Inspector French’s Greatest Case · Chapter 10 (2/2)

But there was one thing it had led to. It settled the question of the impersonation. On no other hypothesis could the abandonment of the trunks be explained.

A point of which he had already thought recurred to him. If the unknown had impersonated Mrs. Root she either knew her or knew a great deal about her. The chances, therefore, were that Mrs. Root knew the unknown. It also seemed pretty certain that Mrs. X, as he began to call the unknown in his mind, had really crossed in the Olympic. How else would she obtain the labels and the dinner menu? Granted these two probabilities, it almost certainly followed that the real Mrs. Root and Mrs. X had met on board. If so, would it not be worth while interviewing Mrs. Root in the hope that she might by the method of elimination suggest the names of one or more persons who might have carried out the trick, and thus provide French with another point of attack.

Thinking it would be worth while to investigate the matter, he returned to the Yard and sent a cable to the Pittsburg police asking them to obtain Mrs. Root’s present address.

He glanced at his watch. It was not yet five o’clock, and he saw that he would have time to make another call before going off duty. Fifteen minutes later he pushed open the door of Dashford’s Inquiry Agency in Suffolk Street, off the Strand.

“Mr. Parker in?” he demanded of the bright young lady who came to the counter, continuing in response to her request for his name, “Inspector French from the Yard, but Mr. Parker’s an old friend and I’ll just go right in.”

The girl eyed him doubtfully as he passed through the counter, and, crossing the office, tapped at a door in the farther wall. Without waiting for a reply, he pushed the door open and passed within, shutting it behind him.

Writing at a desk in the centre of the room was an enormously stout man. He did not look up, but grunted impatiently “Well?”

“Well yourself,” French grunted, mimicking the other’s tone.

The fat man looked up, then a smile dawned on his rubicund countenance, and he got heavily to his feet and held out a huge hand. “Why, Joe, old son, I’m glad to see you. It’s a long time since you blew in. Bring the chair around to the fire and let’s hear the news.”

French did as he was told, as he answered, “All’s well, Tom? Busy?”

“Not too busy for a chat with you. How’s the Yard?”

“The Yard’s going strong; same old six and eightpence. I often think you did wisely to chuck it up and start in here. More your own boss, eh?”

The fat man shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly, handing a tobacco pouch to his visitor. “I don’t know. More your own boss, perhaps; but more worry. If you don’t get jobs here, you don’t get your pay, and no pension at the end except the interest on what you save up. I’ve thought of that pension many a time since I left.”

“Rubbish!” French exclaimed genially as he filled his pipe. “You’re too young to be talking of pensions. I was here looking for you about a week ago, but you were in Scotland.”

“Yes, I was at that Munro case. Acting for old Munro. I think he’ll pull it off.”

“I dare say.” The talk drifted on, then French turned it to the object of his call.

“I’m on a case that you people have had a finger in. I wish you’d tell me what you can about it. It’s that business of Mrs. Root of Pittsburg that Williams & Davies of Cockspur Street put you on to six weeks ago. They wanted you to find out what she was like, and if she crossed by the Olympic.”

“Huh,” said the fat man. “Well, we told ’em. I handled it myself.”

“Did they tell you why they wanted to know?”

“Nope. Only asked the question.”

“That’s where they made the mistake. A woman called on Williams, saying she was Mrs. Root and had crossed by the Olympic. She said she had lost her despatch case with her passport and tickets and money, and she wanted a loan of £3,000 on the security of diamonds she had in her trunk.”

“Well? Was it not right?”

“It was perfectly right so far. Williams was satisfied from what you told him that she was the woman, and he lent the money.”

French paused, smiling, and his friend swore.

“Confound it, man! Can’t you get on? Were the stones paste?”

“Not at all. They took them to Stronge, of Hurst & Stronge’s, and he valued them. They were perfectly all right, worth £3,300 odd, but”⁠—French paused and became very impressive⁠—“they were all stolen from Duke & Peabody the night before!”

The fat man was visibly impressed. He stared fixedly at French, as he might had that philosopher turned into Mrs. Root before his eyes. Then heavily he smote his thigh.

“Je⁠—hosaphat!” he observed slowly. “The night before! Some crook that! Tell me.”

“That’s about all there is to tell,” French declared. “The woman arrived at the Savoy about eight o’clock, the night before, ostensibly from the Olympic, and she left next night and has vanished. No clue so far. I traced her to Victoria and there lost the trail.”

The fat man thought profoundly.

“Well, if Williams & Davies want to blame us for it, they can look elsewhere,” he presently announced. “They asked us a question, and we gave them a correct and immediate reply.”

“I know that,” French agreed. “Williams asked you the wrong question. Mrs. Root was impersonated; at least, that’s my theory. But what I wanted to know from you was how you got your information. Between ourselves, are you satisfied about it?”

The fat man shook his fist good-humouredly.

“Now, young man,” he advised, “don’t you get fresh with me. But I’ll tell you,” he went on, suddenly grave. “It was through Pinkerton’s. We have an arrangement with them. I cabled their New York depot and they got the information.”

“I knew it would be all right,” French answered, “but I was curious to know how you worked.”

The two men chatted for some time, then French said he must go. Half an hour later he reached his house, and with a sigh of relief at the thought of his slippers and his armchair, let himself in.