Inspector French's Greatest Case (13 page)

“Did you know the girl”

“No, Miss Duke did not tell me who she was.”

“You might describe her.”

“I really could not, except that she was tall and wearing the blue waterproof and carrying an umbrella. You see, it was dark, and I only got a glimpse of her by the street lamps. She was swinging along quickly towards Oxford Street.”

“What did you do after Miss Duke drove off?”

“I went home, as I have already told you.”

And that was all Inspector French could get out of him. In spite of all his questions, the young man stuck absolutely to his story.

It was obvious to French that he must next get Miss Duke's statement, and with this in view he drove out to The Cedars. He asked Harrington to accompany him, so as to prevent his telephoning to the young lady to put her on her guard, and on reaching the house he bade him good-day with a somewhat sardonic smile.

Miss Duke was at home, and presently joined him in the breakfast-room to which he had been shown.

She was a comely maiden, slightly given to plumpness, perhaps, but pretty and kindly and wholesome looking, a sight indeed to warm a man's heart. But she looked pale and worried, and French felt that her experience, whatever it was, had hit her hard.

“I am sorry to trouble you, Miss Duke, but I am inquiring into the recent crime at your father's office, and I find I require to ask you a few questions.”

As he spoke he watched her sharply, and he was intrigued to notice a flash of apprehension leap into her clear eyes.

“Won't you sit down?” she invited, with a somewhat strained smile.

He seated himself deliberately, continuing:

“My questions, I am afraid, are personal and impertinent, but I have no option but to ask them. I will go on to them at once, without further preamble. The first is, What was it that upset you so greatly on the day after the crime?”

She looked at him in evident surprise, and, he imagined, in some relief also.

“Why, how can you ask?” she exclaimed. “Don't you think news like that was enough to upset any one? You see, I had known poor Mr. Gething all my life, and he had always been kind to me. I sincerely liked and respected him, and to learn suddenly that he had been murdered in that cold-blooded way, why, it was awful—
awful
. It certainly upset me, and I don't see how it could have done anything else.”

French nodded.

“Quite so, Miss Duke, I fully appreciate that. But I venture to suggest that there was something more in your mind than the tragic death of your old acquaintance; something of more pressing and more personal interest. Come now, Miss Duke, tell me what it was.”

The flash of apprehension returned to her eyes, and then once again the look of relief.

“You mean the loss of the diamonds,” she answered calmly. “I deplored that, of course, particularly on my father's account. But it was Mr. Gething's death that really, as you call it, upset me. The diamonds we could do without, but we could not give the poor old man back his life.”

“I did not mean the loss of the diamonds, Miss Duke. I meant something more personal than that. I'm afraid you must tell me about it.”

There was now no mistaking the girl's uneasiness, and French grew more and more hopeful that he was on the track of something vital. But she was not giving anything away.

“You must be mistaken,” she said in a lower tone. “It was the news of the murder, and that alone, which upset me.”

French shook his head.

“I would rather not take that answer from you. Please reconsider it. Can you tell me nothing else?”

“Nothing. That is all I have to say.”

“Very well. I trust it may not be necessary to reopen the matter. Now I want you to tell me why you postponed your wedding with Mr. Harrington.”

Miss Duke flushed deeply.

“I will tell you nothing of the sort, Mr. Inspector!” she declared with some show of anger. “What right have you to ask me such a question? That is a matter between Mr. Harrington and myself alone.”

“I hope you are right, Miss Duke, but I fear there is a chance that you may be mistaken. Do you absolutely decline to answer me?”

“Of course I do! No girl would answer such a question. It is an impertinence to ask it.”

“In that case,” French said grimly, “I shall not press the matter—for the present. Let me turn to another subject. I want you next to tell me why you stopped at Hatton Garden on your way home from the Curtis Street Girls' Club on the night of the crime.”

For a moment the girl seemed too much surprised to reply, then she answered with a show of indignation: “Really, Mr. French, this is too much! May I ask if you suspect me of the crime?”

“Not of committing it,” French returned gravely, “but,” he leaned forward and gazed keenly into her eyes, “I do suspect you of knowing something about it. Could you not, Miss Duke, if you chose, put me on the track of the criminal?”

“Oh, no, no, no!” the girl cried piteously, motioning with her hands as if to banish so terrible a thought from her purview. “How can you suggest such a thing? It is shameful and horrible!”

“Of course, Miss Duke, I can't make you answer me if you don't want to. But I put it to you that it is worth your while thinking twice before you attempt to keep back information. Remember that if I am not satisfied, you may be asked these same questions in court, and then you will have to answer them whether you like it or not. Now I ask you once again, Why did you leave your taxi at Hatton Garden?”

“I think it is perfectly horrible of you to make all these insinuations against me without any grounds whatever,” she answered a little tremulously. “There is no secret about why I stopped the taxi, and I have never made any mystery about it. Why it should have any importance I can't imagine.” She paused, then with a little gesture as if throwing discretion to the winds, continued: “The fact is that as we were driving home I suddenly saw a girl in the street whom I particularly wished to meet. I stopped the cab and sent Mr. Harrington after her, but he missed her.”

“Who was she?”

“I don't know; that is why I was so anxious to see her. I suppose you want the whole story?” She tossed her head and went on without waiting for him to reply. “Last summer I was coming up to town from Tonbridge, where I had been staying, and this girl and I had a carriage to ourselves. We began to talk, and became quite friendly. When they came to collect the tickets I found I had lost mine. The man wanted to take my name, but the girl insisted on lending me the money to pay my fare. I wrote down her name and address on a scrap of paper so that I could return the money to her, but when I reached home I found I had lost the paper, and I stupidly had not committed the address to memory. I could not send her the money, and I don't know what she must have thought of me. You can understand, therefore, my anxiety to meet her when I saw her from the cab.”

“But why did you pay your fare a second time? You must have known that all you had to do was to give your name and address to the ticket collector.”

“I suppose I did,” she admitted, “but I preferred to pay rather than have the trouble of explanations and probably letters to the head office.”

Inspector French was chagrined. Instinctively he doubted the story, but Miss Duke had answered his question in a reasonable way, and if she stuck to the tale, he did not see how he could break her down. After this lapse of time it would be quite impossible to obtain confirmation or otherwise of the details, especially as Miss Duke's hypothetical fellow-traveller could not be produced. He pointedly made no comment on the statement as he resumed his investigation.

“To whom did you telephone after breakfast on the morning after the murder?”

That Miss Duke was amazed at the extent of the Inspector's knowledge was evident, but she answered immediately.

“To Mr. Harrington.”

“To say what?”

“If I must repeat my private conversations to my future husband, it was to ask him to meet me at once as I had something to say to him.”

“What was the nature of the communication?”

Miss Duke flushed again.

“Really,” she exclaimed, “I protest against this. What possible connection can our private affairs have with your business?”

“It is your own fault, Miss Duke. You are not telling me the whole truth, and I am therefore suspicious. I want to find out what you are keeping back, and I may tell you that I am going to do so. What did you want to see Mr. Harrington about so urgently?”

The girl seemed terribly distressed.

“If you will have it, it was about the postponement of the wedding,” she said in a low voice. “You understand, we had been discussing the matter on the night before, when no conclusion had been come to. But on sleeping on it I had made up my mind in favour of the postponement, and I wanted to tell Mr. Harrington at once.”

“But why was it so urgent? Could you not have waited until later in the day?”

“I felt I couldn't wait. It was so important to us both.”

“And you refuse to give the reason of the postponement?”

“I do. You have no right to ask it.”

“You did meet Mr. Harrington that morning?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“At the entrance to the Finchley Road tube station.”

“Why did you not tell him to call on you instead of yourself going out?”

“In order as far as possible to prevent him from being late at the office.”

French suddenly remembered that Harrington had entered the office during his visit there on the morning after the crime, and had apologised to Mr. Duke for his late arrival. It had not struck French at the time, but now he recalled that when Mr. Duke had spoken to him of the tragedy he had stated he had heard of it already. Where? French now wondered. Was it merely from the morning paper, or
was it from Miss Duke
? Or, still more pressing question, had they both known of it on the previous night?

Suddenly a possible theory flashed into his mind, and he sat for a few moments in silence, considering it. Suppose that on the stop near Hatton Garden, Harrington had mentioned that he wanted for some purpose to call at the office, or suppose Miss Duke had asked him to do so, and that he had left her for that purpose. Next morning at breakfast she hears from her father of the murder, and is at once panic-stricken about Harrington. She sees that if he admits his visit he may be suspected of the crime, and she sends for him before he reaches the office in order to warn him. Or could it be that, knowing of this hypothetical visit, Miss Duke had herself suspected Harrington, and had sent for him at the earliest possible moment to hear his explanation? French was not satisfied with these suggestions, but he felt more than ever certain these two young people had conspired to hide vital information.

He left the house profoundly dissatisfied, and returning to Hatton Garden, had another interview with Harrington. He pressed the young man as hard as he could, taxing him directly with having been present in the office on the fatal night. This Harrington strenuously denied, and French could get nothing further out of him. He went again into the man's movements on the night of the crime, but without getting any further light thrown thereon. Harrington said he had walked to his rooms after parting from Miss Duke, but no direct evidence was forthcoming as to the truth or falsehood of his statement.

Suddenly another theory leaped into the detective's mind, but after careful thought he felt he must reject it. If Vanderkemp were guilty, the whole of these mysterious happenings would be cleared up. Harrington was under a deep debt of gratitude to his uncle, and appeared attached to him. Whether Miss Duke shared, or was endeavouring to share, his feelings, French did not know, but it was certainly possible. Suppose he and Miss Duke, driving home from the East End, had seen Vanderkemp at the end of Hatton Garden. Suppose, moreover, something in the man's appearance had attracted their attention, something furtive or evil, something unlike his usual expression. This, coupled with the fact that the traveller was supposed to be in Amsterdam, might easily have impelled Harrington to stop the cab to have a word with his uncle. But by the time he had reached the pavement, Vanderkemp had disappeared. The incident would have been dismissed by both as trivial, until next morning at breakfast, when Miss Duke learned of the murder, its significance would become apparent. She might not believe the traveller guilty, but she would recognise that the circumstances required some explanation. Immediately the paramount importance of communicating with Harrington would appear, lest he might incautiously mention that he had seen his uncle virtually on the scene of the murder. She would instantly telephone in the hope of catching her lover before he left his rooms. She could not give her message over the telephone, so she would arrange the meeting. She would instruct Harrington to return to her as soon as possible, so as to hear what had taken place at the office. He would therefore call in the afternoon, and at the interview they would decide that in the uncertainty of the situation, the wedding should be postponed. The supposed flight of Vanderkemp would confirm their suspicions, and would account for the perturbed state of mind which both exhibited.

The theory was so fascinating that next day French once more interviewed Harrington and Miss Duke and put the question directly to them, Had they seen Vanderkemp? But both denied having done so, and baffled and irritated, he wrathfully watched another promising clue petering out before him. He had the two young people shadowed, and spent a considerable time in investigating their past life, but without result.

So the days began to draw out into weeks, and the solution of the mystery seemed as far off as ever.

One morning about six weeks after the murder in Hatton Garden, Inspector French was summoned to the presence of his chief.