Inspector French, having cabled to the New York police asking for information as to the actress’s early history, made his way to 17 Stanford Street, which he found was a better-class boarding house. But here he could learn nothing. The former proprietor was dead, and none of the present staff had been connected with the place for thirteen years, or had ever heard of Miss Winter.
Disappointed once more, he returned to the Yard and put through his earlier scheme. He arranged to have the lady’s photograph inserted in the next number of the Police Bulletin, together with the best description of her that he could write, and a note that she was wanted. It was not a promising clue, but it was all he had left.
CHAPTER XIV
TRAGEDY
Some days later Inspector French was once again sent for by his chief. The great man seemed in an irritable frame of mind, and he began to speak before the other had well entered the room.
“See here, French,” he greeted him; “here’s a fresh development in that confounded Gething case. Read that.”
French stepped up to the desk and took the postal telegraph sheets his superior held out. They bore a message from the Chief of Police at the Hook, which had been sent out at 8.27 that morning.
“Captain of the S.S. Parkeston reports that tall, clean shaven, white-haired man, apparently named Duke, committed suicide during passage from Harwich last night. Overcoat and suitcase found in cabin with letter addressed Miss Duke, The Cedars, Hampstead. Am sending letter with detailed statement.”
French was considerably surprised by the news. Though he had never felt actually cordial towards the old gentleman, he had respected him for his kindly conduct towards his subordinates and for the sportsmanlike way in which he had taken his loss. But it was evident the man had been hit harder than he had shown. French recalled the details of their last interview, the merchant’s drawn, anxious face, his weary air, his almost despairing words, “I’m getting to the end of my tether. I see ruin staring me in the face.” At the time, French had not taken the complaint as seriously as it had now proved to warrant. Mr. Duke was evidently in difficulties which nothing less than the return of the stolen diamonds would solve, and French did not see how he could have done more to achieve that end than he already had.
“Unexpected, that, isn’t it?” the chief remarked, “though I don’t suppose it will really affect the case.”
“No, sir, I don’t think it will,” French returned, answering the last part of the sentence first. “But I don’t know that it’s so unexpected after all. Leastwise it is and it isn’t. I mean, I’m surprised that a man of Mr. Duke’s character should take that way of escaping from his difficulties, but I knew he was in difficulties.”
The chief raised his eyebrows.
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“The truth is, sir, that I didn’t take what the old gentleman said seriously enough. I met him last week in Piccadilly, and he appeared anxious to hear my news and asked me to have a cup of coffee with him. He was pretty down in the mouth then, saying he was getting short of cash, and near the end of his tether, and so on. He was looking pretty old, too, old and worn.”
The chief grunted.
“As I say, I don’t suppose it will make any difference,” he declared. “But there’s that girl to consider. I think you’d better go along and see her. After all, she should have some warning before she sees it in the paper.”
“That’s so, sir. Then I shall go now.”
It was a job he hated, but there was no help for it, and having ’phoned to Miss Duke that he was going out on urgent business, he set off.
That his message had alarmed her was obvious. She met him with pale cheeks and anxious eyes, and once again the thought occurred to him that she knew something that she was holding back, and had feared her secret was the subject of his call.
But his news, when haltingly and with some awkwardness he had succeeded in conveying it, took her utterly by surprise. It was evidently quite different to what she had expected to hear, and the poor girl was terribly overcome. She gave a low cry, and sat gazing at him with eyes dilated with horror. The shock seemed utterly to have benumbed her, and yet French could not help thinking that her emotion contained also an element of relief. He was profoundly sorry for her, but his suspicion remained.
Presently she began to speak. Her voice was dull and toneless as she explained that she had known her father was lately terribly worried and unhappy, and that though he had made light of it, he had told her enough to show that financial trouble was at the root of his distress. He had said to her on one occasion that if only fee insurance people would pay, things would be easier, but he had spoken cheerily, and she had had no idea things were so serious.
“When shall we get details?” she asked presently. “Should I go over to the Hook?”
“I fear there would be little use in that,” French answered, “and it would certainly be painful for you. Of course, I don’t wish to dissuade you; if you think it would be an ease to your mind you should go. But in any case would it not be better to wait until you read your letter? Besides, the report from the Dutch police may show that a visit is unnecessary.”
She thought for some seconds, then agreed. French explained that the documents might be expected by the first post on the following morning, and promised to take them out to Hampstead immediately.
“In the meantime, Miss Duke,” he went on, with real kindness in his tone, “it’s not my business, of course, but would you not be better to have some one in the house with you—some lady friend, an aunt, a cousin? Or Mr. Harrington? I mean, is there anything that I can do to take a message or send a wire?”
Her eyes filled with tears as she thanked him and asked him to telephone to the office for Harrington. It appeared that she had no near relations. She was an only child, and her father was now dead, and French knew that for many years her poor mother had been worse than dead, dragging out a colourless existence in a mental hospital at Otterham.
When he had put through his call, French took his leave. There was nothing more to be done until the details of the tragedy were received.
As he sat in the Tube on his way back to the Yard, he was conscious of some misgivings as to the way in which he had handled the interview. He had done his best to make it easy for Miss Duke. This was, of course, the natural and the kindly thing to do, but was it his duty? Should he not rather have used the news as a lever to startle some admission out of the girl which would have given him the information which he suspected she possessed. If he had allowed a promising clue to slip he had neglected his duty and injured himself. And his chief was no fool. He would unfailingly see the possibility and ask what use had been made of it.
But though French felt thus a trifle uneasy, he could not bring himself to regret his course of action. He was not only a man of natural kindliness of heart, but he had the gift of imagination. He saw himself in the girl’s place, and was glad he had not added to her trouble.
Next morning the report came from Holland, together with Miss Duke’s letter. The former was a long document giving very complete details of the tragedy. The essential portions of it read:
“4th January.
“At 7.21 to-day a telephone message was received from the Harwich boat wharf office at the Hook that a passenger had disappeared during the crossing under circumstances which pointed to suicide. Inspector Van Bien was sent down to make inquiries, and he obtained the following information:
“Some little time before the boat berthed, the stewards, according to custom, went round the staterooms to arouse the passengers. There was no reply from stateroom N, a single-berth cabin on the port side, and when John Wilson, the steward in question, had knocked a second time, he looked in. The cabin was empty, but bore evidence of having been occupied. The bed had been lain on, though not slept in, a large suitcase was on the floor, and various articles of a man’s toilet were scattered about. The steward, thinking the traveller, whom he remembered to be a whi
te-haired old man, was perhaps on deck, passed on. About half an hour later he looked in again, to find things in the same condition. He was engaged until after the boat berthed, but when the passengers were going ashore he went back to the stateroom, and again found everything as before. Becoming anxious, he reported the matter to the chief steward. The latter accompanied Wilson to cabin N, and they made a search. They found a half-sheet of paper and an envelope propped behind the tumbler in the little wooden shelf above the washhand basin. The former bore the words:
“‘Financial embarrassments having made my life impossible, I am going to make an end of it to-night. I shall simply drop off the ship, and my death will be quick and easy. Please oblige by posting my letter.
“‘R. A. DUKE.”
“The letter was addressed to ‘Miss Duke, The Cedars, Hampstead, London.’ Both note and letter are enclosed herewith.
“The tickets on this route are dealt with as follows: There is no check on passengers leaving the wharf, as this would entail too long a delay at the gangway. On coming on board, passengers apply at the chief steward’s office, have their tickets either collected or punched, and get their berth numbers and a landing ticket. The landing tickets are collected as the travellers go ashore, and this constitutes the check that all have paid for their passage. On the occasion in question, 187 landing tickets were given out, and only 186 were collected, showing that one of the passengers who came aboard at Harwich did not go ashore at the Hook.
“A search of the ship revealed no trace of the missing man, nor had any one seen him passing through the corridors or on the deck during the night. The chief steward recalled his application for his berth, which had been reserved in advance, and remembered having noticed that the old man was absent-minded, and seemed to be suffering from acute repressed excitement.
“The suitcase was found to contain articles of toilet and clothing suitable for an absence of three or four days, but nothing to throw any further light on the tragedy. We are sending it to you for transmission to Miss Duke, to whom presumably it belongs.”
When Inspector French had read the report he turned his attention to the letter. The envelope was square and of good quality paper, and the address was in Mr. Duke’s handwriting. French sat turning it over. He wondered. … He would rather not, but on second thoughts he believed he ought. … There might be something that would give him a hint. …
He took a Gillette razor blade from his drawer, and inserting it beneath the gummed flap, worked it this way and that. In a moment the envelope was open, and he drew out a letter and cautiously unfolded it. It also was written by Mr. Duke, and read:
“MY DEAREST SYLVIA,—When you receive this you will have heard what I am about to do. My dear, I will not try to justify myself; I suppose I should be brave and fight to the end. But I just couldn’t bear the ruin and disgrace which face me. Even before the robbery things were not going too well. As you know, the war hit businesses like mine worse than most. Now, even if the insurance company paid, I shouldn’t get clear; I should still be many thousands in debt. Sylvia, don’t think too hardly of me, but I couldn’t face it. Loss of position, friends, home, everything—and at my time of life. I just couldn’t.
“But chiefly I couldn’t bear dragging you down with me. You will be free from that now. Your mother’s jointure cannot be touched; it is hers—and yours. You will see that all expenses for her are paid, and the remainder will be yours. Of course the house must go; but you will have enough to live on. You will marry; I trust soon. Remember that it is my last wish and my last charge to you that you marry the man of your choice as soon as may be convenient. Though we have not always seen eye to eye, you have been a good daughter to me.
“Dear Sylvia, try not to take this too much to heart. I face the future, if there is one, without misgivings. Though the way I take may be the coward’s way, it is the easiest and the best way for us all.
“Good-bye, my dearest girl, and if there be a God, may He bless you.
“Your devoted father,
“R. A. DUKE.”
Inspector French had a slight feeling of shame as he refolded this unhappy epistle and, working deftly and mechanically, regummed the flap of the envelope and stuck it down. He was disappointed to find that the letter contained no helpful information, and with a sigh he set out to bear his news to Hampstead.
Miss Duke and Harrington were anxiously awaiting him, and he handed the former both the report and the letter, saying he would wait if she cared to read them in another room. She remained calm and collected, but the pallor of her face and dark rings beneath her eyes indicated the tension under which she was labouring. She withdrew with a word of apology, Harrington accompanying her, and French sat thinking, wondering if a direct question, unexpectedly sprung upon them, might surprise one or other into some unguarded admission which would give him a hint of the secret which he believed they held.
But when they returned some half-hour later, Miss Duke momentarily disarmed him by holding out her letter.
“You had better read that,” she said. “You may want to see it and there is nothing private in it.”
French was momentarily tempted to confess his action with the safety razor, but he saw that he must not divulge police methods, and taking the letter, he reread it and handed it back with a word of thanks.
“Did your father say he was going to Holland?” he inquired.
“Yes, it was one of his usual trips to the Amsterdam office. He expected to be away for two or three days. But I now think he had made up his mind—about—this—before he left. He said good-bye——”
She paused, her lip trembling, then suddenly flinging herself down on the sofa, burst into an uncontrollable flood of tears. “Oh!” she cried brokenly, “if only it hadn’t taken place at sea! I can’t bear to think of him—out there——” She sobbed as if her heart would break.
French saw that she had settled the matter of his procedure. In her present condition he could not probe her with subtle questions. There was nothing for it but to take his departure, and this he did as unobtrusively as he could, leaving her in Harrington’s charge.
He wondered who would take Mr. Duke’s place in the firm, with whom he would have to deal if his efforts to trace the missing diamonds became successful, and determined to call at the office and make some inquiries. He therefore took the tube to the City, and some half-hour later was mounting the steps of the Hatton Garden establishment.
Mr. Schoofs had already taken charge, and saw his visitor in his late principal’s office. The business, he believed, would belong to Miss Duke, though he had no actual reason to say so. However, Messrs. Tinsley & Sharpe of Lincoln’s Inn were the deceased gentleman’s solicitors, and no doubt fuller information could be obtained from them.
“I came over last night, and am just carrying on in the meantime,” he explained, “and you can deal either with me or with Mr. Tinsley.”
“Thanks,” French answered. “Then I shall deal with you.”
“We’re really closed for business to-day, you understand,” went on Mr. Schoofs. “I’m merely taking the opportunity to go through Mr. Duke’s papers and see how things stand. If only Harrington had had his partnership, it would be his job, but as it is, everything devolves on me.”
French, having replied suitably, made a move to go, but he lingered and went on:
“Unexpected, the old man going off like that, wasn’t it? I shouldn’t have thought he was that kind at all.”
Mr. Schoofs made a gesture of commiseration.
“Nor was he,” he agreed, “but it’s not so surprising after all. You possibly didn’t see him during the last week or two, but I can tell you he was in a bad way; very depressed, and getting worse every day. I don’t think he was well—I mean in health, and I think it reacted on his mind. He was worrying over the loss of his money.”
“Was he really bankrupt?”
Mr. Schoofs had not the figures, but he very gravely feared it. It was a ba
d lookout for his daughter. Indeed, it was a bad lookout for them all. It was hard lines on elderly men when they had to give up their jobs and start life again. It was that damned war, responsible for this as well as most of the troubles of the times. It had probably made a difference to the Inspector also?
“Lost my eldest,” said French gruffly, and turned the conversation back to the late principal. He was, it seemed, going to Amsterdam on routine business. He had no stones with him, and there was therefore nothing to suggest that his disappearance could have been due to other than suicide.
French had not really doubted the conclusions of the Dutch police, but the death by violence of a man bearing a packet of great value is always suspicious, and he was glad to be sure such had not obtained in this instance.
His next visit was to Messrs. Tinsley & Sharpe, the Lincoln’s Inn solicitors. Mr. Tinsley was the sole surviving partner, and to him French was presently admitted.
It appeared that Mr. Duke had left everything to Sylvia, “Though, poor girl,” Mr. Tinsley added, “by all accounts that won’t be much.” Mr. Tinsley was executor, therefore any further dealings French might have about the robbery would be with him. Mr. Duke and he had been old friends, in fact, he had been Mr. Duke’s best man, he didn’t like to think how many years previously. He had been shocked by the change in the old gentleman when three days prior to his death he had called to see him. He seemed ill and depressed, and had said, “I’m not feeling well, Tinsley. It’s my heart, I’m afraid, and this confounded worry about money matters,” and had gone on to obtain the solicitor’s promise to look after Sylvia “if anything happened.”
“In the light of what has since taken place,” Mr. Tinsley concluded, “I am afraid he had made up his mind then that suicide was the easiest way out, though I was terribly surprised and shocked when I heard of it.”
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