Inspector French's Greatest Case

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  The necessary authority was soon obtained, and French followed the clerk to a huge room stored with luggage of all descriptions. Calling the porter in charge, they were conducted to a corner in which stood two large boxes, and French, looking at the labels, found they were those of which he was in search.

  “Pull those out, George,” the clerk directed, “so as this gentleman can open them, and let him take them away if he wants to. That all you want, sir?”

  French, left to himself, began by satisfying himself that the handwriting on the labels was the same as that of the cheques. Then, taking a bunch of skeleton keys from his pockets, he set to work on the locks. In a few moments both stood open.

  For a space he stood staring down in amazement at their contents. They were full of blankets! Just new, thin blankets of a poor cheap quality. They were fairly tightly packed, and completely filled the trunks.

  He took out the blankets, and opening each out, shook it to make sure that no small article was concealed in the folds. But there was nothing.

  Nor was there any smooth surface within the empty trunks upon which finger impressions might have been left. They were lined with canvas, fine as to quality, but still too rough to carry prints.

  Inspector French felt more puzzled and baffled than ever. What, under the sun, were the blankets for? And where was the woman who had carried them about?

  He was certainly no further on as to finding her. Whether she had crossed to France, or travelled to some other point on the Southern system, or had simply walked out of the station and been swallowed up in the wilderness of London, she was just as completely lost to him as ever. Hard luck that so unexpected a lift as the finding of the trunks should have led to so little.

  But there was one thing it had led to. It settled the question of the impersonation. On no other hypothesis could the abandonment of the trunks be explained.

  A point of which he had already thought recurred to him. If the unknown had impersonated Mrs. Root, she either knew her or knew a great deal about her. The chances, therefore, were that Mrs. Root knew the unknown. It also seemed pretty certain that Mrs. X, as he began to call the unknown in his mind, had really crossed in the Olympic. How else would she obtain the labels and the dinner menu? Granted these two probabilities, it almost certainly followed that the real Mrs. Root and Mrs. X had met on board. If so, would it not be worth while interviewing Mrs. Root in the hope that she might by the method of elimination suggest the names of one or more persons who might have carried out the trick, and thus provide French with another point of attack.

  Thinking it would be worth while to investigate the matter, he returned to the Yard and sent a cable to the Pittsburg police asking them to obtain Mrs. Root’s present address.

  He glanced at his watch. It was not yet five o’clock, and he saw that he would have time to make another call before going off duty. Fifteen minutes later he pushed open the door of Dashford’s Inquiry Agency in Suffolk Street, off the Strand.

  “Mr. Parker in?” he demanded of the bright young lady who came to the counter, continuing in response to her request for his name, “Inspector French from the Yard, but Mr. Parker’s an old friend and I’ll just go right in.”

  The girl eyed him doubtfully as he passed through the counter, and, crossing the office, tapped at a door in the farther wall. Without waiting for a reply, he pushed the door open and passed within, shutting it behind him.

  Writing at a desk in the centre of the room was an enormously stout man. He did not look up, but grunted impatiently “Well?”

  “Well yourself,” French grunted, mimicking the other’s tone.

  The fat man looked up, then a smile dawned on his rubicund countenance, and he got heavily to his feet and held out a huge hand. “Why, Joe, old son, I’m glad to see you. It’s a long time since you blew in. Bring the chair round to the fire and let’s hear the news.”

  French did as he was told, as he answered, “All’s well, Tom? Busy?”

  “Not too busy for a chat with you. How’s the Yard?”

  “The Yard’s going strong; same old six and eight-pence. I often think you did wisely to chuck it up and start in here. More your own boss, eh?”

  The fat man shook his head.

  “I don’t know,” he said slowly, handing a tobacco pouch to his visitor. “I don’t know. More your own boss, perhaps, but more worry. If you don’t get jobs here, you don’t get your pay, and no pension at the end except the interest on what you save up. I’ve thought of that pension many a time since I left.”

  “Rubbish!” French exclaimed genially as he filled his pipe. “You’re too young to be talking of pensions. I was here looking for you about a week ago, but you were in Scotland.”

  “Yes, I was at that Munro case. Acting for old Munro. I think he’ll pull it off.”

  “I dare say.” The talk drifted on, then French turned it to the object of his call.

  “I’m on a case that you people have had a finger in. I wish you’d tell me what you can about it. It’s that business of Mrs. Root of Pittsburg that Williams & Davies of Cockspur Street put you on to six weeks ago. They wanted you to find out what she was like, and if she crossed by the Olympic.”

  “Huh,” said the fat man. “Well, we told ’em. I handled it myself.”

  “Did they tell you why they wanted to know?”

  “Nope. Only asked the question.”

  “That’s where they made the mistake. A woman called on Williams, saying she was Mrs. Root and had crossed by the Olympic. She said she had lost her despatch case with her passport and tickets and money, and she wanted a loan of £3000 on the security of diamonds she had in her trunk.”

  “Well? Was it not right?”

  “It was perfectly right so far. Williams was satisfied from what you told him that she was the woman, and he lent the money.”

  French paused, smiling, and his friend swore.

  “Confound it, man! Can’t you get on? Were the stones paste?”

  “Not at all. They took them to Stronge, of Hurst & Stronge’s, and he valued them. They were perfectly all right, worth £3300 odd, but”—French paused and became very impressive—“they were all stolen from Duke & Peabody the night before!”

  The fat man was visibly impressed. He stared fixedly at French, as he might had that philosopher turned into Mrs. Root before his eyes. Then heavily he smote his thigh.

  “Je—hoshaphat!” he observed slowly. “The night before! Some crook that! Tell me.”

  “That’s about all there is to tell,” French declared. “The woman arrived at the Savoy about eight o’clock the night before, ostensibly from the Olympic, and she left next night and has vanished. No clue so far. I traced her to Victoria and there lost the trail.”

  The fat man thought profoundly.

  “Well, if Williams & Davies want to blame us for it, they can look elsewhere,” he presently announced. “They asked us a question, and we gave them a correct and immediate reply.”

  “I know that,” French agreed. “Williams asked you the wrong question. Mrs. Root was impersonated; at least, that’s my theory. But what I wanted to know from you was how you got your information. Between ourselves, are you satisfied about it?”

  The fat man shook his fist good-humouredly.

  “Now, young man,” he advised, “don’t you get fresh with me. But I’ll tell you,” he went on, suddenly grave. “It was through Pinkerton’s. We have an arrangement with them. I cabled their New York depot and they got the information.”

  “I knew it would be all right,” French answered, “but I was curious to know how you worked.”

  The two men chatted for some time, then French said he must go. Half an hour later he reached his house, and with a sigh of relief at the thought of his slippers and his arm-chair, let himself in.

  CHAPTER XI

  A DEAL IN JEWELLERY

  Inspector French’s cheery self-confidence was never so strongly marked as when his mind was free from misgiving
as to his course of action in the immediate future. When something was obviously waiting to be done he invariably went straight in and did it, shrinking neither from difficulty nor unpleasantness, provided only he could carry through his task to a successful conclusion. It was only when he did not see his way clear that he became depressed, and then he grew surly as a bear with a sore head, and his subordinates kept at as great a distance from him as their several activities would permit.

  On the morning following his conversation with the stout representative of the inquiry agency, he was in great form, signifying that not only were his plans for the day satisfactorily in being, but that no doubt of their super-excellence clouded his mind. He had decided first to call on the jewellers to whom Mrs. X had paid the cheques, after which, if these visits indicated no fresh line of attack, he would prosecute inquiries at the White Star company’s office. By that time a reply from Pittsburg should have arrived.

  When he had made his usual report at the Yard, he took out the cheques and made a note of the places to be visited. The first two were in Piccadilly, and he began his quest by taking a bus thither.

  By one o’clock he had been round the whole six, and as he sat lunching in a small French restaurant off Cranbourne Street, he thought over what he had learned. In each shop, after more or less delay, he had found the salesman who had served Mrs. X. All six men remembered her, and her proceedings with each seemed to have been the same. In each case she had asked for a piece of jewellery for a dear friend who was going to be married—something plain, but good; a diamond ring or a jewelled bangle or some costly trifle which would please a young girl’s fancy. In each shop her purchases came to somewhere between two and three hundred pounds, and in each case she had proffered a cheque. She had volunteered to wait while a messenger was sent to the bank, as she had admitted that she couldn’t expect the shop people to take her cheque when they didn’t know her. The salesmen had all protested that this was unnecessary, and had politely kept her talking while they took the precaution. Finally, a telephone from the bank having reassured them, they had handed her her purchase and bowed her out. None of them had either noticed or suspected anything unusual in the transactions, and all were satisfied everything about them was O.K.

  French was considerably puzzled by the whole business, but under the stimulus of a cup of coffee, a possible theory flashed into his mind.

  Was it not probable that this purchase of costly but commonplace articles of jewellery at six different shops was simply a part of the plan to transform Mr. Duke’s sixteen stones into money? As he thought over it, French thought he could dimly grasp that plan as a whole. First, the minds of Mr. Williams and of Mr. Hurst were prepared for what was coming by a previous visit. It was impossible that any suspicion could attach to that first visit, as when it was paid the robbery had not taken place. And now French saw that, but for the accident of the clerk, Orchard, visiting the office, these two gentlemen would not have known anything about the robbery when the second call was made, a distinctly clever achievement from the criminal’s point of view. However, be that as it might, Mrs. X’s bluff carried her through, and she exchanged her stones, or rather Mr. Duke’s, for Mr. Williams’s cheque. But she was evidently afraid to cash the whole of the cheque, and French saw her point, namely, that the opening of an account and the lodging of £1500 was an astute move, calculated to prevent the suspicion that might possibly be caused by the cashing of £3000 in small notes. But this safeguard left her with the necessity of devising a plan for cashing her deposit, and here, in the purchase of the jewellery, French saw the plan. Would she not sell what she had just bought? If she could do so, there was the whole £3000 changed into untraceable notes.

  Of course there would be a loss at every step of the operation. There was first of all a loss in disposing of the jewels. Mr. Stronge had valued them at £3300, and she had received only £3000 from Mr. Williams. She would lose even more heavily if she really had sold the jewellery she bought in Piccadilly and Regent Street, and she had lost a small deposit which she had left in her bank. But in spite of this, her scheme was well worth while. By it she would obtain perhaps seventy to eighty per cent. of the value of the stones, whereas if she had dealt with one of the recognised fences she would not have received more than from fifteen to twenty per cent. Moreover, her plan was safe. Up to the present she had succeeded in concealing her identity, but application to a fence would have left her either in his power to blackmail, or in that of the intermediary she employed to reach him. No, the plan was clear enough and good enough, too, and in spite of all French’s optimism there remained at the back of his mind the sinking fear that she might yet pull it off.

  But if this theory were true, it followed that if he could trace these sales he would be furnished with another jumping-off place or places from which to resume his quest of the elusive Mrs. X. His next problem therefore became, Had Mrs. X sold the trinkets, and if so, could he trace the sales?

  He went back to the six jewellers, and obtained a detailed description of the articles bought. Then he returned to the Yard, and with the help of a directory and his knowledge of the City, drew up a list of dealers who might be expected to handle such business. Half a dozen plain clothes men were then impressed into the service, with orders to call on these persons and find out if any of the articles in question had fallen into their hands.

  Inspector French had just completed these arrangements when a cable was handed to him. It was in reply to his of the previous night, and read:

  “Mrs. Chauncey S. Root, Hotel Bellegarde, Mürren, till end of month.”

  Mürren? That was in Switzerland, wasn’t it? He sent for an atlas and a Continental Bradshaw, and looked it up. Yes, it was in Switzerland; moreover, it was close to where he had already been, past that lake with the marvellous colouring—the Lake of Thun, and so to Interlaken and the far-famed Bernese Oberland, places which he had long desired to visit. It was with more than a little eagerness that he once more ran over his reasons for wanting to see Mrs. Root, and then, satisfied, went to his chief’s room. The great man listened and was convinced, and French, jubilant, went to prepare for his departure on the following evening.

  On his way to the Yard next morning, he called at the White Star offices and got a copy of the Olympic’s passenger list of the trip in question. The ship, they told him, was in New York, but would be sailing in another three days. She would therefore be due in Southampton on the following Wednesday week.

  He learned also that specimens of the handwriting of each traveller were available. Forms were filled and declarations signed both in connection with the purchase of the ticket and with the passing of the luggage through the Customs. If French was anxious to examine these, he could do so by applying to their Southampton office or to the Customs authorities in the same city.

  French decided that if his interview with Mrs. Root led to nothing, he would follow this advice, and he resolved that in this case he would go to Southampton when the Olympic was in, so as to interview the ship’s staff as well.

  When he returned to the Yard, he found that some information had already come in about the jewellery. One of his six plain clothes men had had a stroke of luck. At his very first call, Robsons’ of Oxford Street, he had found a ring which answered the description of one of the purchased articles, and which had been bought from a lady on the afternoon of the day after that on which Mrs. X had opened her bank account. He had taken the ring to Messrs. Lewes & Tottenham, who had made the sale in question, and they identified it as that sold to Mrs. X and paid for by a Mrs. Root’s cheque. Robson had paid £190 for it, while Messrs. Lewes & Tottenham had charged £225, so the lady had lost rather badly over the transaction. She had taken her money in notes of small value, the numbers of which had not been observed.

  The assistant at Robsons’ who had served Mrs. X could not recall her appearance; in fact, it was only when confronted with the records of the purchase that he remembered the matter at all. But he was sa
tisfied the client was an American lady, and he thought she was neither very old nor very young, nor in any way remarkable looking.

  Inspector French was delighted with his news. It proved to him beyond possibility of doubt that his theory was correct. The purchase of these jewels was simply part of the plan to turn the stolen diamonds into money in a form which could not be traced. Further, it showed that he had also been right in assuming the lady had not gone to France on the evening she drove to Victoria; on the following day she was still in London.

  But so far as he could see, the discovery brought him no nearer to finding the mysterious woman. The dealer’s assistant could not describe her, nor had she left any traces which could be followed up. In fact, here was another promising clue which bade fair to vanish in smoke, and as he thought over the possibility, some measure of chagrin began to dull the keenness of his delight.

  During the forenoon another of the plain clothes men struck oil, and by lunch time a third transaction had come to light. Unfortunately, both of these cases was as unproductive as the original discovery. None of the shop people could remember who had sold the trinket. French went himself to each shop, but his most persistent efforts failed to extract any further information.

  That night he left for Mürren. In due time he reached Berne, and changing trains, travelled down past Spiez, under the great conical hill of Niesen, along the shores of the Lake of Thun and into Interlaken. There he slept the night, and next morning took the narrow gauge line that led south into the heart of the giants of the Bernese Oberland. He felt overpowered by the towering chain of mountains, the Matterhorn, the Eiger, the Mönch, the Jungfrau, and as they wound their way up the narrow valley he felt as if the overwhelming masses were closing down on him from either side. Reaching Lauterbrunnen, he went up by the funiculaire to the Mürren plateau, and continued his way by the electric tramway to the famous resort. There, as he walked to the Bellegarde, he gazed fascinated across the valley at the mighty buttresses of the Jungfrau, one summit of dazzling white succeeding another, up and up and up into the clear, thin blue of the sky. It took more to bring him to earth than a fellow-traveller’s gratified suggestion that at last they would be able to get a decent drink after all that travelling through the snow. He and his new friend went to the bar of the Bellegarde and had two of Scotch, and gradually the magic of the mountains faded, and the interview with Mrs. Root began to reassume its former importance.