Inspector French's Greatest Case (23 page)

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 bad 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.”

“I am sure of that, sir,” French answered as he rose to go “Then if any further developments occur about the robbery, I shall communicate with you.”

He returned to the Yard, made his report, and when he had attended to a number of routine matters, found it was time to knock off work for the day.

It was one of Inspector French's most constant grumbles that a man in his position was never off duty. He might come home after a hard day's work looking forward to a long, lazy, delightful evening with a pipe and a book, and before he had finished supper some development at headquarters might upset all his plans and drag him off forthwith to do battle with the enemies of his country's laws. Not for him was the eight-hour day, overtime at high rates, “on call” or country allowances, expenses. … His portion was to get his work done, or take the consequences in lack of promotion or even loss of such position as he held.

“And no thanks for what you carry off either,” he would complain, “though if you make a slip you hear about it before you're an hour older.” But his eye would twinkle as he said it, and most of his friends knew that Mr. Inspector French was making an exceedingly good thing out of his job, and was, moreover, destined by his superiors for even greater and more remunerative responsibilities in the early future.

But on this evening his grouse was illustrated, if not justified. Scarcely had he sat down to his meal when a ring came to the door, and he was told that Constable Caldwell wished to speak to him.

“Let him wait,” Mrs. French answered before her better half could speak. “Show him into the sitting-room, Eliza, and give him the evening paper.”

French half rose, then sank back into his seat.

“Ask him if it's urgent,” he called after the retreating girl, partly from genuine curiosity, and partly to preserve the fiction that he was master of his own movements in his own house.

“It's not so urgent as your supper. Just let him wait,” Mrs. French repeated inexorably. “What difference will a minute or two make anyway?”

Her view, it soon appeared, was upheld by the constable himself.

“He says it's not urgent,” Eliza corroborated, reappearing at the door. “He can wait till you're ready.”

“Very well. Let him wait,” French repeated, relieved that the incident had ended so satisfactorily, and for another fifteen minutes he continued steadily fortifying the inner man. Then taking out his pipe, he joined his visitor.

“'Evening, Caldwell. What's wrong now?”

Caldwell, a tall, heavy-looking man of middle age, rose clumsily to his feet and saluted.

“It's that there circular of yours, sir,” he explained. “I've found the woman.”

“The deuce you have!” French cried, pausing in the act of filling his pipe and immediately keenly interested. “Who is she?”

Caldwell drew his notebook from his pocket, and slowly turned the well-thumbed pages. His deliberation irritated his quicker-witted superior.

“Get along, Caldwell,” French grumbled. “Can't you remember that much without your blessed book?”

“Yes, sir,” the man answered. “Here it is.” He read from the book. “Her name is Mrs. Henry Vane, and she lives in a small detached house in St. John's Wood Road; Crewe Lodge is the name.”

“Good!” French said heartily. “I suppose you're sure about it?”

“I think so, sir. I showed the photograph to three different parties, and they all said it was her.”

This sounded promising, particularly as French remembered that Dowds, the ex-doorkeeper at the Comedy, had stated that Miss Winter's admirer was named Vane. He invited the constable to sit down and let him hear the details, offering him at the same time a fill of tobacco.

Constable Caldwell subsided gingerly into a chair as he took the proffered pouch.

“Thank you, sir, I don't mind if I do.” He slowly filled and lighted his pipe, ramming down the tobacco with an enormous thumb. “It was this way, sir. I had that there circular of yours with the woman's photo in my pocket when I went off duty early this afternoon. On my way home I happened to meet a friend, a young lady, and I turned and walked with her. For want of something to say, so to speak, I showed her the photo, not expecting anything to come of it, you understand. Well, the moment she looked at it, ‘I know that there woman,' she said. ‘You what?' I said. ‘You know her? Who is she then?' I said. ‘She's a woman that comes into the shop sometimes,' she said, ‘but I don't just remember her name, though I have heard it,' she said. I should say the young lady, her I was speaking to, worked in a drapery shop until a couple of weeks ago, though she's out of a job at the moment. ‘Well,' I said, ‘I'd like to know her name. Can't you remember it?' ‘No,' she said, she couldn't remember it. She'd only heard it once, and hadn't paid much attention to it.”

“Yes? French murmured encouragingly as the constable showed signs of coming to an end.

“I said that if she couldn't remember, that maybe some of the other young ladies might know it. She wasn't having any at first, for I had promised to take her to tea and on to the pictures, and she was set on going. But when she saw I was in earnest, she gave in, and went round to the shop she used to work in. After asking three or four of the girls, we found one that remembered the woman all right. ‘That's Mrs. Vane,' she said. ‘She lives up there in St. John's Wood; Crewe Lodge is the name. I've made up her parcels often enough to know.'”

“Good,” French approved once more in his hearty voice.

“I thought I had maybe better make sure about it,” went on the constable in his slow, heavy way, “so I asked Miss Swann—that was the young lady that I was with—to walk round that way with me. I found the house near the Baker Street end, a small place and very shut in. I didn't want to go up and make inquiries, so I asked Miss Swann if she'd go next door and ask, if Mrs. Vane was in. She went and asked, and they told her to go next door that was to Crewe Lodge. So when I saw it was all right, I put off going to the pictures for this evening and came straight here to tell you.”

French beamed on him.

“You've done well, Constable,” he declared. “In fact, I couldn't have done it better myself. I shall see that you don't lose by it. Take another fill of tobacco while I get ready, and then call a taxi and we'll go right out now.”

He rang up Scotland Yard, asking for certain arrangements to be made, with the result that by the time he and Constable Caldwell reached the great building, two plain clothes men were waiting for them, one of whom handed French a small handbag and a warrant for the arrest of Mrs., Vane, alias Mrs. Ward, alias Mrs. Root of Pittsburg, U.S.A. Then the four officers squeezing into the taxi, they set off for St. John's Wood Road.

Big Ben was striking half-past nine as they turned into Whitehall. The night was fine, but there was no moon, and outside the radius of the street lamps it was pitchy dark. The four man sat in silence after French had, in a few words, explained their errand to the newcomers. He and Caldwell were both in a state of suppressed excitement, French owing to the hope of an early solution of his difficulties, the constable to the possibilities of promotion which a successful issue to the expedition might involve. The other two looked upon the matter as a mere extra job of work, and showed a lamentable lack of interest in the proceedings.

They pulled up at St. John's Wood Road, and dismissing the taxi, followed Constable Caldwell to the gate of a carriage drive which there pierced the high stone wall separating the houses from the street. On the upper bar of the gate were the words, “Crewe Lodge.” To the right hand was a wicket gate, but both it and the larger one were closed. Inside the wall was a thick belt of trees through which the drive curved back, and, lit up through the interstices of the branches by the street lamps, the walls and gable of a small house showed dimly beyond. No light was visible from the windows, and, after a moment's hesitation, French opened the wicket gate and all four entered.

“Wait here among the trees, Pye and Frankland,” he whispered. “Caldwell, you come on with me.”

The drive was short, not more than forty yards long, and the complete outline of the house was speedily revealed. It seemed even smaller than the first glance had shown, but was charmingly designed, with a broken-up roof, large bow windows, and a tiny loggia into which opened a glass panelled door. To be so near the centre of a great city, it was extraordinarily secluded, the trees and wall, together with some clumps of evergreen shrubs, cutting off all view of the road and the neighbouring houses.

The front of the house was in complete darkness, and instinctively treading stealthily, the two men moved round to the side. Here also there was no light, and they pushed slowly on until they had completed the circuit and once more reached the front door.

“Looks as if the place is empty,” French whispered as he pressed the electric bell.

There was no response to his repeated rings. The house remained dark and silent. French turned again to the constable.

“Call up those other two men,” he ordered, and soon Pye was posted at the corner between the front and side, and Frankland at that diagonally opposite, with orders to keep out of sight and to allow any one who came to enter, but no one to leave the building.

Electric torch in hand, French then began a guarded survey of the doors and windows. Finally fixing on the door opening on the loggia, he made Caldwell hold the light while, first with a bunch of skeleton keys, and then with a bit of wire, he operated on the lock. For several minutes he worked, but at last with a snap the bolt shot back, and turning the handle, the two men cautiously entered the room and closed the door behind them.

They found themselves in a small, expensively-furnished sitting-room, evidently a lady's. It was fitted up in a somewhat flamboyant and pretentious manner, as if costliness rather than good taste had been the chief consideration in its furnishing. It was unoccupied, but looked as if it had been recently used, there being ashes in the grate and books lying about, one of which lay open face downwards on a chair. On an occasional table stood an afternoon tea equipage with one used cup.

French did not remain to make any closer examination, but passed on to a tiny hall, off which opened three other rooms, and from which the staircase led to the first floor. Beneath the stairs was a row of clothes-hooks on which were hanging a man's garments, a couple of hats and coats, and a waterproof.

Rapidly he glanced into the other rooms. The first was a smoking-room, a man's room, furnished with dark-coloured, leather upholstery, and walls panelled in dark oak. Next door was a dining-room, also small, but containing a quantity of valuable silver. The fourth door led to the kitchen, scullery, pantry, and yard. Here also there were evidences of recent occupation in the general untidiness, as well as in the food which these places contained.

Satisfied that no one was concealed on the ground floor, French led the way upstairs. In the largest bedroom, evidently that of the mistress of the house, there was a scene almost of confusion. Drawers and wardrobe lay open, their contents tumbled and tossed, while the floor was littered with dresses, shoes, and other dainty articles of feminine apparel. French swore beneath his breath when he saw the mess. Things were beginning to look uncommonly like as if the bird had flown. However, it was possible that some one might arrive at any minute, and he hurriedly continued his search.