A Murder is Arranged (6 page)

The report of Detective Sergeant Wilkins was terse. It stated that Douglas Oborn had been acquitted on the charge of dangerous driving; he had proved an alibi and therefore it must have been a case of mistaken identity.

Richardson confessed to himself that of all the cases that were coming before him at this moment, this murder of one of the guests at Scudamore Hall was the most intriguing. He touched his bell and told his messenger to waylay Detective Inspector Dallas when he came in and bring him to his room.

“I shall not leave the office before I have seen him.”

“Very good, sir; I'll tell him.”

It was past seven when Dallas tapped on his chief's door.

“Come in,” called Richardson. “You seem to have had a busy day.”

“Yes sir, I have.” His usual calm self-possession appeared to have been shaken.

“Have you any fresh news to report about that Marplesdon case?”

“Yes sir; we have found Mr Forge's missing emerald.”

“Good Lord! Found it where?”

“On the body of that suspected receiver, Hyam Fredman, about whom I reported this morning. The first search of the body had disclosed nothing but in feeling the clothing carefully over we felt some hard object and found on the inside of the vest another pocket that had been added to the garment, not by a tailor, but by a clumsy amateur. In this secret pocket we found the missing emerald.”

“Has Mr Forge identified it?”

“Yes sir; he had already given us the weight and the approximate size and the jewel conformed with his description.” 

“That rascally butler was in it, I suppose.”

“Well, sir, I think that there are more complications than that. As you will remember, Fredman's clerk told me that he left home on the nineteenth and said something about a night journey. The nineteenth was of course the night of the murder and we formed the impression on finding that emerald that the two were connected in some way. If it was his intention to visit Crooked Lane that night to receive the emerald from the thief he must have had a car, so we specialised on finding out whether this was so and we discovered that he had a car—an ancient, broken-down-looking vehicle which he kept in a small garage near the shop. We searched this car and at the bottom of the pocket on the door beside the driver's seat we found this, sir.” With great care Dallas drew an envelope from his pocket and took out of it a rough manuscript plan which he unfolded and laid before Richardson. It indicated Scudamore Hall, the road over Marplesdon Common and Crooked Lane with a line of dots and arrows marking the route.

“You think that the dead woman was the thief and that she had made an appointment with this man?”

“That seems to be a probable explanation, sir,” said Dallas cautiously.

“Do you suggest that he committed the murder and then killed himself in his own house?”

“That seems a feasible explanation; we found a revolver with two chambers empty, on the floor beside the body. Doctor Smithers will let us have his report as soon as he has consulted the medical expert employed by the Home Office in such cases.”

“Probably the expert's report will go far towards clearing up this case altogether for you.”

“Personally, I am inclined to think that there is a good deal of work before us, sir.”

“You don't accept the prima facie evidence then?”

“Not altogether, sir. There is still the mystery of the missing fur coat; I myself searched the shop and the rooms upstairs and it wasn't there.”

“Did you find out from the garage people at what hour Fredman brought his car back?”

“Yes sir; he brought it back on the morning of the twentieth about ten o'clock.”

“Then he had it out all night?”

“Yes sir, as far as we've been able to ascertain.”

“You say that the revolver was lying on the floor near the body and was not grasped in the hand.”

“It was eight and a half inches from the right hand, sir.”

“In my opinion that would not point to suicide. A very important and in fact almost certain proof of suicide is the manner in which the corpse retains the weapon in his clenched fist. All sorts of experiments have been made on persons just dead by pressing objects into their hands and these have proved that they cannot continue grasping such objects with the convulsive grip of a person who was holding the object in his hand during life and in the death agony, unless, of course, the weapon was placed in the hand of a dying victim. So, subject to the opinion of the Home Office expert, I think it is clear that Hyam Fredman was murdered.”

“I think to, too, sir, and we shall work on those lines.”

“Then let me hear the doctor's report as soon as it comes in.”

N
O ONE
would have thought that tragedy was hanging over the little party of three who sat in the dining room at Scudamore Hall on Christmas Eve, albeit they had attended the funeral of Margaret Gask that very morning. Huskisson, it was true, was still plunged in gloom but Oborn was a host in himself. As if to make up for having sprung the surprise of his alibi upon them without telling them beforehand, he entertained his two companions with amusing stories throughout the meal. Forge seemed to forget his distaste for the man. No one touched on the topic of Margaret Gask's death but Oborn in his triumph at the police court could not resist the temptation to make slighting references to the police. Forge at once took up the cudgels on their behalf.

“They've got pretty good men in the metropolitan police,” he said.

“And plenty of dunderheads, too—fellows who go off the deep end on the slightest provocation. Look at that fellow—Dallas, I think he calls himself; there's a deep-ender for you…” 

Forge turned upon him. “Don't start talking about Inspector Dallas disparagingly…”

“Why? Has he been making good behind my back?”

“Well, I'll tell you something and you can judge for yourselves. Now we are free from interruption by the servants let me say that I've recovered a very valuable thing that was pinched by someone in the house no longer ago than three or four days and this was done entirely by Dallas. You remember that uncut emerald I showed you all? Well, to the best of my belief I locked it up in the drawer, meaning to put it back in the safe as soon as I had a moment to spare, but when I went to the drawer I found that it had disappeared and yet I could swear that I locked it up.”

“You mean that the lock on the drawer was picked?” asked Huskisson.

“It must have been.”

“You don't suspect any of your guests, I hope?” asked Oborn with a grin.

Forge dismissed the joke with a gesture. “You must keep this entirely to yourselves. Obviously the theft must have been committed by someone in the house and all my servants are more or less new. The police are looking up the characters they brought with them but have warned me not to alarm them and so I hope you will both keep your mouths shut about the theft.”

The butler came in and, addressing Forge, said, “I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but there's a lady on the telephone asking for Miss Gask.”

“Did you tell her what had happened?” asked Forge.

“No sir; I said that I would call you to speak to the lady.”

Forge made a gesture of resignation. “You'll excuse me,” he said to his guests as he went out to the instrument in the hall.

He took up the receiver and listened to a voice with a strong foreign accent.

“Who is speaking?” he asked.

“Mademoiselle Coulon. I wish to speak to Miss Gask; she told me she would be there, so will you call her, please.”

Forge clasped and unclasped the fingers of his free hand, wondering how one broke bad news gently. Through his brain—never of the brightest—there flashed the thought that to temporise would only put off the evil day and might possibly involve him in a suspicion of foul play. He must temporise, nevertheless. “I'm sorry to tell you that there has been an accident.”

The voice at the other end rose almost to a scream. “An accident to Margaret? Is she hurt very badly, yes?”

“Yes, very badly.”

“Oh, where is she? I must go to see her at once.”

“I'm afraid it's too late.” Forge quickly abandoned all hope of temporising. It was safer to blurt out the truth. “The fact is we attended her funeral this morning.” There was a silence at the other end of the wire; Forge began to fear that the speaker had collapsed in a faint with the instrument in her hand. At last came the words in a faint voice: “Margaret dead: it is not possible; and so suddenly. Then what am I to do? I come from arriving in London just half an hour ago. Margaret wrote to me that her friends would be pleased if I came to stay with them, so I came, but if she is dead…”

The voice was a pleasant one, the accent that of an educated woman; Forge forgot his resolution never again to invite to his house chance acquaintances—and if this lady at the other end of the wire was not a chance acquaintance what was she? But he could not keep her waiting.

“Come all the same,” he said, “and I can tell you all about it when you come.”

“But how shall I get there?”

“Where are you now?”

“I am speaking from Waterloo Station.”

“Nothing could be better. Ask for the platform for the next train to Kingston and I will send the car to meet you there. The chauffeur will be told to ask for Mademoiselle Coulon.”

“But that sounds very easy. I ask for Kingston, is it not so? And you will tell your chauffeur to look for a lady all in dark blue with a green wing in her hat and I will tell him my name.”

It is always pleasant to play the part of a knight-errant and Forge returned to his guests with the glow still upon him. He explained to them what had happened.

“Mademoiselle Coulon!” exclaimed Huskisson with a note of pleasure in his voice. “Why, that must be Pauline Coulon.”

“You know her then?” asked Forge.

“I do and she's a very charming person.”

“She must be,” agreed Oborn, “for do you know that she's lifted the atmosphere of gloom from your brow for the first time since I met you.”

“Perhaps you would go in the car to meet her at Kingston, as you know her,” said Forge; “and, by the way, the car ought to be starting soon: the trains run pretty often.”

“Have you told her what has happened?” asked Huskisson.

“I told her that poor Margaret Gask was dead but I did not say how she met her death.”

“Oh, then I suppose that will be my pleasant job,” observed Huskisson, on whom a deeper gloom had descended. “However, I'll be off.”

“I don't envy him his job,” said Oborn when Huskisson had shut the door behind him.

“No more do I, but it'll be easier for him than it would have been for us who have never met the lady.”

“Do you think you acted wisely in inviting her to come to a house where her friend has just been murdered?”

“What else could I do? She had been invited to this house by poor Margaret and I couldn't leave her stranded without a friend in London. After all, we ought to be able between us to make her forget the tragedy.”

“I hope she won't mind there being no hostess.”

“Well, you see I've got no female relations. Margaret, poor girl, was to have acted as hostess. I would have asked Huskisson's mother to come and stay for Christmas but it seems that she has already accepted an invitation to go to some friends in Scotland. If you'll excuse me I think I'll see the housekeeper myself about a room for Mademoiselle.”

As soon as the door had closed behind Forge, Oborn rang the bell. It was answered by the butler, who, seeing that Oborn was alone, closed the door behind him.

“I'm glad you answered the bell. Tell me quickly. Did you ever hear Margaret speak of a French friend called Pauline Coulon?”

“Never,” said the butler without hesitation.

“Good. That's all I wanted to know. Clear out now before Forge comes back.”

A minute later Forge returned with an expression of satisfaction on his face.

“We must make this lady comfortable,” he said; “but I think that my old housekeeper will see to that now that I've put her on her mettle.”

“I hope she'll prove worth the trouble you are taking and that her appearance will make as good an impression upon you as her voice seems to have made.”

Forge grinned. “We shan't have long to wait; they may be here at any minute.”

When the visitor did arrive they had to own that, however attractive her voice was, it could not have been more prepossessing than her appearance. She had even succeeded in dispelling the habitual gloom of Huskisson, who introduced her first to her host.

The girl's manner was charming. “But how kind of you to ask me here,” she said to Forge, looking at him from beneath her long lashes. She was tall and slender with a kind of ethereal beauty about her which seemed to Forge very unlike the usual type of Frenchwoman. It would have been difficult to describe the exact colour of her eyes, which seemed to change from grey to green. Oborn made an inward note of their extreme intelligence.

Forge, intent on hospitality, demanded whether she had dined and, learning that she had not, ordered a tray to be brought. He knew that he could leave to his housekeeper the choice of the viands.

Pauline Coulon allowed a dinner wagon to be wheeled in and helped herself to the various good things without showing the least concern because three pairs of eyes were fixed upon her; moreover, she plied a good knife and fork while chattering away about her impressions of the first Christmas she had ever passed in England.

“Your Christmas,” she said, “I know is the
fête
for children but at Waterloo one sees little of that; everyone seems to be hurrying homeward as fast as they can and most of them are laden with parcels.”

It was Huskisson who first introduced the subject that was uppermost in all their minds, although they had avoided it until now.