A Murder is Arranged

by Basil Thomson

  “Who is it, Edwards?” asked Richardson impatiently.

  “A Mr Forge, sir.”

  Richardson turned upon Lawrence with a smile and said, “You’d better stick here while I see him. Show him in,” he added to the messenger. He was curious to see the man who had been so much in their thoughts during the last few days.

  The messenger, who had tiptoed out, now returned, ushering in the visitor. “Mr Forge,” he announced.

  Forge was not in the least like the mental picture which Richardson had formed of him. Instead of the successful profiteer with “bounder” writ large upon him he encountered the deprecatory gaze of a trapped rabbit.

  “Won’t you sit down,” said Richardson, pointing to the armchair reserved for visitors. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes. I have come to you more for advice than anything else. In fact it is about that detective whom I took on as under butler on the advice of your man Dallas.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, it’s this way. He’s given himself away and I’m wondering whether he’s the right man for the job, but I thought I’d better get advice from you before I sack him.”

  “I’m sorry. I could, of course, give you the name of another retired detective who takes private work, but in your place I should think twice before I changed. You see, if another man goes down to take over Spofforth’s place, everyone will assume that he’s another police spy.”

  “But why not send him off and do without any detective in the house?”

  Richardson turned to Lawrence, who was standing at the end of the writing table. “Shall we tell him?” he asked.

  “I think we might tell him after binding him to secrecy. Look here, Mr Forge; I must let you into a little secret in police work. When an effect has to be produced one adopts one or other of two opposing methods; either we make our enquiries secretly, or we make them as openly as possible, simply in order to produce an atmosphere of suspicion and alarm. We are now working this second method and from what you tell me it seems not unlikely to produce results.”

  Forge had wilted during these remarks and he now turned as if for protection to Richardson. “Does this gentleman mean that I’m to keep on this man Spofforth when everybody has tumbled to it that he’s a detective?”

  “Unless something happens in the meantime,” said Richardson, “I suggest that you keep him on for a week and then if we have got no further you come to us again.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  MR FORGE DESCENDED the stairs and the granite steps, which so many had trodden before him with apprehension, and crossed over to Huskisson’s waiting car.

  “Well,” said that depressed-looking young man. “How did you get on? You don’t look cheered by your visit.”

  “And I don’t feel cheered. The little gang in that building are enough to depress anybody. When I asked them for advice as to whether I should keep on that fellow Spofforth they said, ‘Why, man, you haven’t given the poor devil time to pull his weight.’”

  “They used those words?”

  “Well, perhaps not those words exactly, but that was the impression they gave me.”

  “Well, it’s always something that you got out of that building without being accused of shooting Margaret Gask. They’ve got in reserve on the other side of the street a row of cells and they used to have an unpleasant habit during the war of shoving people into them to cool their heels. There have been suicides in them, but of course when the inquest is called they put the whole of the blame onto the deceased.”

  “Are you pulling my leg?”

  “Not a bit of it. There was a suspected spy during the war who hanged himself from the cell ventilator, so I’ve heard, and they just swept him up and planted him in Kensal Green, no questions asked.”

  “Look here, Huskisson, I’m in no mood for fooling. What I have to do is to make up my mind whether I’m going to keep on this detective under butler or sack him outright.”

  Huskisson dropped his bantering tone. “Which did they advise you to do in there? They must have said something.”

  “They did; they advised me to keep him on, at any rate for a week, and if nothing results from it to come and see them again. I tell you that an interview with this far-famed ‘big five’ takes away all one’s appetite for lunch.”

  “If you really want my advice you will keep the man on. He’s no fool, or they wouldn’t have recommended him to you.”

  “But if that fellow Oborn spotted his disguise he must be a fool.”

  “Don’t worry about Oborn,” said Huskisson. “Probably he’s only trying to get the wind up you, or he’s playing to get you to dismiss this under butler of yours.”

  “Why should he do that? Have you got suspicions against Oborn?”

  “We’ve all got our suspicions: this affair is getting on our nerves. Where’s your friend Dallas?”

  “Fooling about in Paris, I believe. I should have thought he could do more good over here than pottering round with the French police.”

  “Don’t run away with the idea that the French police are a washout. They’re a clever set of devils and if they’re not quite up to our standard, remember that the law gives them a licence which is never allowed to our men.”

  “You mean that they can use what journalists call the third degree?”

  “Not only that; they can use methods for getting the truth out of a man that our fellows would never dare to employ.”

  “Torture, do you mean?”

  “Oh, dear me, no; that would be a good deal too crude for French policemen. It’s true that in some police offices in Paris they use a little gentle persuasion to get a man to talk, but in the majority of cases the very sight of the persuasive implements loosens the tongue so that you can’t stem the flood of confession.”

  “It must make police work very easy.”

  “It would if the confessions were true, but the French criminal is a person endowed with imagination and the police officers know it and make allowance accordingly.”

  “Well, all this is beside the point. What matters is that I’m going to keep on this fellow Spofforth for a week at any rate.”

  “That’s obviously the thing to do.”

  They were approaching the gate that led to Scudamore Hall when they encountered a tall man in uniform on a motorcycle, who saluted them. Forge turned round to look at the cyclist and saw that he had dismounted and was turning round his machine.

  “That was an A.A. scout,” he said. “Apparently he wants to speak to us. Hadn’t you better slow down and see what he wants?”

  Huskisson brought the car to a stop. The big man on the motorcycle also pulled up beside the car.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen, but are either of you Mr Forge?”

  “That’s my name,” said Forge.

  “Well, sir, can I have two or three minutes’ private conversation with you on a matter of importance to yourself?”

  Forge looked doubtfully at Huskisson, who said, “I’ll take the car into the garage and leave you to walk up; it’s no distance to the house.”

  As soon as Huskisson was out of earshot the big man said, “I want you to tell me something in confidence, Mr Forge. Is that car, the Austin Twelve, P.J.C.4291, still in your garage?”

  “It may be out at the moment, but its owner is still staying with me and uses his car quite a lot. Why, what’s the trouble?”

  “You remember that the owner of that car was summoned for dangerous driving; that it was alleged that he had knocked down a woman and driven away without stopping. When the hearing came on he was able to prove that he was in another part of the country on the day of the accident.”

  “Yes, I was in court and heard all the proceedings.”

  “Well, sir, the A.A. have been making enquiries and they report that another Austin Twelve bearing the same registration number was taken over to France from Southampton a few days ago.”

  “How extraordinary! Has anybody told the police?”

  “
Not to my knowledge, sir. I think that the A.A. wish to get the case complete before notifying the police. That is why I have called to see whether the Austin Twelve bearing that number is still in your garage.”

  “Come up to the garage with me and you can see for yourself.”

  “Very good, sir. I may have to question the owner, but I don’t want him to know that the other car with the same registration has been found.”

  “Right. I’ll say nothing about it.” He led the man up the drive straight to the garage, which was a large building containing three or four cars. “There, look round for yourself.”

  The A.A. man went straight to the Austin Twelve, took out his notebook, opened the bonnet and noted down the number of the engine and the other particulars by which cars are identified. He examined the licence affixed to the windshield and then asked to see Mr Oborn.

  “Come along into the house,” said Forge. “I think he must be at home, as his car isn’t out. Do you want to see him alone?”

  “No, I don’t want him to think that there is anything secret about my enquiry. In fact I’d rather you were present.”

  As they were ascending the front steps Forge whispered, “I don’t mind telling you in confidence that I have a private detective recommended by the Yard working as under butler here. If you’d like to see him before you go any further I can send him out to you.”

  “No, I don’t think that at this stage that will be necessary.”

  Forge threw open the front door and rang an electric bell in the hall. The butler presented himself.

  “Ask Mr Oborn to come to the library for a minute.”

  “Very good, sir.” The butler’s demeanour was unexceptionable. “I think he’s in the billiard room.”

  Oborn was in the billiard room. Mr Forge would have been surprised if he had heard how the message was conveyed to him. The butler shut the door, looked carefully round and, lowering his voice to a lurid whisper, hissed, “There’s a blinking A.A. scout asking for you. You’d better be jolly careful: he ain’t nosing round for nothing.”

  “You let your suspicions run away with you. Where is he?”

  “In the library, and take care is all I say.”

  Oborn was in no way disconcerted. He threw open the library door and wished the scout good morning. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s this way, sir. The A.A. people up at Wakefield, who assisted you in that case in the police court, want to complete their logbook of assistance given to their members; they’ve asked me to have a look at your registration book for particulars.”

  “Righto! But I don’t carry such things about with me. I’ll have to go upstairs to get it.”

  “That’s all right, sir; I’ll wait here.”

  While Oborn was out of the room Forge smiled at the big man. “You did that very well,” he said; “you must have had some sort of diplomatic training.”

  “No sir; but it’s better not to meet trouble halfway. I meant to see that registration document and I didn’t want the gentleman to dig his toes in and decline to produce it.”

  The door opened; Oborn handed the document to the scout, who examined it and said, “You’ve no objection to my jotting down the particulars, have you, sir?”

  “None whatever.”

  “You ought to be jolly grateful to the A.A. people,” said Forge. “I’ve always heard that they are friends in need.”

  Having taken the particulars he needed, the A.A. scout handed the document back to Oborn with a smile.

  “Have you got all you wanted?” asked Oborn. If not, now’s your chance.”

  “Yes sir, thank you. I’ve taken all the necessary particulars and now I’ve only to take my leave.” He moved towards the door.

  “Stop! You’ll never be able to open that door unless you know the gadget,” said Forge. “Let me do it for you: I designed the fastening myself. Now, just as an object lesson, see whether you can open it.”

  The scout gave a tug or two and grinned. “No sir; I fear that I must fall back on the inventor.” He knew these amateur locksmiths and their chagrin at another’s success in opening one of their special devices.

  Forge pulled open the door. “There,” he said, “it’s as simple as A B C when you know how.”

  “It’s a very ingenious device,” said the scout.

  Forge accompanied him down the steps. “I flatter myself that I did that rather well. I wanted to shake off that inquisitive gentleman so that I could ask you whether you found everything in order.”

  “Perfectly in order, sir. If there’s anything crooked in the registration it isn’t with this gentleman’s car.”

  The reply was like a blow in the face for Forge, who was counting upon some sensational news to carry to the superior individuals at Scotland Yard.

  “What are you going to do about that other car going about with a wrong number?”

  “I’ll have to report it to the headquarters and let them decide.” The scout had his leg over the saddle of his motor bicycle as he spoke.

  “But shall I not hear the result?” asked Forge in disappointed tones.

  “Well, sir, I’ll take care to let you know what transpires and meanwhile I’ll ask you not to mention the case to anyone; most of our difficulties arise from people talking too much.”

  The noise of his engine drowned any protest that Forge may have made. The owner of Scudamore Hall felt that he was being slighted, but his passing annoyance was alleviated when he saw Spofforth carrying a bucket of water into the garage. Certainly the A.A. scout had enjoined silence upon him but that would never have been meant to apply to a detective recommended to him by the Yard itself. With a careful look round to make sure that they were alone he addressed Spofforth pompously.

  “Some important evidence has come into my hands. I must not say how.”

  “Indeed, sir,” replied Spofforth, humouring his weakness. “Perhaps I ought not to ask you the nature of this fresh evidence.”

  “I think it is in the interest of justice that you should know it.”

  “Does it bear upon the murder, sir?”

  “Oh no, no; it’s a different matter altogether.” He told at great length the story of the A.A. scout’s visit. He concluded by saying, “I don’t believe that the man knows the proper course to pursue. I doubt if he will tell the police.”

  “Perhaps I ought to tell you, sir, that he is making his enquiries at the prompting of the police.”

  Mr Forge left the garage with the same appearance of deflation as a leaky balloon.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE NEXT REPORT from Dallas was brought to Richardson at seven o’clock just before he was leaving the office for the night. It ran:

  “In accordance with your instructions I saw M. Verneuil on the subject of an interview with the Marquis de Crémont. I cannot speak too highly of the co-operation of the French police. M. Verneuil used his telephone and my interview was arranged with the governor of the prison, who undertook to allow it to take place in a special room with armchairs and a warm fire. One of M. Verneuil’s officers accompanied me to the prison and introduced me to the governor, who was obviously anxious to meet me in every way. He told me that the Marquis de Crémont was one of his most troublesome prisoners. ‘In what way?’ I asked him. ‘Is he violent or disorderly?’ ‘No, worse than that,’ he replied; ‘he gives himself airs and never tires of demanding special privileges in accordance with his rank.’ He said that this kind of prisoner was far more troublesome to the governor than the violent blackguard, because he was always scrupulously polite in his insistence and could not be dealt with for any breach of discipline. With this light upon his character I felt prepared to conduct the interview.

  “The marquis proved to be one of those elegant, slim young men with perfect manners, a soft voice and a seductive way with him which would account for his success among women—particularly foreign ladies, who would be impressed by his manners and his long eyelashes. He would have had no difficulty,
either, in impressing a person like Mr Forge. He approached the fire, rubbing his hands, explaining with a smile, ‘The central heating at this hotel leaves much to be desired. I am going to make representations to its manager that if he wishes to attract guests he must really see to the heating.’

  “I caught an exclamation of contempt from M. Verneuil’s officer, who was in the room with us, but this in no way discountenanced the prisoner, who went on, ‘I understand that you wish to see me, monsieur. I am always glad to be of service to gentlemen from the other side of the Channel: it fosters the entente cordiale.’

  “With a man like this I adopted the sudden method of springing information upon him. ‘You were acquainted, I think, with a lady named Margaret Gask. I have called to tell you that she is dead.’ I expected some sign of perturbation from him, but I am sure I am not mistaken when I say that his expression was one of relief—the kind of relief that a criminal would feel when he heard of the death of a confederate who might round on him at some future time. His first impulse was to ask, ‘Did she leave any papers?’ but he tried to correct his slip by assuming an air of regret. ‘I am very sorry to hear that, although I did not know her at all well.’

  “‘And yet,’ I said, ‘she counted you among her friends, together with others such as Mr Huskisson, Mr Graves, Mr Oborn and Mr Forge.’ I watched his face as I mentioned these names and observed that he winced at the mention of each name. ‘But they were all her fellow countrymen, whereas I was but a foreign acquaintance. I can’t tell you anything about her.’

  “‘There is one thing that you can tell me about—that uncut emerald that you sold to Mr Forge,’ I said.

  “‘Ah,’ he sighed, ‘that calls up sad memories; it was an heirloom in my family.’

  “‘You were introduced to Mr Forge by Mr Huskisson. Did Mr Huskisson suggest to you that Mr Forge would be a likely purchaser, or was it Miss Gask who suggested that?’

  “He hesitated before replying and then he said, ‘I think it was Miss Gask.’

  “I asked him how he had come to know Mr Huskisson and he said that Miss Gask had introduced him. He could not, or perhaps would not, tell me anything more about his association with Huskisson, whom he represented as merely a casual acquaintance. When I asked him for his reason for getting Huskisson to introduce him to Mr Forge he said with apparent frankness that he had understood that Forge was a wealthy man and he himself was in pressing need of money and was therefore compelled to dispose of his heirlooms to the highest bidder. He denied all knowledge of either Oborn or Graves, but his denial was so emphatic that I felt sure he was lying.