A Murder is Arranged (18 page)

“The registry wanted it to add a paper that has come in from the Surrey chief constable.”

“An important paper?”

“No sir; it is merely that they have traced another transaction between Margaret Gask and Fredman.”

“Good. Let me have the file now: I want to refresh my memory.”

As soon as it was brought Richardson set himself to read all the earlier papers connected with the case. He was thus engaged when Lawrence returned with the suitcase, closely followed by Huskisson.

“Ah! Is that the suitcase? I suppose you have the key with you, Mr Huskisson?”

“Yes, and I suppose that you will not take my word for what it contains. Policemen never do believe what they are told, I understand.”

“That depends,” said Richardson in his most soothing manner. “But I feel sure that it will be a relief to you to lay all your cards on the table rather than ask us to take anything for granted.”

“Well, there are the keys,” Huskisson said, throwing a couple of keys on the table. “You're not going to ask me to stand by while you perform your famous act of astonishment at the contents because I know that you've searched it already.”

Meanwhile Lawrence was unlocking the suitcase and taking out the parcel it contained. He examined the knots. “It's very nicely tied up; it seems a pity to cut the string.”

Huskisson took a penknife from his pocket and ruthlessly cut the string in several places. Lawrence detached the paper wrapping disclosing the fur coat.

“This coat belonged to Miss Gask, I believe,” said Richardson quietly.

“It belongs to Monsieur Henri in Paris. You can read the address for yourself.”

“You know that Miss Gask was believed to be wearing this coat on the night she was murdered.”

“That is a good instance of the way in which you policemen jump to false conclusions. That parcel was tied up by me on the morning before Miss Gask's death.”

R
ICHARDSON ROSE
from his chair and spread the fur coat with the fur upwards on the table under the window.

“I'm no expert in furs,” he said, “but I imagine that a mink coat like this is worth a great deal of money.”

“It is,” said Huskisson shortly.

“Anything up to a thousand pounds, shall we say?”

“Probably.”

“You have, of course, no objection to telling us how it came into your possession.”

“I'm going to tell you the truth but with the full knowledge that you won't believe what I tell you. That coat was in the possession of Miss Gask. From information I had received in Paris I knew that a valuable mink coat had been stolen from Monsieur Henri, of the Rue Royale. I taxed Miss Gask with the theft. At first she assured me that it had been entrusted to her to take to England and effect a sale if possible. I needn't go into details, but in the end I managed to frighten her into consenting to let me return the coat anonymously to Monsieur Henri, its proper owner. But before I had had time to send it off to Paris she was murdered and there was a hue and cry about the coat.”

“You could still have sent it anonymously to Monsieur Henri.”

“I meant to, but I didn't want to get mixed up in any way with the murder and so I decided to leave the suitcase in the cloakroom until the fuss had died down.”

“Weren't you afraid of being charged with being an accessory after the fact in the theft of the coat?”

Huskisson shrugged his shoulders. “There was of course that danger, and there was also the danger that I might be charged with her murder, as you police were so sure that she was wearing the coat that night.”

Richardson smiled. “You had forgotten one thing that we should have looked for in relation to that coat.”

“What was that?”

“Bloodstains.”

“I see; the absence of bloodstains might absolve me from the suspicion of being her murderer, but it would leave me still open to suspicion of complicity in the theft.”

“That's a question for Monsieur Henri and the French police. The coat was stolen from Monsieur Henri's premises and it has been found in your possession. Naturally you will have to account for how it got there. The coat will have to remain in our possession for the present and we shall have to inform the French authorities.”

“I have already sent a telegram to a lady who is employed in Monsieur Henri's establishment, asking her to come over.”

“You mean Mademoiselle Coulon?”

“Yes. I don't know how you got the name, but that's the lady: she will be able to identify the coat.”

Richardson wondered whether Huskisson knew what Mlle Coulon's real business was. He threw out a feeler. “Is she one of the mannequins?”

“I believe she's a buyer. She knew Margaret Gask.”

“Well, Mr Huskisson, I don't know that we need detain you any longer; but I must insist on the condition that if you leave Scudamore Hall you will notify us.”

“I have no intention of leaving Scudamore Hall while Mr Forge is good enough to give me hospitality. I wish you good morning.”

When the door was shut behind him Richardson said, “That's a good instance of the way in which we are handicapped. If that man had come forward and told the truth about this coat at the very beginning it might have made a difference.”

“I don't know about that, sir. Of course we've had the trouble of trying to trace the coat…”

“Don't forget why we thought that she must have been wearing the coat. It was a very cold night and her body was found clad only in evening dress without any kind of covering—found with a bullet through the head. I am still of the opinion that she was wearing some outer covering for warmth and that outer covering for some reason was carried off by her murderer.”

“I think that the explanation of Huskisson's behaviour is simple: he was in league with the woman over her thieving operations in Paris.”

“That is not my view,” said Richardson quietly. “I think that Huskisson had a real regard for Miss Gask and that it was a shock to him to find out that she was nothing more than a common thief; that his motive was to shield her good name.”

Lawrence wilted. He had so profound a belief in his chief's acumen that his only reply was, “Then we're no nearer the real murderer.”

“There's only one thing that puzzles me about the man. One would have thought that he had had enough of Scudamore Hall to last a lifetime, but you saw how ready he was to stay on there.”

“Yes sir, I noticed that. I wonder whether he has got something hidden there…”

“If so, I suppose that we must trust Spofforth to find it out. Meanwhile a report of the finding of this coat must go to Dallas at once.”

“Very good, sir; then I'll have a copy made. There should be a report from Dallas himself soon.”

“I hope so. While you are getting that off to him you might send with it a good French version that he can hand straight to the French commissaire. Let them go over it carefully for accuracy in translation.”

“Very good, sir. Minehead's French is good, but there is a man in the Special Branch whose French is as good as any Frenchman's. I'll get him to go over the report for possible blunders.”

As soon as he was alone Richardson picked up the file of the Margaret Gask case to read the fresh report from the Kingston constabulary which his clerk had referred to. It described how in searching the premises of Fredman they had come across a letter signed by Margaret Gask and addressed from Paris. A copy of the letter was attached; Richardson read it carefully.

“A.G.,” thought Richardson, must be Arthur Graves. The French police had got him for the moment in safe custody. This little gang had worked together; obviously the small fry like Graves and Gask had not made much. Fredman's money was in process of being traced; it had been cunningly dispersed among several banks both French and English, but the total when it came to be reckoned up was likely to be staggering. Such a gang would not have worked at haphazard: at its head must have been a very competent leader. Certainly there was the Marquis de Crémont, but in Richardson's opinion it was certain that there must have been some Englishman working with him. The more he thought things over, the more convinced he was that James Oborn must be laid by the heels; but he had fled the country and Dallas might not have the luck to overtake him. For the moment, at any rate, he did not think that Douglas Oborn should again be questioned. There was Spofforth's report that the butler at Scudamore Hall had some kind of confidential relations with Douglas Oborn: Curtis was just the type of man to have been used as one of the smaller fry in the gang; it might well be that he was blackmailing Douglas Oborn on account of what he knew about his brother. The moment might come for questioning Curtis, but it had not come yet; it was important not to arouse any suspicion that the gang was in process of being rounded up.

The report from the Salisbury police had not yet reached him, though it might be floating around the office. He rang and made enquiries about it.

“It ought to be on Mr Lawrence's table, sir,” said the clerk. “The registry received it this morning and at once marked it ‘pressing' because we knew that you were waiting for it. I'll enquire, sir.”

Lawrence himself entered with the report in his hand. “I have only just had time to read this, sir, on account of that business in Waterloo Station.”

“What is the gist of it? I haven't time to go through it at this moment.”

“Well, sir, there's nothing criminal known against James or Douglas Oborn. Apparently the family was not united. The mother and the two eldest sons were Roman Catholics and the youngest son, Charles, was brought up in his father's faith as a member of the Church of England. For this reason they had little in common with one another. When the mother died it was found that she had left her money to James and Douglas and the father, who died a year later, left the whole of his money and his practice to Charles. Since the father's funeral neither of the two elder brothers has been seen in Salisbury. It is common gossip among those who knew them that there was a violent quarrel between them and Charles.”

“There's nothing much to help us in that.”

“No sir; everything might be different if Dallas succeeds in tracing James. Both Arthur Graves and Margaret Gask knew James Oborn, but apparently Douglas was unknown to any of them.”

The telephone bell on Richardson's desk rang. He picked up the receiver and made the usual replies that began with affirmatives, “yes”—”yes”—”yes.” He listened attentively for a moment and then said, “Hang on a moment,” and put the palm of his hand over the instrument. “It's from Huskisson,” he hissed to Lawrence. “He's had a message from Mademoiselle Coulon to say that she is leaving Paris by air this afternoon.”

“You would like me to meet her, sir?”

“Huskisson says that he'll meet her at Croydon and that he'd like you to go with him. I suppose he doesn't want us to think that he wants a private conversation with her first.”

“Very good, sir; I'll go.”

“He says he'll call for you in his car.” Richardson used the telephone again. “Mr Lawrence will be ready if you call here on your way.” He put down the receiver.

“Do you think that Huskisson knows that this lady is employed by the French police, sir?”

“From his replies to my questions I gathered that he did not. Put this coat back in the suitcase and lock it up until she comes.”

“Have you been through the pockets, sir?”

“No. As it belongs to that French firm and was stolen in Paris, we won't touch it before we hand it over. She can do the searching.”

Lawrence glanced at the clock. “Mr Huskisson will soon be here if we are to get to Croydon to meet the airplane. I have several things to dispose of before I can start, so if you'll excuse me…”

“You need not trouble to bring him to me before you start, of course. I shall be here quite late this evening with all this mass of work before me.”

Richardson was so much engrossed in his work that he lost all count of time. He looked up in astonishment when his messenger came in to announce that Superintendent Lawrence and a lady were in the waiting room.

“Ask them to come in at once.”

Pauline Coulon looked none the worse for her flight from Le Bourget. She glanced curiously round the room and then fixed her grey eyes on Richardson.

“I am very glad to meet the gentleman of whom I have heard so much,” she said as she shook hands, “and also to see your famous Scotland Yard.”

Richardson responded in the same tone. “I am delighted to meet yet another member of the service in which I have so many friends. Now, to work! Mr Lawrence, will you bring in that fur coat for Mademoiselle Coulon to see?”

As soon as the door had closed behind Lawrence she said, “So Spofforth did find that cloakroom ticket after all.”

R
ICHARDSON SHOWED
no surprise at her question. “You did not expect him to?”

“When I was at Scudamore Hall and had an opportunity of observing him I did not think—how shall I put it—that he belonged to the first choice in the market. But of course I had more intimate knowledge of the people concerned in the business than he had…”

“Do you mean,” asked Richardson, “that you suspected Mr Huskisson of having that coat in his possession?”

“Short of legal proof I felt sure of it. I knew that it was a great shock to Monsieur Huskisson when he learned that Margaret Gask had been a professional thief. I had told him in Paris of the loss of that coat by the firm of Henri. In a conversation I had with him at Scudamore Hall I realised that he knew that she had not been wearing that coat on the night of her death. While I was there I managed to engage in a little searching and was able to convince myself that it was not in the house. I had noticed a little habit of Monsieur Huskisson of slipping his fingers into the top pocket of his waistcoat as if to assure himself that something was still there. This prompted me to take the first opportunity of searching that pocket and it was thus that I found the cloakroom ticket from Waterloo.”