A Murder is Arranged (25 page)

“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

S
IR
B
ASIL
H
OME
T
HOMSON
(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.

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

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 him 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

O
N 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.

He had just reached the rank of superintendent when he heard a shout and the grinding of brakes: a big car skidded sideways and stopped dead, blocking the traffic: a huddled object looking like a bundle of old clothes was lying in the roadway entangled with the spring and the front axle. He was the first to reach the spot and direct the removal of the man, who had been knocked down, to the pavement, and to summon a doctor and an ambulance while he kept the crowd back and inquired into the cause of the accident. The driver of the car protested that it had not been his fault: he said that the old man had dashed off the pavement without looking to right or left to see whether it was safe to cross—“just dashed across as if the devil was after him, as you might say.”

The usual particulars went down in the notebook; the car was got into the nearest side street. A crowd had assembled round the policeman; another crowd round the doctor who was examining the injured man. P.C. Richardson had to stride through it and move it back from the prostrate body. While he was doing this a woman said, “I was quite close to him, officer: he was running over to where you were standing. I heard him say, ‘Very well, then, I'll call a policeman'—just like that—and then off he ran, right in front of the car, poor old man!”

“Who did he say it to?”

“I don't know. I didn't see anyone with him. In fact, I wasn't taking any particular notice till I heard them words.”

Richardson addressed his next question to the crowd at large. “Did any of you see him before the accident happened? Was there someone with him?” There was no reply; these were all people who had stopped on their way at the sight of a growing crowd and the thrill of an accident. Richardson took the woman's name and address down in his notebook; she might have to be called as a witness at the inquest.

The doctor was kneeling over his patient. He looked up when Richardson asked him what the injuries were.

“He's unconscious and I can't get his name, but he's alive. We ought to get him along to the hospital as quick as we can.”

“Right, sir; the ambulance ought to be here in less than a minute.”

At this moment the crowd gave way and the ambulance was wheeled up to the curb. Willing hands lifted the body gently onto the canvas, and with Richardson at its side it was wheeled off to the Middlesex Hospital. The hospital porter rang a bell to the accident ward and the ambulance drew up at the door, but in that brief journey the passenger had ceased to be a “case” but had taken a longer journey and become a “body.” His destination was not the accident ward, but the mortuary. Here P.C. Richardson's work began. The body was carried to a vacant slab; it was that of an old man between sixty and seventy, poorly but respectably dressed, such as may be found by the thousand in London shops. The first thing to do was to search the pockets for any address that might lead to identification—a letter, an addressed envelope, a business card—but there was nothing. A pencil, a bunch of keys, and a slip of paper represented the whole contents of the pockets. The underclothing, which was none too clean, bore a laundry mark and that was all. The slip of paper was the only clue; it bore the address Arthur Harris, 7 Wigmore Street. The hospital telephone was put at Richardson's service, and he rang up the police station to report the accident and obtain leave to visit the address and establish the identity. The house was but a step from the hospital. A butler opened the door and told him that Mr. Arthur Harris lived there and that he would convey any message if he would be good enough to say what the business was; but Richardson was quite undaunted by the apparent opulence of the surroundings and said firmly that he had come for a personal and private interview with Mr. Arthur Harris.

“Is it a case of dangerous driving?” murmured the butler in concern. “Because if so I think you'd better see the young gentleman in the smoking room without letting the whole house know about it.”

“Very well, the smoking room will do.” He was shown into a luxurious room on the ground floor—a den apparently sacred to the father and son. Richardson had not long to wait. Apparently Mr. Harris's ordinary gait in descending stairs was to take four or five steps at a bound. He was a little breathless, not because of the exercise, but because the visit of a uniformed constable boded ill for a young man who considered that all public roads were intended for speed trials. He was a thin, weedy kind of youth, who looked as if late hours and cocktails disagreed with him. His pale cheeks assorted ill with his rather gaudy plus fours.

“You wanted to see me, constable?”

“Yes, sir. An old man was knocked over by a car in Baker Street this afternoon.”

“It wasn't me, constable. I haven't been in Baker Street today. I can show you my journey on the map and bring a witness to prove it.”

“That is not the point, sir. In the old man's pocket we have found this paper. It has your name and address. He was an old man approaching seventy, with a short grey beard and a bald head. He looked more like a shopkeeper than anything else. Perhaps as he was carrying your address you may be able to identify him.”

Young Harris's expression showed his relief, but he shook his head and said that he could make no suggestion as to who would be likely to carry his address in his pocket.

“Had you an appointment with anyone this evening?”

“No. If I had I should tell you at once.”

“Then, sir, I'm afraid I must ask you to come with me to Middlesex Hospital and see whether you can recognize him.”

“Right, constable! I'll do anything you ask me to, but I can tell you beforehand that I shan't be able to recognize anyone of that description. Wait a second while I get my hat and coat.”

Richardson watched him narrowly when they entered the mortuary together and thought that his complexion changed from white to green as he came within sight of the body, but he ascribed the change to the surroundings of the grisly building in which derelict human bodies are laid out like the wares in a fishmonger's shop. He looked fixedly at the body for many seconds and then shook his head.

“You've never seen him before, sir?”

“No; never.”

“And you can't imagine why he should have your address in his pocket?”

“No, I can't, unless, of course, he'd looked up likely addresses in the directory for new customers.”

When Harris had taken himself off in a taxi, Richardson went to the secretary's office to find out what was the ordinary routine about the funeral, seeing that the deceased had never been admitted to the hospital as a patient. He was talking to the secretary when the porter came in with another man—a slight young man of about thirty with a fair moustache and a fresh complexion. He was accompanied by a depressed, middle-aged woman in a black bugled bonnet and draggled skirt, which seems to be the uniform of the London charwoman. The man looked like an office clerk of some kind, one of those voluble clerks who do all the talking.

The porter announced him. “This gentleman has heard that his uncle has met with an accident this afternoon and been brought to the accident ward.”

The secretary referred to a list. “What age was your uncle, sir?”

“Close on seventy. He was to have met me this afternoon at the corner of Portman Square and Wigmore Street, but he didn't come.”

The charwoman broke in, “You see, sir, I'd just slipped over to the Crown and Anchor for a glass, and I heard them talking about an old gentleman being knocked down by a car in Baker Street, and he was taken away to the hospital, and Mr. Bloak he said, ‘Was it your old gent?' and I said, ‘It couldn't have been 'im; he's so careful of the crossings,' and 'e said, ‘Well, they're saying it was 'im.' And it's the truth I'm telling you; I didn't stop to finish me glass. I fair ran across to the shop to see whether he was in, and I couldn't get any answer to the bell. I was coming away again when up comes Mr. 'Erbert 'ere and I told him and we come along together.”

“Had he a beard?” interrupted the secretary.

“Yes,” said the young man, “a grey beard.”

The secretary made a sign to Richardson, who came forward. “If you'll both come with me, sir, perhaps you'll be able to identify the body of the gentleman who was knocked down by a car this afternoon.”

“The body? Do you mean to say that he's dead? My God!”

“I can't say whether he's the gentleman you are looking for, but if you'll come with me—” The secretary heaved a sigh of relief when the three left him to his work. A man of few words, he did not suffer talkers gladly.

The sight of the body lying on its slate slab was a shock. Richardson pulled out his notebook and asked whether they recognized the body.