A Murder is Arranged (20 page)

R
ICHARDSON FINISHED
reading Dallas' report and sent immediately for Lawrence.

“Take this report, Mr Lawrence, and read it slowly and carefully; it comes from Detective Inspector Dallas and it is very important.”

Lawrence pulled out his spectacle case and polished his glasses, then, standing with his back to the window, he began to read, while Richardson busied himself with the other papers on his desk. When he became aware that Lawrence was standing with his back to the window he said, “No, no; that's not the way. All important documents should be read while sitting: only in that position is the brain able to concentrate. Sit down.”

Lawrence knew from experience his chief's idiosyncrasies and took the line of least resistance. He sat down to read; silence brooded over the room. At last the report had been read and digested; Lawrence indicated this by a fluttering of the pages.

“Well,” said Richardson, “what do you make of it?”

“I think that if they capture James Oborn they will have the man we are all looking for.” 

“So do I.”

There came a discreet knock on the door; Richardson's messenger appeared. “I'm sorry to interrupt you gentlemen,” he said, “but the lady who was here yesterday, Mademoiselle Coulon, wants to see you on what she says is a very important matter. Mr Huskisson is with her.”

“Very well; show them in. You had better sit tight, Mr Lawrence, and keep your ears open.”

Pauline Coulon entered the room with the air of a bearer of strange tidings. She began at once.

“When I was here last evening, monsieur, I did not think that I should have to trouble you again so soon, but things have happened which we feel ought to be reported to you at once.”

If she had expected that Richardson would be startled into curiosity she was disappointed. In an official life which consisted mainly of receiving shocks his nerves had been dulled into accepting the most startling news without tremor. Many of his subordinates deplored this attitude of mind.

“Go ahead; I'm listening,” was all he said, though this did not prevent him from turning over papers while he listened.

“The first thing is that Curtis, the butler at Scudamore Hall, has had an accident. He fell from the loft to a cement floor in a shed attached to the garage and has been unconscious ever since. The doctor thinks his condition grave.” Richardson nodded. “You think perhaps that that is not very important, but who shall say what may result from this accident?” She turned to Huskisson, saying, “Tell them about that little episode of the tin trunk.”

Huskisson rather haltingly gave them an account of how he had seen Curtis dragging the trunk up to the loft.

“But,” observed Richardson, “his excuse seemed reasonable. What are lofts used for but to store unwanted things?”

“The tin trunk is the only object in the loft. Do you not think that it should be opened and examined without Curtis' knowledge?”

Richardson turned to Lawrence. “In view of Curtis' criminal record, I think this might be done.”

“I've had a look at the trunk,” said Huskisson. “It has two locks and it looks as if it might require an expert locksmith. The man you took to Waterloo Station would be the very man for the job.”

“Yes, Rawlings would be the man,” said Richardson. “How came Curtis to fall?”

“He had to go up a movable ladder and apparently the ladder had slipped,” explained Huskisson.

“I have put off my departure,” said Pauline, “expressly to see this affair through. Mr Huskisson has his car down below and he could drive Mr Lawrence and your locksmith back with us to Scudamore Hall.”

“Ah, but then we should have to get back again,” said Lawrence. “I think that we had better take one of the police cars.”

“Yes,” said Richardson. “It will excite less remark than if you all arrived together. Try to arrange your expedition without all the servants crowding round as an audience.”

“Mr Huskisson and I will go back first and prepare Mr Forge for your coming,” said Pauline. “You will not have to come to the house at all, but drive straight to the outbuildings. Now, Mr Huskisson.” She paused with her hand upon the doorknob and Huskisson followed her like a well-trained dog.

“I hope this is not going to turn out to be a wild-goose chase,” said Richardson. “I'm not much of a believer in letting women mess about in detective work, but this young lady seems to have unusual gifts. We might do worse than give her her head.”

“I'm glad to hear you say so,” said Lawrence. “Since the war women have been butting in everywhere…”

“They have, and I suppose we must admit that most of them are making good. Now, you and Rawlings had better get off. There is nothing for us to do on this report and if anything comes of your visit to Scudamore Hall you will be able to send it off to Dallas.”

Rawlings proved to be at liberty and three minutes later he and Lawrence were on their way. Rawlings was a man of few words and Lawrence found conversation a little heavy in hand. He began with the subject of the locks.

“I'm afraid that you'll have your work cut out with those locks, Mr Rawlings. I understand that it's a metal trunk with an unusual kind of lock.”

“As long as the lock doesn't bite my fingers I'm not afraid of it,” said Rawlings sardonically.

Lawrence laughed. “What an idea that would be for one of these mystery writers—a lock that bit the fingers of the locksmith, with a concealed man trap inside.”

“I could make you one of those if it would be of any use to the Yard,” retorted Rawlings.

“I've no doubt you could. It would be a better burglar alarm than any now on the market.”

After this exchange of ideas Rawlings was buried in silent thought. At last he gave tongue. “I've often thought,” he said, “what the Yard might become if a little fresh blood were pumped into it.”

“To my mind there are already too many changes. In the old days when detective officers were encouraged to know the men they had to deal with we got on a lot better. Now, here we are; this is the gate. If you'll hold it open for me we'll drive straight to the shed: I know the one they mean and you can have a look at those locks.”

When they arrived at the door of the shed they found Mr Forge, Mlle Coulon and Huskisson waiting for them. Greetings having been exchanged, Forge assumed the leadership. To be leader of a band of experts filled his soul with satisfaction.

“This is the trunk,” he said a little pompously. “I got Mr Huskisson to go up and bring it down to be all ready for you.”

“Has your butler recovered consciousness yet?” enquired Lawrence.

“Yes, but the doctor has prescribed entire quiet. No one has been near him but the nurse and she won't allow him to be questioned.”

“Where is your other guest?” Lawrence sunk his voice as he asked the question.

“Oh, he's up in London; he got a telegram from his brother, the lawyer in Salisbury, making an appointment.”

Pauline turned to Lawrence, saying innocently, “Most convenient, wasn't it, Mr Lawrence?”

“Most convenient,” agreed Lawrence, giving her a sharp look. In his mental rating of her she had scored another point.

Rawlings was kneeling in front of the box scrutinizing the locks. He pulled his leather tool bag towards him, took out a bunch of keys, tried the most likely one and whistled.

“These are rather special locks,” he said, “and I'm not sure—”

“You're not going to tell us that you haven't brought the proper tools?” asked Forge testily.

“No, but it may take a little more time than I thought it would.”

Three of his listeners looked perturbed, but not so Lawrence, who knew Rawlings' little weakness of old: no job on his showing was ever an easy one. He was careful to turn the locks away from his audience while he was tinkering with them, but a moment later Forge uttered an exclamation of triumph; Rawlings had performed the conjuring trick; the lid of the trunk gaped open.

Lawrence fell on his knees beside the trunk and began to explore the contents.

“I suppose it is perfectly well understood before we go any further that all this is to be strictly confidential and that not a word of it must be allowed to leak out. I say this because I shall have to take this trunk away with me to Scotland Yard.”

He was looking at Mr Forge as he uttered this warning and the owner of Scudamore Hall drew himself up. “Not a word shall pass my lips, even to Spofforth.”

“Of course,” said Lawrence soothingly, “I knew that we could rely upon you, but if a word should get out we should have the reporters round us like bees after honey.”

Forge shut his lips tight, perhaps as an indication of his future attitude to prying reporters.

“Now, Mr Lawrence,” said Pauline impatiently, “you have all the assurance you want. Take the things out of the box and let us see them.”

Lawrence hesitated. The Yard training to secrecy was strong.

“Surely you would not baulk a woman's curiosity so cruelly,” pleaded Pauline.

With the air of a conjuror taking a rabbit from a hat he produced from the box a curious-looking garment in coarse brown material with a hood.

“
Tiens!
” exclaimed Pauline. “It's a monk's robe. Why should a butler have that?”

“Yes, why?” echoed Lawrence. “There are other things here belonging to a monk's outfit—a waist cord and a wig with a tonsure. What have we here?” He unwrapped a newspaper parcel. “Sandals. It is because this is such a peculiar kit for a butler that I shall have to take the box up to the yard.”

Mr Forge looked disappointed: it seemed such a dull denouement to a drama that had started so promisingly.

Lawrence began to act. “Lock the box again, Rawlings, and help me carry it to the car. We mustn't waste any more time.” Three minutes later the car was shooting down the hill.

“I shall get back to the house now and hear from the nurse how her patient is,” said Forge fussily. “I wonder why the man was carrying about a monk's robe.”

“Be sure you don't ask him that question,” said Pauline warningly. “It would hamper Mr Lawrence very much if you did.”

Forge turned an indignant face upon her. “Is it likely that I should? Besides, no one is allowed to go near him with that nurse on guard at the door.”

“Well, I must say good-bye and thank you for your hospitality. I must be off and Mr Huskisson is kindly driving me to Croydon to catch the airplane.”

“Good-bye,” said Forge, shaking hands warmly. “I wish you were staying longer. Be sure that you regard this house as your hotel whenever you come to England.”

Pauline laughed gaily. “Take care what you say, monsieur. I may be back here tomorrow if you're too pressing.” She climbed into Huskisson's car. “You see I have my luggage all on board.” She waved her hand in farewell as the car swung into the drive.

“What worries me,” growled Huskisson as they turned into the main road, “is that that old man will never keep so good a story to himself. He's sure to blab; I'll bet you that Oborn hears the whole story at lunch.”

“That would never do, as that suit probably belongs to his brother James. He'll be full of suspicion as soon as he finds out that the telegram signed with his brother Charles' name was a bogus one. You've got your work cut out. You'll have to shadow Mr Forge and not give him an opportunity of being alone with Oborn.”

“I shall shadow Oborn too,” said Huskisson grimly. “I'll see that he doesn't go prying into that loft.”

“You think that he knew as well as the butler what was hidden in that trunk?”

“I do.”

“If he finds out that it's gone he can't do much. It would be impossible for him to warn his brother, and mark my words, my friend,” Pauline concluded impressively, “that James will be found within the next few hours.”

S
UPERINTENDENT
L
AWRENCE
, with the assistance of Rawlings, carried the box into Richardson's room at Scotland Yard and as soon as the locksmith had left the room Lawrence opened it and displayed the contents.

“Rather a strange garb for a butler to be carrying about, don't you think, sir?” he asked.

“Very,” agreed his chief; “but I've seen stranger disguises in my time.”

“In view of the fact that James Oborn adopts this disguise and that Spofforth suspects there to be a secret understanding between Curtis and Douglas Oborn, this may prove to be important evidence.”

Richardson picked up a report lying on his table and said, “While you have been away this has come in from the Salisbury police: they have discovered that Curtis was at one time employed by the Oborn family.”

“I wish we had some reason for holding Douglas Oborn,” said Lawrence. “He is bound to be suspicious, as Mademoiselle Coulon sent him a forged telegram to get him out of the way and he may have gone to the post office for information about the sender.” 

“The danger is that he may know all the secret hiding places of his brother and warn him; but we must risk that.”

“He can't get out of the country himself because we've put up the gate against him. The butler, I'm afraid, won't be fit to be questioned just yet.”

“I suppose he was already getting jumpy and had gone to the loft to move either the trunk or its contents to another hiding place. I thought that it wouldn't be a bad thing for it to leak out among the staff below stairs that Spofforth was a detective. When people get suspicious and nervy they are apt to give themselves away.”

“This accident may prove to be a lucky thing for us,” said Lawrence. “I haven't searched this garment, sir.”

Richardson took up the robe and began to look it over. “What an extraordinary number of pockets! Mostly empty, I'm afraid,” he said as he plunged his hand into each one. His fingers came into contact with a paper which rustled. He drew out a bank note and spread it out on the table. “This is a French note for five thousand francs, stamped by the Credit Lyonnais in Paris.” He was plunged in thought for a few moments and Lawrence forbore to interrupt him. “You remember,” he said at last, “that senator who was murdered in Paris. What was his name? Salmond. It was discovered at the police enquiry that he had been robbed of several thousand franc notes. I wonder whether this was one of them and whether the assassin left it because he thought it might be risky to change it on account of its being stamped.”