Inspector French's Greatest Case

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  The staff there, Mr. Duke had stated, consisted of four persons, the manager, a typist, and an office boy. There was also at times this traveller, Vanderkemp, the same Vanderkemp who was uncle to Stanley Harrington. It was more than likely that these persons knew of the collection of diamonds. The manager would certainly be in Mr. Duke’s confidence on the matter. Vanderkemp had actually purchased and brought to London a large number of the stones, which he had seen put into the safe, though, of course, it did not follow that he knew that they had been retained there. Besides, in the same way as in the London office, leakage of the information to outside acquaintances might easily occur. Inquiries in Amsterdam seemed to French to be indicated.

  “I think I shouldn’t wire,” he said at last. “There is no use in starting scares unless we’re sure something is wrong. Probably the thing is capable of the most ordinary explanation. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll slip across to Amsterdam and make a few inquiries. If anything is wrong I’ll get to know.”

  “Good. I’d be very pleased if you did that. I’ll write Schoofs and tell him to help you in every way that he can.”

  French shook his head.

  “I shouldn’t do that either, if you don’t mind,” he declared. “I’ll just go over and have a look round. There is no need to mention it to any one.”

  Mr. Duke demurred, pointing out that a note from him would enlist Mr. Schoofs’ help. But French maintained his ground, and the merchant agreed to carry out his wishes.

  French crossed by the night service from Harwich, and at half-past eight o’clock next day emerged from the Central Station into the delightful, old world capital. Though bent on sordid enough business, he could not but feel the quaint charm of the city as he drove to the Bible Hotel in the Damrak, and again as, after breakfast, he sauntered out to reconnoitre.

  Messrs. Duke & Peabody’s office was close by in the Singelgracht, a semi-business street with a tree-lined canal down its centre, and crouching at one corner, a heavily-gabled church with a queer little wooden tower not unlike a monstrous candle extinguisher. French had opposed Mr. Duke’s offer to write to the manager introducing him, as he did not wish any of the Amsterdam staff to be aware beforehand of his visit. He had on many occasions obtained a vital hint from the start or sudden look of apprehension which an unexpected question had produced, and he was anxious not to neglect the possibility of a similar suggestion in this case. He therefore pushed open the swing door, and without giving a name, asked for the manager.

  Mr. Schoofs was a dapper little man with a pompous manner and an evident sense of his own value. He spoke excellent English, and greeted his caller politely as he motioned him to a chair. French lost no time in coming to the point.

  “I have called, sir,” he began in a harsh tone, not at all in accord with his usual “Soapy Joe” character, while he transfixed the other with a cold and inimical stare, “with reference to the murder of Mr. Gething. I am Inspector French of the Criminal Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard.”

  But his little plot did not come off. Mr. Schoofs merely raised his eyebrows, and with a slight shrug of his shoulders contrived to produce a subtle suggestion that he was surprised not with the matter, but with the manner, of his visitor’s announcement.

  “Ah yes!” he murmured easily. “A sad business truly! And I understand there is no trace of the murderer and thief? It must be disquieting to Londoners to have deeds of violence committed with such impunity in their great city.”

  French, realising that he had lost the first move, changed his tone.

  “It is true, sir, that we have as yet made no arrest, but we are not without hope of doing so shortly. It was to gain some further information that I came over to see you.”

  “I am quite at your disposal.”

  “I needn’t ask you if you can give me any directly helpful news, because in that case you would have already volunteered it. But it may be that you can throw light upon some side issue, of which you may not have realised the importance.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such, for example, as the names of persons who were aware of the existence of the diamonds in Mr. Duke’s safe. That is one of many lines.”

  “Yes? And others?”

  “Suppose we take that one first. Can you, as a matter of fact, tell me if the matter was known of over here?”

  “I knew of it, if that is what you mean,” Mr. Schoofs answered in a slightly dry tone. “Mr. Duke told me of his proposed deal, and asked me to look out for stones for him. Mr. Vanderkemp also knew of it, as he bought a lot of the stones and took them to London. But I do not think any one else knew.”

  “What about your clerk and office boy?”

  Mr. Schoofs shook his head.

  “It is impossible that either could have heard of it.”

  French, though he had begun inauspiciously, continued the interrogation with his usual suavity. He asked several other questions, but without either learning anything of interest, or surprising Schoofs into showing embarrassment or suspicious symptoms. Then he turned to the real object of his visit.

  “Now about your traveller, Mr. Schoofs. What kind of man is Mr. Vanderkemp?”

  Under the genial and deferent manner which French was now exhibiting, Schoofs had thawed, and he really seemed anxious to give all the help he could. Vanderkemp, it appeared, was a considerable asset to the firm, though owing to his age—he was just over sixty—he was not able to do so much as formerly. Personally, he was not very attractive; he drank a little too much, he gambled, and there were discreditable though unsubstantiated tales of his private life. Moreover, he was of morose temper and somewhat short manners, except when actually negotiating a deal, when he could be suave and polished enough. But he had been known to perform kind actions, for instance, he had been exceedingly good to his nephew Harrington. Neither Schoofs nor any one else in the concern particularly liked him, but he had one invaluable gift, a profound knowledge of precious stones and an accuracy in valuing them which was almost uncanny. He had done well for the firm, and Mr. Duke was glad to overlook his shortcomings in order to retain his services.

  “I should like to have a chat with him. Is he in at present?”

  “No, he went to London nearly a fortnight ago. He has not returned yet. But I’m expecting him every day, as I have instructions from Mr. Duke to send him to Florence.”

  French looked interested.

  “He went to London?” he repeated. “But I can assure you he never arrived there, or at least never reached Mr. Duke’s office. I have asked Mr. Duke on several occasions about his staff, and he distinctly told me that he had not seen this Mr. Vanderkemp since two or three weeks before the murder.”

  “But that’s most extraordinary,” Schoofs exclaimed. “He certainly left here to go to London on—what day was it?—it was the very day poor Gething was murdered. He left by the day service via Rotterdam and Queensborough. At least, he was to do so, for I only saw him on the previous evening.”

  “Well, he never arrived. Was it on business he was going?”

  “Yes, Mr. Duke wrote for him.”

  “Mr. Duke wrote for him?” French echoed, at last genuinely surprised. “What? To cross that day?”

  “To see him in the office on the following morning. I can show you the letter.” He touched a bell and gave the necessary instructions. “There it is,” he continued, handing over the paper which the clerk brought in.

  It was an octavo sheet of memorandum paper with the firm’s name printed on the top, and bore the following typewritten letter: —

  “20th November.

  “H. A. SCHOOFS, ESQ.

  “I should be obliged if you would please ask Mr. Vanderkemp to come over and see me here at 10.00 a.m. on Wednesday, 26th inst., as I wish him to undertake negotiations for a fresh purchase. He may have to go to Stockholm at short notice.”

  The note was signed “R. A. Duke,” with the attendant flourish with which French had grown familia
r.

  He sat staring at the sheet of paper, trying to fit this new discovery into the scheme of things. But it seemed to him an insoluble puzzle. Was Mr. Duke not really the innocent, kindly old gentleman he had fancied, but rather a member, if not the author, of some deep-seated conspiracy. If he had written this note, why had he not mentioned the fact when Vanderkemp was being discussed? Why had he shown surprise when he received Schoofs’ letter saying that the traveller had crossed to London? What was at the bottom of the whole affair?

  An idea struck him, and he examined the letter more closely.

  “Are you sure this is really Mr. Duke’s signature?” he asked slowly.

  Mr. Schoofs looked at him curiously.

  “Why, yes,” he answered. “At least, it never occurred to me to doubt it.”

  “You might let me see some of his other letters.”

  In a few seconds half a dozen were produced, and French began whistling below his breath as he sat comparing the signatures, using a lens which he took from his pocket. After he had examined each systematically, he laid them down on the table and sat back in his chair.

  “That was stupid of me,” he announced. “I should have learnt all I wanted without asking for these other letters. That signature is forged. See here, look at it for yourself.”

  He passed the lens to Schoofs, who in his turn examined the name.

  “You see, the lines of that writing are not smooth; they are a mass of tiny shakes and quivers. That means that they have not been written quickly and boldly; they have been slowly drawn or traced over pencil. Compare one of these other notes and you will see that while at a distance the signatures look identical, in reality they are quite different. No, Mr. Duke never wrote that. I am afraid Mr. Vanderkemp has been the victim of some trick.”

  Schoofs was visibly excited. He hung on the other’s words and nodded emphatically at his conclusions. Then he swore comprehensively in Dutch. “Good heavens, Inspector!” he cried. “You see the significance of all that?”

  French glanced at him keenly.

  “In what way?” he demanded.

  “Why, here we have a murder and a robbery, and then we have this, occurring at the very same time. … Well, does it not look suggestive?”

  “You mean the two things are connected?”

  “Well, what do you think?” Mr. Schoofs replied with some impatience.

  “It certainly does look like it,” French admitted slowly. Already his active brain was building up a theory, but he wanted to get the other’s views. “You are suggesting, I take it, that Vanderkemp may have been concerned in the crime?”

  Schoofs shook his head decidedly.

  “I am suggesting nothing of the kind,” he retorted. “That’s not my job. The thing merely struck me as peculiar.”

  “No, no,” French answered smoothly, “I have not expressed myself clearly. Neither of us are making any accusation. We are simply consulting together in a private, and, I hope, a friendly way, each anxious only to find out the truth. Any suggestion may be helpful. If I make the suggestion that Mr. Vanderkemp is the guilty man in order to enable us to discuss the possibility, it does not follow that either of us believe it to be true, still less that I should act on it.”

  “I am aware of that, but I don’t make any such suggestion.”

  “Then I do,” French declared, “simply as a basis for discussion. Let us suppose then, purely for argument’s sake, that Mr. Vanderkemp decides to make some of the firm’s wealth his own. He is present when the stones are being put into the safe, and in some way when Mr. Duke’s back is turned, he takes an impression of the key. He crosses to London, either finds Gething in the office or is interrupted by him, murders the old man, takes the diamonds, and clears out. What do you think of that?”

  “What about the letter?”

  “Well, that surely fits in? Mr. Vanderkemp must leave this office in some way which won’t arouse your suspicion or cause you to ask questions of the London office. What better way than by forging the letter?”

  Mr. Schoofs swore for the second time. “If he has done that,” he cried hotly, “let him hang! I’ll do everything I can, Inspector, to help you to find out, and that not only on general grounds, but for old Gething’s sake, for whom I had a sincere regard.”

  “I thought you would feel that way, sir. Now to return to details. I suppose you haven’t the envelope that letter came in?”

  “Never saw it,” Mr. Schoofs replied. “The clerk who opened it would destroy it.”

  “Better have the clerk in, and we’ll ask the question.”

  Mr. Schoofs made a sudden gesture.

  “By Jove!” he cried. “It was Vanderkemp himself. He acts as head clerk when he is here.”

  “Then we don’t get any evidence there. Either the letter came through the post, in which case he destroyed the envelope in the usual way, or else he brought the letter to the office and slipped it in among the others.”

  French picked up the letter again. Experience had taught him that typescript could be extremely characteristic, and he wondered if this in question could be made to yield up any of its secrets.

  It certainly had peculiarities. The lens revealed a dent in the curve of the n, where the type had evidently struck something hard, and the tail of the g was slightly defective.

  French next examined the genuine letters, and was interested to find their type showed the same irregularities. It was therefore certain that the forged letter had been typed in the London office.

  He sat thinking deeply, unconsciously whistling his little tune through his closed teeth. There was another peculiarity about the forged note. The letters were a trifle indented, showing that the typewriter keys had been struck with rather more than the usual force. He turned the sheet over, and he saw that so much was this the case that the stops were punched almost through. Picking up the genuine letters, he looked for the same peculiarity, but the touch in these cases was much lighter and even the full stop barely showed through. This seemed to justify a further deduction—that the writer of the forged note was unskilled, probably an amateur, while that of the others was an expert. French felt he could safely assume that the forged note had been typed by some unauthorised person, using the machine in the London office.

  But, so far as he could see, these deductions threw no light on the guilt or innocence of Vanderkemp. The letter might have come from some other person in London, or Vanderkemp might have typed it himself during one of his visits to the metropolis. More data was wanted before a conclusion could be reached.

  Though from what he had seen of Schoofs, the Inspector thought it unlikely that he was mixed up in what he was beginning to believe was a far-reaching conspiracy, he did not mention his discoveries to him, but continued trying to pump him for further information about the missing traveller. Vanderkemp, it seemed, was a tall man, or would have been if he held himself erect, but he had stooped shoulders and a slouching way of walking which detracted from his height. He was inclining to stoutness, and had dark hair and a sallow complexion. His chin was clean shaven, but he wore a heavy dark moustache. Glasses covered his shortsighted eyes.

  French obtained some samples of his handwriting, but no photograph of him was available. In fact, Mr. Schoofs did not seem able to supply any further information, nor did an interrogation of the typist and office boy, both of whom spoke a little English, produce any better results.

  “Where did Mr. Vanderkemp live?” French asked, when he thought he had exhausted the resources of the office.

  It appeared that the traveller was unmarried, and Mr. Schoofs did not know if he had any living relatives other than Harrington. He boarded with Mevrouw Bondix, in the Kinkerstraat, and thither the two men betook themselves, French begging the other’s company in case he should be needed as interpreter. Mevrouw Bondix was a garrulous little old lady who had but little English, and upon whom Schoofs’ questions acted as a push-button does on an electric bell. She overwhelmed them with a flood of
conversation of which French could understand not one word, and from which even the manager was hard put to extract the meaning. But the gist of the matter was that Vanderkemp had left her house at half-past eight on the night before the murder, with the expressed intention of taking the 9.00 train for London. Since then she had neither seen him nor heard from him.

  “But,” French exclaimed, “I thought you told me he had crossed by the daylight service on the day of the murder?”

  “He said he would,” Schoofs answered with a somewhat puzzled air. “He said so most distinctly. I remember it particularly because he pointed out that Mr. Duke would probably ask him, after the interview, to start by the afternoon Continental train on his new journey, and he preferred to travel during the previous day so as to insure a good night’s sleep in London. He said that in answer to a suggestion of mine that he would be in time enough if he went over on the night before his interview.”

  “What time do these trains get in to London?”

  “I don’t know, but we can find out at the office.”

  “I’d like to go to the Central Station next, if you don’t mind coming along,” French declared, “so we could look them up there. But before I go I want you to tell me if Mr. Vanderkemp figures in any of these?” He pointed to a number of photographic groups which adorned the chimneypiece and walls.

  It happened that the missing traveller appeared in one of the groups, and both Mr. Schoofs and Mevrouw Bondix bore testimony to the excellence of the portrait.

  “Then I’ll take it,” French announced, as he slipped the card into his pocket.

  The two men next went to the Central Station and looked up the trains. They found that the day service did not reach Victoria until 10.5 p.m. The significance of this was not lost upon French. Orchard stated he had reached the office in Hatton Garden at 10.15, and that it could not have been later was established by the evidence of Constable Alcorn. The body at that time was cold, so that the crime must have taken place some considerable time earlier. A man, therefore, who had crossed by the daylight service from Amsterdam could not possibly have had time to commit the murder. Had Vanderkemp lied deliberately to Schoofs when he told him he was using that daylight service? If so, was it in order to establish an alibi? Had he a secret appointment with Gething for an earlier hour on the fatal evening, and had he crossed the night before with the object of keeping it? French felt these were questions which required satisfactory answers, and he made a mental note not to rest until he had found them.