“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.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
SUPERINTENDENT LAWRENCE, 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 s
ecret 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.”
Lawrence did not answer immediately. He had picked up the paper in which the sandals had been wrapped and was scrutinizing it, especially where a piece had been torn off. “And, if I remember rightly, sir, another clue that Monsieur Goron had in that case was a strip of paper taken from the continental edition of the Daily Mail.”
“You are right,” said Richardson. “These things ought to be sent to Monsieur Goron at once. Has Mademoiselle Coulon left yet?”
“Yes sir; she was to leave for Croydon in Mr Huskisson’s car soon after we left Scudamore Hall.”
Richardson looked at the clock. “The next plane leaves in a little over half an hour. If you break the speed limit you may just do it. It’s worth trying.”
Even while his chief was speaking Lawrence was stowing his papers safely away in an inside pocket and was halfway to the door. “I’ll do it,” he said.
“Good luck to you,” called Richardson before the door was shut.
Lawrence did do it. By good luck his car evaded all traffic jams and even overtook the passenger car which conveyed travellers to the aerodrome. He was in time to catch Pauline before she climbed into the machine and to hand over to her the papers to be conveyed to M. Goron of the Sûreté Generate.
“You are not coming, monsieur?” she asked Lawrence.
“No, mademoiselle; but we can trust Monsieur Goron to pass on any information useful to us through our colleague, Mr Dallas.”
“Yes, you can trust him to do that.”
“And the documents could not be in safer hands than yours,” said Lawrence with unwonted gallantry: he had been converted by this nimble-witted young Frenchwoman to confidence in her sex. “The note was discovered in a pocket of the monk’s robe that we found in that trunk this morning and the newspaper is what the sandals were wrapped in.”
“And I may examine them?”
“Certainly.”
There was no time for more; the engines were turning over; the cry of “Stand back, please,” came from the chief attendant at the aerodrome. It was a necessary warning, for at that moment the engines increased their speed and drove a fierce blast upon the onlookers; their roar prevented any further conversation; the draught they caused seemed strong enough to tear up the grass by the roots; the plane was now skidding along the field and imperceptibly its wheels ceased to revolve: it was in the air.
Left to herself, Pauline took the documents from their envelope and scrutinized them, paying particular attention to the copy of the Daily Mail. The journey from Croydon to Le Bourget was uneventful. Pauline took a vacant taxi and drove straight to Goron’s office. To her great joy she found him at work.
“Behold me, monsieur. I come from the British shore laden with spoil. First let me ask you to telephone for your English colleague, Monsieur Dallas. I have here something that will be of particular interest to him.”
“I am expecting him at any moment. We have been busy and he has gone to eat. What have you?”
“First I bring back with me the fur coat which is Monsieur Henri’s property.”
“Then they have discovered the murderer of Miss Gask?”
“Not yet, monsieur. Margaret Gask was not wearing this coat when she was killed.”
“Then when was it found?”
“Well, it’s a story of a broken romance. Shall I tell it to you now, or shall we wait for Monsieur Dallas?”
Scarcely had she spoken when the door opened to admit Dallas. After the usual greetings she opened the suitcase and displayed the fur coat. Dallas’ English phlegm was proof against any show of emotion. He took it to the window and began to examine it.
“No, monsieur, you are wasting your time. You will find no bloodstains on it.”
“Come, mademoiselle,” said Goron; “you have whetted our appetite for your story and you are baulking it.”
“My story is soon told. Poor Mr Huskisson, whom you suspected of being a double-dyed villain, is cleared. He, like Monsieur Henri and others, was seduced by Margaret’s charms into thinking her a blameless angel. When he discovered that she was, to put it baldly, nothing but a common thief it was a great shock to him. He had persuaded her to let him restore this coat to Monsieur Henri, but before he had done so she was murdered. Partly out of fear and partly out of chivalry towards the woman he had loved, he had kept it hidden. You, monsieur,” she said to Dallas, “will be pleased to know that it was through your Mr Spofforth that it was found.”
Dallas listened with growing interest to her story of the cloakroom ticket, but Goron, on the other hand, was drumming on the table with his fingertips in his impatience to hear about the other things she had brought. Pauline watched him with a twinkle in her eye and then passed him the unsealed envelope which she had received from Lawrence. “I fancy that these papers may be of interest to you.”
Goron drew out first the copy of the continental Daily Mail and after a quick glance at each page he strode over to his safe and took out of it an envelope containing a scrap of newspaper. This he fitted to the page from which a strip had been torn off.
“It is it,” he exclaimed with excitement. “This is the paper from which the strip was torn and it was used by the murderer of the senator, Monsieur Salmond. Where did you get it?”
“I will tell you, but first I have one other piece of news about the coat. In a pocket we found this visiting card of Monsieur Salmond.”
She passed it to Goron, who said, “My deduction was right. That woman and Monsieur Salmond were acquainted and we shall find that my other deduction is correct—that the two were killed by the same person. Now tell us where you found this newspaper and this bank note.”
Pauline related the story of the tin trunk and was pleased to see that for once Dallas showed by his quick breathing that his interest had been thoroughly aroused.
“This butler,” he explained to Goron, “is an ex-convict liberated from Dartmoor a few months ago.”
“But surely a monk’s robe would be a strange thing
for an ex-convict in your country to have in his possession.”
Dallas explained that between the butler and Douglas Oborn, the brother of James, there was a secret understanding. “Depend upon it,” he concluded, “they connived at the escape of James from England; but they can help him no longer now, seeing that he is in your country.”
“Now that we believe him to have been the murderer of Monsieur Salmond it is more important than ever that we should find him.”
“Is it possible,” asked Dallas, “that the father abbot at that monastery is shielding him from pursuit? We know that he is fertile in inventing excuses, sufficient to deceive an innocent ecclesiastic.”
“It would be very easy for them to hide him,” said Pauline, “if he had won their sympathies.”
“Let us think,” said Goron. “Presumably this same man was staying with Mademoiselle Saulnois at Cannes last November. He returns again now and takes refuge in the monastery. Did he get into touch with the father abbot in November? I think that the answer to that question is no. The abbot and every monk that I questioned declared emphatically that they had never seen him until he sought their hospitality a few days ago. If it had not been true they would have either evaded the question or declined point-blank to answer it. Therefore, if he was a complete stranger and they now know from us that he is an ordinary criminal, they are not likely to be hiding him.”
“As a monk’s habit appears to be his favourite disguise, would it not be well to widen the quest to cover all religious houses?” said Pauline.
“That is being done,” said Goron, “but he had thrown away his monk’s robes; it was found by a gendarme rolled up behind a hedge. However,” he added, “I refuse to be discouraged. This paper that you have brought me supplies the missing clue that I need in my evidence against the murderer of Monsieur Salmond.”
“And the bank note,” suggested Pauline.
Goron examined the bank note for the first time. “I myself will go to the Credit Lyonnais; it may be possible to trace the fact that it was paid out to Monsieur Salmond. I don’t think that it is usual for them to stamp their notes.”
A Murder is Arranged Page 17