Hangmans Holiday (3 page)

Mr. Duckworthy looked, and grew so white that Wimsey thought he was going to faint.

“Well?” said Wimsey.

“Oh, God, sir! Oh, God! It’s come at last.” He whimpered and pushed the paper away, shuddering. “I’ve always known something of this would happen. But as sure as I’m born I knew nothing about it.”

“It’s you all right, I suppose?”

“The photograph’s me all right. Though how it came there I
don’t
know. I haven’t had one taken for donkey’s years, on my oath I haven’t—except once in a staff group at Crichton’s. But I tell you, sir, honest-to-God, there’s times when I don’t know what I’m doing, and that’s a fact.”

Wimsey examined the portrait feature by feature.

“Your nose, now—it has a slight twist—if you’ll excuse my referring to it—to the right, and so it has in the photograph. The left eyelid droops a little. That’s correct, too. The forehead here seems to have a distinct bulge on the left side—unless that’s an accident in the printing.”

“No!” Mr. Duckworthy swept his tousled cowlick aside. “It’s very conspicuous—unsightly, I always think, so I wear the hair over it.”

With the ginger lock pushed back, his resemblance to the photograph was more startling than before.

“My mouth’s crooked, too.”

“So it is. Slants up to the left. Very attractive, a one-sided smile, I always think—on a face of your type, that is. I have known such things to look positively sinister.”

Mr. Duckworthy smiled a faint, crooked smile.

“Do you know this girl, Jessie Haynes?”

“Not in my right senses, I don’t, sir. Never heard of her—except, of course, that I read about the murder in the papers. Strangled—oh, my God!” He pushed his hands out in front of him and stared woefully at them.

“What can I do? If I was to get away—”

“You can’t. They’ve recognised you down in the bar. The police will probably be here in a few minutes. No”—as Duckworthy made an attempt to get out of bed—“don’t do that. It’s no good, and it would only get you into worse trouble. Keep quiet and answer one or two questions. First of all, do you know who I am? No, how should you? My name’s Wimsey—Lord Peter Wimsey—”

“The detective?”

“If you like to call it that. Now, listen. Where was it you lived at Brixton?”

The little man gave the address.

“Your mother’s dead. Any other relatives?”

“There was an aunt. She came from somewhere in Surrey, I think. Aunt Susan, I used to call her. I haven’t seen her since I was a kid.”

“Married?”

“Yes—oh, yes—Mrs. Susan Brown.”

“Right. Were you left-handed as a child?”

“Well, yes, I was, at first. But mother broke me of it.”

“And the tendency came back after the air-raid. And were you ever ill as a child? To have the doctor, I mean?”

“I had measles once, when I was about four.”

“Remember the doctor’s name?”

“They took me to the hospital.”

“Oh, of course. Do you remember the name of the barber in Holborn?”

This question came so unexpectedly as to stagger the wits of Mr. Duckworthy, but after a while he said he thought it was Biggs or Briggs.

Wimsey sat thoughtfully for a moment, and then said:

“I think that’s all. Except—oh, yes! What is your Christian name?”

“Robert.”

“And you assure me that, so far as you know, you had no hand in this business?”

“That,” said the little man, “that I swear to. As far as I know, you know. Oh, my Lord! If only it was possible to prove an alibi! That’s my only chance. But I’m so afraid, you see, that I truly have done it. Do you think—do you think they would hang me for that?”

“Not if you could prove you knew nothing about it,” said Wimsey. He did not add that, even so, his acquaintance might probably pass the rest of his life at Broadmoor.

“And you know,” said Mr. Duckworthy, “if I’m to go about all my life killing people without knowing it, it would be much better that they should hang me and done with it. It’s a terrible thing to think of.”

“Yes, but you may not have done it, you know.”

“I hope not, I’m sure,” said Mr. Duckworthy. “I say—what’s that?”

“The police, I fancy,” said Wimsey lightly. He stood up as a knock came at the door, and said heartily, “Come in!”

The landlord, who entered first, seemed rather taken aback by Wimsey’s presence.

“Come right in,” said Wimsey hospitably. “Come in, sergeant; come in, officer. What can we do for you?”

“Don’t,” said the landlord, “don’t make a row if you can help it.”

The police sergeant paid no attention to either of them, but stalked across to the bed and confronted the shrinking Mr. Duckworthy.

“It’s the man all right,” said he. “Now, Mr. Duckworthy, you’ll excuse this late visit, but as you may have seen by the papers, we’ve been looking for a person answering your description, and there’s no time like the present. We want—”

“I didn’t do it,” cried Mr. Duckworthy wildly. “I know nothing about it—”

The officer pulled out his note-book and wrote: “He said before any question was asked him, ‘I didn’t do it.’”

“You seem to know all about it,” said the sergeant.

“Of course he does,” said Wimsey; “we’ve been having a little informal chat about it.”

“You have, have you? And who might you be—sir?” The last word appeared to be screwed out of the sergeant forcibly by the action of the monocle.

“I’m so sorry,” said Wimsey, “I haven’t a card on me at the moment. I am Lord Peter Wimsey.”

“Oh, indeed,” said the sergeant. “And may I ask, my lord, what you know about this here?”

“You may, and I may answer if I like, you know. I know nothing at all about the murder. About Mr. Duckworthy I know what he has told me and no more. I dare say he will tell you, too, if you ask him nicely. But no third degree, you know, sergeant. No Savidgery.”

Baulked by this painful reminder, the sergeant said, in a voice of annoyance:

“It’s my duty to ask him what he knows about this.”

“I quite agree,” said Wimsey. “As a good citizen, it’s his duty to answer you. But it’s a gloomy time of night, don’t you think? Why not wait till the morning? Mr. Duckworthy won’t run away.”

“I’m not so sure of that.”

“Oh, but I am. I will undertake to produce him whenever you want him. Won’t that do? You’re not charging him with anything, I suppose?”

“Not yet,” said the sergeant.

“Splendid. Then it’s all quite friendly and pleasant, isn’t it? How about a drink?”

The sergeant refused this kindly offer with some gruffness in his manner.

“On the waggon?” inquired Wimsey sympathetically. “Bad luck. Kidneys? Or liver, eh?”

The sergeant made no reply.

“Well, we are charmed to have had the pleasure of seeing you,” pursued Wimsey. “You’ll look us up in the morning, won’t you? I’ve got to get back to town fairly early, but I’ll drop in at the police-station on my way. You will find Mr. Duckworthy in the lounge, here. It will be more comfortable for you than at your place. Must you be going? Well, good night, all.”

Later, Wimsey returned to Mr. Duckworthy, after seeing the police off the premises.

“Listen,” he said, “I’m going up to town to do what I can. I’ll send you up a solicitor first thing in the morning. Tell him what you’ve told me, and tell the police what he tells you to tell them and no more. Remember, they can’t force you to say anything or to go down to the police-station unless they charge you. If they do charge you, go quietly and say nothing. And whatever you do, don’t run away, because if you do, you’re done for.”

Wimsey arrived in town the following afternoon, and walked down Holborn, looking for a barber’s shop. He found it without much difficulty. It lay, as Mr. Duckworthy had described it, at the end of a narrow passage, and it had a long mirror in the door, with the name Briggs scrawled across it in gold letters. Wimsey stared at his own reflection distastefully.

“Check number one,” said he, mechanically setting his tie to rights. “Have I been led up the garden? Or is it a case of fourth dimensional mystery? ‘The animals went in four by four,
vive la compagnie!
The camel he got stuck in the door.’ There is something intensely unpleasant about making a camel of one’s self. It goes for days without a drink and its table-manners are objectionable. But there is no doubt that this door is made of looking-glass. Was it always so, I wonder? On, Wimsey, on. I cannot bear to be shaved again. Perhaps a hair-cut might be managed.”

He pushed the door open, keeping a stern eye on his reflection to see that it played him no trick.

Of his conversation with the barber, which was lively and varied, only one passage is deserving of record.

“It’s some time since I was in here,” said Wimsey. “Keep it short behind the ears. Been re-decorated, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir. Looks quite smart, doesn’t it?”

“The mirror on the outside of the door—that’s new, too, isn’t it?”

“Oh, no, sir. That’s been there ever since we took over.”

“Has it! Then it’s longer ago than I thought. Was it there three years ago?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Ten years Mr. Briggs has been here, sir.”

“And the mirror too?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Then it’s my memory that’s wrong. Senile decay setting in. ‘All, all are gone, the old familiar landmarks.’ No, thanks, if I go grey I’ll go grey decently. I don’t want any hair-tonics to-day, thank you. No, nor even an electric comb. I’ve had shocks enough.”

It worried him, though. So much so that when he emerged, he walked back a few yards along the street, and was suddenly struck by seeing the glass door of a tea-shop. It also lay at the end of a dark passage and had a gold name written across it. The name was “The
BRIDGET
Tea-shop,” but the door was of plain glass. Wimsey looked at it for a few moments and then went in. He did not approach the tea-tables, but accosted the cashier, who sat at a little glass desk inside the door.

Here he went straight to the point and asked whether the young lady remembered the circumstance of a man’s having fainted in the doorway some years previously.

The cashier could not say; she had only been there three months, but she thought one of the waitresses might remember. The waitress was produced, and after some consideration, thought she did recollect something of the sort. Wimsey thanked her, said he was a journalist—which seemed to be accepted as an excuse for eccentric questions—parted with half a crown, and withdrew.

His next visit was to Carmelite House. Wimsey had friends in every newspaper office in Fleet Street, and made his way without difficulty to the room where photographs are filed for reference. The original of the “J. D.” portrait was produced for his inspection.

“One of yours?” he asked.

“Oh, no. Sent out by Scotland Yard. Why? Anything wrong with it?”

“Nothing. I wanted the name of the original photographer, that’s all.”

“Oh! Well, you’ll have to ask them there. Nothing more I can do for you?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

Scotland Yard was easy. Chief-Inspector Parker was Wimsey’s closest friend. An inquiry of him soon furnished the photographer’s name, which was inscribed at the foot of the print. Wimsey voyaged off at once in search of the establishment, where his name readily secured an interview with the proprietor.

As he had expected, Scotland Yard had been there before him. All information at the disposal of the firm had already been given. It amounted to very little. The photograph had been taken a couple of years previously, and nothing particular was remembered about the sitter. It was a small establishment, doing a rapid business in cheap portraits, and with no pretensions to artistic refinements.

Wimsey asked to see the original negative, which, after some search, was produced.

Wimsey looked it over, laid it down, and pulled from his pocket the copy of the
Evening News
in which the print had appeared.

“Look at this,” he said.

The proprietor looked, then looked back at the negative.

“Well, I’m dashed,” he said. “That’s funny.”

“It was done in the enlarging lantern, I take it,” said Wimsey.

“Yes. It must have been put in the wrong way round. Now, fancy that happening. You know, sir, we often have to work against time, and I suppose—but it’s very careless. I shall have to inquire into it.”

“Get me a print of it right way round,” said Wimsey.

“Yes, sir, certainly, sir. At once.”

“And send one to Scotland Yard.”

“Yes, sir. Queer it should have been just this particular one, isn’t it, sir? I wonder the party didn’t notice. But we generally take three or four positions, and he might not remember, you know.”

“You’d better see if you’ve got any other positions and let me have them too.”

“I’ve done that already, sir, but there are none. No doubt this one was selected and the others destroyed. We don’t keep all the rejected negatives, you know, sir. We haven’t the space to file them. But I’ll get three prints off at once.”

“Do,” said Wimsey. “The sooner the better. Quick-dry them. And don’t do any work on the prints.”

“No, sir. You shall have them in an hour or two, sir. But it’s astonishing to me that the party didn’t complain.”

“It’s not astonishing,” said Wimsey. “He probably thought it the best likeness of the lot. And so it would be—to him. Don’t you see—that’s the only view he could ever take of his own face. That photograph, with the left and right sides reversed, is the face he sees in the mirror every day—the only face he can really recognise as his. ‘Wad the gods the giftie gie us,’ and all that.”

“Well, that’s quite true, sir. And I’m much obliged to you for pointing the mistake out.”

Wimsey reiterated the need for haste, and departed. A brief visit to Somerset House followed; after which he called it a day and went home.

Inquiry in Brixton, in and about the address mentioned by Mr. Duckworthy, eventually put Wimsey on to the track of persons who had known him and his mother. An aged lady who had kept a small green-grocery in the same street for the last forty years remembered all about them. She had the encyclopaedic memory of the almost illiterate, and was positive as to the date of their arrival.