I stared at him. “Does that mean you believe Teasdale’s disappearance was arranged by forces beyond human ken?”
“No, no. I was merely making a considered observation. Have you given me every detail of what happened?”
“I believe so.”
“Think it through again — be sure.”
Frowning, I reviewed the events once more. And it came to me that I had neglected to mention the brief silvery glimmer which had appeared above the trap in the instant Teasdale plunged through; I had, in fact, forgotten all about it. This time I mentioned it to Gilloon.
“Ah,” he said.
“Ah? Does it have significance?”
“Perhaps. Can you be more specific about it?”
“I’m afraid not. It was so brief I took it at the time for an optical illusion.”
“You saw no other such glimmers?”
“None.”
“How far away from the gallows were you sitting?”
“Approximately forty feet.”
“Is the shed equipped with electric lights?”
“No — lanterns.”
“I see,” Gilloon said meditatively. He seized one of his notebooks, opened it, shielded it from my eyes with his left arm, and began to write with his pencil. He wrote without pause for a good three minutes, before I grew both irritated and anxious.
“Gilloon,” I said, “stop that infernal scribbling and tell me what’s on your mind.”
He gave no indication of having heard me. His pencil continued to scratch against the paper, filling another page. Except for the movement of his right hand and one side of his mouth gnawing at the edge of his mustache, he was as rigid as a block of stone.
“Damn it, Gilloon!”
But it was another ten seconds before the pencil became motionless. He stared at what he had written and then looked up at me. “Parker,” he said, “did Arthur Teasdale have a trade?”
The question took me by surprise. “A trade?”
“Yes. What did he do for a living, if anything?”
“What bearing can that have on what’s happened?”
“Perhaps a great deal,” Gilloon said.
“He worked in a textile mill.”
“And there is a textile mill at the prison, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Does it stock quantities of silk?”
“Silk? Yes, on occasion. What—?”
I did not finish what I was about to say, for he had shut me out and resumed writing in his notebook. I repressed an oath of exasperation, took a long draught of Guinness to calm myself, and prepared to demand that he tell me what theory he had devised. Before I could do that, however, Gilloon abruptly closed the notebook, slid out of the booth, and loomed over me.
“I’ll need to see the execution shed,” he said.
“What for?”
“Corroboration of certain facts.”
“But—” I stood up hastily. “You’ve suspicioned a possible answer, that’s clear,” I said, “though I can’t for the life of me see how, on the basis of the information I’ve given you. What is it?”
“I must see the execution shed,” he said firmly. “I will not voice premature speculations.”
It touched my mind that the man was a bit mad. After all, I had only known him for a few weeks, and from the first he had been decidedly eccentric in most respects. Still, I had never had cause to question his mental faculties before this, and the aura of self-assurance and confidence he projected was forceful. Because I was so desperate to solve the riddle, I couldn’t afford not to indulge, at least for a while, the one man who might be able to provide it.
“Very well,” I said, “I’ll take you to the prison.”
Rain still fell in black torrents — although without thunder and lightning — when I brought my Packard around the last climbing curve onto the promontory. Lantern light glowed fuzzily in the prison watchtowers, and the bare brick walls had an unpleasant oily sheen. At this hour of night, in the storm, the place seemed forbidding and shrouded in human despair — an atmosphere I had not previously apprehended during the two years I had been its warden. Strange how a brush with the unknown can alter one’s perspective and stir the fears that lie at the bottom of one’s soul.
Beside me Gilloon did not speak; he sat erect, his hands resting on the notebooks on his lap. I parked in the small lot facing the main gates, and after Gilloon had carefully tucked the notebooks inside his slicker we ran through the downpour to the gates. I gestured to the guard, who nodded beneath the hood of his oilskin, allowed us to enter, and then quickly closed the iron halves behind us and returned to the warmth of the gatehouse. I led Gilloon directly across the compound to the execution shed.
The guards I had posted inside seemed edgy and grateful for company. It was colder now, and despite the fact that all the lanterns were lit it also seemed darker and filled with more restless shadows. But the earlier aura of spiritual menace permeated the air, at least to my sensitivities. If Gilloon noticed it, he gave no indication.
He wasted no time crossing to the gallows and climbing the steps to the platform. I followed him to the trap, which still hung open. Gilloon peered into the cubicle, got onto all fours to squint in the rectangular edges of the opening, and then hoisted the hangman’s rope and studied the noose. Finally, with surprising agility, he dropped down inside the cubicle, requesting a lantern which I fetched for him, and spent minutes crawling about with his nose to the floor. He located the thin splinter of wood I had noticed earlier, studied it in the lantern glow, and dropped it into the pocket of his tweed coat.
When he came out through the passageway he wore a look mixed of ferocity and satisfaction. “Stand there a minute, will you?” he said. He hurried over to where the witness chairs were arranged, then called, “In which of these chairs were you sitting during the execution?”
“Fourth one from the left.”
Gilloon sat in that chair, produced his notebooks, opened one, and bent over it. I waited with mounting agitation while he committed notes to paper. When he glanced up again, the flickering lantern glow gave his face a spectral cast.
He said, “While Granger placed the noose over Teasdale’s head, Hollowell held the prisoner on the trap — is that correct?”
“It is.”
“Stand as Hollowell was standing.”
I moved to the edge of the opening, turning slightly quarter profile.
“You’re certain that was the exact position?”
“Yes.”
“Once the trap had been sprung, what did Hollowell do?”
“Moved a few paces away.” I demonstrated.
“Did he avert his eyes from the trap?”
“Yes, he did. So did Granger. That’s standard procedure.”
“Which direction did he face?”
I frowned. “I’m not quite sure,” I said. “My attention was on the trap and the rope.”
“You’re doing admirably, Parker. After Granger threw the trap lever, did he remain standing beside it?”
“Until he had counted off sixty seconds, yes.”
“And then?”
“As I told you, he walked to the trap and looked into the cubicle. Again, that is standard procedure for the hangman. When he saw it was empty he uttered a shocked exclamation, went to his knees, and leaned down to see if Teasdale had somehow slipped the noose and fallen or crawled into the passageway.”
“At which part of the opening did he go to his knees? Front, rear, one of the sides?”
“The front. But I don’t see—”
“Would you mind illustrating?”
I grumbled but did as he asked. Some thirty seconds passed in silence. Finally I stood and turned, and of course found Gilloon again writing in his notebook. I descended the gallows steps. Gilloon closed the notebook and stood with an air of growing urgency. “Where would Granger be at this hour?” he asked. “Still here at the prison?”