The Hanging Stranger - 2

The Commissioner nodded. "Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.
Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control." He
turned from the window. "Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figured
everything out."
"Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from the
lamppost. I don't understand that. _Why?_ Why did they deliberately hang
him there?"
"That would seem simple." The Commissioner smiled faintly. "_Bait._"
Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. "Bait? What do you mean?"
"To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who was
under control--and who had escaped."
Loyce recoiled with horror. "Then they _expected_ failures! They
anticipated--" He broke off. "They were ready with a trap."
"And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known." The
Commissioner abruptly moved toward the door. "Come along, Loyce. There's
a lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste."
Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. "And the man. _Who was the
man?_ I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.
All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed--"
There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.
"Maybe," he said softly, "you'll understand that, too. Come along with
me, Mr. Loyce." He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught a
glimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, a
platform of some sort. A telephone pole--and a rope! "Right this way,"
the Commissioner said, smiling coldly.
* * * * *
As the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank came
up out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat and
coat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people were
there, hurrying home to dinner.
"Good night," the guard said, locking the door after him.
"Good night," Clarence Mason murmured. He started along the street
toward his car. He was tired. He had been working all day down in the
vault, examining the lay-out of the safety deposit boxes to see if there
was room for another tier. He was glad to be finished.
At the corner he halted. The street lights had not yet come on. The
street was dim. Everything was vague. He looked around--and froze.
From the telephone pole in front of the police station, something large
and shapeless hung. It moved a little with the wind.
What the hell was it?
Mason approached it warily. He wanted to get home. He was tired and
hungry. He thought of his wife, his kids, a hot meal on the dinner
table. But there was something about the dark bundle, something ominous
and ugly. The light was bad; he couldn't tell what it was. Yet it drew
him on, made him move closer for a better look. The shapeless thing made
him uneasy. He was frightened by it. Frightened--and fascinated.
And the strange part was that nobody else seemed to notice it.