A Murder is Arranged

by Basil Thomson

  “The reverend father is away.”

  “I’m sorry for that, because it will entail our waiting here until his return; but in a big property like this you can no doubt give us hospitality.”

  “Pardon, monsieur, but our fraternity is debarred by rule from giving hospitality to visitors.”

  Being a man of action, Goron unobtrusively slipped his foot against the door to prevent it from being shut upon them.

  “You will excuse us for coming in,” he said. “We have some questions to ask about Father Collet.”

  The man’s shifty eyes glanced from one to the other: he was measuring the chances of being able to shut the door in their faces. “It is against the rule of our fraternity to admit laymen.”

  Goron felt that the moment had come for displaying the iron hand that had been concealed in velvet. “Stand back,” he commanded Shifty Eyes. “I belong to a fraternity, too—the fraternity responsible for law and order in this country and I mean to search this building from roof to basement.”

  “I must call my senior,” said the monk. Finding it impossible to shut the door in their faces, he shuffled off down the passage.

  “Have you a pistol?” whispered Goron to Dallas.

  “No; I never carry one.”

  “Mon Dieu! You English! Follow me.”

  He started in pursuit of the monk with Dallas at his heels—Dallas, who had not attended the evening boxing class at Scotland Yard for nothing. They caught up with Shifty Eyes as he was opening a door on the left of the gallery. It gave upon what was obviously the kitchen of the old château and there they found a group of some half-dozen men in monks’ habit.

  “Hands up!” rapped out Goron, whipping out a pistol and covering the group. Thus taken by surprise, the men obeyed. They had been engaged in the innocent pursuit of cooking a meal; the table was covered with dishes and food. A little rat-faced man rushed forward as bold as brass.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded in French.

  “It means that I represent the law and I intend to search this building from garret to cellar.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “We are looking for a fugitive from justice—an Englishman.”

  “You won’t find him here,” sneered Rat Face.

  Dallas had been staring hard at one of the monks. He now signed to him to come forward. “You are James Oborn,” he said in English. “I recognise you from the photograph on your card of identity.”

  “I am James Oborn, but I am not a fugitive from justice.”

  “At any rate there are matters in your life these last weeks which you will find it difficult to explain away.” He turned to Goron and said in French, “This is our man.”

  Goron made a rapid survey of the monks; they were a ruffianly-looking crowd and they numbered seven to two. He whispered to Dallas, “Quick! Hurry to Mademoiselle and ask her to find the nearest constabulary station and get them to send up a reinforcement for us: fortunately she can drive a car.”

  When Dallas returned from his errand he found the ecclesiastics seated in a row along one side of the refectory table. His eyes had never beheld a more forbidding collection.

  “Let us lock these men in and take our friend into another room to answer questions,” said Goron.

  It was not to be accomplished without protest. At first Oborn refused doggedly to move. “You can ask as many questions as you like in the presence of my friends here. They don’t understand English.”

  “No nonsense,” said Goron; “you know this house. Lead the way to a room where we can talk without eavesdroppers and be quick about it.” He was holding the persuasive pistol in his hand with the finger upon the trigger.

  Thus persuaded, Oborn led the way in silence and passed through a door on the right of the passage, closely followed by Goron and Dallas. The room was small and smelt of damp. The furniture was deeply covered in dust.

  “Do you claim to be the father abbot of this establishment?” was Goron’s first question.

  “I do not.”

  “Then where is the abbot?”

  “I don’t know. He is absent, but we are never told where he goes. If it is the abbot you are looking for, what can you want with me?”

  “We want to know something of your own movements since the beginning of last November.”

  “They are soon told, monsieur. I was in England.”

  “Were you not in Paris on November seventh?” put in Goron.

  “I was not. I was staying with a relation in Hoxton. I can give you the address if you are curious and there are plenty of witnesses who can prove that I was there.” Goron showed his disappointment, but Dallas changed his mode of attack.

  “On December nineteenth you were in Kingston-on-Thames, driving a car with a false number. You knocked down a woman and did not stop.”

  Oborn shrugged his shoulders. “If that was true it would not be a case for extradition.”

  “Where did you spend the night of December nineteenth?”

  “In Yorkshire. I was on my way there when I had the accident you mention. I was in a hurry, as I had to meet someone on the way.”

  “That someone was your brother Douglas?”

  “It was.”

  “You know a man named Alfred Curtis who is in service as a butler. Why was he taking care of an iron trunk containing clothing belonging to you?”

  “Alfred Curtis is not holding any property of mine.”

  “Why did your car bear the same number as your brother’s?”

  “Just a freak on our part.”

  “As you say, that is not an extraditable offence; but your statements as to your movements in November and December will have to be verified. You have no objection to returning to England with me for this to be done?”

  “It would be very inconvenient.”

  Goron now took up the interrogation. “If you had nothing to hide or to fear why did you escape from St Augustin House at Fréjus?”

  “Well, it’s a free country and I was in no way bound to stay there. I was anxious to get back here.”

  “Why did you go to Nice?”

  “I had business there.”

  “But you pretended to be a Spanish refugee. Were you staying as a guest with Mademoiselle Saulnois in November?”

  “I was not.”

  “Well,” said Goron, “I must ask you to come to Paris with me and see if Mademoiselle Saulnois recognises you.”

  “I can assure you I have never met the lady you speak of, but I will come and you will see for yourself that she will not know me.”

  “In any case you will accompany us as soon as we have completed the searching of this house.”

  “I shall yield to force majeure, of course, but I shall lodge a protest against this high-handed proceeding.”

  “As many protests as you like. We are only doing our official duty. Perhaps you will do the honours of the house by showing us over it.”

  The toot of a motor horn was heard at this juncture. Dallas went quickly to the window and cried, “Here are your friends the constabulary, monsieur; certainly Mademoiselle Coulon has wasted no time.”

  “That’s good,” said Goron. “Now, monsieur, we need not trouble you to come over the house with us. You can join your friends in the kitchen.”

  It fell to Dallas to open the front door and admit two big men in constabulary uniform. To them Goron briefly explained the situation. The newcomers showed startled surprise. They had regarded the monastery as being a building to which no suspicion could attach.

  Oborn was conducted to the kitchen and the door was unlocked to admit him. Meanwhile a quiet injunction was given to one of the constables to keep an eye upon the occupants and allow no one to pass out. The other constable was asked to accompany the search party round the house.

  As they went along the gallery Goron said, “I suppose that you had no idea that this house was anything but what it pretended to be.”

  “No, monsieur; we understood
that the monks were very poor, but they used to give freely to the local charities when they could afford it.”

  “How long have they been here?” asked Dallas.

  The constable reflected. “It must have been nearly three years ago when they came.”

  “You saw that man that we were questioning as you came in; is he the father abbot?”

  “No, the father abbot is a taller man.”

  Most of the rooms they visited were poorly furnished bedrooms; beyond the fact that they sorely needed a duster there was nothing remarkable about them. The constable was assuming the air of “I told you so” when Goron pulled open a door which admitted them to a suite of rooms furnished almost lavishly—a bedroom and a study.

  “These must be the rooms of the father abbot,” commented Dallas. “They look as if they haven’t been used for some weeks.”

  Under the windows of the study were two old oak chests. Goron lifted the lid of one of them and called to Dallas. “They could scarcely have feared either constabulary or thieves.” He displayed a confused medley of silver plate. He examined the hallmark. “This, unless I am much mistaken, is all stolen property.”

  Dallas gave but a half-hearted glance at his companion’s discovery, for he was busy looking at some photographs that he had discovered on the mantelpiece. “This solves most of the mystery,” he exclaimed. “This is the father abbot and I know this man as Douglas Oborn.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  SUPERINTENDENT LAWRENCE entered his chief’s room with the expression he wore whenever he was the bearer of tidings. It was an expression that would not be denied and there was besides an element of self-elation in it. Richardson knew it well and prepared himself a little ruefully to listen. He would very gladly have been left alone with his papers for the rest of the morning.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir, but I think I ought to show you this. It has just come from Mademoiselle Coulon in Paris.”

  Richardson’s brow cleared. “What does she say?” he asked.

  Lawrence began to read the report aloud. Richardson’s fingers drummed on the table. “Don’t bother to read the whole thing through. Just give me the gist of it,” he said.

  “Very good, sir. She says that the newspapers that she took over—the paper in which the sandals were wrapped—will prove to be an important link in the chain of evidence against the murderer of Monsieur Salmond.”

  “You mean that the scrap of paper which Monsieur Goron holds was torn from it?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And it was found in a trunk belonging to Alfred Curtis. When will he be well enough to be questioned?”

  “I thought, sir, that with your approval I would go to Scudamore Hall this morning and see what the latest medical report is.”

  “Yes, and you might put a little gentle pressure on the doctor. These country practitioners have one weakness in common. They like to enhance their importance by raising medical objections to their patients being questioned: they don’t like to be left out of the fun.”

  “Very good, sir; I’ll start at once.”

  The run from New Scotland Yard to Scudamore Hall could be covered in under an hour. As Lawrence went up the drive he descried the doctor’s car drawn up at the steps leading to the front door. He determined to hang about until its owner made his appearance. He had not long to wait. The doctor had a professional trick of bolting into his car like a frightened rabbit and making off as if every hellhound in the neighbourhood was baying at his heels, but no escape was possible when he had to deal with the myrmidons of the law and he knew it.

  The plain question put to him—could Alfred Curtis be questioned that morning?—left him no choice but to answer yes or no. Obviously if the answer was no, a reason must be given and the doctor desired above all things to be on terms with the police authorities.

  “I don’t think that I, as his doctor, need withhold permission. He recovered consciousness yesterday. He has, fortunately, a skull as thick as a chimpanzee’s; the crack he had would have killed most men. If you see that he begins to wander in his replies it would be better to break off, but so far he can give you lucid answers. Would you like me to be present?”

  “Yes,” said Lawrence. “I think it would be as well. You can make a little sign to me if you think that I’m doing him any harm and, incidentally, you might give a hint to his employer, Mr Forge, that the fewer people present the better.”

  “I quite understand that,” said the doctor.

  At that moment the front door opened and Forge himself appeared on the steps. “I saw your car from the window,” he said to Lawrence, “and I came down to ask you whether I can be of any use.”

  “The doctor has given me permission to interview Curtis; he thinks that if he himself is present there will be no danger to the patient if he is questioned.”

  “I see. Of course you wouldn’t want me to be present?”

  “No,” said the doctor decisively. “The fewer people present the better.”

  “Well,” said Forge, “then all I can do is to wait to hear the result of your interview.”

  “That is all, I think,” said Lawrence.

  The doctor led the way to the bedroom and signed to the nurse that she could leave them. They found Curtis propped up with pillows with a bandage round his head, but so far as could be seen he appeared to be little the worse for his accident.

  “Well, Curtis,” said Lawrence, “you know me?”

  “Yes, Mr Lawrence. So you’ve tumbled to it that this fall of mine from the upper floor wasn’t an accident?” Lawrence was taken back for a moment, but he made no sign. “What was it then?” he asked.

  “It was a dirty trick someone played on me by unhooking the ladder while I was in the loft.”

  “I’ll have to examine that ladder and see whether that could be done,” said Lawrence.

  “It could be done quite easily. You see, the ladder hooks on to an iron bar: anyone could make it unsafe by shifting the ladder two or three inches and you wouldn’t notice that from the top.”

  “You don’t mean that someone did this on purpose?” said Lawrence.

  “I do, and I bet I know who it was—that fellow Spofforth. He’s always dogging my footsteps and he knew I was up there.”

  “But Spofforth wouldn’t do anything like that: he’d know how dangerous it was to anyone who happened to be in the loft.”

  “Well, it’s up to you people to find out who did it.”

  “Certainly, that shall be done,” said Lawrence; “and now I want you to answer one or two questions. I must administer the usual caution that your answers will be taken down in writing…”

  “And may be used in evidence against me. I know all the usual formulas; you needn’t waste time over them.”

  “You went up to that loft because you had hidden an iron trunk up there containing a certain disguise?”

  “That trunk was locked,” said Curtis. “Who’s been tampering with it?”

  “Never mind that. What I want to know is, what were you doing with the clothing of a monk?”

  Curtis fell back as usual on impudence. “I suppose you’ve never heard of private theatricals; these ecclesiastical habits are often used in them: they are so easy to put on and take off and they form a wonderful disguise.”

  Lawrence looked at the doctor for a sign of disapproval, but found his expression quite reassuring, so he determined to run some risk.

  “This disguise,” he said deliberately, “was worn by a murderer.”

  Curtis showed signs of agitation. “You’re talking through your hat,” he said.

  “I assure you I’m doing nothing of the kind. That trunk contained evidence sufficient to hang a man and it is your trunk.”

  “The trunk isn’t mine. I’m looking after it for someone.”

  “Name?”

  There was no answer; the patient had leaned back on his pillows: the doctor stepped forward to look at him, nodded to Lawrence and said, “He’s all
right.”

  Then the butler was given the gift of tongues and what he said was quite unfit for polite ears; he was apostrophising some unnamed person and telling him what he thought of his disposition and habits. The doctor looked shocked, but Lawrence seemed inclined to purr with satisfaction.

  “Will you give me the name now?” he asked.

  Curtis leaned forward from his pillows and spoke earnestly. “Will you swear, sir, that what you tell me is true; that that trunk contained evidence proving that the man it belonged to is a murderer?”

  “I can swear it,” said Lawrence.

  “Then I’ll tell you. The person that trunk belongs to is staying in this house and his name is Douglas Oborn. I can see now who shifted that ladder and nearly cracked my skull—he meant to crack it and do me in—it was that swine.”

  Lawrence broke in with his purring voice. “Perhaps it would be better if I took down a statement from you. You can read it over before you sign it and see that it is in accord with what you know.”

  Lawrence was gifted with the pen of a ready writer; he jotted down the statement in the man’s own words; he read it over to him and passed his fountain pen to him for his signature. The doctor leaned forward in order not to miss a word of what was said.

  “Yes sir; that’s all right: those are my very words. That’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever given a pal away, but there it is—when a bloke tries to do one in I’ve done with him. Besides, an honest burglar is one thing and a murderer’s another.” He signed the statement in a shaky hand; Lawrence folded it and stowed it in an inside breast pocket.

  “Now, Curtis, all you have to do is to lie there and get well. You can leave all the rest to me. Good-bye for the present.”

  As they went down the stairs the doctor looked at his watch and said, “Gosh! This has made me late for my other patients, but I wouldn’t have missed it: it’s an experience to remember.”

  The noise of an altercation somewhere on the ground floor caught their attention. Two or three men were talking at once in the library. The doctor paused on his way to the front door, listening, and said, “There’s some sort of a row going on in that room. I suppose I shall have to miss this part of the entertainment, but you’ll want to go in and quell the disturbance. I’ll let myself out. I shall have to break every speed limit on the way.”