Inspector French's Greatest Case (6 page)

Baffled in every direction, French began to lose heart, while his superiors asked more and more insistent and unpleasant questions.

About ten o'clock on the morning of the tenth day after the murder of Charles Gething, Inspector French sat in his room at New Scotland Yard wondering for the thousandth time if there was no clue in the affair which he had overlooked, no line of research which he had omitted to follow up.

He had seldom found himself up against so baffling a problem. Though from the nature of the case, as he told himself with exasperation, a solution should be easily reached, yet he could find nothing to go on. The clues he had obtained looked promising enough, but—they led nowhere. None of the stolen notes had reached the bank, nor had any of the diamonds come on the market; no one in whom he was interested had become suddenly rich, and all his possible suspects were able more or less satisfactorily to account for their time on the fatal evening.

French had just taken up his pen to write out a statement of what he had done, in the hope of discovering some omission, when his telephone rang. Absentmindedly he took up the receiver.

“I want to speak to Inspector French,” he heard in a familiar voice. “Say that Mr. Duke of Duke & Peabody is on the 'phone.”

There was a suggestion of eagerness in the voice that instantly roused the Inspector's interest.

“Inspector French speaking,” he answered promptly, “Good-morning, Mr. Duke. I hope you have some news for me?”

“I have some news,” the distant voice returned, “but I don't know whether it bears on our quest. I have just had a letter from Schoofs, you remember, the manager of our Amsterdam branch, and from what he tells me it looks as if Vanderkemp has disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” French echoed. “How? Since when?”

“I don't know exactly. I am having the files looked up to try and settle dates. It appears that he has been absent from the Amsterdam office for several days, and Schoofs thought he was over here. But we've not seen him. I don't understand the matter. Perhaps if you're not too busy you could come round and I'll show you Schoofs' letter.”

“I'll come at once.”

Half an hour later French was mounting the stairs of the Hatton Garden office. With a face wreathed in smiles, Billy Newton ushered him into the private office. Mr. Duke seemed nervous and a trifle excited as he shook hands.

“The more I think over this affair, Inspector, the less I like it,” he began immediately. “I do hope there is nothing wrong. I will tell you all I know, but before I show you Schoofs' letter I had better explain how it came to be written.”

He looked up interrogatively, then as French nodded, continued:

“As I think I already mentioned, Vanderkemp is my travelling agent. He attends sales and auctions in all the countries of Europe. He has carried through some very large deals for me, and I have every confidence both in his business acumen and in his integrity. I told you also that amongst others he had purchased and brought to London the greater part of the missing stones.”

“You told me that, sir.”

“Of late years, when Vanderkemp is not on the road, he has been working in the Amsterdam branch. Some three or four days before poor Gething's death he had returned from a tour through southern Germany where he had been buying jewels from some of the former nobility who had fallen on evil days since the revolution. Three days ago, on last Monday to be exact, I learnt that a very famous collection of jewels was shortly to be sold in Florence, and I wrote that evening to Schoofs telling him to send Vanderkemp to Italy to inspect and value the stones with a view to my purchasing some of them. This is Schoofs' reply which I received this morning. You see what he says: ‘I note your instructions re sending Vanderkemp to Florence, but he had not yet returned here from London, where I presumed he was staying with your knowledge and by your orders. When he arrives I shall send him on at once.' What do you make of that, Inspector?”

“Vanderkemp did not come to London, then?”

“Not to my knowledge. He certainly did not come here.”

“I should like to know why Mr. Schoofs thought he had, and also the date he was supposed to start.”

“We can learn that by wiring to Schoofs.”

Inspector French remained silent for a few moments. It seemed to him now that he had neglected this Dutch office. It was at least another line of inquiry, and one which might easily bear fruitful results.

The staff there, Mr. Duke had stated, consisted of four persons, the manager, a typist, and an office boy. There was also at times this traveller, Vanderkemp, the same Vanderkemp who was uncle to Stanley Harrington. It was more than likely that these persons knew of the collection of diamonds. The manager would certainly be in Mr. Duke's confidence on the matter. Vanderkemp had actually purchased and brought to London a large number of the stones, which he had seen put into the safe, though, of course, it did not follow that he knew that they had been retained there. Besides, in the same way as in the London office, leakage of the information to outside acquaintances might easily occur. Inquiries in Amsterdam seemed to French to be indicated.

“I think I shouldn't wire,” he said at last. “There is no use in starting scares unless we're sure something is wrong. Probably the thing is capable of the most ordinary explanation. But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll slip across to Amsterdam and make a few inquiries. If anything is wrong I'll get to know.”

“Good. I'd be very pleased if you did that. I'll write Schoofs and tell him to help you in every way that he can.”

French shook his head.

“I shouldn't do that either, if you don't mind,” he declared. “I'll just go over and have a look round. There is no need to mention it to any one.”

Mr. Duke demurred, pointing out that a note from him would enlist Mr. Schoofs' help. But French maintained his ground, and the merchant agreed to carry out his wishes.

French crossed by the night service from Harwich, and at half-past eight o'clock next day emerged from the Central Station into the delightful, old world capital. Though bent on sordid enough business, he could not but feel the quaint charm of the city as he drove to the Bible Hotel in the Damrak, and again as, after breakfast, he sauntered out to reconnoitre.

Messrs. Duke & Peabody's office was close by in the Singelgracht, a semi-business street with a tree-lined canal down its centre, and crouching at one corner, a heavily-gabled church with a queer little wooden tower not unlike a monstrous candle extinguisher. French had opposed Mr. Duke's offer to write to the manager introducing him, as he did not wish any of the Amsterdam staff to be aware beforehand of his visit. He had on many occasions obtained a vital hint from the start or sudden look of apprehension which an unexpected question had produced, and he was anxious not to neglect the possibility of a similar suggestion in this case. He therefore pushed open the swing door, and without giving a name, asked for the manager.

Mr. Schoofs was a dapper little man with a pompous manner and an evident sense of his own value. He spoke excellent English, and greeted his caller politely as he motioned him to a chair. French lost no time in coming to the point.

“I have called, sir,” he began in a harsh tone, not at all in accord with his usual “Soapy Joe” character, while he transfixed the other with a cold and inimical stare, “with reference to the murder of Mr. Gething. I am Inspector French of the Criminal Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard.”

But his little plot did not come off. Mr. Schoofs merely raised his eyebrows, and with a slight shrug of his shoulders contrived to produce a subtle suggestion that he was surprised not with the matter, but with the manner, of his visitor's announcement.

“Ah yes!” he murmured easily. “A sad business truly! And I understand there is no trace of the murderer and thief? It must be disquieting to Londoners to have deeds of violence committed with such impunity in their great city.”

French, realising that he had lost the first move, changed his tone.

“It is true, sir, that we have as yet made no arrest, but we are not without hope of doing so shortly. It was to gain some further information that I came over to see you.”

“I am quite at your disposal.”

“I needn't ask you if you can give me any directly helpful news, because in that case you would have already volunteered it. But it may be that you can throw light upon some side issue, of which you may not have realised the importance.”

“Such as?”

“Such, for example, as the names of persons who were aware of the existence of the diamonds in Mr. Duke's safe. That is one of many lines.”

“Yes? And others?”

“Suppose we take that one first. Can you, as a matter of fact, tell me if the matter was known of over here?”

“I knew of it, if that is what you mean,” Mr. Schoofs answered in a slightly dry tone. “Mr. Duke told me of his proposed deal, and asked me to look out for stones for him. Mr. Vanderkemp also knew of it, as he bought a lot of the stones and took them to London. But I do not think any one else knew.”

“What about your clerk and office boy?”

Mr. Schoofs shook his head.

“It is impossible that either could have heard of it.”

French, though he had begun inauspiciously, continued the interrogation with his usual suavity. He asked several other questions, but without either learning anything of interest, or surprising Schoofs into showing embarrassment or suspicious symptoms. Then he turned to the real object of his visit.

“Now about your traveller, Mr. Schoofs. What kind of man is Mr. Vanderkemp?”

Under the genial and deferent manner which French was now exhibiting, Schoofs had thawed, and he really seemed anxious to give all the help he could. Vanderkemp, it appeared, was a considerable asset to the firm, though owing to his age—he was just over sixty—he was not able to do so much as formerly. Personally, he was not very attractive; he drank a little too much, he gambled, and there were discreditable though unsubstantiated tales of his private life. Moreover, he was of morose temper and somewhat short manners, except when actually negotiating a deal, when he could be suave and polished enough. But he had been known to perform kind actions, for instance, he had been exceedingly good to his nephew Harrington. Neither Schoofs nor any one else in the concern particularly liked him, but he had one invaluable gift, a profound knowledge of precious stones and an accuracy in valuing them which was almost uncanny. He had done well for the firm, and Mr. Duke was glad to overlook his shortcomings in order to retain his services.

“I should like to have a chat with him. Is he in at present?”

“No, he went to London nearly a fortnight ago. He has not returned yet. But I'm expecting him every day, as I have instructions from Mr. Duke to send him to Florence.”

French looked interested.

“He went to London?” he repeated. “But I can assure you he never arrived there, or at least never reached Mr. Duke's office. I have asked Mr. Duke on several occasions about his staff, and he distinctly told me that he had not seen this Mr. Vanderkemp since two or three weeks before the murder.”

“But that's most extraordinary,” Schoofs exclaimed. “He certainly left here to go to London on—what day was it?—it was the very day poor Gething was murdered. He left by the day service via Rotterdam and Queensborough. At least, he was to do so, for I only saw him on the previous evening.”

“Well, he never arrived. Was it on business he was going?”

“Yes, Mr. Duke wrote for him.”

“Mr. Duke wrote for him?” French echoed, at last genuinely surprised. “What? To cross that day?”

“To see him in the office on the following morning. I can show you the letter.” He touched a bell and gave the necessary instructions. “There it is,” he continued, handing over the paper which the clerk brought in.

It was an octavo sheet of memorandum paper with the firm's name printed on the top, and bore the following typewritten letter: —

“20th November.

“H. A. S
CHOOFS
, E
SQ
.

“I should be obliged if you would please ask Mr. Vanderkemp to come over and see me here at 10.00 a.m. on Wednesday, 26th inst., as I wish him to undertake negotiations for a fresh purchase. He may have to go to Stockholm at short notice.”

The note was signed “R. A. Duke,” with the attendant flourish with which French had grown familiar.

He sat staring at the sheet of paper, trying to fit this new discovery into the scheme of things. But it seemed to him an insoluble puzzle. Was Mr. Duke not really the innocent, kindly old gentleman he had fancied, but rather a member, if not the author, of some deep-seated conspiracy. If he had written this note, why had he not mentioned the fact when Vanderkemp was being discussed? Why had he shown surprise when he received Schoofs' letter saying that the traveller had crossed to London? What was at the bottom of the whole affair?

An idea struck him, and he examined the letter more closely.

“Are you sure this is really Mr. Duke's signature?” he asked slowly.

Mr. Schoofs looked at him curiously.

“Why, yes,” he answered. “At least, it never occurred to me to doubt it.”

“You might let me see some of his other letters.”

In a few seconds half a dozen were produced, and French began whistling below his breath as he sat comparing the signatures, using a lens which he took from his pocket. After he had examined each systematically, he laid them down on the table and sat back in his chair.

“That was stupid of me,” he announced. “I should have learnt all I wanted without asking for these other letters. That signature is forged. See here, look at it for yourself.”

He passed the lens to Schoofs, who in his turn examined the name.