A Murder is Arranged

by Basil Thomson

  Lawrence waved good-bye to him and turned to the library door and threw it open. Four men seemed to be talking at once—Forge, Spofforth, Huskisson and Oborn—each trying to drown the other.

  “You’re the very man we want, Mr Lawrence,” said Forge as he caught sight of him. “These guests of mine are making the wildest accusations against each other and you are the only man who can deal with them.”

  Before Lawrence could say a word Huskisson stepped forward. Pointing to Oborn, he said, “I charge this man with haying stolen my pocketbook and I insist on him being searched.”

  “It’s damned impertinence,” said Oborn. “Does he take me for a thief? I’ve never seen his pocketbook.”

  Lawrence looked from one to the other and caught a meaning look in Huskisson’s face. “Have you any grounds for your suspicion, sir?”

  “Yes, I have, and you can get the proof of my charge by searching him.”

  “I refuse to be searched,” said Oborn, sticking out his lower jaw.

  “Well, sir, then if this gentleman prefers a charge against you I must take you to the police station and let the inspector deal with it. We can start at once.”

  “It’s a perfectly absurd charge and I shall not come,” said Oborn.

  “Well, sir, if the charge is a false one and you submit to being searched and nothing is found you can turn the tables on this gentleman and give him in charge for making a false accusation. The search would not be more than a formality.”

  Lawrence’s quick eye caught sight of Oborn’s hand creeping towards his hip pocket. Quick as lightning, he seized both the man’s wrists.

  “Catch hold,” he said to Spofforth and with dexterous skill he slipped his hand into Oborn’s hip pocket; he drew out a revolver. “A pistol?” he said. “Have you a firearms licence to carry this? No, I can see you haven’t. You’ll have to come with me to the police station, where we can go into the matter further.”

  Oborn looked wildly round as if measuring his chances of escape and then shrugged his shoulders. “All right,” he said; “I’ll go with you.”

  “There’s more than one matter that you’ll have to explain, such as how you came into possession of a monk’s robe and sandals, and there may be other charges to prefer against you.”

  Huskisson stepped forward. “I think that you may find that pistol interesting, Inspector, if you compare the cartridges with those found in recent murder cases.”

  Oborn’s pleasant manner fell from him like a cloak. He turned upon Huskisson and snarled, “You interfering devil! You and your pocketbook. Just wait until this business has been cleared up and then you’ll see what’s coming to you.”

  “A threat of murder, I think,” said Huskisson to Lawrence. “Please make a note of it. Murder is becoming one of his hobbies.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  RICHARDSON had been awaiting the return of Superintendent Lawrence with impatience: so much depended upon a statement from Alfred Curtis. When the door opened to admit Lawrence he saw by his manner and his walk that he was bringing something of importance. He pushed back the papers that he had been reading and put out his hand for the paper which the superintendent was carrying.

  “I thought you’d better read this, sir, before going any further,” said Lawrence; “it contains a statement from Alfred Curtis. I didn’t wait to have it typed, but I think you always find my handwriting legible.”

  “Yes, Mr Lawrence; I wish that all your subordinates in the department wrote as clearly as you do.”

  The statement read,

  “I, Alfred Curtis, have known Douglas and James Oborn for nearly fifteen years. I first met them when I was employed as a manservant in their father’s house. Then I lost sight of them until about three years ago, when to my surprise I met James Oborn in the shop of Hyam Fredman. We were both on the same errand—disposing of goods to the best advantage. Fredman was a difficult customer to handle in the matter of values. James Oborn did his business first and when I came out I found him waiting for me outside. He said he could offer me a job and he took me away to lunch with him. The job was to act as a messenger in disposing of stuff to Fredman and he assured me it would be safer than trying to crack cribs myself. I was to be paid a percentage. During the past three years I have disposed of a good deal of stuff in this way and that is how I met Margaret Gask. She was sent to find me with a letter from Oborn and I had to introduce her to Fredman. Most of the stuff came in small parcels, one at a time, from France and was brought to me by James Oborn himself, Margaret Gask or a man called Arthur Graves. I often wondered why no one was ever pinched, but on one occasion Margaret Gask let out that the chief of the whole lot was head of a monastery, which, she said, was the safest disguise that could be thought of and he could always hide any of them. Then, last November, James Oborn told me to apply for this job at the Hall and gave me a forged reference. I understood that we were to do some jobs round the neighbourhood. In December Margaret Gask arrived as a guest and some days later Douglas Oborn followed. His coming was a great surprise to me. I opened the front door in answer to a ring and he stood on the doorstep. At first I didn’t recognize him, but he said, ‘You’re Alfred Curtis; you remember me—Douglas Oborn.’ I said, ‘Good Lord! What are you doing here?’ and he said, ‘Come out to my car; I want you a minute.’ Then he explained to me that he’d been invited as a guest by the old man, Mr Forge, but he’d got one bit of luggage that he wanted me to take out of his car and hide away somewhere. That is why he took his car into the shed and not into the garage. I couldn’t stop, as I had to be on the spot to answer the front doorbell, but I carried the tin trunk into my pantry. Then I showed him in at the front door in the ordinary way.”

  The rest of the statement was in the form of question and answer.

  (Q) “Do you know whether Margaret Gask and Douglas Oborn had met before their meeting at Scudamore Hall?”

  (A) “Margaret Gask did not know him as Douglas Oborn but only as Father Collet.”

  (Q) “She knew that Collet was the head of this gang of international thieves?”

  (A) “Oh yes, she knew that.”

  (Q) “Why did you put that tin trunk up in the loft?”

  (A) “It was in the way in my pantry and Oborn wanted it hidden.”

  (Q) “Why were you getting it out on the day you met with your accident?”

  (A) “Because Oborn was going to try to do a bunk in the monk’s kit. You see, he’s got a passport as Father Collet, besides one as Douglas Oborn.”

  (Q) “Do you know why he had come to England just now?”

  (A) “Because France was getting too hot to hold him. His French pal had been pinched and he was afraid that he might split on him.”

  (Q) “Why should Douglas Oborn try to break your head?”

  (A) “He brought me down an overcoat with bloodstains on it and told me to put it in the furnace. He said he was wearing it in a motor accident and that was how it got stained. Directly you told me that he was wanted for murder I guessed that he wanted that coat burned for another reason and as I was the only one that knew about it he thought that he’d better get rid of me. You see, we’d all been getting the wind up lately.”

  (Q) “Do you know who the overcoat belonged to?”

  (A) “Yes, it belonged to Oborn himself.”

  (Q) “And did you burn it?”

  (A) “No, I haven’t had a chance yet. It’s in the cupboard under the sink in my pantry.”

  Richardson finished reading and looked up at Lawrence. “Well, we’re going ahead, Mr Lawrence.”

  “Yes sir, we are, and I have some further information for you.” He described the scene in the library and Huskisson’s ruse for getting Oborn searched. “Mr Huskisson told me afterwards, sir, that he had seen from the drive Oborn in his bedroom fingering something that he guessed was a pistol. The light was on and the blinds were not drawn. The following morning he contrived to bump into Oborn: he could plainly feel that he had a pistol in his hip pocket.�
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  “It was a clever ruse of his to charge him with stealing his pocketbook and get him searched.”

  “It was, sir; I saw by his manner that he had a hidden reason and I played up to him: he wanted that pistol to be found.”

  “I suppose you brought Oborn along with you?”

  “Yes sir, on a charge of having firearms without a licence. We have the bullet with which Fredman was killed and it fits the pistol.”

  “That’s good enough: you can charge him with murder. Probably he killed both Margaret Gask and Fredman, but one will be enough to hold him on.”

  “If he is also the murderer of the French senator the question will arise on which side of the Channel he is to be tried.”

  “You had better send Dallas a wire saying that we have proof against Douglas Oborn of murder but not against James,” said Richardson.

  “I’ll send that off at once, sir.”

  He left the room, but in less than a minute he was back again. “Here is a telegram, sir; it has just come from Dallas.”

  Richardson read, “James Oborn found stop not guilty of murder stop am crossing tonight with evidence. Dallas.”

  “We seem to be getting to the bottom of things, Mr Lawrence. You can charge Douglas Oborn with wilful murder and hold him until he appears before the magistrate. We shall have to wait to hear Dallas’ story tomorrow morning.”

  “I forgot to mention, sir, that I told Spofforth to look for that coat and bring it along to us.”

  “Well, send him up to me when he does come.”

  Ten minutes later Spofforth was announced. He was carrying a brown paper parcel.

  “What have you got there?” asked Richardson. “The coat?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Well, let’s have a look at it.”

  The string was cut, the coat spread out on the table under the window. After a short examination under a lens Richardson pronounced, “This coat was worn by a person who was bleeding from the head and from the right side of the head. You can see the stains quite plainly, though some attempt has been made to wipe them away.”

  “Do you think, sir, that Miss Gask was wearing this coat when she was killed?”

  “I think it likely,” said Richardson cautiously. “She may have picked up the first coat she saw hanging in the hall and wrapped it round her; her murderer must have removed it because he thought it would incriminate him.”

  “Well, sir, if you’ll excuse me I have to go back to Scudamore Hall to search Douglas Oborn’s room and bring away anything that may be useful as evidence. What beats me is why he stayed on at the Hall all this time.”

  Richardson smiled. “That’s where brains and cool courage came in. If he had run away we should have suspected him.”

  On the following morning four men were in conference in the chief constable’s room at New Scotland Yard—M. Goron, Dallas, Lawrence and Richardson himself. Dallas had been relating the story of the raid upon the monastery in the Gers.

  “As soon as I found the photographs of Douglas Oborn I realised that he must be the person we wanted. I saw then why neither Graves nor Margaret Gask knew a person of that name: he had posed to them as Father Collet.”

  “But the brother, James Oborn, also posed as a priest,” said Richardson.

  “On occasion, yes. The brothers apparently contrived alibis for one another, such as using the same registration number for both their cars. When confronted with James Oborn, Mademoiselle Saulnois said that he was not the man who had stayed with her at her villa on the Riviera.”

  “You are forgetting all the evidence we collected from the monastery,” put in Goron. “There was much stolen property and a considerable sum of money in French notes. One of the lesser rascals offered to tell us all he knew in the hope of mitigating any sentence passed on him. From him we learned that they formed a gang of professional thieves—the monastery, of course, was a safe hiding place for them and their plunder. Douglas Oborn seems to have successfully maintained his authority as head of the gang.”

  “What I can’t understand,” confessed Richardson, “Is why he didn’t return there to hide after the murder of the senator.”

  “He did,” said Goron. “He lay low for a time and then came over to England under his true name.”

  “You are convinced, Monsieur Goron, that he murdered the senator, Monsieur Salmond?”

  “Yes, I have managed to force an admission from De Crémont. I told him that Douglas Oborn was likely to be hanged in England for murder and I hinted that he had made a confession which was very damaging to De Crémont. Then the rascal gave tongue. It appears that Margaret Gask had made the acquaintance of Monsieur Salmond and that he had confided to her the fact that he didn’t trust French banks but kept his money at home. Oborn suggested that he and De Crémont should crack the crib together, but finally they decided that Oborn as a holy father should call on the pretence of soliciting alms.”

  “Margaret Gask must have guessed that Father Collet, as she knew him, was the murderer,” said Dallas.

  “Yes, and it was to silence her forever that she was killed,” said Richardson. “What we shall never know now is whether Douglas Oborn came over purposely to hunt her down or whether their meeting at Scudamore Hall was an accident. Obviously Fredman was killed because he knew who was the murderer of Margaret Gask.”

  “Douglas Oborn stands out as the most cold-blooded and calculating murderer that I’ve ever hunted down,” said Dallas.

  “What we have to decide,” said Richardson, “is on which side of the Channel he is to be tried.”

  “If you are sure of a conviction in England I should vote for trying him here to save the expense and trouble of extradition,” said Goron.

  Thus it was that Douglas Oborn was tried and hanged in England for the murder of Hyam Fredman.

  THE END

  About The Author

  SIR BASIL HOME THOMSON (1861-1939) was educated at Eton and New College Oxford. After spending a year farming in Iowa, he married in 1889 and worked for the Foreign Service. This included a stint working alongside the Prime Minister of Tonga (according to some accounts, he was the Prime Minister of Tonga) in the 1890s followed by a return to the Civil Service and a period as Governor of Dartmoor Prison. He was Assistant Commissioner to the Metropolitan Police from 1913 to 1919, after which he moved into Intelligence. He was knighted in 1919 and received other honours from Europe and Japan, but his public career came to an end when he was arrested for committing an act of indecency in Hyde Park in 1925 – an incident much debated and disputed.

  His eight crime novels featuring series character Inspector Richardson were written in the 1930’s and received great praise from Dorothy L. Sayers among others. He also wrote biographical and criminological works.

  Also by Basil Thomson

  Richardson’s First Case

  Richardson Scores Again

  The Case of Naomi Clynes

  The Case of the Dead Diplomat

  The Dartmoor Enigma

  Who Killed Stella Pomeroy?

  The Milliner’s Hat Mystery

  Basil Thomson

  Richardson’s First Case

  The D.D.I. recognized him and smiled. “That was a great case you brought us. You’ll be interested to hear that it is a case of mur-r-der!”

  For eight years Basil Thomson headed the famous C.I.D., New Scotland Yard. He knew the Yard inside out. Now in this tale of mystery and detection we are taken behind the scenes. We are shown the greatest detection machine in the world in motion, and see how the Yard tracked down its man.

  Stand, then, with young P.C. Richardson on the misty corner of Baker Street, while the traffic of the city swings by, and fate lays at his feet the beginning of his career. Out of the fog brakes shriek, a big car jolts to a stop, and from beneath the wheels the crowd disentangles a bundle of old clothes, within which is a man quite dead; a man who had said to someone, “Very well, then; I’ll call a policeman”—and was killed. Work with h
im to the ingenious solution, when he takes from his pocket the clue holding the fate of a human life.

  Richardson’s First Case was originally published in 1933. This new edition, the first in over seventy years, features an introduction by crime novelist Martin Edwards, author of acclaimed genre history The Golden Age of Murder.

  “The story is a good one, with enough mystery in it to keep the reader wondering.” Daily Telegraph

  Richardson’s First Case

  Chapter One

  ON A depressing November afternoon, when the street lights scarce sufficed to pierce the wet mist, a young policeman stood at his post in Baker Street at the point where Crawford Street joins the main thoroughfare. Moisture dripped from his helmet and glistened on his waterproof cape; the stream of traffic had splashed him with mud to the knees. People have been heard to wonder what passes through the minds of policemen during their long hours of point duty when they gaze on the stream of traffic with the detachment of a cow looking at a passing train. Are there human emotions behind those impassive features? Do they ever unbend? In the case of young P.C. Richardson, posted in Baker Street that November afternoon, we are in a position to answer these questions. Newly posted to the D Division of the Metropolitan Police after a strenuous course of training at Peel House, he was not ruminating upon the frailty of human nature or regretting the change from his native Arbroath to a section house in central London. He was wondering how he could win admission to the Criminal Investigation Department where, as he knew, hours were long, meals irregular, failures frequent, and pay but little higher than he was receiving while in uniform; but the work was varied, interesting, and sometimes exciting, and hard work was what he wanted. From what he had heard from his comrades there was only one royal road into the C.I.D. and that was by putting in his name to be a winter patrol; but winter patrols were posted mostly in the outer divisions of London during the burglary season, and it was too soon for him to apply for a transfer to one of those divisions. His mind then began to explore the future when, by a happy combination of hard work and good luck, he would rise in promotion by rapid steps. He might even solve crime mysteries which puzzled all his seniors as well as the “crime experts” of the Sunday newspapers, just as amateurs are wont to do in the detective stories, for which, by the way, he had a lofty contempt, knowing even from his short experience how far they are from reality.