The Lost Gallows: A London Mystery (British Library Crime Classics Book 86) by John Dickson Carr

Author:John Dickson Carr [Carr, John Dickson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Golden age crime, serial killer, manhunt, 1930s, vintage thriller, Golden Age of Murder, London Fog
Publisher: British Library Publishing
Published: 2020-11-10T05:00:00+00:00

XII

The Mirth of the Murderer

We were in a cab and racing up St. James’s street before Talbot spoke again.

“They got the message at Vine Street not five minutes ago,” he explained. “They shot through orders to trace the call, and found it came from a public call-box in the Burlington Arcade. Two men were sent out at once, but I doubt they’ll find anything when they get there. I don’t suppose there’s any question—?”

Bencolin shook his head.

“It’s Jack Ketch, Inspector. But, as suspicious as she was, how did he get her to accompany him? Well! There’s no use theorizing now…” I was full of the story I had got from Pilgrim; but, in the stress of this new and ghastly twist of the deviltry, I was silent until we should learn what it meant. Another person had walked out into the fog to be swallowed up in Ruination Street.

“The thing I want to know is,” said Talbot, “what happened to Bronson? He’s one of my oldest and best men. I set him watching the house this morning; and he had orders to stop everybody who went into the place and find out their business. I thought that was protection enough for her…”

He said no more until our cab stopped before the house in Mount Street. A street lamp near the door threw dim light through the fog on its cloistered and embalmed dignity; its polished door-knobs, its areaway, its glow behind drawn shades. It was sedate, it was—

“We’d better look for Bronson,” Talbot muttered, gruffly. The same thought was in all of us as we stared about. Bencolin went to the areaway, where he peered down the steps. No lights showed at the basement level. We heard the scrape of his feet on the stone stairs, and the presentiment of horror choked me like that raw fog…

“Better come down here,” he said from the depths. “I just walked on somebody’s foot.”

A damp chill ground into us as we descended, groping. Then I walked on somebody’s foot—a foot with a stiff leg, whose shoe seemed to hook into my own. Through fog and gloom a tiny glow appeared. It was Bencolin’s cigar-lighter. He was moving it low along the stone floor at the bottom of the stairs. It shone dully on a figure.

The man lay on his back, his head twisted to an upright position against the wall, so that his chin was on his breast in a hideous, broken-necked fashion. He was a young man, and his red hair was sodden with moisture. So were his clothes. One leg was drawn up at the knee, as though he were trying to rise, and his arms crumpled back. All this I saw piece by piece as Bencolin moved the light along him. He wore a light tan overcoat, so that one noted distinctly the scorched black hole over the heart. There was no sign of his hat. And as Bencolin tried to lift his stiff head, I could see on the dead man’s face an expression of the most profound surprise.

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