“ALBERT DALLAS, Detective Inspector.”
Richardson turned over the sheet with a feeling of curiosity. He had known Spofforth when he was a third-class sergeant in the C.I.D. and he was curious to see how he would comport himself as a private detective in what promised to be a complicated case. The report ran as follows:
“SIR,
“In accordance with your instructions I had an interview with Mr Forge at Scudamore Hall on Christmas Day and presented your letter of introduction. He appeared to be greatly relieved by my coming and promised to assist me in every way that lay in his power; evidently he has been greatly upset by the recent events in his house. I impressed upon him that no hint of my identity should be allowed to reach the other servants and he kept his word, for I found that the servants assume my engagement to be due to Mr Forge’s expectation of having numerous other guests during the festive season. As the house has only recently been opened and the servants are all newly engaged there was no suspicion attaching to me of being other than I represented myself to be. It is needless to say that I am keeping a watchful eye on the butler, Alfred Curtis, who has a long criminal record. I find this man very civil and considerate to those working under him; there is nothing about him to suggest that he has a criminal record. The only suspicious circumstance that has come under my notice was that this morning I interrupted what appeared to be a confidential conversation between one of the guests, Mr Oborn, and Curtis. I should not have thought this worth including in my report if I had not noticed that the interruption caused by my entrance appeared to discompose Mr Oborn.
“Among the servants the murder of Miss Gask is a constant subject of conversation but apparently none of them knows anything about the theft of the emerald. The general opinion among them is that Mr Forge should have contrived to get rid of Mr Huskisson, who is regarded by them with deep suspicion based on the fact that he and the dead woman were known to have had a violent quarrel and he was the last person seen with her that night.
“I am not yet in a position to report anything definite about Mr Huskisson, who is by nature a gloomy young man who is indisposed to respond to any kind of greeting when one passes him in the hall or corridors; he appears to have much on his mind but this is not to say that he is hiding some guilty knowledge. He seems to be on very friendly terms with the young French lady who had been invited to Scudamore Hall by the dead woman. I have overheard them discussing the subject of Miss Gask’s death and her mode of life in Paris. I have a suspicion, but only a suspicion, that if Miss Gask stole the emerald it was with the knowledge, if not the active collusion, of Mr Huskisson.
“The behaviour of Mlle Coulon, the young French lady from Paris, is not in my opinion above suspicion. She seems to want to search the dead woman’s wardrobe, for the maid who waits on the ladies told me that she had found the door of the wardrobe ajar and is certain that the clothes belonging to Miss Gask had been disarranged from the positions in which she put them; apparently someone had been making a hasty search among them. Yesterday when I was keeping observation from the end of the corridor I saw Mlle Coulon cross from her own room to that occupied by the dead woman. She was there but a moment before I knocked at the door and opened it. I found the wardrobe open. I explained to her that Mr Forge had given orders that no one should enter the room. She apologised and crossed to the corridor to her own room. I have gathered in conversation that the dead woman, Mlle Coulon and Mr Huskisson were all friends together in Paris.
“With regard to Mr Oborn, the other member of the house party, Mr Forge seems convinced in his own mind that he was acquainted with Miss Gask, although he disclaimed any previous knowledge of her. As Miss Gask is dead it is impossible for me to clear up this question, because the evidence available would be entirely on one side. I have had a conversation with the constable at Kingston who preferred the charge of dangerous driving against Oborn. Although at the hearing Oborn produced evidence that appeared to be incontrovertible, this constable is convinced that his witnesses did not invent their evidence about the number of the car. He is so positive that I cannot believe him to be entirely mistaken and I propose to devote some time and trouble to get at the truth of these conflicting statements. I have persuaded the authorities of the A.A. to assist me in clearing up this discrepancy.
“WILLIAM SPOFFORTH, ex-Detective Inspector.”
Richardson marked the paper “further report” and laid it on one side to await the arrival of Detective Inspector Dallas, who was coming to ask for permission to go to France. He had not long to wait; the familiar rap sounded on the door and Dallas presented himself.
“Good morning,” said Richardson. “I have been reading this report of ex-inspector Spofforth, the man you engaged for Mr Forge. He seems to be a careful sort of man.”
“Yes sir, he is very discreet and careful. If he has a fault it is that he starts by suspecting everyone he meets and letting each of them dispel his suspicions if he can.”
“Well, that’s not altogether a bad way to work provided that it is fairly done.”
“Yes sir, and in this case, in which there is no actual suspect, there is much to be said for it.”
Richardson nodded. “My practice is to put an officer in charge of a case, give him a free hand and ample time and leave him to clear it up. Now, about this trip of yours to Paris. Is it really necessary? Could not we find out what you want to know by writing to the Sûreté?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. We have of course already got from them some information about Miss Gask but I am of opinion that by interviewing her last employer I might get information that would form the basis for further enquiries in this country. As you know, I am anxious to trace the connection between Hyam Fredman and Miss Gask and so far I have not succeeded in getting any evidence on this. We have strong reason for believing that the dead woman met Hyam Fredman in Crooked Lane and passed the stolen emerald to him. In further searching Fredman’s shop we came across this.” He took from an inner pocket of his tunic an official envelope and unwrapped from its tissue paper a clip of platinum from which all the stones had been removed.
Richardson turned over the empty platinum setting curiously. “I think I read in one of your reports that Miss Gask had been discharged by her employer for having ‘lost’ a diamond clip of great value.”
“Yes sir, and I want to show this to Monsieur Henri and see whether he recognises it. From Miss Gask’s passport I have gathered that she has not visited England until this time for eight months but that jewel was lost only six months ago, so she must have an accomplice.”
“Always supposing that she stole the jewel and that her story of having lost it was untrue. Yes, I suppose that it is the only course to take. The Receiver will kick at the cost, so you must keep your expenses as low as possible and not be too long away.”
“I don’t think that the Receiver will raise any difficulties, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Well, sir, I think that Sir William rather likes the idea of the reputation of this department standing high on the Continent. You will remember that in the case of those drug traffickers, the case that the newspapers called the murder in the barn, our co-operation with the French police produced excellent results and notably raised our reputation in Paris.”
“Well then, you’d better go ahead. I hope that you will find Monsieur Henri willing to co-operate with you.” Dallas smiled a little self-consciously. “In the past I have been fairly successful in obtaining the good offices of any Frenchman I’ve had to work with.”
“Ah! Because you speak French.”
“No sir. I make a point of never speaking French when I’m in Paris, because then the French talk among themselves in the belief that I do not understand what they are saying and I look stupid and drink in every word. It is a great help.”
“Do you mean you have an interpreter?”
“Not with a man of the type of Monsieur Henri, who speaks a halting kind of English, but the police authorities
always provide me with a man who speaks English.”
“Very well, go your own way to work as long as you’re satisfied that it’s the best. Have you any suspicion against any of Margaret Gask’s friends that we know?”
“So far no very definite suspicion but either Huskisson or Graves could have been in league with her.”
“Do you mean that either of those men fired the shot that killed her?”
“I don’t rule out the possibility in either case, sir. Mr Vernon and I are quite agreed from enquiries and observation kept on Arthur Graves that he is a shady character; we have established the fact that he made frequent visits to Paris.”
“I have discussed this case with Mr Jackson, of our legal department, and I think that I may tell you the theory that he formed.”
“I should like very much to hear it, sir.”
“It was only a very general opinion, namely, that robbery was not the motive for the two murders, but revenge or fear.”
“That squares very much with my own theory, sir. I’m glad to have it supported by the opinion of a man so competent and clearheaded as Mr Jackson. Mr Vernon’s idea is that both murders were connected with the possession of the emerald, but though the stone no doubt has a high intrinsic value it has no history and its value would scarcely be sufficient to account for two murders.”
“Have you ever asked Mr Forge how the jewel came into his possession?”
“Yes sir; it was a quite unromantic story. It was in the hands of a French marquis who had been speculating heavily on the turf and he had to dispose of it in a hurry to meet his obligations. His name has escaped me for the moment but I have it in my notebook.”
“Well, I should advise you to tell the story to one of your French colleagues and see whether he can give you any useful information regarding this French nobleman who had it.”
“I will, sir.”
Richardson again took up the report and said, “I see that your man Spofforth appears to be suspicious about the young Frenchwoman who has turned up at Scudamore Hall. Do you agree with him?”
Dallas smiled. “The lady in question doesn’t strike me as being in the least likely to be a criminal or to be associating with criminals, but I must admit that there was an element of drama about her arrival at Scudamore Hall. She told me that she had been invited there by the dead woman, Miss Gask; that she telephoned from Waterloo to Mr Forge, not knowing that Miss Gask was dead and that he very hospitably invited her to come. All this has been verified by Mr Forge, but in answer to my questions he admitted that Miss Gask had never mentioned having sent the young lady an invitation.”
“Well, I suppose you will include her in the list of people you will enquire about in Paris. In the meantime we can do nothing. You had better get your momentous interview with the Receiver over. If he makes difficulties come to me again.”
Chapter Ten
MR FORGE had been opening his morning letters at the breakfast table. He looked up unhappily.
“Another batch of refusals this morning. It is disheartening to find how a death in the house casts a shadow over it. Though they don’t say so one can read into all these refusals the same cause—the fear of passing the holiday season in a house where there has been a sudden death.”
“Perhaps it is because people regard the holiday as over and done with,” suggested Oborn.
“But the people I asked don’t belong to the class which has to work for its living. And I had so hoped to make things a little livelier for Mademoiselle.”
“You are very kind, but I am one of the workers and my holiday leave will be up tomorrow,” said Pauline.
“What! You are going to leave us so soon?”
“Alas! but I must. Remember, I work for a dressmaking firm and our fête in France is the New Year. People want new clothes for the fête.”
“I also have a job to attend to,” said Huskisson. “They want me to take a consignment of cars over to Paris.”
Forge looked up sharply. “I doubt very much whether you will be allowed to leave the country.”
“Who’ll stop me?”
“Why, the police. As I understand it, they don’t want anyone to leave this house until that case is cleared up.”
“But how can they stop me?”
“It’s the simplest thing in the world,” broke in Oborn; “they have their fellows at the ports and aerodromes: all they have to do is to put your name on the gate and withhold a permit to embark either by sea or air. They do this every day.”
“Hell!” muttered Huskisson under his breath. “It’s a free country and I shall go whatever they say.”
“Try it and I think you’ll find that the country is not as free as you like to think it.”
“But it would be monstrous to stop you going abroad on legitimate business. Even in France that is not done,” said Pauline. “I shall expect to see you in Paris next week.”
“You will,” said Huskisson firmly.
Forge looked profoundly uncomfortable. He did not get on very well with either of his male guests. Of the two he preferred Huskisson, but he had an uneasy feeling that this guest had become an object of suspicion to the police and he did not at all look forward to a brace of constables ringing his bell and marching one of his guests off between them. It would be a climax to the local reputation of Scudamore Hall. Of course all the servants would leave in a body…
“I shall put this confounded place in the hands of an agent to let or sell,” he muttered.
Pauline cast upon her host the kind of indulgent glance that she would have assumed towards a pettish schoolboy. “You, monsieur, must come over to Paris and enjoy its gaiety; then you will forget all these worries and return later on to this charming house feeling that it is to be a home for you. Time, as you say in England, is the great healer.”
“I should not mind so much if you were not going, mademoiselle. Is your decision irrevocable? Can we do nothing to dissuade you?”
“Alas, monsieur! You must not try to tempt me. I thank you for a delightful holiday and if you will invite me again at some future time I shall accept your invitation with enthusiasm.”
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. There was more than one argument between the men as to which of them should have the agreeable task of seeing Mlle Pauline off by train, but Huskisson won the day and drove her up to Waterloo in one of Mr Forge’s cars. It must be confessed that, unknown to Pauline, they tossed for the privilege.
Armed with a platform ticket, Huskisson escorted her to her compartment. It was already occupied by three people and on such occasions the occupants are all ears for the partings of travellers who are to be their stable companions as far as the port: it made conversation constrained. When the porter had slammed the doors of the compartments Pauline put her head out of the window. “Good-bye. I shall see you in Paris next week,” she said.
Huskisson almost hissed through his clenched teeth, “Yes, if these damned police don’t stop me from crossing the Channel, but I’m afraid they will.”
“Your police seem to think that when they find that fur coat they will also have found the murderer. I think they are mistaken.”
He could not ask her why, as the train had begun to move. Pauline settled herself, took from her handbag a notebook and began to read it critically, interpolating a few words here and there.
She had taken the day train, which arrived in Paris about 6 P.M. She put her suitcase into a taxi and directed the chauffeur to drive her to the address of M. Henri in the Rue Royale. On arrival she found the doors closed, but she rang the bell, which was answered by a liveried porter.
“Good evening, Jacques,” she said. “I’m back again as you see. Is Monsieur Henri still here?”
“Yes, mademoiselle, and he is expecting you. We will leave your suitcase here and I will take you up in the lift.”
M. Henri was a typical specimen of the prosperous French businessman—stout, florid and growing bald. He received Pauline with cordiality.
“Ah! You have come at a good moment. You have brought news? Yes?”
“Yes, but not as definite as we wished. I’ll tell you all my discoveries and you can judge for yourself. To begin with, I obtained an invitation to the house by pretending that I had not heard of Margaret’s death. Mr Forge was kindness itself. When he heard that I had come over from France expressly to stay with Margaret at his house he insisted that I should come.”
“You did not tell him your mission?”
“No, monsieur; that would have been fatal to my success. He knows merely that I am employed here as a mannequin and that I was a friend of poor Margaret, but he does not know that I am a private enquiry agent recommended by the Sûreté to enquire into the thefts that have been committed in your workroom and showroom.”
“Did you trace that fur coat?”
“I convinced myself that Margaret Gask had that fur coat, but it was stolen on the night she was murdered. I got an excellent description of the coat from the maid who waited on her and I am positive that it was our coat. I discovered also in her wardrobe at least two models that had belonged to us and I found this.”
She produced from her handbag a label with the words “Henri. Paris.” He examined it.
“This may very well have been taken from our coat. It is stouter than the labels that we put in dresses. I wonder how the British police failed to find this when they searched the room.”
“I, too, monsieur, but we must remember that to a man like a British police officer a label of this kind would mean nothing; to us, of course, it means everything. So far I have avoided making communications to the British police and I want to discuss with you whether I should now take them into my confidence.”
M. Henri pursed his lips doubtfully. “Are they intelligent, these British police—or are they heavy witted?”
“Well, I have not met many of them. Even now there is one in Scudamore Hall whose mission was to watch me—as well as others. He is masquerading as under butler and his waiting at table leaves much to be desired. One is lucky not to receive a shower of green peas down the back of one’s neck when he is handing round the vegetables. He mounted guard at the end of the bedroom corridor and it was very obvious that he was watching me.”
A Murder is Arranged Page 7