Inspector French's Greatest Case (18 page)

An examination of the register revealed the name, Mrs. Chauncey S. Root, Pittsburg, U.S.A., same as at the Savoy, but here it was written in quite a different hand. The real Mrs. Root this time, French thought, as he turned away from the office.

He decided to wait until after lunch before tackling the lady, but he got the head waiter to point her out as she entered the restaurant. She undoubtedly answered the description given by the American detectives as well as by Mr. Williams, but on looking at her he recognised more than ever the vague and unsatisfactory nature of that description. It was one that would apply to hundreds of women.

In the lounge after lunch he spoke to her. He apologised for intruding, explained who he was, and begged that she would give him an interview, and, if possible, some information.

“Why certainly,” she agreed. “We'll go right to my sitting-room,” and French told himself that from nowhere on earth save the United States of America could that voice have come.

“You are Mrs. Chauncey S. Root?” he began, when they were settled in the private room of the best suite the hotel contained. “I should be glad if, before we begin to talk, you would be good enough to let me see your passport. I shall explain why later.”

“I guess you'd better tell me first,” she returned, leaning back in her arm-chair and lighting a cigarette.

French smiled.

“As you will, madam. The fact is that two ladies each calling herself Mrs. Chauncey S. Root, of Pittsburg, U.S.A., crossed by the
Olympic
to Southampton. I have been sent from Scotland Yard to find out which is the real one.”

The lady looked incredulous.

“Say, now, what started you on to that yarn? I crossed by the
Olympic
, but there was no one else of that name aboard.”

“Nevertheless a Mrs. Chauncey S. Root, who had just crossed by the
Olympic
, turned up at the Savoy Hotel on the day the ship reached Liverpool, and put through a fraud on a man in London to the tune of £3000. I know, madam, it was not you, but I have to get some proof of it that will convince my superiors.”

With little ejaculations of interest and astonishment the lady arose, and unlocking a despatch case, took from it a book.

“You can have that passport right now,” she declared. “You have interested me quite a lot. Start right in and tell me the story.”

French examined the document, and as he did so his last doubt vanished. The lady before him was Mrs. Root. Mrs. X remained—Mrs. X.

Asking her to keep the story to herself, he told her in considerable detail all that he knew of Mr. Williams's mysterious visitor, continuing:

“Now, Mrs. Root, you will see where I want your help. Some one has impersonated you, some one who more than probably crossed with you from New York. I want you to think whom it might have been. Here's a copy of the passenger list. Please take your time, and go over the people you met on the trip. Eliminate those you are sure of, and put a mark opposite the others. You follow what I mean?”

“I follow you all right, but it isn't as easy as you seem to think. I couldn't remember all the people I came across between New York and London.”

“I suppose not. But, after all, the thing isn't so big as that. Only a very few of the women would fill the bill. First, she must be roughly of your height and your figure—not very like, of course, but approximately. You need not mind her colouring, for she could make that up—except her eyes; her eyes are a light golden brown. Can you remember any one with eyes like that?”

The lady shook her head, and French went on:

“Then she must be a clever woman; clever and courageous and determined, and something of an actress also. She must be all those things to have carried such a deal off successfully.”

French paused to allow his words to sink in, then continued once more:

“And she knows quite a lot about you. Not only has she observed your appearance, but she would obviously try to find out all she could about you, so that she might answer questions she might be asked. Do none of these points bring any one to your mind? Please, Mrs. Root, try to help me. If you cannot give me some ideas I may as well confess I don't know where to turn next.”

“Well, I'll do what I can, but I don't see any light so far.” She crossed the room and once more hunted through the despatch case. “Here are some pictures I took with my Kodak. Maybe they'll suggest some one.”

There were two dozen or more photographs of groups of passengers, taken on board the liner. Mrs. Root began with systematic precision to go through them. As she pointed to each individual she repeated to the Inspector what she knew about her.

“Mrs. Jelfs—guess she wouldn't do—too fat. Miss—Miss——I just don't recall that young woman's name. But she's too tall anyway; half a head taller'n me. Next is Haidee Squance, daughter of Old Man Squance of Consolidated Oil. I've known her since I've known anything. Then this one is—say now, who is this one? I've got it; a little girl called Dinsmore: Irish, I think. She's no good either—eyes of the lightest blue I ever saw. Next is Mrs. Purce,” and so on for five-and-twenty minutes by the electric clock on the mantelpiece.

French was highly delighted with the efficient way in which his hostess had tackled the job, but when all was said and done the result was disappointingly small. Eight persons in the photographs had been marked as possibles, of whom Mrs. Root remembered the names of five. Of these five, one, a Mrs. Ward, whom Mrs. Root had met for the first time on board, seemed the most likely for several reasons. She was about Mrs. Root's height, though stouter, had, Mrs. Root believed, light brown eyes, and had been friendly, and, Mrs. Root now remembered, just a trifle inquisitive. But she was ruled out by her nationality. That she really was English, as she claimed, Mrs. Root had no doubt whatever. French showed her the cheques, but she could not recall ever having seen the handwriting in which they were filled out.

But she did give him one hint that he felt might prove valuable. She said that the stewardess who had looked after her cabin was a peculiarly intelligent and observant woman. Mrs. Root had been surprised on different occasions by the intimate knowledge of herself and her fellow-travellers which this stewardess exhibited. She did not exactly accuse her of spying, but she thought she would be more likely to answer French's inquiries than any one else he could find. She did not remember the woman's name, but she was rather striking looking, with dark eyes, a young face, and perfectly white hair, and he would have no difficulty in identifying her.

Mrs. Root was extremely interested in the whole affair, and begged the Inspector to keep her posted as to developments. This he promised to do, as he took his leave.

He had now more reason than ever for visiting Southampton when the
Olympic
was next in, and he set out on the following morning on his return journey, reaching London on the Tuesday afternoon.

At the Yard he found that three more of the transactions of the mysterious lady had come to light, but unfortunately in each case without supplying any clue which might lead to her identification. These discoveries accounted for some £1200 worth of the jewellery Mrs. X had bought, and for this she had received £1090, making a loss on the transaction of only about nine per cent.

He took an early opportunity of visiting Mr. Williams, to ask him if he could identify his mysterious caller in Mrs. Root's group. But the moneylender was not illuminative. He did not reply for some time, turning the cards over as if uncertain, but finally he pointed to Mrs. Ward's figure.

“That's like the lady,” he said doubtfully, “but I confess I am not sure of her. If it is she, it is an uncommonly bad photograph.” He continued staring at the picture. “You know,” he went on slowly, “I've seen that woman before; that woman that you say is Mrs. Ward. I've certainly seen her somewhere. It's a curious thing, but I had the same impression when my visitor called here with the diamonds; I thought vaguely that I had seen her before. But I wasn't so sure as I am about this Mrs. Ward. Somewhere, at some time, I've seen her. I wish to heaven I could remember where.”

“I wish to heaven you could,” French agreed in somewhat aggrieved tones. “It would make things a lot easier for me.”

“If I can't remember to help find my £3000, it's not likely I shall be able to do it to ease your job,” the other declared dryly. “I can't place her. I've thought and thought, and it's no good. Some one I've seen in a train or a restaurant most likely. I don't think it's any one I've ever met.”

French next called at the Piccadilly branch of the London and Counties Bank, and saw Mr. Scarlett and the clerk, Plenteous. Both these gentlemen hesitatingly selected Mrs. Ward's photograph as being like that of their mysterious client, though neither believed it was she. As in the case of Mr. Williams, the manager thought the lady's features were familiar, though he was sure he had never met her before. With this, French had to be content.

He spent his afternoon in driving round the shops and agents with whom the elusive Mrs. X had dealt. Of the eleven assistants who had served her, seven thought she was like Mrs. Ward, and four could not recall her appearance.

All this testimony was very unsatisfactory to French, but he thought the balance of probability was in favour of Mrs. Ward being the woman he sought, and more hopeful than he had been for some time, he travelled down to Southampton on the Wednesday evening, so as to be there for the arrival of the
Olympic
on the following day.

Inspector French put up at a small hotel near the town station, and next morning was early at the White Star offices. There he learned that the
Olympic
was even at that moment coming in, and he went down to the quays and watched the berthing of the monster vessel. It was an impressive experience to see her creep up to her place, manœuvre into position, and make fast. Then from her gangways began to stream the travellers who, for the better part of a week, had journeyed aboard her. Some were hurrying, already intent on business or anxious to catch trains, others leisurely awaiting taxis and motor-cars, some smilingly greeting friends or waving farewells to voyage acquaintances, all drifting gradually away, their places taken by others—and still others. … French began to think the exodus would never cease, but at last the crowd diminished, and he pushed his way on board and began a search for the purser. Urgent work in connection with the arrival prevented that busy official from attending to him at once, but he sent a steward to show French to his cabin, and presently joined him there.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting, Inspector,” he apologised. “You want some information about our home trip in late November?”

“Yes,” French answered, and he explained his business and produced Mrs. Root's marked photographs, concluding: “I want to find out the names and addresses of these eight women, and as much information as possible about them.”

“I'm afraid I could scarcely give you that,” the purser answered. “The records of each trip go ashore at the end of the trip, and I have only those of this present run. But some of the staff might remember the names of the ladies, and if so, you could get their addresses at the office ashore.”

“That would do excellently. I have a copy of the passenger list here, if it would be of any use.”

“Yes, it would be a reminder. Let me see now if I can help you myself, and if not, I think I can put you in the way of getting to know.” He began to scrutinise the photographs.

“That's Mrs. Root,” French indicated, moving round and looking over the other's shoulder. “She gave me the names of five, but I should like to check her recollection. The other three she couldn't remember.”

The purser nodded as he turned the pictures over. “That's a Mrs. Forbes,” he pointed, “and I rather think that is a Miss Grayson or Graves or some name like that. I remember most of these other faces, but not the people's names.”

“Mrs. Forbes and Miss Grayson are correct according to Mrs. Root.”

The purser laid down the photographs with the air of quiet decision which seemed characteristic.

“I'm afraid that's my limit.” He touched a bell. “Ask Mrs. Hope to come here,” he ordered, continuing to French, “Mrs. Hope is the chief stewardess. You can go round with her, and I expect she'll get you what you want all right.”

Mrs. Hope was an efficient-looking woman, who quickly grasped what was required of her. She asked French to accompany her to her sanctum, and there looked over the photographs. She was herself able to identify six of the portraits, and on calling on some of her underlings, the names of the remaining two were speedily forthcoming.

French was glad to find that Mrs. Root's recollection of the names of her fellow-travellers had been correct as far as it had gone, and as he left the great vessel he devoutly hoped that she might have been correct also in her belief that Mrs. X was among the eight women she had indicated. If so, he was well on his way to identify that elusive lady.

He returned to the White Star office and explained that he wanted to know the Christian names, addresses, and other available particulars of the eight women whose names were marked on the passenger list which he handed in, as well as to see a specimen of the handwriting of each.

He realised that the only conclusive test was the handwriting. If one of the eight women wrote the hand of the Mrs. X cheques, he had reached the goal. If not, he determined to go through the declarations of every woman who had crossed on the trip in question in the hope of finding what he sought.

The clerk who had been instructed to attend to him brought out a mass of papers. “I wonder,” he said apologetically, “if you would mind looking through these yourself? It is our busy day, and I've an awful lot to get through. You see, it's quite simple. These are the embarkation declarations for the trip, and you can turn up any one you want quite easily. They are arranged in alphabetical order in the different classes. They'll give you what you want to know straight off.”