A Murder is Arranged

by Basil Thomson

  “The defendant is charged with dangerous driving at 3 P.M. on the nineteenth. He failed to stop at a pedestrian crossing, knocked down a woman and drove on without stopping to render aid. Happily the woman was not fatally injured. If she had been killed this man would have been charged with manslaughter.”

  “What have you to say?” enquired the presiding magistrate sternly.

  “I have nothing to say,” smiled the prisoner, “because I wasn’t there.”

  The prosecuting solicitor turned to the magistrate.

  “I have two witnesses who saw the accident, your worships.” Then, turning to Oborn, he asked, “Is your car number P.J.C.4291?”

  “It is.”

  “Were you driving it on the nineteenth?”

  “I was, but not in Kingston.”

  The presiding magistrate put a question. “Have the witnesses identified this man as the driver?”

  “Yes, your worships, they identified him outside the court a few minutes ago.”

  “Do you mean that they picked him out from a number of men in the ordinary course of police identification?”

  The clerk consulted a police sergeant. “I understand that they did not pick him out from a line of men, which is the ordinary procedure for an identification parade, your worships; they merely indicated that he was the man who had been driving the car.”

  “Then if he can prove that he was not on the spot at the time of the accident it would be a case of mistaken identity. You had better call your witnesses.”

  “Ellen Wheeler,” called the sergeant.

  The name was repeated by an officer outside the court. A little woman with “charwoman” written all over her came bustling in and took her stand in the witness box.

  “Take the book in your right hand,” said the sergeant, “and swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God.”

  The little lady did as she was bidden. Her evidence was short and to the point. “It was this way, your worship: me and the lady who was knocked down was standing at the Belisha crossing waiting for a chance to slip over. The lady stepped off into the road, the car knocked her over and drove on without stopping. I shouted after him, ‘You unfeeling swine,’ and I took his number. It was P.J.C.4291.”

  Oborn cross-examined her. “You say you identified me as the driver.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was I driving fast?”

  “You was driving like the wind.”

  “But not so fast that you couldn’t take my number.”

  “Nah; I took that all right.”

  “Did you write it down?”

  “No, I kept it in my ’ead.”

  “What a memory you must have to carry the figures in your head.”

  “I wasn’t the only one. That other lady that’s here took the number too.”

  The woman she referred to was a working woman of the same class. She confirmed Ellen Wheeler’s evidence but when Oborn pressed her to say whether it was she or Mrs Wheeler who remembered the car’s number she became confused. This did not prevent her from becoming impudent when asked which of the two had made up the story which both were pledged to tell.

  “You think yourself very clever, don’t you, putting me a question like that?”

  “But you haven’t answered the question.”

  She tossed her head. “No, and I ain’t going to.”

  The presiding magistrate addressed Oborn. “It would be strange if either woman had invented a number which is that of your car.”

  “And yet that must have happened, your worship,” said Oborn, pulling a paper from his pocket. “This is a certificate from an A.A. scout stationed near Wakefield, testifying that I, driving my car, number P.J.C.4291, stopped at three o’clock on that day to ask him whether he could supply me with a tin of petrol. Your worship will see that it was signed in the presence of a police inspector and therefore I could not have been in Surrey and Yorkshire at the same hour.”

  The presiding magistrate examined the paper and passed it to his colleagues.

  “What do you say to that?” he asked the police inspector.

  “If your worship will adjourn the case I have no doubt that the matter can be cleared up.”

  “I object to any adjournment,” said Oborn.

  The presiding magistrate showed impatience. He addressed Oborn first. “You have wasted the time of the Court. If you had produced this certificate to the police in the first instance the case would never have been called.”

  “I told the police officer who first questioned me that I was not in Kingston that day and as he didn’t believe me I obtained this certificate. If I hadn’t wanted petrol I might never have been able to prove my innocence.” The chairman passed a slip of paper to his colleagues and when they nodded assent he pronounced the charge to have been dismissed.

  Forge and Huskisson got into their car without waiting for Oborn and set out for home. Forge was the first to speak.

  “I don’t know what you think, but I consider that it was damned offhand of Oborn to keep all this up his sleeve when he was staying in my house. Why couldn’t he have told us about his defence?”

  “It seems to amuse him to get a rise out of the police.”

  “Oh, the police are quite able to look after themselves. What I object to is his taking a rise out of me.”

  “Yes, it’s a poor sort of humour to play this kind of joke on one’s host. I’ve been wondering if you’ve really decided to shut up the house and go abroad again. If so you mustn’t think of me. I’ll make other plans.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact something else has happened to keep me here. I haven’t told anyone yet except the police, but I’d like to tell you…”

  Huskisson broke in. “Please don’t tell me any secrets. I’d rather not know them.”

  Forge looked rather disconcerted. “I was going to confide in you because I hate keeping things to myself and I’m in a hole. Still, if you don’t want to hear it…”

  “I’m sorry to seem unsympathetic—the fact of the matter is I have a lot of troubles of my own just now. If you’ve confided your troubles to the police, especially if you’ve told them to Inspector Dallas, you can be more easy in your mind than if you confided in me.”

  “You think Dallas is a live wire?”

  “From what I’ve seen of him I should say that he is. You’ve only to look at him. There’s bulldog tenacity written all over his face.”

  “Yes, I shouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of him, I confess.”

  They arrived at the house and found Oborn there before them. He had handed his car over to the garage man and came towards them as they drove in.

  “I feel I owe you an apology, Mr Forge,” he said in his pleasant voice.

  “What for?”

  “For not having told you in advance about the little surprise I had prepared for the police.”

  “I couldn’t understand why you didn’t tell the police what you told the Court in the very beginning. You must remember that they have a very difficult part to play and after all they are only doing their duty.”

  “I’m afraid I belong to the other school. I think that a great part of their evidence against motorists is concocted and they need showing up. That’s why I took no one into my confidence about the line of my defence.”

  Forge was mollified. “Oh well, you’ve had your joke and no one begrudges you, except perhaps the men in blue. I’ve just been telling Huskisson that I shan’t go abroad after all and I hope that you two fellows will stay with me and help me over what fools call the festive season.”

  “I’m going to try to make it a festive season if you really want me to stay,” said Oborn.

  Huskisson grinned. “I’m going to stay until you kick me out,” he said.

  Chapter Five

  DALLAS’ NEXT REPORT, dated two days later, was read by Richardson with great care and with a free use of his blue pencil.

  “In accordance with
your instructions I have interviewed all the persons who were staying at Scudamore Hall at the time of the murder of Margaret Gask. Inspector Vernon was present with me at every interview.”

  (There followed a list of the guests and a statement that no suspicion could attach to any of them of having known Margaret Gask before they met her at Scudamore Hall.)

  “Enquiries about the writers of the letters found in her room showed no grounds for doubt except in the single case of a letter attached to this report from one Arthur Graves. This man has been known to visit from time to time the house of a man, a registered moneylender, suspected of receiving stolen property at 49, Blenheim Road, Kingston-on-Thames. We interviewed this man Arthur Graves and with his consent searched his premises: nothing incriminating was found. He made the following statement to us and signed it in our presence.

  “‘I met Margaret Gask in Paris about six months ago. I had been over there on business.’ (Richardson underscored the sentence with his blue pencil. He guessed the kind of business that Arthur Graves would be transacting on the other side of the Channel.) ‘She told me that she was employed as a mannequin for Monsieur Henri in the Rue Royale. A few weeks ago I received a letter from her saying that she had left her employment and was trying to raise capital for starting a dressmaking business in England employing only British workwomen. She asked me whether I knew anyone who would be willing to advance the necessary capital. I haven’t kept her letter but the one from me that you have was my answer to it.’”

  Richardson broke off to read the letter which was attached to the report.

  “DEAR MARGARET,

  “I wish you luck in your new venture, but I know of no one who could be milked for the necessary funds. Drop me a line when you come over and we’ll feed together somewhere.

  “Yours,

  “ARTHUR GRAVES”

  Richardson resumed his reading of the report.

  “This man declared, and we have no reason to doubt his statement, that he had not seen or made an appointment with Margaret Gask since her arrival in England. We questioned him about his relations with Hyam Fredman (the suspected receiver) and he stated without hesitation that Fredman was a moneylender and that he had gone to see him about a loan. Although Graves showed no discomposure on being questioned we feel some doubt as to the truth of this last statement and we decided to interview Hyam Fredman. His address proved to be an office building but his room was locked and we could get no answer. The lift boy said that Mr Fredman had not been there for several days and that his clerk could not understand the cause of his absence. The lift boy was able to supply us with the address of the clerk and we called at his house. It was a small house in a side street in Kingston; the young man was at home and made the following statement:

  “‘My name is Thomas Barker and I am twenty-four years old. I have been employed by Mr Fredman for six months and I have never known him take a holiday until the nineteenth of this month. Then he told me that he had an all-night journey to take and wouldn’t be at the office until the afternoon of the twentieth, so I could have the morning off. He left the office that evening and I’ve never seen him since.’

  “We then asked him whether Mr Fredman received clients at his office or called upon them at their homes. He said that his employer was very secretive and told him nothing but he believed that he called on a few personally. We asked the clerk for the key of the office and he said that he was never entrusted with the key; that Fredman was always in his office before he arrived each morning and was there at three o’clock in the afternoon when he returned from lunch; that he himself went off at six, leaving his employer in the office. He further explained that Mr Fredman left the office every morning punctually at eleven; that he himself had to stay until one-thirty when he pulled the door to behind him and it locked automatically.

  “For a man of Mr Fredman’s type from eleven till three seemed to be an unduly long luncheon hour. We returned to the office and asked for the caretaker. As we expected he was in possession of a master key. We took him upstairs with us in order that he might see what steps we took in searching the room. We found the room tidy but dusty; it had not been occupied for five days; the books appeared to be well kept; the safe was locked and we left it as it was. Among the letters we found an envelope that had been addressed to Mr Hyam Fredman, 10, Dover Street, Twickenham. We visited this address and found it to be an antique shop, but the shutters were on the window and a neighbour told us that Mr Fredman had not been there for several days. Generally speaking, he opened the shop just after eleven and closed it again before three and opened it again in the evening. Fearing that the man might have died suddenly, we took a locksmith to the shop; the lock was picked and we went in, shutting the door behind us. The floor of the shop was covered with ornaments of various kinds and clearly the owner was not dealing only in second-hand furniture. Among the objects was a candelabra which was recognised by Mr Vernon as one circulated in police informations a few days ago as having been stolen. This confirmed Mr Vernon’s suspicion that Fredman was a receiver. The room behind the shop was also a sort of museum of artistic objects but we did not stop to examine them then. A narrow staircase led upstairs; there were two rooms. The room we first entered was a kitchen with a gas stove; the room beyond that was a bedroom: they were tidy but dusty, like everything else. The front room was a living room and here we found the body of a man of about fifty lying on the floor; there were stains of dried blood which apparently had come from the head. An examination of the body showed that it had been shot through the head. We sent for the police surgeon and an ambulance and the body was removed to the mortuary. The medical report by the police surgeon, Dr Smithers, will follow as soon as it is received.

  “I have not visited Scudamore Hall today, but I sent Sergeant Wilkins to the Kingston police court to hear the proceedings against Douglas Oborn for dangerous driving. His report is attached.

  “ALBERT DALLAS, Detective Inspector.”

  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 r
eceive 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.”