Inspector French's Greatest Case (15 page)

After a glance at his chief, the clerk answered:

“Mrs. Root handed me the cheque for £3000, and said she wished to lodge half. I filled the customary forms, took her signature, and gave her a passbook, all in the usual way. Then she told me she would like the other £1500 cashed in notes of small value. She said she was a stranger to London, but that already she had discovered the difficulty of changing Bank of England notes. Being short of ready money, she had proffered a twenty-pound note in a shop. It was refused, and on asking for change in a bank which happened to be next door, the cashier politely informed her he was not permitted to change notes for strangers. She had, indeed, to go back to her hotel before she could get it done. She said she therefore wanted nothing larger than ten pounds, and at her further request I counted her out a hundred tens and a hundred fives. She stowed them away in a despatch case she was carrying. I pointed out that that was not a very safe way to carry so large a sum, but she laughed and said she guessed it was all right, that no one would know she had money in it. She said good-day and went out, and that was the last I saw of her.”

“You noticed nothing in any way suspicious about her manner or actions?”

“Nothing whatever.”

“You say the lodgment was subsequently withdrawn? You might tell me about that.”

“It was withdrawn in the sense that cheques were issued for almost the whole amount. The lady did not herself call again, nor was the account closed. There is still a small balance.”

French nodded.

“Yes, I understood you to say so. Could you let me see the ledger, and also the cheques that were issued?”

In a few seconds the clerk returned with a ponderous tome, which he opened at the name Mrs. Helen Sadie Root. The account possessed but few items. On the debit side there was but the single entry of £1500, but on the other side, there were six entries, varying from £210 10s. to £295, and totalling £1495 7s. 9d. Six cancelled cheques corresponded with the entries. As French examined these, he was interested to see that all were made out on fashionable London jewellers.

“Can you lend me these?” he asked, pointing to the cheques.

The clerk hesitated, but Mr. Scarlett intervened.

“Certainly,” he answered readily, “but you will have to give us a receipt for our auditors.”

This was soon arranged, and after French had asked a few more questions, he and Mr. Williams left the bank.

“Now,” he said briskly, before his companion could frame a remark, “I am going round to these six jewellers, but first I want some further information from you. Shall we go back to your office?”

Mr. Williams assented eagerly. He had lost his air of detached precision, and, like a somewhat spoiled child, plied the other with questions as to his probable chances of success. French answered in his usual cheery, optimistic way, and it was not until they were once more seated in Mr. Williams's sanctum that he dropped his air of fatherly benevolence and became once more the shrewd and competent officer of Scotland Yard.

“In the first place,” he began, as he took out his notebook, “I want
your
description of the lady. I gather she was a good-looking woman, attractive both in appearance and manner. Did you find her so?”

Mr. Williams hesitated.

“Well, yes, I did,” he admitted, somewhat apologetically, as French thought. “She certainly had a way with her—something different from my usual clients. From her manner I never should have suspected she was other than all right.”

“Most women crooks are attractive looking,” French declared smoothly. “It's part of their stock in trade. Just let me have as detailed a description of her as you can.”

It seemed she was of middle height, and dark, very dark as to hair and eyelashes, but less so as to eyes. They were rather a golden shade of brown. She had a somewhat retroussé nose, and a tiny mouth set in an oval face, with a complexion of extreme, but healthy, pallor. She wore her hair low over her ears, and her smile revealed an unexpected dimple. Mr. Williams had remarked these details so thoroughly that French smiled inwardly, as he solemnly noted them in his book. The money-lender had not particularly observed what she was wearing, but this did not matter as Mr. Scarlett had, and a detailed description of her dress was already entered up.

“Tell me next, please, Mr. Williams, what identification the lady gave of herself, and what inquiries you made to test her statement. She had lost her passport?”

“Yes, I told you how, or rather I told you what she said about it. She gave me her card, and showed me the envelopes of several letters addressed to her at Pittsburg. She also showed me some photographs of groups in which she appeared which had been taken on board the
Olympic
, as well as a dinner menu dated for the third day out. She explained that her return ticket had been stolen with the passport, so that she could not let me see it.”

“Not very conclusive, I'm afraid,” French commented. “All that evidence might have been faked.”

“I quite see that, and saw it at that time,” declared the money-lender. “But I did not rest there. I applied to Dashford's, you know, the private inquiry people. I asked them to cable their agents in Pittsburg for a description of Mrs. Root, and to know if she had left for England on the
Olympic
. There is the reply,”

He took a paper from a file and handed it across. It was headed, “J. T. Dashford & Co., Private Inquiry Agents,” and read:

“D
EAR
S
IR
,

“M
RS
. C
HAUNCEY
S. R
OOT
.

“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. D
ASHFORD
& 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.

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.”