant, was not the neutral mask which Flood had seen. A mask, perhaps, but a mask of white, cold rage. But the pallor went, and the rage, immediately. It was as if an unseen sponge had been drawn across it, leaving it calm and controlled; neither this nor that.

  A voice came from beneath the goggles; a rasping, rough-edged voice which said:

  ‘Mr Dollboys? My name’s Dyson. Press man. Want a few words with you. Spare a moment?’ A gauntletted hand went up to the leather-cased head, pushing the goggles up and away from the fierce dark eyes magnified by the great glasses before them.

  Dollboys stared; a flicker of some emotion—the ghost of an expression—crossed his face. He stared unwinking. The wide-open, seemingly lidless eyes took stock. They saw the bird-like face, the great glasses, the wisp of black hair straggling out from beneath the forehead-piece of the leather helmet; the stoop of the shoulders and the out-thrusting of the head between them. Dollboys stared. Dollboys said:

  ‘I think y’r name’s not Dyson. I’ve been told of you. You’re Marable.’

  The thin lips in the beaked face twisted into a snarling smile. They said:

  ‘Possibly. Want a word with you. Spare a moment?’

  ‘No!’ said Dollboys. In Dyson’s face the door shut with a controlled bang.

  Dyson smiled. A real smile this time, not without triumph. He was enjoying himself. He stood looking at the door for a full minute. He then turned on his heel and went back to the centre of the yard and stood, legs astraddle and hands on hips, scanning the front of the house. Its blank-seeming windows, closed one and all, reminded him of the eyes of their possessor. He made a parade of his scrutiny. He saw the corner of a curtain twitch and something moving behind it. This was from the only lighted window. He gave no sign of having seen. He shrugged ostentatiously and turned back to his motor-cycle. In a moment the fowls again were storming in all directions. The roar of the exhaust receded down the lane.

  At fifteen minutes past five Dyson, on foot, came through the copse behind the farm-house. At seventeen minutes past the hour he turned the handle of the farm-house’s back door. It gave. He stood in the scullery. Facing him was a door, ajar, between the edge and jamb of which showed a line of soft yellow light. He stripped off goggles and helmet. He tiptoed to this door and softly pushed it until it stood wide. He slipped across its threshold and was in a wide, brick-floored kitchen. A great range showed its glowing fire between thick bars. Facing it stood a dresser of black oak. Two chairs and a table completed the furnishing. Food was on the table and a man and a woman in the chairs. The woman faced Dyson as he entered. The sitting man’s back was Dollboys’ back.

  There was a clatter on the brick floor. The woman, jumping to her feet, had overturned the wooden chair upon which she had sat. She was an old woman; tall she was, and thin, and out of her pinched and many-wrinkled face stared terrified eyes. She put up a hand to her breast. She stared at Dyson and stared, No sound came from her. Dollboys, slowly, began to turn in his chair. He made no move to rise.

  Dyson spoke to the old woman. He smiled at her a smile doubtless intended to he reassuring. He said:

  ‘Sorry trouble. Want a few words with Mr Dollboys. Spare a moment?’ This last sentence was to Dollboys, who now, his turn completed, sat and looked up, his wide eyes still unblinking, at the intruder. For perhaps the half of a second there had been in the unlidded eyes a glare. But now they were calm again; blank; emotionless.

  Their owner got slowly to his feet. He put the chair from his path with a quiet and strong steadiness. He came three steps towards Dyson. He said: ‘Get out. Quick.’ His voice was level and quiet. There was no more feeling in it than that of a man who tells the hour to a stranger.

  Dyson shook his head. His lank black hair tossed and flopped with the movement. He twisted his mouth with the snarling smile he had used just now at the other side of the house. He said:

  ‘No. Only few words. I’m a press man. Want to talk to you about the Black …’

  ‘Get out.’ Dollboys came two steps nearer.

  ‘Andrew!’ The old woman’s voice went up in a high, cracked note of fear. Dyson shot a quick glance at her. Why the fear? He said quickly:

  ‘About the Blackatter case. I …’

  Dollboys turned a shoulder to him. Dollboys said:

  ‘Mother, you’d best run off. I’ll get rid o’ this.’ He jerked a thumb at Dyson.

  The old woman shuffled to the door. A creak and a rustle, and she was gone. Dollboys turned to face his visitor again. He said, not moving:

  ‘Get out. I want none of your sort here. Shovin’ your way in …’

  Dyson sat down upon the table’s edge. ‘I know,’ he said wearily. ‘“Without so much as a by your leave.” Say it. Then we’ll get to business.’

  Dollboys, without a word, turned his back. Without haste he crossed to the door through which the old woman had gone. He opened it and passed through, leaving it wide behind him.

  Dyson sat where he was. He fumbled in some hidden recess in his overalls and brought to light his vast, black pipe, with it a tattered pouch of oilskin. He began to fill the pipe. He whistled—a painful, tuneless noise—between his teeth.

  There came the sound of Dollboys’ steady footsteps on the flags of the hall. The man came in. In his left hand was an old but well-kept fowling-piece. He halted three paces within the door. He said.

  ‘Will y’ get out? Or do I scatter some pellets into y’r legs?’ His voice was as level and unemotionless as ever.

  Dyson started. He looked at the weapon, then at its holder. His face expressed astonishment but no fear.

  ‘Good God!’ he said. ‘Bit old-fashioned in your methods. Don’t be silly. Put the thing away. Give me a moment. Want a few words on the Blackatter case. Press man.’

  Dollboys did not speak. He slowly raised the gun towards his shoulder. Dyson said, sharply:

  ‘Don’t be a B.F. Put the thing down. Get into trouble, you w
ill.’ He suddenly leaned forward, bracing his hands at each side of him, on the table’s edge. His shoulders were bowed, his neck and head sunk down between them. His beaked face seemed to thrust itself out towards Dollboys. Behind the spectacles the black eyes shone with a sudden and ferocious glitter. He stared. The eyes of Dollboys did not drop their glance; but the left hand of Dollboys lowered itself until once more the shotgun was harmlessly trailed. Dyson, still staring with forward-thrust head, spoke again. He said:

  ‘I’m a press man. My paper’s got hold of a story. Someone’s saying the Blackatter case wasn’t handled right. I’m on the job. Get me? So I’m digging up all the witnesses. You’re one of the first. You’re the one I want to talk to most. You’re the chief witness for the prosecution. You’re the man whose evidence put the rope round Bronson’s neck. So you can help me. Maybe. I want a talk with you.’ He broke off. In his tone there had been much which was not in his jerky, ambiguous-seeming little sentences. An undercurrent, savage and laden with suggestion.

  A momentary flicker of feeling, untranslatable, passed over the wooden face of Dollboys. Dyson, glaring still, thought he perceived at work within the man the tales of Flood. He said, suddenly thrusting himself upright:

  ‘Going to talk?’

  Dollboys was once more expressionless. ‘Why?’ he said. ‘Newspapers ’re none o’ my business. Not what they do, nor what they think.’ His words came very slow; perhaps he was picking them with care; perhaps merely emphasising. He said: ‘My duty, I did in the Court. You’ve no ’thority. Why should I waste my time on you and your newspapers?’

  ‘Might,’ said Dyson, stabbing the air with his pipe-stem, ‘do you a bit of good. Financially …’ He paused there; then added: ‘Or it might not. But what won’t do you any good’s to refuse to talk. That …’ Again he broke off. He shrugged. Dollboys saw the black, staring eyes narrow until they were slits. He said: