Inspector French’s Greatest Case · Chapter 11 (2/2)

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 anyone 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 £1,200 worth of the jewellery Mrs. X had bought, and for this she had received £1,090, making a loss on the transaction of only about nine percent.

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 £3,000, 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. Someone I’ve seen in a train or a restaurant most likely. I don’t think it’s anyone 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.