Hangmans Holiday Read Online Free

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.