THE USBORNE AFFAIR
Dick Usborne's book Clubland Heroes
(1953) was a study of three thriller writers of the between war period, John Buchan,
Sapper and Dornford Yates. His
research unearthed a "who-done-it" about a namesake, published in 1910 (the year he
was born). Doubly strange that Dick was a military Captain (at one time) working
in wartime Intelligence (WW2) with a close friend called Morrice.
From the beginning of the century Britain was the subject of a variety of
invasion and spy scares--often promoted by novelists and journalists to whom
such scares meant good business. The concern of many British officials with
collecting foreign intelligence was more than matched by the fear of foreign
spies. In 1900 France was perceived as the likely enemy. Following the Entente
Cordiale of 1904, Germany was seen as the prime menace. Not surprisingly, in 1905 author William
LeQueux "discovered"
a "great network of German espionage spread over the United Kingdom."
Lequeux has been described as the literary father of Ian
Fleming.
Revelations of the Secret Service by
William LeQueux (1864-1927), published 1910.
Chapter 5; page 47.
The Usborne affair was a remarkable mystery presenting a number of curious
features.
It occurred this way.
Just before eight o'clock one misty autumn morning, Captain Richard Usborne, of
the Royal Engineers, and myself, were strolling together up and down the
platform at Liverpool Street Station, awaiting the arrival of the Hook of
Holland boat train. We had our eyes well about us, for a man was coming to
London in secret, and we, members of the secret service were there to meet him,
to examine his credentials, and to pass him on to the proper quarter to be
questioned and to receive payment - substantial payment - for his confidential
information.
I had arranged the visit of the stranger through one of our friends who lived in
Berlin, but as I had never before met the man about to arrive, we settled that I
should hold a pale green envelope half concealed in my handkerchief raised to my
nose, and that he should do the same.
"By Jove, Morrice" Dick Usborne was saying, " This will be a
splendid coup - the revelation of all the details of the new German gun.
The department ought to make you a special grant for such a service. I
hope, however," he added glancing about him with some suspicion, "I
hope none of our foreign friends have wind of this visit. If so, it will fare
badly with him when he gets back."
I had kept my eyes well about me, and was satisfied that no other secret agent
was present.
A moment later the train drew into the station, and amid the crowd I quickly
distinguished a short, stout, middle aged man of essentially Teutonic
appearance, with a handkerchief to his face, and in it an envelope exactly
similar to my own.
Our greeting was hasty. Swiftly we put him into a taxi we had in readiness, and
as we drove along he produced certain credentials, including a letter of
introduction from my friends in Berlin.
Herr Gunther - which was the name by which we knew him - appeared extremely
nervous lest his presence in London should be known. True, he was to receive for
his information and for certain documents which he carried in his breast pocket
two thousand pounds of Secret Service money; but he seemed well aware of the
fate which would befall him if his argus-eyed government became aware of his
association with us.
We had both witnessed such misgivings on the part of informants before.
Therefore we repeated our assurances in German - for the stranger did not speak
English - and at St Clement Dane's Church in the Strand, I stopped the taxi and
alighted, for Dick Usborne was to conduct our friend to the house of Sir Charles
Houghton in Curzon Street, it not being considered judicious for Gunther to be
taken to the War Office.
The German was to return by the Hook of Holland route at nine o'clock that same
night, therefore he had brought no baggage. Secret visits of this character are
always made swiftly. The British public are in blissful ignorance of how many
foreigners come to our shores and tell us what we most desire to know - for
substantial consideration.
The Secret Service never advertises
itself, yet it never sleeps night or day. We, it agents, often live through
exciting times, crises of which the public never dream.
On the day in question I played golf at Sunningdale, for I had been some months
abroad - living in a back street of Brest - and was now on leave at home. I
dined at the golf club, and about ten o'clock that night entered my rooms, where
I found a telegram lying upon the table.
It had been despatched from the Brighton Station at Victoria and read:-
"Am at Webster's. Come to me at once. Cannot come to you. Dick."
By this message I was greatly puzzled. Webster's was a small private hotel in
which I knew Usborne had sometimes hidden himself under the name of Mr. Clarke,
for we are often compelled to assume fictitious names, and also keep queer
company.
Why had he suddenly gone into hiding? What had occurred?
At once I took a cab along Victoria Street and alighted before the house, which
was to all intents and purposes a private one, save for the lamp outside which
stated it to be a hotel.
The little black-bearded manager, who I had once met before, told me that
my friend had arrived there at noon and taken a room, but at two o'clock had
gone out and not returned.
"And he left no message for me". I asked.
"None, Sir".
"Did he bring any luggage?"
"Mr. Clarke seldom brings any luggage." was the man's reply. "He
generally just sleeps here, and leaves his luggage in a station
cloak-room."
I was puzzled. If Dick wished to see me so urgently he would surely have
remained at the hotel. He was aware I was going out to golf, although I had not
told him where I intended playing.
While we were speaking I saw a chamber-maid passing, and then it occurred to me
to to suggest that my friend might have returned unobserved. He might even be
awaiting me in his room. He had said that he was unable to come to me, which
appeared that he feared to go forth lest he should be recognised.
I knew that Dick Usborne, whose ingenuity and daring were unequalled by any in
our service, was a marked man.
Both the manager and the chamber-maid expressed themselves confidant that Mr.Clarke had not returned, but at last I induced the girl to ascend to his room
and ascertain.
From where I stood in the hall I heard her knock and then try the door.
She rattled it and called to him. By that I knew that it was locked - on the
inside.
Instantly I ran up the stairs, and banging at the door, called my comrade by
name, but there was no response.
The key was still in the lock on the other side, so a few minutes later we burst
open the door by force and rushed into the dark room.
The manager lit the gas-jet, and by its dim light a startling sight was
presented. Lying near the fire-place in a half crouching position, face
downwards, was Dick Usborne. Quickly I turned him over and touched his face. The
contact thrilled me. He was stone dead.
His eyes still open, were glazed and stared horribly, his strong hands were
clenched, his jaw had dropped, and it was plain by the contortion of the body,
that he had expired in agony.
Quickly, suspicious of foul play, I made a rapid examination of the body, but
could find no wound or anything to account for death. A doctor, hastily
summoned, was equally without any clue to the cause of death.
"Suicide, I should think!" he exclaimed when he had finished his
examination. "By poison, most probably"; but there was no trace of it
about the mouth.
Then turning to the police inspector who had just entered, he added:
"The door was locked on the inside, It must, therefore, have been
suicide".
"The gentleman was a friend of yours, I believe, Sir?" asked the
inspector addressing me.
I replied in the affirmative, but declared that he was certainly not the man to
commit suicide.
"There's been foul play - of that I am positive!" I declared
emphatically.
"But he locked himself in," the hotel manager argued. "He must
have re-entered unobserved."
"He was waiting here for me. He wished to speak to me." I replied.
The theory held by all present, however, was that it was suicide; therefore the
inspector expressed his intention of having the body removed to the Pimlico
mortuary to await the usual post-mortem.
I then took him aside downstairs, and telling him in confidence who I was, and
what office my dead friend held, I said:
"I must ask you, inspector, to lock up the room and leave everything
undisturbed until I have made a few enquiries myself. The public must be allowed
to believe it a case of suicide; but before we take any action, I must consult
my chief. You, on your part, will please inform Superintendent Hutchison, of the
C.I.Department at Scotland Yard, that I am making the investigation. That will
be sufficient. He will understand."
"Very well, Sir," replied the inspector; and in a few moments I left
the house in a taxi. Each member of the Secret Service is a detective by
instinct, and I suppose I was no exception.
Half an hour later I was seated with Sir Charles Houghton in his cosy little
library in Curzon Street explaining briefly my startling discovery.
"That's most remarkable!" he cried, greatly upset at hearing of our
poor colleague's death. "Captain Usborne brought the man Gunther here just
after nine, and we had breakfast together. Then he left, promising to return at
three to again take charge of the stranger. He arrived at a quarter past three,
and both he and the German left in a four wheeler. That is the last I saw of
either of them.
"Gunther was to leave tonight. Has he gone?" I asked.
"Who knows?" exclaimed the shrewd, grey-haired man who was Director of
the British Secret Service.
"We must find him," I said. Then, after a moment's reflection, I added:
"I must go to Liverpool Street Station at once."
"I cannot see what you can discover," replied Sir Charles. "If
Gunther has left he would not be noticed in a crowded train. If he had left
London he's already on the North Sea by this time," he added, glancing up
at the clock.
"Usborne has been assassinated, Sir," I declared, with emphasis.
"He was my best friend. We have often been in tight corners on the
continent together. May I be permitted to pursue the investigation myself?"
"By all means, Morrice, if you really believe it was not a case of
suicide."
"It was not - of that I'm quite certain."
I was suspicious of Gunther. The German might have been an impostor after all.
Yet at Webster's Dick had not been seen with any companion. He had simply gone
there alone, in order to to wait for me.
For what reason? Ah! that was the question.
With all haste I drove down to Liverpool Street. On my way I took from my pocket
a slip of paper - the receipt from a tourist agency for the first-class ticket
between London and Berlin which I had sent to Gunther. At the inspector's office
I was shown all the tickets collected of departing passengers by the boat train,
and among them I found the German's voucher for the journey from Liverpool Street
to Parkeston Quay.
I had at least cleared up one point. Herr Gunther had left London.
On returning to the dark little hotel just after midnight I found a man I knew
awaiting me - Detective inspector Barker, who had been sent to me by
Superintendent Hutchinson, the uniformed police having now been withdrawn from
the house.
Alone, in the small sitting room, we took counsel. Barker, I knew to be a very
clever investigator of crime, his speciality being the tracing and arrest of
alien criminals who seek asylum in London, and for whose extradition their own
countries apply.
"I've seen the body of the unfortunate gentleman," he said "but I
can detect no suspicious circumstances. Indeed for aught I can see, he might
have locked himself in and died of natural causes. Have you any theory - of
enemies, for example?"
"Enemies!" I cried. "Why, Dick Usborne was the most daring agent
in our service. It was he who discovered and exposed that clever German agent
Schultz, who tried to secure the plan of the new "Dreadnought." Only
six months ago he cleared out a nest of foreign spies down at Beccles, and it
was he who scented and discovered the secret store of rifles and ammunition near
Burnham-on-Crouch in Essex. But probably you know nothing of that. We've kept
its discovery carefully to ourselves, for fear of creating panic. Dick, however,
had a narrow escape.
The night he broke in to the cellars of the country inn where the depot had been
established he was discovered by the landlord, a Belgian. The latter attempted
to secure him, but Dick succeeded in snatching up the Belgian's revolver, firing
a shot which broke the blackguard's arm and so escaped. Such a man is bound to
have enemies - and vengeful ones, too!" I added.
The mystery was full of puzzling features. The facts known were these. At noon
Dick had arrived at that place, and under the name of Mr. Clarke, had taken a
room. Just after three o'clock he had been at Curzon Street, but after that hour
nothing more had been seen of him until we found him dead.
The chief points were, first, the reason he had so suddenly gone into hiding;
and, secondly, why he feared to come round to my rooms, although he desired to
consult me.
Sending Barker across to dispatch a telegram, I ascended alone to the dead man's
room, and, turning up the gas, made a minute investigation. Some torn paper was
in the fireplace - a telegraph form. This I pieced together, and, in surprise, I
found it to be a draft in pencil of the telegram I had received, but it was not
in Dick's hand-writing.
I searched my dead friend's pockets, but there was nothing in them of any use as
clue. Men of my profession are usually very careful never to carry anything
which may reveal their identity. Traveling so much abroad as we do, we never
know when we may find ourselves in an awkward situation, and compelled to give a
fictitious account of ourselves to a foreign police-bureau.
That small, rather comfortless room was of the usual type to be found in any
third-rate private hotel in London - the iron bedstead and threadbare carpet,
the wooden washstand, and lace curtains, limp and yellow with smoke.
While Barker was absent I carefully examined everything, even the body of Dick
himself. But, I confess, I could not form any theory whatever as to how he had
been done to death, or by what means the assassin had entered or left the room.
While bending over my dead friend I thought I detected a sweet perfume and
taking out his handkerchief placed it to my nostrils. The scent was a subtle and
delightful one that I never remembered having smelt before - like the fragrant
odour of a cottage garden on a summer's night. But Dick was something of a
dandy; therefore it was not surprising that he should use the latest fashionable
perfume.
As I gazed again at the poor white face I noticed, for the first time, that upon
the cheek, just below the left eye, was a slight but curious mark upon the
flesh, a faint but complete red circle, perhaps a little larger than a finger
ring, while outside it, at equal distances, showed four tiny spots. All was so
very faint and indistinct that I had hitherto overlooked it. But now, as I
struck a vesta and held it close to the dead white countenance, I realised the
existence of something which considerable increased the mystery.
When Barker returned I pointed it out, but he
could form no theory as to why it showed there. So I took a piece of paper from
my pocket and carefully measuring the diameter of the curious mark, drew a
diagram of it, together with the four spots.
Barker and I remained there together the greater part of the night, but without
gaining anything to assist towards a solution of the mystery. The servants could
tell us absolutely nothing. Therefore we decided to wait until the post-mortem
had been made.
This was done on the following day, and when we interviewed the two medical men
who made it and Professor Sharpe, the analyst to the Home Office, who had been
present, the latter said:
"Well, gentlemen, the cause of death is still a complete mystery. Certain
features induce us to suspect some vegetable poison, but whether
self-administered we cannot tell. The greater number of vegetable poisons, when
diffused through the body, are beyond the reach of chemical analysis. If an
exact, or inspissated juice, be administered, or if the chemical were in the
form of infusion, tincture or decoction, a chemical analysis would be of no
avail. I am about to make an analysis, which will inform you of the
results."
I made an enquiry regarding the curious ring-like mark upon the cheek, but one
of the doctors, in reply, answered:
"It was not present today. It has disappeared."
So the enigma remained as complete as ever.
Next day I traveled to Berlin, and there met Herr Gunther by appointment. From
his manner I knew at once that he was innocent of any connection with the
affair.
When I told him of the strange occurrence in London he stood dumbfounded.
"The Captain called for me at Curzon Street," he said in German,
"and we drove in a cab to his club - in Pall Mall I think it was. We had a
smoke there, and then, just at dusk, he said he had a call to make, so we took a
taxi-cab and drove a long way, across a bridge - over the Thames, I suppose.
Presently we pulled up at the corner of a narrow street in a poor quarter, and
he alighted, telling me that he would be absent ten minutes or so. I waited, but
though one hour passed, he did not return. For two whole hours I waited, then,
as he did not come back, and I feared I should lose my train. I told the driver
to go to Liverpool Street. He understood me, but he charged me eighteen marks
for the fare."
"And you did not see the Captain again?"
"No. I had something to eat in the buffet, and left for Germany."
"Nothing happened while you were with the Captain?" I asked. "I
mean nothing which, in the light of what has occurred, might be considered
suspicious?"
"Nothing whatever," was the German's reply. "He met nobody while
with me. The only curious fact was the appointment he kept and his
non-return."
In vain I tried to learn into what suburb of London he had been taken; therefore
the same night I again left for London, via Brussels and Ostend.
Next day I called on Professor Sharpe in Wimpole Street to ascertain the result
of his analysis.
"I am sorry to say I have been unable to detect anything. If the Captain
really died of poison it may have been one of those alkaloids, some of which our
chemical processes cannot discover in the body. It is a common fallacy that that
all poisons can be traced. Some of them admit of no known means of
detection. A few slices of root of the Oenanthe crocata, for instance,
will destroy life in an hour, yet no poison of any kind had been separated from
the plant. The same may be said of the African ordeal bean, and of the decoction
and infusion of the bark of Laburnum."
"Then you are without theory - eh?"
"Entirely Mr. Morrice. As regards poisoning I may have been I may have been
misled by appearances; yet my colleagues at the post-mortem could find nothing
to cause death from from natural causes. It is as extraordinary, in fact, as all
the other circumstances."
I left the Professor's house in despair. All Barker's efforts to assist me had
been without avail, and now a week had passed and my dead friend had been
interred at Woking, I felt all further effort to be useless.
Perhaps, after all, I had jumped to the conclusion of foul play too quickly. I
knew that this theory I alone held. Our Chief was strongly of the opinion that
it was a case of suicide in a fit of depression, to which all of us who live at
great pressure are frequently liable.
Yet when I recollect the strong character of poor Dick Usborne, and the many
threats he had received during his adventurous career, I doggedly adhered to my
first opinion. Day after day, and with infinite care, I considered each secret
agent of Germany likely to avenge himself upon the man who, more than anyone
else, had been instrumental in combating the efforts of spies upon our eastern
coast. There were several men I suspected, but against neither of them was there
any shadow of evidence.
That circular mark upon the cheek was, to say the least, a very peculiar
feature. Besides, who had drafted the telegram?
Of the manager at Webster's I learned that Mr.Clarke had for some months past
been in the habit of meeting a young Frenchman named Dupont, engaged in a
merchant's office in the city. At our headquarters I searched the file of names
and addresses of our "friends" but his was not amongst them. I
therefore contrived, after several weeks of patient watching, to make the
acquaintance of the young man - who lived in lodgings in Brook Green Road,
Hammersmith - but after considerable observation my suspicions were dispelled.
The reason of his meeting with Dick was, no doubt, to give information, but of
what nature I could not surmise. From Dupont's employers I learned that he was
in Brussels on business for the firm on the day of the crime.
There had apparently been some motive in trying to entice me to that hotel
earlier in the evening of the tragedy. Personally I did not now believe Dick had
sent the telegram. Its dispatch had been part of the conspiracy which had
terminated so fatally.
Nearly nine months went by.
On more than one occasion the chief had referred to poor Dick's mysterious end,
expressing a strong belief that my suspicions were unfounded. Yet my opinion
remained unchanged. Usborne had, I felt certain, been done to death by one who
was a veritable artist in crime.
The mystery would, no doubt, have remained a mystery until this day had it not
been for an incident which occurred about three months ago.
I had been sent to Paris to meet, on a certain evening, in the cafe of the Grand
Hotel, a person who agreed to sell us information which we were very anxious to
obtain regarding military operations along the Franco-German frontier.
The person in question turned out to be a chic and smartly dressed Parisienne,
the dark-haired wife of a French lieutenant of artillery stationed at Adun,
close to the frontier. As we sat together at one of the little tables she bent
to me and, in confidence, whispered in French that at her apartment she had a
number of important documents relating to German military operations which her
husband had secured and was anxious to dispose of. If I cared to accompany her I
might inspect them.
Offers of such a character reach us sometimes, for the British Government are
known to be excellent paymasters when occasion demands. Therefore, nothing loth,
I accompanied her in an auto-cab out of the Boulevard Pereire.
The lady's apartment, on the third floor of a a large house, proved to be quite
a luxurious little place, furnished with great taste, and when she had ushered
me into her little salon she left me for a few moments. We were alone, she said,
for it would not be a wise for anyone to know that she had sold the information
of such vital importance to England. Her husband would get into serious trouble
for not placing it at the disposal of the Ministry of War.
A few moments later she returned, having taken off her hat and coat,
bearing a small black portfolio such as is used by business men in France.
Seating me at a table, and standing at my side, she placed the papers before me,
and I began a careful perusal.
I suppose I must have been thus occupied for some ten minutes, when slowly, very
slowly, I felt her arm steal round my neck.
In an instant I sprang to my feet. The truth that I had all along suspected was
now plain. Facing her I cried:
"Woman, I know you! These documents are pure fabrication - prepared in
order to trap me here! I believed that I recognised you at first - now I am
convinced."
"Why, monsieur!" she exclaimed in a voice of reproach. "What do
you mean?"
"I mean, madamoiselle, that it was you, you, Julie Bellanger - who killed
my friend Dick Usborne, because he exposed you as a spy!" I cried.
"Killed your friend!" she gasped, trying to laugh. "You are mad,
monsieur!"
"Yes, you killed him! And shall I explain to you how you accomplished
it?" I said, looking straight into her dark eyes. "Usborne had become
friendly with you in Beccles, and you never suspected him in connection with the
secret Service. Among other things, he gave you a bottle of new and rare perfume
which he had brought from Bucharest - that perfume which is now upon you. As
soon as we met tonight I recognised its fragrance. Well, Usborne, having
convinced himself that you were engaged with others in gathering information in
Suffolk for the General Staff in Berlin, informed the police, and you were
ordered away. You came to London and, determined upon a terrible revenge, took a
room at the hotel where you knew he sometimes stayed. Then you sent him a
telegram purporting to come from his friend Dupont, asking him to go to
Webster's and meet him there. In response to this poor Usborne went, but almost
instantly on his arrival you paid your bill and left the hotel. You then watched
my friend out again and re-entering the hotel unseen, crept up to his room, the
number of which you had previously ascertained. There you concealed yourself
until just before six. When he returned you emerged, and on pretence that you
were ready to dispose of these self-same papers, you induced him to sit down and
examine them, just as I have done. Suddenly you placed your arm about his neck,
while with your right hand you struck the needle of the little hypodermic
syringe - the one you now hold in your hand there - into the nape of his neck
where you knew the puncture would be concealed by the hair. It contained a
deadly poison - as it does now!"
"It's a lie!" She cried in French. "You cannot prove it!"
"I can, for as you held him you pressed his left cheek against the breast
of your blouse, against that little circular brooch you are now wearing - the
ring with four diamonds set at equal distances around it. The mark was left
there - upon his face!"
She stood, staring fixedly at me, unable to utter a word.
"After you had emptied that syringe you held him until he lay dead. Then
you removed all traces of your presence, and, stealing from the room, turned the
key from the outside by means of that tiny handvice which I noticed lies in the
small bowl upon the mantelshelf yonder. Afterwards you crept downstairs and sent
me a telegram, as though from the man who had recently died by my hand. And
mademoisellle," I added severely, "I, too, should have shared the same
fate, had I not recollected the smell of the Roumanian perfume, and seen upon
your blouse the round brooch which produced the red ring upon my friend's
countenance."
Then, without further word, I crossed to the telephone, and, taking up the
receiver, called the police.
The woman, suddenly aroused by my action, dashed towards me frantically to stay
my hand, but she was too late. I had given warning.
She turned to the door, but I barred her passage.
For a moment she looked around in wild despair; then ere I could realise her
intention or prevent her, she struck the point of the deadly needle - the needle
she intended to use upon me because I had assisted in clearing out those German
spies from Suffolk -- deeply into her white, well-moulded arm.
Five minutes later when two policemen came up the stairs to arrest her, they
found her lying lifeless.