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.
“7, Avenue Victor Emmanuel,
“Paris.
“I have received the notes you sent me. I can only say that I think the amount is scandalous. It does not encourage me to deal with you. Each of the pearls I sent you was worth that sum and I sent you thirty. Did A.G. deliver them all? Let me know that.
“MARGARET GASK”
“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.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
RICHARDSON 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 an
d 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.”
“What I find difficult to understand, mademoiselle, is that you should have quitted the country without trying to obtain possession of the coat, which, after all, was the property of your employers. It was surely the object of your quest in England.”
“It was.” She paused a moment and then proceeded to pick her words slowly and carefully. “I came to the conclusion that poor Margaret Gask was only a tool in the hands of more important people. I felt sure that she had met her death at the hands of one of these. The hue and cry for the fur coat was likely to lull the murderer into a false security, as he would know that she was not wearing it on the night of her death. I therefore decided to let the investigations go on a little further before I showed my hand.”
“I see. As we are both engaged in the same investigation, let me ask you one question. Have you any reason for suspecting Mr Huskisson of being concerned in any way in the activities of these people?”
“Certainly not,” she said decidedly. “The strictest investigations have been made recently and nothing has been found against him.”
Lawrence entered with the suitcase in his hand. He placed it on the table and opened it, disclosing the coat. Mlle Coulon jumped up and took it out. She passed her hand almost reverently over the fur and said, “There is no possible doubt: this is the coat.”
“No doubt Monsieur Henri will be able to prove this beyond dispute,” said Richardson.
“Certainly, monsieur; but stop! You can prove it for yourself. If you undo the lining you will find Revillon’s initials, E.R., stamped on every skin. Not only can Monsieur Henri prove it but Monsieur Revillon himself. But first will you permit me to feel in the pockets?”
“Certainly. We have not yet done so.”
With deft fingers Pauline Coulon explored the pockets which were in the lining of the coat. She brought out a visiting card and read the inscription aloud. “‘Monsieur Salmond, Boulevard des Invalides.’”
“I have heard that name before,” said Richardson. “It has figured in the reports of my agent in Paris.”
“Ah yes! Monsieur Dallas. He and Monsieur Goron together will clear up this case, I promise you. See what is written in the corner of this card. ‘Always at home after 8 P.M.’ This may seem a small thing, but it may turn out to be very important for us. It proves that Miss Gask knew Monsieur Salmond.”
“I believe that Monsieur Goron has a theory about that,” said Richardson.
“He has. And now I would like to ask Mr Huskisson one or two questions. Is he still waiting downstairs?”
“Yes,” said Lawrence. “I left him to wait until we called him. I’ll fetch him.”
“Is it your wish to see him alone?” asked Richardson. “Not at all, provided that you say nothing that will cause him to tighten those thin lips of his.”
“Have no fear. It is not the first time that I have had to put questions to reluctant witnesses.”
At this point Lawrence ushered Huskisson into the room. Richardson motioned him to a chair.
“Now that we’re all together,” he said pleasantly, “Mademoiselle would like to ask you one or two questions.”
“Go ahead, Pauline,” said Huskisson with a readiness that surprised Richardson, who had hitherto seen him only in aggressive or defensive moods.
“The coat has been found, my friend. There is no longer any concealment necessary over that. So much is known about poor Margaret now that it is useless for you and me to defend her character. All we can do is to help in bringing her murderer to justice.”
“That devil shall be found,” said Huskisson through his clenched teeth.
Pauline Coulon turned to Richardson. “Voila! You see that we have an ally, not an antagonist.”
“I am very pleased to see it,” said Richardson. “I’m glad that Mr Huskisson no longer regards us as his natural enemies.”
“And I hope,” retorted Huskisson, “that the police no longer regard me as the murderer of Miss Gask whom they have to bring to justice.”
“Now,” said Pauline, drawing her chair a few inches nearer to the table, “this is my first question. Did you ever hear Margaret speak of Monsieur Salmond?”
“You mean the senator who was murdered last November? Yes, I once saw her dining with him at the Boeuf sur le Toit.”
“You were not pleased?” suggested Pauline gently.
“I was not,” he agreed, “but she told me that she had been hoping to get him to help her in establishing a dressmaking business, which was difficult at that time for a foreigner.”
“Can you tell me how she took the news of his death?” Huskisson hesitated a moment and Pauline added, “She took it badly, no doubt?”
“Yes. I may as well tell you what happened. I met her at the Café Veil for an apéritif and I had just bought a paper. I opened it and found on the front page in big type, ‘A Senator Found Dead. Was It Murder?’ Margaret snatched the paper from my hand, saying, ‘What is his name?’ When she read Monsieur Salmond’s name she was very much upset.”
Richardson interposed a question. “In thinking it over quietly would you say that her agitation was no more than you would expect her to show at the loss of an influential friend?”
“In thinking it over now I should say that her agitation was due to terror.”
An exclamation of satisfaction escaped from Pauline.
“I must lose no time in getting back to Paris to put Monsieur Goron in possession of these new facts.”
“You can’t go back tonight,” said Huskisson; “it’s too late.”
Pauline wrinkled her forehead in thought. “Perhaps I might ask Mr Forge to give me hospitality for the night and let me catch the first plane from Croydon tomorrow morning.”
“I’m sure he would be delighted. I’ll go out and telephone to him. I have my car here and could drive you down to Scudamore Hall.”
When Huskisson had gone Richardson said with a smile, “Your visit, mademoiselle, has had one useful result. It has removed one of our suspects from the list.”
“Ah, that poor Monsieur Huskisson. He is his own enemy. Unfortunately my chief, Monsieur Goron, in Paris suspects him also and it is a serious matter for those who have drawn Monsieur Goron’s suspicions to themselves.”
“Nevertheless,” said Richardson, “having seen that fur coat, it is clear to me that she was not wearing it when she was murdered—otherwise there must have been bloodstains and there are none. Therefore we need not detain the coat.”
While he was speaking Pauline’s deft fingers had been busy in detaching the lining from the fur; she disclosed the back of three or four skins and showed that each had stamped upon it the initials E.R.
“There is my proof, monsieur, and if you will allow me I will take it back to Paris with me and return it to Monsieur Henri. Having recovered it, you understand, will be what you say in English ‘a feather in my cap.’”
A knock at the door announced the return of Huskisson.
“I’ve telephoned to Mr Forge and he was beside himself with pleasure at the thought of entertaining you again.”
“I’m ready,” she said, “and if you will lend me your suitcase we’ll take the coat with us to Scudamore Hall, so that I shall not have the delay of fetching it in the morning.”
“If you get any further information,” said Richardson as they shook hands, “you will of course pass it on to us through Mr Dallas.”
“That shall be done, monsieur, and I shall also let you know how Monsieur Henri behaves when his property is unexpectedly restored to him. His transports of joy will be worth recording.”
As she took her seat in the car beside Huskisson she said, “Did I not tell yo
u, my friend, that your police were mistaken in thinking that when they found that fur coat they would have found the murderer?”
“You did, and I wondered then how much you knew and how you came to know it.”
“Ah! I mustn’t give away the secrets of my profession. But do tell me why you are continuing to stay with Mr Forge.”
“Well, I realised that the police would follow me wherever I went; also Forge likes to have me and he’s rather a decent sort.”
“And one more reason?”
“Well,” he admitted reluctantly, “there is another reason. I can’t help thinking that in that house we shall find the clue to Margaret’s murderer and I won’t rest until he’s been brought to justice.”
“Do you mean that you are carrying on private detective work?”
“Not that exactly, but I’m searching for a revolver or a bloodstained wrap of some kind.”
“But surely the police have searched the place thoroughly?”
“The police have searched the lane and the neighbourhood thoroughly for the revolver; I am searching inside the grounds.”
“Do you suspect a member of the household?”
“Well, I’ve really no grounds for suspicion, beyond the fact that I don’t trust the butler.”
“The butler? You mean the good Curtis?”
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing that I saw. On the morning when I was going to take this suitcase to the cloakroom at Waterloo Station I got up early and took it to the garage before I thought anyone would be about. The garage door was locked, but I knew that the key was kept hanging on a nail in one of the sheds close by. There is a loft in this shed which is reached by a removable ladder. I saw the butler dragging a tin suitcase after him up the ladder. There is nothing suspicious about that, you will say, but there was something suspicious about his manner when he saw me.”
“In what way?”
“Well, he looked disturbed and he entered into quite unnecessary explanations as to why he was taking the box up to the loft.”
A Murder is Arranged Page 15
