FRENCH TAKES A JOURNEY
INSPECTOR FRENCH had not quite finished supper that evening when his
telephone bell rang. He was wanted back at the Yard immediately. Some
information about the case had come in.
Cheerful and hopeful, he set off and in a few minutes was once more
seated in his office. There a note was awaiting him, which had been
delivered by hand a short time previously. He eagerly tore it open, and
read:
“City of London Banking Co.,
“Reading Branch, 11th December.
“SIR,—With reference to your inquiry re certain bank-notes, I
beg to inform you that Bank of England ten-pound notes numbers
A/V 173258 W and N/L 386427 P were paid into this Branch just
before closing time to-day. Our teller fortunately noticed the
numbers almost immediately, and he thinks, though is not
positive, they were paid in by a Colonel FitzGeorge of this
town, whose address is Oaklands, Windsor Road.
“I am sending this note by one of our clerks, who is going to
town this afternoon.
“Yours faithfully,
“HERBERT HINCKSTON,
“_Manager_.”
French received this information with a feeling of delight which
speedily changed to misgiving. At first sight what could be more
valuable to his quest than the discovery of some of the stolen notes?
And yet when he considered that these had been passed in by an army man
residing in Reading, the doubt immediately insinuated itself that here
also might be a promising clue which would lead to nothing. Obviously,
if this Colonel FitzGeorge had indeed paid in the notes, it did not at
all follow that he was the thief, or even that he had obtained them from
the thief. Before they reached the bank in Reading they might have
passed through a dozen hands.
But, be this as it might, French’s procedure was at least clear. A visit
to Colonel FitzGeorge was undoubtedly his next step.
He picked up a Bradshaw. Yes, there would be time to go that night. A
train left Paddington at 8.10 which would bring him to Reading before
9.00.
He ran down through the great building, and hailing a taxi, was driven
to the terminus. He caught the train with a minute to spare, and shortly
before nine he was in conversation with a taxi driver outside the Great
Western Station in Reading.
“Yessir,” the man assured him, “I know the ’ouse. Ten minutes drive out
along the Windsor Road.”
The night was dark, and French could not take minute stock of his
surroundings, but he presently learnt from the sounds of his car’s
wheels that Oaklands was reached from the road by an appreciable drive
coated with fine gravel, and the bulk of the house, looming large above
him as he stood before the porch, indicated an owner well endowed with
this world’s goods. The impression was confirmed when in answer to his
inquiry a venerable butler conducted him through a hall of imposing
dimensions to a luxurious sitting-room. There the man left him,
returning in a few minutes to say his master was in the library and
would see Mr. French.
Colonel FitzGeorge was a tall, white-haired man, with an erect carriage
and excessively courteous manners. He bowed as French entered, and
indicated a deep leather-lined arm-chair drawn up opposite his own
before the blazing fire of pine logs.
“A chilly evening, Inspector,” he said pleasantly. “Won’t you sit down?”
French thanked him, and after apologising for the hour of his call, went
on:
“My visit, sir, is in connection with certain bank-notes which I am
trying to trace. Some time ago there was a robbery in the City in which
a number of Bank of England notes were stolen. The owner fortunately was
able to find out their numbers from his bank. When the matter was
reported to us, we naturally asked the banks generally to keep a lookout
for them. Nothing was heard of them until to-day, but this afternoon,
just before closing time, two of them were paid into the Reading Branch
of the City of London Bank. The teller, though not certain, believed
that you had paid them in. You can see, therefore, the object of my
call. It is to ask you if you can possibly help me to trace the thief by
telling me where you received the notes. There were two, both for ten
pounds, and the numbers were A/V 173258 W and N/L 386427 P.”
Colonel FitzGeorge looked interested.
“I certainly called at the bank this afternoon and lodged some money,”
he answered. “It was mostly in the form of dividend warrants, but there
were a few notes. Now where did I get those? I should be able to tell
you off-hand, but I’m not at all sure that I can. Let me think, please.”
For some moments silence reigned in the luxuriously-furnished room.
French, always suspicious, surreptitiously watched his new acquaintance,
but he had to admit that he could discern none of the customary signs of
guilt. But he reminded himself that you never knew, and determined that
unless he was completely satisfied by the coming reply, he would make an
investigation into Colonel FitzGeorge’s movements on the night of the
murder.
“I _believe_,” said the Colonel suddenly, “I know where I got those
notes. I am not by any means certain, but I think I can tell you. Unless
I am very much mistaken, it was from the manager of the Hotel
Beau-Sejour in Chamonix.”
“Chamonix?” French repeated in surprise. This was by no means what he
had expected to hear.
“Yes. I have been for the last six weeks in Switzerland and Savoy, and
two days ago, on last Tuesday afternoon, to be exact, I left Chamonix. I
caught the night train from Geneva, was in Paris next morning, and
reached Charing Cross yesterday, Wednesday, afternoon. To-day I went
through my correspondence, and after lunch took in my dividends and some
spare cash to lodge in the bank.”
“And the two ten-pound notes, sir?”
“The two ten-pound notes, as I say, I believe I received at the Chamonix
hotel. I found I had to return home sooner than I had intended, and as I
was leaving the country I wanted to change back all but a small amount
of my foreign money. It was convenient to do it at the hotel, and
besides, you can’t always be sure of getting enough change at Calais or
on the boat. I asked the manager of the Beau-Sejour to give me English
money for my francs, and he did so at once.”
“Why do you think these particular notes were handed over by him?”
“He paid me in ten-pound notes only. He gave me five of them—I changed
fifty pounds’ worth of francs altogether. It is true that I had some
other English notes, and there were some at home here, but so far as I
can remember, there were no tens among them—only fives and Treasury
notes.”
With this, French had to be content. Though he asked many other
questions he could learn nothing further to help him. But on the pretext
that the notes might have been received at some other place, he obtained
a note of the Colonel’s itinerary while abroad. According to this, it
appeared that on the night of Charles Gething’s murder, the traveller
had slept in the Bellevue Hotel at Kandersteg, prior to walking over the
Gemmi Pass on the following day. This French noted as a point capable of
being checked, should checking become desirable.
He had kept his taxi, and after a little trouble he found the address of
the teller of the City of London Bank, and paid him a late call. But
from him he learnt nothing new, except that the man seemed much more
certain that Colonel FitzGeorge had really handed in the notes than the
letter of his manager had led French to believe. He admitted that he was
relying on memory alone, but said he had checked over his money just
before the Colonel’s visit, and he was positive the stolen notes were
not then there.
Inspector French was in a distinctly pessimistic frame of mind as he sat
in the corner of a smoking compartment of the last train from Reading to
town, and next morning as he put the facts he had learnt before his
chief, he was but slightly more sanguine. Two of the stolen notes had
been discovered; that was really all that could be stated with
certainty. That Colonel FitzGeorge had paid them into the bank was by no
means sure, still less that he really had received them from a hotel
manager in Chamonix. But even assuming the Colonel’s recollection was
accurate, it did not greatly help. It was unlikely that the manager
could state from whom he in his turn had received those particular
notes. Indeed, even were he able to do so, and by some miracle were
French able to trace the giver, in all probability the latter also would
turn out to be innocent, and the goal would be no nearer. The whole
episode seemed to French, as he expressed it to his chief, a wash-out.
But the great man took a different view. He replied in the same words
which French himself had used in another connection.
“You never know,” he declared. “You miss this chance and you’re down and
out, so far as I can see. But if you go over and see the manager you
don’t know what you mayn’t light on. If the thief stayed in that hotel,
he must have registered. You might get something from that. Mind you, I
agree that it’s a thin chance, but a thin chance is better than none.”
“Then you think, sir, I ought to go to Chamonix?”
“Yes. It won’t cost a great deal, and you may get something. Have you
ever been there?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, you’ll enjoy it. I’d give a good deal to take your place.”
“Oh, I shall enjoy it right enough, sir. But I’m not hopeful of the
result.”
The chief gave a dry but kindly smile.
“French, you’re not usually such a confounded pessimist. Get along, and
hope for the best.”
French had looked up the positions of Chamonix and Kandersteg on the
previous evening, and he had seen that by taking a comparatively slight
detour it would be possible for him to visit the latter place on his way
to the former. He decided, therefore, that he might as well set his mind
at rest on the question of Colonel FitzGeorge’s whereabouts on the night
of the murder. He did not suspect the man, but it would be better to be
sure.
But to do this, some further information was necessary. He must, if
possible, obtain a photograph of the Colonel and a sample of his
signature. It was not yet ten o’clock, and he thought it would be
possible to get these and catch the afternoon train for the Continent.
By half-past eleven he was back in Reading. There he handed a taxi man a
note which he had written during the journey, telling him to take it to
Colonel FitzGeorge’s, and to bring the answer back to him at the
station. The note, he admitted to himself, was clumsy, but it was the
best he could think of at the moment. In it he regretted troubling his
new acquaintance so soon again, but he had most stupidly lost the
memorandum he had taken of the name of the hotel in Chamonix at which
the stolen notes were obtained, and would Colonel FitzGeorge be so kind
as to let him have it again.
The note despatched, he turned to the second portion of his business.
With his usual detailed observation, he had seen on the chimneypiece of
the Colonel’s library a photograph of the gentleman himself, and noted
that it was the work of Messrs. Gale & Hardwood, of Reading. An inquiry
from the taxi driver had given him the address of the studio, and he now
set off there in the hope of obtaining a copy.
In this he was unexpectedly successful. Messrs. Gale & Hardwood had a
print in one of their showcases, which in five minutes was transferred
to the Inspector’s pocket, and he was back at the station before his
taxi man turned up with the reply to his note.
In this also his luck was in. The man had found Colonel FitzGeorge just
about to start for Reading. He handed French back his own note, across
which was written in a firm, masculine hand: “Beau-Sejour. B. L.
FitzGeorge.”
Stowing the photograph and the note away in his pocketbook, French
returned to town, and the same afternoon at 2.00 he left Victoria on his
second trip to the Continent. He had been to France and Germany on a
previous occasion, but never to Switzerland, and he was looking forward
to getting a glimpse of some of the wonderful mountain scenery of that
country.
He disembarked at Calais, passed through the customs, and took his seat
in the Lötschberg-Simplon express with true British disapproval of all
that he saw. But later the excellent dinner served while the train ran
through the pleasant country between Abbeville and Amiens brought him to
a more acquiescent mood, and over a good cigar and a cup of such coffee
as he had seldom before tasted, he complacently watched day fade into
night. About half-past six o’clock next morning he followed the example
of his countless British predecessors, and climbed down on the long
platform at Bale to drink his morning coffee. Then again on through
scenery of growing interest, past Bern to Spiez, where he found the Lake
of Thun really had the incredible colouring he had so often scoffed at,
but secretly admired, in the Swiss posters he had seen in London.
Finally, after crawling round the loops on the side of the Frütigen
valley, the train stopped at Kandesteg, and bag in hand he descended to
the platform. A porter with the name “Bellevue” on his cap caught his
eye, and a short drive brought him to the hotel.
After déjeuner he sought the manager, a suave functionary whose English
accent was a trifle suggestive of New York. No, it was not the matter of
his room. French regretted that on that occasion he could not remain
overnight in the hotel—he hoped he would soon be free to return and to
do so—but for the moment he was on business. He would take the manager
into his confidence. He was a detective . . . in short, could the
manager help him? That was the gentleman’s photograph.
“But, of course! Yes,” the manager answered promptly on glancing at the
portrait. “It is the Colonel FitzGeorge, the English gentleman from
London. He was here, let me see, two—three weeks ago. I will look up
the register.”
Further inquiries elicited the information that the Colonel had stayed
for three nights at the hotel, and had left early on the day after the
murder with the intention of walking to Leukerbad over the Gemmi Pass.
His business at Kandersteg completed, French conscientiously looked up
the next train to Chamonix. But he found he could not get through that
day, and being tired from his journey, he decided to remain where he was
until the next morning. He spent the afternoon lost in admiration of the
charming valley, and that night slept to the murmur of a mountain stream
which flowed beneath his window.
Next morning he took the southbound train, and having passed through the
nine miles of the Loetschberg tunnel, he gazed with veritable awe into
the dreary waste of the Loetschenthal and the great gulf of the Rhone
Valley, marvelling as the train raced along the side of the stupendous
cliff. He changed at Brigue, passed down the Rhone Valley, and changing
again at Martigny, spent another four hours on what a fellow-traveller
with a nasal drawl described as “the most elegant ride he’d struck,”
through Vallorcine and Argentiere to Chamonix. On crossing the divide,
the panorama which suddenly burst on his view of the vast mass of the
Mont Blanc massif hanging in the sky above the valley, literally took
away his breath, and he swore that his next holidays would certainly be
spent in the overwhelming scenery of these tremendous mountains.
At Chamonix history tended to repeat itself. He reached his hotel, dined
excellently, and then sought the manager. M. Marcel, like his _confrère_
in Kandersteg, was courtesy personified, and listened carefully to
French’s statement. But when he realised the nature of the problem he
was called upon to solve, he could but shake his head and shrug his
shoulders.
“Alas, monsieur,” he wailed, “but with the best will in the world, how
can I? I change so many English notes. . . . I recall giving those
ten-pound notes to a gentleman from England, because it is comparatively
seldom that I am asked to change French money into English, but I am
constantly receiving English notes. No, I am sorry, but I could not tell
you where those came from.”
Though French had scarcely hoped for any other reply, he was
nevertheless disappointed. He showed Colonel FitzGeorge’s photograph to
the manager, who instantly recognised it as that of the Englishman for
whom he had exchanged the notes. But he could give no further help.
This clue having petered out, French determined to call for the register
and make a search therein in the hope of recognising the handwriting of
some entry. But before he did so he asked about Vanderkemp. Had any one
of that name been a recent visitor?
The manager could not recall the name, but he had a thorough search made
of the records. This also drew blank. French then handed him the
photograph of Vanderkemp which he had obtained in Amsterdam, asking if
he had even seen the original.
With that the luck turned. M. Marcel beamed. “But yes, monsieur,” he
exclaimed, with a succession of nods, “your friend was here for several
days. He left about a fortnight ago. M. Harrison from one of your great
Midland towns, is it not? He told me which, but I have forgotten.”
“That’s the man,” cried French heartily, delighted beyond words at this
new development. “I have been following him round. Might I see his entry
in the register?”
Again the records were brought into requisition, and as he looked French
felt wholly triumphant. On comparing the “J. Harrison, Huddersfield,
England,” to which the manger pointed, with the samples of Vanderkemp’s
handwriting which he had obtained from Mr. Schoofs, he saw that
unquestionably they were written by the same hand. So Vanderkemp was his
man! After this there could be no further doubt of his guilt.
For a moment he remained silent, considering what this discovery meant.
It was now evident that Vanderkemp, under the alias Harrison, had
arrived at the Beau-Sejour Hotel about midday on the second day after
the crime, and after staying a week, had departed for an unknown
destination. But the matter did not end there. With a sudden, theatrical
gesture the manager indicated that he had more to say.
“You have recalled something to my mind, monsieur,” he announced. “That
M. Harrison asked me to change notes for him. In fact, I remember the
whole thing clearly. His bill came to between four and five hundred
francs, and he paid with an English ten-pound note. With the exchange as
it is at present, he should have had about 300 francs change. But I now
remember he asked me at the same time to change a second ten-pound note.
I did so, and gave him about 1000 francs. So it is possible, I do not
say certain, but it is possible. . . .” He shrugged his shoulders and
threw out his hands, as if to indicate that Fate and not he was
responsible for the possibility, and looked inquiringly at his visitor.
Inspector French was exultant. This news seemed to him to complete his
case. When in Amsterdam he had found cause to suspect Vanderkemp of the
crime, and now here was corroborative evidence of the most convincing
character. Rapidly he ran over in his mind the salient points of the
case against the traveller.
Vanderkemp possessed all the special knowledge necessary to commit the
crime. He knew of the collection of diamonds, and was familiar with the
London office and the characters and habits of the workers there. As he
was by no means well-off, this knowledge would have constituted a very
real temptation. So much on general grounds.
Then as to details. A forged letter calling the man to London, or some
similar device, would be a necessary feature of the case. But this
letter existed; moreover Vanderkemp had access to the machine on which
it had been typed. While telling Mr. Schoofs that he was crossing by a
certain train, which arrived in town after the murder had been
committed, he had in reality gone by an earlier service, which would
have brought him there in time to carry out the crime. Such evidence,
though circumstantial, was pretty strong. But when was added to it the
facts that Vanderkemp had disappeared without explanation from his firm,
had arrived in Chamonix on the second day after the murder, had
registered under a false name and address, and most important of all,
had paid out two of the notes stolen from Mr. Duke’s safe, the case
became overwhelming. It was impossible not to believe in his guilt; in
fact, seldom had the Inspector known so clear a case. When he had found
and arrested Vanderkemp his work would be done.
But just in the flush of victory, his luck again turned. The man had
left the Beau-Sejour a week previously, and the manager had no idea what
direction he had taken. In vain French asked questions and made
suggestions, hoping to say something which might recall the information
to the other’s mind. But the manager readily gave his help in
interviewing the whole of the staff who had in any way come in contact
with the wanted man. And here, thanks again to his persistent
thoroughness, he obtained just the hint that was needed.
He had worked through the whole staff without result, and he was about
to give up, when it occurred to him that none of those to whom he had
spoken had admitted having brought down Vanderkemp’s luggage from his
room on the day of his departure. French then asked directly who had
done this, and further inquiries revealed the fact that in the absence
of the usual man, an under porter, usually employed about the kitchen,
had been called upon. This man stated he had noticed the label on
Vanderkemp’s suitcase. It was to a hotel in Barcelona. He could not
recall the name of the hotel, but he was sure of the city.
When French had thanked the manager, distributed backsheesh among the
staff, and with the help of the head porter worked out his journey from
Chamonix to Barcelona, he felt his work in Savoy was done. He went
exultantly to bed, and next morning left by an early train on his way to
Spain.