Inspector French’s Greatest Case · Chapter 12 (1/2)

XII

The Elusive Mrs. X

Inspector French put up at a small hotel near the town station, and next morning was early at the White Star offices. There he learned that the Olympic was even at that moment coming in, and he went down to the quays and watched the berthing of the monster vessel. It was an impressive experience to see her creep up to her place, manoeuvre into position, and make fast. Then from her gangways began to stream the travellers who, for the better part of a week, had journeyed aboard her. Some were hurrying, already intent on business or anxious to catch trains, others leisurely awaiting taxis and motorcars, some smilingly greeting friends or waving farewells to voyage acquaintances, all drifting gradually away, their places taken by others⁠—and still others.⁠ ⁠… French began to think the exodus would never cease, but at last the crowd diminished, and he pushed his way on board and began a search for the purser. Urgent work in connection with the arrival prevented that busy official from attending to him at once, but he sent a steward to show French to his cabin, and presently joined him there.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting, Inspector,” he apologised. “You want some information about our home trip in late November?”

“Yes,” French answered, and he explained his business and produced Mrs. Root’s marked photographs, concluding, “I want to find out the names and addresses of these eight women, and as much information as possible about them.”

“I’m afraid I could scarcely give you that,” the purser answered. “The records of each trip go ashore at the end of the trip, and I have only those of this present run. But some of the staff might remember the names of the ladies, and if so, you could get their addresses at the office ashore.”

“That would do excellently. I have a copy of the passenger list here, if it would be of any use.”

“Yes, it would be a reminder. Let me see now if I can help you myself, and if not, I think I can put you in the way of getting to know.” He began to scrutinise the photographs.

“That’s Mrs. Root,” French indicated, moving round and looking over the other’s shoulder. “She gave me the names of five, but I should like to check her recollection. The other three she couldn’t remember.”

The purser nodded as he turned the pictures over. “That’s a Mrs. Forbes,” he pointed, “and I rather think that is a Miss Grayson or Graves or some name like that. I remember most of these other faces, but not the people’s names.”

“Mrs. Forbes and Miss Grayson are correct according to Mrs. Root.”

The purser laid down the photographs with the air of quiet decision which seemed characteristic.

“I’m afraid that’s my limit.” He touched a bell. “Ask Mrs. Hope to come here,” he ordered, continuing to French, “Mrs. Hope is the chief stewardess. You can go round with her, and I expect she’ll get you what you want all right.”

Mrs. Hope was an efficient-looking woman, who quickly grasped what was required of her. She asked French to accompany her to her sanctum, and there looked over the photographs. She was herself able to identify six of the portraits, and on calling on some of her underlings, the names of the remaining two were speedily forthcoming.

French was glad to find that Mrs. Root’s recollection of the names of her fellow travellers had been correct as far as it had gone, and as he left the great vessel he devoutly hoped that she might have been correct also in her belief that Mrs. X was among the eight women she had indicated. If so, he was well on his way to identify that elusive lady.

He returned to the White Star office and explained that he wanted to know the Christian names, addresses, and other available particulars of the eight women whose names were marked on the passenger list which he handed in, as well as to see a specimen of the handwriting of each.

He realised that the only conclusive test was the handwriting. If one of the eight women wrote the hand of the Mrs. X cheques, he had reached his goal. If not, he determined to go through the declarations of every woman who had crossed on the trip in question in the hope of finding what he sought.

The clerk who had been instructed to attend to him brought out a mass of papers. “I wonder,” he said apologetically, “if you would mind looking through these yourself? It is our busy day, and I’ve an awful lot to get through. You see, it’s quite simple. These are the embarkation declarations for the trip, and you can turn up anyone you want quite easily. They are arranged in alphabetical order in the different classes. They’ll give you what you want to know straight off.”

“Right you are,” French declared, delighted thus to get a free hand. “Don’t you bother about me. I’ll peg away, and come and ask you if I get into trouble.”

He “pegged away,” looking up the declaration of each of the eight women, noting the name, address, nationality, and other particulars, and then comparing the handwriting with the signatures on the Mrs. X cheques.

He was not a handwriting expert, but he knew enough about the science to recognise the characteristics which remain unchanged when the writing is disguised. He was, therefore, very patient and thorough in his search, never passing a signature because it looked unlike the model at first sight, but testing each by the rules he had learned, and satisfying himself that it really had been written by a different hand.

He went on without incident until he reached the eighth name on his list. But when he turned to the declaration of Mrs. Ward, the lady whom Mrs. Root had thought the most likely of the lot, he gave a sudden little chuckle of delight. There was the hand of the cheques, the same hand unquestionably, and written without any attempt at disguise! There it was! Mrs. Elizabeth Ward, aged 39, British subject, etc., etc., of Oaklands, Thirsk Road, York. He had reached his goal!

But immediately he was assailed by misgivings, Mrs. Root had thought of Mrs. Ward, but had ruled her out because of her nationality. Mrs. Ward, she had said, was English, while all the people who had seen Mrs. X, seventeen or eighteen persons at least, had agreed she was an American. He would have assumed that Mrs. Root had made a mistake, but for the fact that the declaration said English also. French was puzzled, and he decided that he would go back to the ship and ascertain the views of the staff on the point.

But they all supported Mrs. Root. Mrs. Ward was English; undoubtedly and unquestionably English. The stewards and the stewardesses had some experience on the point, and they guessed they knew. Also he came across the doctor, who, it appeared, had spoken on several occasions to Mrs. Ward, and he was equally positive.

It chanced that as he was leaving the ship he encountered the woman to whom Mrs. Root had advised him to apply, the striking-looking stewardess with dark eyes and white hair, and he stopped and spoke to her.

Unfortunately, she could not tell him very much. She remembered Mrs. Ward, both by name and appearance, though she had not attended to her. But it chanced, nevertheless, that her attention had been specially directed to her because of a certain incident which had taken place towards the end of the voyage. Passing down the corridor while lunch was being served, she had seen the door of one of the cabins in her own charge, open slightly, and a lady appear and glance quickly round, as if to see if she was unobserved. The cabin was occupied by a Mrs. Root, an American, but the lady was this Mrs. Ward. Something stealthy and furtive in her appearance had excited the stewardess’s suspicion, and she had drawn back into another cabin to await developments. Mrs. Ward, evidently satisfied that she was unnoticed, had turned to the dining saloon, and taken her place. The stewardess had kept her eye on her, and after the meal she had seen her go up to Mrs. Root and speak to her, as if reporting the result of her mission. This action had lulled the stewardess’s suspicion, but she had returned to Mrs. Root’s cabin and had had a look round to see if anything had been disturbed. So far as she could see, nothing had, nor had Mrs. Root made any complaint about her things having been interfered with.

If further confirmation of his suspicions were needed, French felt that this episode supplied it. Doubtless Mrs. Ward was amassing information as to the other’s clothes and belongings to assist her in her impersonation. Perhaps also she was photographing envelopes or other documents of which to prepare forgeries in case of need.

There still remained the difficulty of her nationality. Obviously it is easy to mimic the accent and manner of a foreigner, but French found it hard to believe that such mimicry could be so perfect as to deceive a large number of persons, many of whom were experts on that particular point. This, however, was only a small part of the general problem, and did not affect his next business, to find Mrs. Elizabeth Ward, Thirsk Road, York.

He went ashore, and, turning into a telegraph office, sent a wire to the chief of police at York, asking him if a lady of that name lived at the address in question and, if so, to wire was she at home.

His next business was at police headquarters, and thither he was directing his steps when a thought struck him, and he turned aside to the sheds in which the transatlantic luggage is examined. Several of the customs officers were still there, and he went up and spoke to one of them.

“Now,” the young fellow answered in surprise, “it’s a darned queer thing that you came to me about that. Quite a coincidence, that is. I know the man who went through those trunks. He told me about it at the time. It seemed a darned silly thing that anyone should want to bring trunks of blankets from America. If you come along I’ll find him for you. And so the lady’s wanted, is she? Say, Jack!” he called a colleague, another clean, efficient young fellow of the same type, “here’s someone wants you. He wants to know about those trunks of blankets you were telling me about two or three trips of the Olympic back. A darned queer coincidence that he should come to me about them. That’s what I call it!”

“Yes, you’ve made a lucky shot, haven’t you?” the second man said to French. “I remember the trunks and the lady they belonged to, because I couldn’t understand why anyone should want to bring trunks of blankets across the Atlantic. I’ve never known anyone do it before.”

“You didn’t make any remark about them,” French asked.

“No, but she did. She said she reckoned I hadn’t often seen trunks of blankets brought over from America. You see, I was a bit suspicious at first, and was examining the things pretty carefully. I said that was so, and she said she was taking back a small but valuable collection of porcelain ornaments, which she would pack in the blankets, and that when she had to bring the trunks anyway, she thought she might as well bring the packing as well and so save buying new. I thought the whole business a bit off, but there was nothing dutiable in the case, and it wasn’t my job to interfere. Is there anything wrong about it?”

“I don’t know,” French told him. “I think the woman was a crook, but I’m not on to the blanket stunt yet. By the way, is she in one of those groups?”

The young man identified Mrs. Ward without hesitation, and French, finding he had learned all that the customs men could tell him, resumed his way to the police station.

He wondered what this blanket business really did mean. Then as he walked slowly along with head bent forward and eyes vacantly scanning the pavement, a possible explanation occurred to him. These trunks, apparently, were required solely as properties to assist in the fraud. Mrs. Root, the wife of a Pittsburg magnate, would scarcely arrive at the Savoy from America without American trunks. But when Mrs. Root came to disappear, the trunks would become an embarrassment. They would have to be got rid of, and, as a matter of fact, they were got rid of. They must therefore contain nothing of the lady’s, no personal possession which might act as a clue to its owner. But they must contain something. Empty trunks would be too light, and might be observed by the chambermaid, and comments might be occasioned among the hotel staff which might reach the management, and which would become important if Mr. Williams rang up to make his inquiries. But blankets would exactly fill the bill; indeed, French could think of nothing more suitable for the purpose. They would give the trunks a moderate weight, they would not supply a clue to Mrs. Ward, and they would be cheap, while their presence could be accounted for sufficiently reasonably to the customs officers. Yes, French thought, it was a probable enough explanation.

Arrived at the police station, he sent in his name with a request to see the officer in charge.

Superintendent Hayes had been stationed in London before he got his present appointment, and had come across French on more than one occasion. He therefore greeted the Inspector cordially, found him a comfortable chair, and supplied him with an excellent cigar.

“From Trinidad,” he explained. “I get them direct from a man I know out there. And what’s the best news of you?”

They discussed old times for some minutes, then French turned to the business in hand.

“It’s an interesting case,” he said as he gave the other the details, continuing, “The woman must be a pretty cool hand. She could easily invent that tale about losing her passport, for old Williams’s edification, but under the circumstances her coming to you about it was a bit class.”

“She had a nerve, yes,” the Superintendent admitted. “But, you see, it was necessary. She must have known that the absence of the passport would strike Williams as suspicious, and it was necessary for her to remove that suspicion. She couldn’t very well get a bag of that kind stolen without informing the police, so she had to inform them. She would see how easily Williams could check her statement, as indeed he did. No, I don’t see how she could have avoided coming to us. It was an obvious precaution.”

“I quite agree with all you say,” French returned, “but it argues a cool customer for all that; not only, so to speak, putting her head into the lion’s mouth, but at the same time calling his attention to its being there. Anyway, I’ve got to find her, and I wish you’d let me have details about her. I’ve got some from the Olympic people, but I want to pick up everything I can.”

The Superintendent telephoned to someone to “send up Sergeant McAfee,” and when a tall, cadaverous man entered, he introduced him as the man who had dealt with the business in question.

“Sergeant McAfee has just been transferred to us from Liverpool,” he explained. “Sit down, McAfee. Inspector French wants to know some details about that woman who lost her handbag coming off the Olympic some seven weeks ago. I think you handled the thing. Do you remember a Mrs. Root of Pittsburg?”

“I mind her rightly, sir,” the man answered in what French believed was a Belfast accent. “But it wasn’t coming off the Olympic she lost it. It was later on that same day, though it was on the quays right enough.”

“Tell us all you can about it.”

The Sergeant pulled out his notebook. “I have it in me other book,” he announced. “If ye’ll excuse me, I’ll get it.”

In a moment he returned, sat down, and turning over the dog’s-eared pages of a well-worn book, began as if reciting evidence in court: