A Murder is Arranged Read Free Page B

Huskisson, “that two people who saw the accident have come forward to give the number of your car.”
    â€œBoth of them women. Have you ever met a woman yet who could remember the register number of a car? The fact that they both gave the same number is the proof that they concocted the story.”
    â€œI’m afraid that argument won’t go down with the beaks and I’m told that the Kingston Bench gives short shrift to motorists.”
    Mr Forge’s forced gaiety evaporated. “This is going to be the worst Christmas I’ve spent and I’d hoped that it was going to be the liveliest. I had counted so much on poor Margaret to keep things going.”
    Huskisson rose, leaving half his bacon and sausages uneaten. “I’ve just remembered that I’ve a telegram to answer if you’ll excuse me,” he said as he left the room.
    He was a tall, thin, rather cadaverous-looking young man with lantern jaws.
    â€œOur young friend seems to be taking this business very much to heart,” said Oborn.
    â€œHe is; don’t forget that he was fond of Margaret and I was beginning to think that she was fond of him, although they quarrelled.”
    â€œThat won’t sound very pretty when he’s called into the box this afternoon,” said Oborn. He changed his tone to an imitation of a coroner. “‘You quarrelled with this lady on the evening before her death and you were the last person to see her alive. What was the quarrel about?’ No, I don’t wonder that he hasn’t much appetite for breakfast.”
    â€œOh, enough of this kind of talk,” exclaimed Forge, whose nerves were frayed to breaking point. “Three or four of the people upstairs have sent messages that they are leaving this morning. Our party is practically broken up by this catastrophe. You won’t be able to leave until this Kingston business is cleared up.”
    â€œNo, unless they drag me off to a prison cell on the evidence of those two fools of women.”
    â€œWell, I feel like shutting up the house and packing off to Paris again. Her death would have upset me anyway, but to have been murdered in cold blood like this…Who the devil could it have been?”
    Oborn helped himself to another sausage. Forge looked at him almost with repugnance. “You seem to take the thing lightly,” he said.
    â€œYou forget I didn’t know the lady.”
    â€œDidn’t know her? Why, she told me that she was looking forward to meeting you again. In fact that was one of the reasons why I asked you to come down.”
    â€œAnother feminine mistake. Oborn is not a very uncommon name.”
    â€œWhat is your first name?”
    â€œDouglas.”
    â€œOh no, that wasn’t it. It was an ordinary name like Jim or Jack that she gave me—Jim, I’m sure it was.”
    â€œThere you are,” said Oborn, shrugging his shoulders. “If you want proof of my name I can show you my motor licence, my A.A. membership card and my passport. Those ought to be good enough.”
    â€œHave you got a second name?” asked Forge.
    â€œI have, but it’s a guilty secret I like to keep to myself. My godfathers and godmother conferred on me the name of Cadwallader and I’ve been trying to bury the name for the past forty years.”
    Forge was in no mood for flippancy. He pushed back his plate and went towards the door. “You can amuse yourself this morning, I suppose. I shall be busy.”
    â€œRighto! I’ve got letters to write and a lot of things to see to. Have I your permission to use your telephone for long-distance calls?”
    â€œOf course; as many as you like.”
    Left to himself, Oborn picked up the morning paper and scanned the headlines. His attention was caught by a paragraph relating the facts of the Kingston accident and giving the date of the hearing. The butler slithered into the room unobtrusively, as all good butlers