MISSING
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.
Absent-mindedly 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 had 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.
Schoof’s 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
Queenborough. 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. SCHOOFS, ESQ.
“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.
“You see, the lines of that writing are not smooth; they are a mass of
tiny shakes and quivers. That means that they have not been written
quickly and boldly; they have been slowly drawn or traced over pencil.
Compare one of these other notes and you will see that while at a
distance the signatures look identical, in reality they are quite
different. No, Mr. Duke never wrote that. I am afraid Mr. Vanderkemp has
been the victim of some trick.”
Schoofs was visibly excited. He hung on the other’s words and nodded
emphatically at his conclusions. Then he swore comprehensively in Dutch.
“Good heavens, Inspector!” he cried. “You see the significance of all
that?”
French glanced at him keenly.
“In what way?” he demanded.
“Why, here we have a murder and a robbery, and then we have this,
occurring at the very same time. . . . Well, does it not look
suggestive?”
“You mean the two things are connected?”
“Well, what do you think?” Mr. Schoofs replied with some impatience.
“It certainly does look like it,” French admitted slowly. Already his
active brain was building up a theory, but he wanted to get the other’s
views. “You are suggesting, I take it, that Vanderkemp may have been
concerned in the crime?”
Schoofs shook his head decidedly.
“I am suggesting nothing of the kind,” he retorted. “That’s not my job.
The thing merely struck me as peculiar.”
“No, no,” French answered smoothly, “I have not expressed myself
clearly. Neither of us is making any accusation. We are simply
consulting together in a private, and, I hope, a friendly way, each
anxious only to find out the truth. Any suggestion may be helpful. If I
make the suggestion that Mr. Vanderkemp is the guilty man in order to
enable us to discuss the possibility, it does not follow that either of
us believes it to be true, still less that I should act on it.”
“I am aware of that, but I don’t make any such suggestion.”
“Then I do,” French declared, “simply as a basis for discussion. Let us
suppose then, purely for argument’s sake, that Mr. Vanderkemp decides to
make some of the firm’s wealth his own. He is present when the stones
are being put into the safe, and in some way when Mr. Duke’s back is
turned, he takes an impression of the key. He crosses to London, either
finds Gething in the office or is interrupted by him, murders the old
man, takes the diamonds, and clears out. What do you think of that?”
“What about the letter?”
“Well, that surely fits in? Mr. Vanderkemp must leave this office in
some way which won’t arouse your suspicion or cause you to ask questions
of the London office. What better way than by forging the letter?”
Mr. Schoofs swore for the second time. “If he has done that,” he cried
hotly, “let him hang! I’ll do everything I can, Inspector, to help you
to find out, and that not only on general grounds, but for old Gething’s
sake, for whom I had a sincere regard.”
“I thought you would feel that way, sir. Now to return to details. I
suppose you haven’t the envelope that letter came in?”
“Never saw it,” Mr. Schoofs replied. “The clerk who opened it would
destroy it.”
“Better have the clerk in, and we’ll ask the question.”
Mr. Schoofs made a sudden gesture.
“By Jove!” he cried. “It was Vanderkemp himself. He acts as head clerk
when he is here.”
“Then we don’t get any evidence there. Either the letter came through
the post, in which case he destroyed the envelope in the usual way, or
else he brought the letter to the office and slipped it in among the
others.”
French picked up the letter again. Experience had taught him that
typescript could be extremely characteristic, and he wondered if this in
question could be made to yield up any of its secrets.
It certainly had peculiarities. The lens revealed a dent in the curve of
the n, where the type had evidently struck something hard, and the tail
of the g was slightly defective.
French next examined the genuine letters, and was interested to find
their type showed the same irregularities. It was therefore certain that
the forged letter had been typed in the London office.
He sat thinking deeply, unconsciously whistling his little tune through
his closed teeth. There was another peculiarity about the forged note.
The letters were a trifle indented, showing that the typewriter keys had
been struck with rather more than the usual force. He turned the sheet
over, and he saw that so much was this the case that the stops were
punched almost through. Picking up the genuine letters, he looked for
the same peculiarity, but the touch in these cases was much lighter and
even the full stop barely showed through. This seemed to justify a
further deduction—that the writer of the forged note was unskilled,
probably an amateur, while that of the others was an expert. French felt
he could safely assume that the forged note had been typed by some
unauthorised person, using the machine in the London office.
But, so far as he could see, these deductions threw no light on the
guilt or innocence of Vanderkemp. The letter might have come from some
other person in London, or Vanderkemp might have typed it himself during
one of his visits to the metropolis. More data was wanted before a
conclusion could be reached.
Though from what he had seen of Schoofs, the Inspector thought it
unlikely that he was mixed up in what he was beginning to believe was a
far-reaching conspiracy, he did not mention his discoveries to him, but
continued trying to pump him for further information about the missing
traveller. Vanderkemp, it seemed, was a tall man, or would have been if
he held himself erect, but he had stooped shoulders and a slouching way
of walking which detracted from his height. He was inclining to
stoutness, and had dark hair and a sallow complexion. His chin was
cleanshaven, but he wore a heavy dark moustache. Glasses covered his
short-sighted eyes.
French obtained some samples of his handwriting, but no photograph of
him was available. In fact, Mr. Schoofs did not seem able to supply any
further information, nor did an interrogation of the typist and office
boy, both of whom spoke a little English, produce any better results.
“Where did Mr. Vanderkemp live?” French asked, when he thought he had
exhausted the resources of the office.
It appeared that the traveller was unmarried, and Mr. Schoofs did not
know if he had any living relatives other than Harrington. He boarded
with Mevrouw Bondix, in the Kinkerstraat, and thither the two men betook
themselves, French begging the other’s company in case he should be
needed as interpreter. Mevrouw Bondix was a garrulous little old lady
who had but little English, and upon whom Schoofs’ questions acted as a
push button does on an electric bell. She overwhelmed them with a flood
of conversation of which French could understand not one word, and from
which even the manager was hard put to it to extract the meaning. But
the gist of the matter was that Vanderkemp had left her house at
half-past eight on the night before the murder, with the expressed
intention of taking the 9.00 train for London. Since then she had
neither seen him nor heard from him.
“But,” French exclaimed, “I thought you told me he had crossed by the
daylight service on the day of the murder?”
“He said he would,” Schoofs answered with a somewhat puzzled air. “He
said so most distinctly. I remember it particularly because he pointed
out that Mr. Duke would probably ask him, after the interview, to start
by the afternoon Continental train on his new journey, and he preferred
to travel during the previous day so as to insure a good night’s sleep
in London. He said that in answer to a suggestion of mine that he would
be in time enough if he went over on the night before his interview.”
“What time do these trains get in to London?”
“I don’t know, but we can find out at the office.”
“I’d like to go to the Central Station next, if you don’t mind coming
along,” French declared, “so we could look them up there. But before I
go I want you to tell me if Mr. Vanderkemp figures in any of these?” He
pointed to a number of photographic groups which adorned the
chimneypiece and walls.
It happened that the missing traveller appeared in one of the groups,
and both Mr. Schoofs and Mevrouw Bondix bore testimony to the excellence
of the portrait.
“Then I’ll take it,” French announced, as he slipped the card into his
pocket.
The two men next went to the Central Station and looked up the trains.
They found that the day service did not reach Victoria until 10.05 p.m.
The significance of this was not lost upon French. Orchard stated he had
reached the office in Hatton Garden at 10.15, and that it could not have
been later was established by the evidence of Constable Alcorn. The body
at that time was cold, so that the crime must have taken place some
considerable time earlier. A man, therefore, who had crossed by the
daylight service from Amsterdam could not possibly have had time to
commit the murder. Had Vanderkemp lied deliberately to Schoofs when he
told him he was using that daylight service? If so, was it in order to
establish an alibi? Had he a secret appointment with Gething for an
earlier hour on the fatal evening, and had he crossed the night before
with the object of keeping it? French felt these were questions which
required satisfactory answers, and he made a mental note not to rest
until he had found them.
With his new friend’s aid he began to interrogate the staff of the
Central Station, in the hope of ascertaining whether or not the missing
man had actually left by the train in question. But of this he could
learn nothing. None of the employees appeared to know Vanderkemp’s
appearance, nor after that lapse of time could any one recall having
seen a passenger of his description.
That day and the next French spent in the charming old city, trying to
learn what he could of the missing man’s life and habits. He came across
a number of persons who were acquainted with the traveller, but no one
with whom he had been really intimate. None of these people could give
him much information, nor did any of them seem to care whether or no
Vanderkemp should ever be heard of again. From all he heard, French
concluded that Vanderkemp’s character was such as might be expected in
the guilty man, but there was but little evidence of motive, and none at
all of guilt.
He returned to London by the night service, and having ascertained that
the steamer he crossed by was the same that had run on the date of
Vanderkemp’s assumed journey, he made exhaustive inquiries as to the
latter from the staff on board, unfortunately with negative results.
Next day his efforts were equally fruitless. He spent most of it in
discussing the situation with Mr. Duke, and trying to make a list of the
persons who could have had access to the typewriter, but nowhere could
he get a gleam of light. The authorship of the letter remained as
inscrutable a mystery as the murder of Gething.
Having circulated a description of Vanderkemp containing a copy of the
photograph, French went home that night a worried and disconsolate man.
But though he did not know it, further news was even at the moment on
the way to him.