Inspector French's Greatest Case (20 page)

But this was just what Sergeant McAfee could not supply. The woman had given two addresses, the Savoy in London and Mrs. Root's home in Pittsburg. There was no help in either, and no other information was forthcoming.

He lunched with his friend the Superintendent, afterwards withdrawing to the lounge of his hotel to have a quiet smoke and to think things over.

While he sat there, a page appeared with a telegram. It was a reply from the police at York and read:

 

“Your wire. No one of that name or address known.”

 

French swore disgustedly. He had, of course, realised that the name might be false, but yet he had hoped against hope that he might really have reached the end of at least this portion of his quest. But here he was, as far from the truth as ever! He would now have to make a fresh start to trace this elusive lady—he used another adjective in his mind—and he couldn't see that he was any better equipped for the search now than when he had started out from Mr. Williams's office. It was a confoundedly exasperating case—just bristling with promising clues which one after another petered out as he came to follow them up. Being on it was like trying to cross a stream on stepping-stones which invariably gave way when he came to place his weight on them. It was an annoying thought also that that would scarcely be the view his chief would take of the matter. The chief had not been over-complimentary already in his comments on his handling of the case, and French felt that he would view this new check in anything but a sympathetic spirit.

However, grousing about it wouldn't lead anywhere, and with an effort he switched his thoughts back to his problem. As he thought it over a further point occurred to him.

Since his first visit to the Savoy he had wondered why the lady had turned up there so much later than the other passengers from the
Olympic
, and now he saw the reason. The episode of the handbag had taken place some four hours after the vessel's arrival, long after the special boat train had left. Mrs. X—for she was still Mrs. X—must therefore have travelled up by an afternoon train, probably the 5.26 or 6.22 p.m. from the West Station, which got in at 6.58 and 8.20 respectively. Now, why this delay? What had she done during these four hours?

The answer was not far to seek. Was it not to give her time and opportunity to assume her disguise? He felt it must be so.

The lady was her natural self—other than in name—on board the
Olympic
, and having no opportunity to alter her appearance, she had passed through the customs in the same character. Hence the ship's staff and the customs officer had instantly recognised her photograph. But it was obvious that her impersonation of Mrs. Root must begin before she interviewed the Southampton police, and that accounted for the hesitation of Sergeant McAfee and the people in London in identifying her. She had therefore made herself up between passing through the customs at, say, eleven o'clock, and calling on the Sergeant at three. Where was she during those four hours?

Gone to a hotel, unquestionably. Taken a room in which to assume the disguise. Had Mrs. X engaged a bedroom in one of the Southampton hotels for that afternoon?

As he thought over the thing, further probabilities occurred to him. The lady would go up to her bedroom as one person and come down as another. Therefore, surely, the larger the hotel, the less chance of the transformation being observed. One of a crowd, she would go to the reception office and engage a room for a few hours' rest, and pay for it then and there. Then, having accomplished the make-up, she would slip out, unobserved in the stream of passers-by. Yes, French felt sure he was on the right track, and, with a fresh accession of energy, he jumped to his feet, knocked out his pipe, and left the building.

He called first at the South Western and made his inquiries. But here he drew blank. At the Dolphin he had no better luck, but at the Polygon he found what he wanted. After examining the records, the reception clerk there was able to recall the transaction. About midday an American lady had come in, and saying she wanted a few hours' rest before catching the 5.26 to London, had engaged a bedroom on a quiet floor until that hour. She had registered, and French, on looking up the book, was delighted to find once more the handwriting of the lady of the cheques. It was true that on this occasion she figured as Mrs. Silas R. Clamm, of Hill Drive, Boston, Mass.; but knowing what he knew of her habits, French would have been surprised to have found a name he had seen before.

At first he was delighted at so striking a confirmation of his theory, but as he pursued his inquiries his satisfaction vanished, and once more depression and exasperation swept over him. For the reception clerk could not remember anything more than the mere fact of the letting of the room, and no one else in the building remembered the woman at all. With his usual pertinacity, he questioned all who might have come in contact with her, but from none of them did he receive the slightest help. That Mrs. X had made herself up at the hotel for her impersonation stunt was clear, but unfortunately it was equally clear that she had vanished from the building without leaving any trace.

The worst of the whole business was that he didn't see what more he could do. The special clues upon which he had been building had failed him, and he felt there was now nothing for it but to fall back on the general one of the photographs. One of the portraits was excellently clear as to details, and he decided he would have an enlargement made of Mrs. X, and circulate it among the police in the hope that some member at some time might recognise the lady. Not a very hopeful method certainly, but all he had left.

He took an evening train from the West Station, and a couple of hours afterwards reached his home, a thoroughly tired and disgruntled man.

By the time Inspector French had finished supper and lit up a pipe of the special mixture he affected, he felt in considerably better form. He determined that instead of going early to bed, as he had intended, while in the train, he would try to induce the long-suffering Mrs. French to listen to a statement of his problem, in the hope that light thereon would be vouchsafed to her, in which in due course he would participate.

Accordingly, when she had finished with the supper things he begged her to come and share his difficulties, and when she had taken her place in her accustomed arm-chair and had commenced her placid knitting, he took up the tale of his woes.

Slowly and in the fullest detail he told her all he had done from the time he was sent to Messrs. Williams & Davies, when he first heard of the mysterious Mrs. X, up to his series of visits of that day, concluding by expressing his belief that Mrs. X and Mrs. Ward were one and the same person, and explaining the difficulty he found himself up against in tracing her. She heard him without comment, and when he had finished asked what he proposed to do next.

“Why, that's just it,” he exclaimed a trifle impatiently. “That's the whole thing. If I was clear about that there would be no difficulty. What would you advise?”

She shook her head, and bending forward seemed to concentrate her whole attention on her knitting. This, French knew, did not indicate lack of interest in his story. It was just her way. He therefore waited more or less hopefully, and when after a few minutes she began to question him, his hopes were strengthened.

“You say that Mrs. Root and those steamer people thought the woman was English?”

“That's so.”

“There were quite a lot of them thought she was English?”

“Why, yes,” French agreed. “There was Mrs. Root and the doctor and the purser and her dinner steward and at least four stewardesses. They were all quite satisfied. And the other passengers and attendants must have been satisfied too, or the thing would have been talked about. But I don't see exactly what you're getting at.”

Mrs. French was not to be turned aside from her catechism.

“Well, do
you
think she was English?” she persisted.

French hesitated. Did he? He really was not sure. The evidence seemed strong, and yet it was just as strong, or stronger, for her being an American. Mr. Williams, for example, was——

“You don't know,” Mrs. French broke in. “Well, now, see here. Mr. Williams said she was American?”

“That's it,” her husband rejoined. “He said——”

“And that bank manager and his clerk, they thought she was American?”

“Yes, but——”

“And the shops she bought and sold the jewellery at, and the Savoy, and the Southampton police, they all thought she was American?”

“Yes, but we don't——”

“Well, that ought surely to give you something.”

“That they were sisters? I thought of that, but the handwriting shows that they weren't.”

“Of course I don't mean sisters. Think again.”

French sat up sharply.

“What do you mean, Emily? I don't follow what you're after.”

His wife ignored the interruption.

“And there's another thing you might have thought of,” she continued. “That Williams man thought he had seen the woman before. What age is he?”

French was becoming utterly puzzled.

“What age?” he repeated helplessly. “I don't know. About sixty, I should think.”

“Just so,” said his wife. “And that other man, that Scarlett, he thought he had seen her before. What age is he?”

The Inspector moved nervously.

“Really, Emily,” he protested, “I wish you'd explain what you're getting at. I don't take your meaning in the least.”

“You would if you'd use your head,” his wife snapped. “What age is that Scarlett?”

“About the same as the other—fifty-five or sixty. But what has that got to do——”

“But the young fellow, that bank clerk; he didn't remember her?”

“No, but——”

“Well, there you are—silly! What would a woman be who could make up like another woman, and put on an English or American talk, and be remembered by old Londoners? Why, a child could guess that, Watson!”

When Mrs. French called her husband by the name of the companion of the great Holmes, it signified two things, first, that she was in what he always referred to as “a good twist,” and secondly, that she felt pleasantly superior, having seen something—or thinking she had—which he had missed. He was therefore always delighted when a conversation reached this stage, believing that something helpful was about to materialise.

But on this occasion he grasped her meaning as soon as she had spoken. Of course! How in all the earthly world had he missed the point? The woman was an actress; a former London actress! That would explain the whole thing. And if so, he would soon find her. Actors' club secretaries and attendants, theatrical agents, stage doorkeepers, the editors of society papers—scores of people would have known her, and he would have an easy task to learn her name and her history.

He jumped up and kissed his wife. “By Jove, Emily! You're a fair wonder,” he cried warmly, and she, still placidly knitting, unsuccessfully attempted to hide the affection and admiration she felt for him by a trite remark about the folly of an old fool.

Next morning, French, with a new and thoroughly satisfactory programme before him, sallied forth at quite the top of his form. He had made a list of theatrical agencies at which he intended first to apply, after which, if luck had up to then eluded him, he would go round the theatres and have a word with the stage door keepers, finally applying to the older actor-managers and producers and any one else from whom he thought he might gain information.

But his quest turned out to be even simpler than he had dared to hope. The superior young ladies of the first three agencies at which he called shook their pretty heads over the photograph and could throw no light on his problem. But at the fourth, the girl made a suggestion at which French leaped.

“No,” she said, “I don't know any one like that, but if she's left the stage some time I wouldn't; I've only been here about two years. And I don't know any one who could help you; this place has not been open very long. But I'll tell you,” she went on, brightening up. “Mr. Rohmer is inside. If any one in London would know, he should. If you catch him coming out you could ask him.”

Mr. Horace Rohmer! The prince of producers! French knew his name well, though he had never met him. He thanked the girl and sat down to wait.

Presently she called to him, “He's just going,” and French, stepping forward, saw a short, stout, rather Jewish looking gentleman moving to the stairs. He hastened after him, and, introducing himself, produced his photograph and asked his question.

The famous producer glanced at the card and smiled.

“Oh, Lor' yes,” he announced, “I know her. But these people wouldn't.” He indicated the agency and its personnel with a backward nod. “She was before their time. Why, that's the great Cissie Winter; at least, she had the makings of being great at one time. She was first lady in Panton's company a dozen years ago or more. I remember her in
Oh,
Johnny!, The Duchess, The Office Girl
, and that lot—good enough plays in their day, but out of date now. I hope she's not in trouble?”

“It's a matter of stolen diamonds,” French answered, “but I'm not suggesting she is guilty. We want some explanations, that's all.”

“I should be sorry to hear there was anything wrong,” Mr. Rohmer declared. “I thought a lot of her at one time, though she did go off and make a muck of things.”

“How was that, sir?”

“Some man. Went off to live with some man, a married man, and well on to being elderly. At least, that was the story at the time. I'm not straightlaced, and I shouldn't have minded that if she had only kept up her stage work. But she didn't. She just dropped out of sight. And she might have risen to anything. A promising young woman lost. Sickening, I call it.”