Inspector French's Greatest Case

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  “DEAR SIR,

  “MRS. CHAUNCEY S. ROOT.

  “In reply to your inquiry of yesterday, we beg to inform you that we have cabled our agents in Pittsburg on the matter in question, and have received the following reply:

  “‘Chauncey S. Root, partner local steel firm, wealthy, wife handsome, height middle, hair dark, complexion pale, face oval, mouth small, manner bright and attractive. Left for Europe by Olympic. Family O.K.’

  “We trust this information will meet your requirements.

  “Yours faithfully,

  “J. T. DASHFORD & Co.,

  “M.S.”

  French whistled thoughtfully.

  “That seems right enough,” he said slowly. “I know something about Dashford’s people, and they are reliable enough about a thing like this. It’s beginning to look like impersonation.”

  “Ah,” Mr. Williams ejaculated. “Impersonation! I hadn’t thought of that.” He paused in his turn, then continued, “But yet I don’t see how it could be. I didn’t stop with an application to Dashford’s. I rang up the White Star offices, and they told me there that Mrs. Root had actually made the journey. I also rang up the Savoy, and they told me there that she had arrived at the hour she had told me, with trunks bearing Olympic labels. Finally, to make the matter, as I thought, sure, I ’phoned the Southampton police and found out from them that the story of the stolen despatch case was true. It had happened just as Mrs. Root described. When I got all this information I felt absolutely satisfied.”

  “I’m not surprised at that, sir,” French admitted. “It would have satisfied most people. You see, it’s quite different with us now, because our suspicions have been aroused. There was nothing in the circumstances of this lady’s call to make you doubt her story. I quite sympathise with you, though I’m afraid that doesn’t help the situation much. … But you see now, of course, that none of the information you collected is really conclusive. I have no doubt that there is a Mrs. Chauncey S. Root of Pittsburg who travelled Europe in the Olympic, and that, generally speaking, she resembles your friend, but I very gravely doubt that she was the lady who negotiated the loan. You see, the real identifications, the passport, the return ticket, on which her name would be inscribed, were missing. Moreover, she refused to allow Mr. Root to be consulted. No, I think we may take it that the woman who came here was not Mrs. Root. But, on the other hand, she must either have been acquainted with Mrs. Root personally or have known a thundering lot about her. How does that strike you, sir?”

  “It sounds right, it certainly sounds right, Inspector. I fear it must be as you say. But if so, what chance is there of getting back my money?”

  French shook his head.

  “I’m afraid the prospects are not very rosy,” he admitted. “But you never know. We’ll try to get our hands on the woman, of course, and we may find she has not spent the money. Now, sir, if there is nothing more that you can tell me, I think I shall get along to the Savoy and to those shops where she paid the cheques.”

  Inspector French walked slowly down Cockspur Street, his brain bemused by this unexpected development. The impersonation of Mrs. Root was easy—or, at least, comparatively easy—to understand. He could see that it would present no serious difficulties to a resourceful woman, though the application to the Southampton police was certainly staggering. But what he could not form the slightest idea of was how this woman could possibly have got hold of Mr. Duke’s diamonds. The impersonation must have actually been arranged before the robbery took place, and if this were so, it pointed to a much more far-reaching crime than he had had any conception of. And there must have been more than one in it, too—unless this mysterious woman had actually committed the murder, which he found hard to believe. He smiled with satisfaction as he thought of the vistas of possible information which were opening out before him, and by which he might hope to retrieve the loss of prestige which he had suffered.

  Suddenly he thought of Miss Duke. Was there a connection between her and this mysterious woman? Was Mrs. Root the woman in the waterproof? Was she Miss Duke herself? Here were far-reaching questions. As he considered them, he saw that his work for the next few days was cut out for him.

  CHAPTER X

  SOME PAIRS OF BLANKETS

  During Inspector French’s brief lunch hour he continued turning over in his mind the immediate problem which Mr. Williams’s story had raised for him, namely, at what point he had best attack his new inquiry.

  The facts postulated a good deal of obvious detailed investigation, and he felt he should carry this through in his usual systematic way before attempting to evolve a comprehensive theory of the crime. He had first to learn what he could of the mysterious Mrs. Root, and in this connection he foresaw inquiries at Pittsburg, from the White Star people, from the Southampton police, at the Savoy, and at the various firms of jewellers to whom the cheques had been made out. He had, if possible, to find the lady, or her impersonator. These things accomplished, he could turn his attention to an attempt to connect the person found with Miss Duke, or at all events with Mr. Duke’s jewels, and subsequently with the murder of Charles Gething.

  By the time his meal was ended he had decided that he would commence operations at the Savoy, and ten minutes later he turned into the courtyard, and making his way to the office, inquired for the manager.

  In due course he explained his business to the great man, but the latter shook his head when he heard what was required of him, and asked French for suggestions as to how he could help.

  “First, I should like to see the register,” French explained.

  “That, at least, is easily done.”

  The manager led the way to the office and introduced French to the radiant young woman who presided at the reception counter. Then turning over the pages of the register, he presently exclaimed, “That looks like it, Inspector, I fancy.”

  The entry read: “Nov. 24. Mrs. Chauncey S. Root, Pittsburg, U.S.A., 137.”

  French drew out the cheques he had obtained from Mr. Scarlett and carefully compared the signatures. “That’s it,” he declared. “There’s not a doubt those are in the same handwriting. Now the question is, Can this young lady remember the woman?”

  The clerk hesitated.

  “We had a lot of Americans in that day,” she said slowly, as she ran her eyes down the list of names. “It is not easy to keep track of them all. And this is six weeks ago.” She paused again, then shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t just place her.”

  “It was the day the Olympic got to Southampton,” French prompted. “There would no doubt have been a number of people off the steamer special.” He glanced once more at the book. “See, here is a crowd of Americans all together. New York, Boston, New York, New York, Philadelphia, and so on. That represents the special. But——” He paused and ran his finger down the column. “Now, this is really rather interesting. Mrs. Root’s name is not among them. Here it is, down near the end of the list. That means that she came in late in the evening, doesn’t it? Does that help you at all, Miss Pearson?” He waited, but the girl not replying, he continued, “Or the room? Does No. 137 bring anything to your mind?”

  The girl shook her pretty head.

  “Turn up the account, Miss Pearson,” the manager suggested.

  The girl produced another huge book, and all three went through the items. Mrs. Root, it appeared, had paid for the rooms—No. 137 was a suite consisting of one bedroom, bathroom, and sitting-room—for the three nights, the 24th, 25th, and 26th of November. She had had seven meals in the hotel, dinner on the night of arrival, and breakfast, lunch, and dinner on the next two days. All these meals she had had served in her private room.

  “Avoiding publicity,” French thought, continuing aloud, “Then she didn’t breakfast on the morning she left?”

  At his remark Miss Pearson gave an exclamation.

  “I remember her now,” she cried. “It was your saying that brought her to my mind. No, she didn’t breakfast the
morning you mean because she left on the previous night. I remember the whole circumstances now. She came in on the night”—she glanced at the register—“of the 24th—pretty late—it was between seven and eight, I should think—and asked for a suite for three or four weeks. She was dark-haired and pale complexioned and very American in her speech. I fixed her up with No. 137, and she said she wanted dinner sent up to her room. Two evenings later, shortly before eight o’clock, she came back to the office and said she had had an urgent wire from Paris, and that she had to go over that night. She hoped to be back in about a week, but she would not keep the rooms on, as she was not certain of her plans. I made out the bill, and what brings the thing back to my mind is that I had to charge her for that night in accordance with our rule. She didn’t seem to mind, the way some people do in such a case. She left then, and I never saw her since.”

  This being all the pretty clerk could tell him, French asked next to see the chambermaid who had attended No. 137 on the night in question.

  From this woman he at first learned nothing. For a quarter of an hour he prompted fruitlessly, then, just as in the case of the clerk, a chance word brought a ray of light. Asked if she could remember having seen luggage with Olympic labels and the name Mrs. Root, she suddenly admitted that she could. Her attention had been attracted by the name Root, as she had been reading in the papers of a distinguished American of the same name, and she had wondered if the owner of the luggage was any connection. She remembered the luggage distinctly. There were two big, new-looking American trunks, labelled on steamer labels, Mrs. Something Root. Yes, she thought it was Chauncey. Something like that anyway, some queer, foreign name that only an American would bear. But though she remembered the luggage, the chambermaid could not recall anything about the lady herself.

  After fruitlessly interrogating several other of the hotel servants, French retreated into a deserted corner of the lounge and set himself to think the thing out. And presently it occurred to him that the trunks might represent a clue. Did their removal not involve a taxi, and if so, could he find it?

  He went back to the head porter to make inquiries. Vehicles were usually obtained from the rank in the street adjoining. Of course it frequently happened that a driver looking for a fare would pass at the critical moment and be employed, but seven out of ten were obtained from the rank.

  French left the hotel, and, sauntering down to the cab rank, engaged the driver of the leading car in conversation. All the taxis on the rank, the man stated, were the property of one firm, Metropolitan Transport, Ltd. The men returned the runs they made on their daily journals, and French could, if he chose to apply to the office in Victoria Street, learn all there was to be known about it.

  French did choose, and a quarter of an hour later was in conversation with the manager. But that gentleman was dubious that he could supply the desired information. It was true they kept a pretty complete record of the runs made and these had to balance with the readings of the meters and with the money handed in, but obviously no note was made of the names or descriptions of the fares. He could find out if a car had gone from the Savoy to Victoria about 7.45 p.m. on the night of the 26th November, but he could not say who might have travelled in it.

  “If you could let me have a note of the cars which left the hotel between 7.40 and 8.10, irrespective of their destinations, I should be obliged,” French declared. “I could see all the drivers, and possibly some one of them might remember the woman.”

  “I can give you that,” the manager assented, “but it will take a little time to get out.” He rang for a clerk and gave the necessary instruction, then leaned back in his chair and went on conversationally, “What’s the trouble? Is it indiscreet to ask?”

  French smiled benevolently.

  “Certainly not,” he assured the other. “I’ll tell you the whole thing. We believe that the lady I’m after is a crook—a diamond thief. She gave out that she was the wife of a wealthy American steel magnate, but we believe she’s no more that than you are. She left the hotel that night with two trunks and some small luggage, to go to Paris by the 8.20 from Victoria, and has vanished. I’m trying now to trace her.”

  The manager seemed interested.

  “Well,” he said, “that’s a useful hint you have given just now. Our drivers record the luggage, that is, outside luggage for which there is a charge. It’ll narrow the thing down a bit if we’ve only to count vehicles with two packages outside.”

  “That’s a point,” French admitted, “and a good one. But I only know that there were two large trunks besides hand luggage. There might have been more than two packages outside.”

  “It’s not likely. If there was only one lady she would have taken the hand stuff in with her. Ah, here’s the list.”

  From the tabulated sheet handed to the manager, it appeared that between the hours of 7.40 and 8.10 on the night in question, no less than twenty-eight taxis had left the Savoy. Of these, twenty had gone to theatres. Of the remaining eight, two had gone to Euston, one to King’s Cross, one to Hampstead, one to Kensington, and three to Victoria.

  “There you are,” said the manager, pointing to the second to Victoria. “See under extras, ‘Two packages.’ That’s what you want.”

  It looked as if the manager was right. The first of the three vehicles to Victoria had no outside luggage, and the third was for a party of five. No. 2 had left at 7.55 with one passenger and two outside packages.

  “It’s promising enough,” French admitted. “If you could tell me where to find the driver of that car I should be much obliged.”

  “John Straker.” The manager picked up his desk telephone. “Where is John Straker at present?” he called, and in a moment to French, “He’s out at work. He’s on the stand beside the Savoy, and if you go there now, and don’t mind waiting, you’ll see him. I’ll give you a note to him. It will make him more ready to talk. He’s a peculiar-looking man, clean-shaven, with a thin white face and hooked nose and very black eyes; you’ll recognise him at once. Better take his time-book also. It may bring the trip back to his memory.”

  French, having thanked the manager, returned to the cab rank. As he walked down it glancing at the drivers, a taxi drove up and took its place at the tail of the line. Its driver answered the description, and when he had switched off his engine and seemed at liberty, French accosted him and explained his business.

  For some seconds the man pondered, scratching his head and turning over the leaves of his timebook. At last he looked at French.

  “I remember the trip,” he said. “It’s a strange thing, but that was the only trip I made to Victoria that week. It’s a place we’re at pretty often, as you’ll understand. But I remember going that night. It was with a lady, and she had two big boxes; I remember them because they were rather big for the space on the car. But I got them fixed up all right.”

  “Where did you go to?”

  “I believe the main line departure side of Victoria, though I’m not just certain.”

  “Good!” said French heartily. “Now, could you describe the lady?”

  This, however, was beyond the driver’s powers. He had not noticed her specially, nor could he describe the porter who had taken the luggage. But French had not expected that, indeed, he was surprised and delighted at having got so much.

  The rest of that day and most of the next he spent at Victoria, interviewing porters, inspectors, ticket collectors, and any other officials he could find, who might by chance have seen the quarry. But nowhere had he any luck. The unknown remained unknown.

  As he continued turning the matter over in his mind, a further possible clue in connection with the trunks occurred to him. They were large; they could not be taken in the carriage. It was nearly certain, therefore, that they must have been registered through. Were there records, he wondered, of such registration?

  He went to the registration office and saw the clerk in charge. Yes, there were records; they were kept for a while and then de
stroyed. He could with a little trouble turn up those for the Newhaven boat train on the 26th November, and he would certainly do so to oblige the Inspector.

  But the records, when at last they were produced, revealed neither the name of Mrs. Root nor the fact that any one had registered two large trunks by that train.

  French discussed the possibility of those in question having been taken unregistered. It seemed that this was possible, but most unlikely. In any case, had it been done, the clerk believed the Customs people would have noted it. But it would take some time to find out.

  “Don’t trouble about it,” French told him; “at least, not in the meantime.”

  Suppose this woman crook was impersonating Mrs. Root, as he believed she was, would she not, as soon as she had disposed of the diamonds, seek to vanish and to resume her real personality? If so, did this not involve getting rid of the trunks? Did she really require them, or had they served their purpose when they reached Victoria?

  As a forlorn hope, he decided he would act on this idea. Suppose she wanted to get rid of them, how would she do it?

  There were several ways, but he felt satisfied that the easiest and best would be simply to leave them in the left luggage office. A considerable time would elapse before any question would arise about them, and it would then probably only take the form of their being opened by the railway company, and their contents sold for what they would bring.

  He went round to the left luggage office and propounded his inquiry. And immediately he received a pleasant surprise. The clerk to whom he was referred smiled, and turning over some papers, pointed to an item. It read: “Two large American trunks: White Star labels, S.S. Olympic. Mrs. Chauncey S. Root, passenger to Southampton.”

  “Bit of luck for you, sir,” the clerk remarked. “I was looking over the list only to-day, and I noticed the item. Boxes were left in on 26th of last month, and have not been claimed.”

  “I want to open them and perhaps take them to the Yard.”