SOME PAIRS OF BLANKETS
DURING Inspector French’s brief lunch hour he continued turning over in
his mind the immediate problem which Mr. Williams’s story had raised for
him, namely, at what point he had best attack his new inquiry.
The facts postulated a good deal of obvious detailed investigation, and
he felt he should carry this through in his usual systematic way before
attempting to evolve a comprehensive theory of the crime. He had first
to learn what he could of the mysterious Mrs. Root, and in this
connection he foresaw inquiries at Pittsburg, from the White Star
people, from the Southampton police at the Savoy, and at the various
firms of jewellers to whom the cheques had been made out. He had, if
possible, to find the lady, or her impersonator. These things
accomplished, he could turn his attention to an attempt to connect the
person found with Miss Duke, or at all events with Mr. Duke’s jewels,
and subsequently with the murder of Charles Gething.
By the time his meal was ended he had decided that he would commence
operations at the Savoy, and ten minutes later he turned into the
courtyard, and making his way to the office, inquired for the manager.
In due course he explained his business to the great man, but the latter
shook his head when he heard what was required of him, and asked French
for suggestions as to how he could help.
“First I should like to see the register,” French explained.
“That, at least, is easily done.”
The manager led the way to the office and introduced French to the
radiant young woman who presided at the reception counter. Then turning
over the pages of the register, he presently exclaimed, “That looks like
it, Inspector, I fancy.”
The entry read: “Nov. 24. Mrs. Chauncey S. Root, Pittsburg, U. S. A.
137.”
French drew out the cheques he had obtained from Mr. Scarlett and
carefully compared the signatures. “That’s it,” he declared. “There’s
not a doubt those are in the same handwriting. Now the question is, Can
this young lady remember the woman?”
The clerk hesitated.
“We had a lot of Americans in that day,” she said slowly, as she ran her
eyes down the list of names. “It is not easy to keep track of them all.
And this is six weeks ago.” She paused again, then shook her head. “I’m
afraid I can’t just place her.”
“It was the day the _Olympic_ got to Southampton,” French prompted.
“There would no doubt have been a number of people off the steamer
special.” He glanced once more at the book. “See, here is a crowd of
Americans all together. New York, Boston, New York, New York,
Philadelphia, and so on. That represents the special. But——” He paused
and ran his finger down the column. “Now, this is really rather
interesting. Mrs. Root’s name is not among them. Here it is, down near
the end of the list. That means that she came in late in the evening,
doesn’t it? Does that help you at all, Miss Pearson?” He waited, but the
girl not replying, he continued, “Or the room? Does No. 137 bring
anything to your mind?”
The girl shook her pretty head.
“Turn up the account, Miss Pearson,” the manager suggested.
The girl produced another huge book, and all three went through the
items. Mrs. Root, it appeared, had paid for the rooms—No. 137 was a
suite consisting of one bedroom, bathroom and sitting-room—for the
three nights, the 24th, 25th, and 26th of November. She had had seven
meals in the hotel, dinner on the night of arrival, and breakfast,
lunch, and dinner on the next two days. All these meals she had had
served in her private room.
“Avoiding publicity,” French thought, continuing aloud, “Then she didn’t
breakfast on the morning she left?”
At his remark Miss Pearson gave an exclamation.
“I remember her now,” she cried. “It was your saying that brought her to
my mind. No, she didn’t breakfast the morning you mean because she left
on the previous night. I remember the whole circumstances now. She came
in on the night”—she glanced at the register—“of the 24th—pretty
late—it was between seven and eight, I should think—and asked for a
suite for three or four weeks. She was dark-haired and pale complexion
and very American in her speech. I fixed her up with No. 137, and she
said she wanted dinner sent up to her room. Two evenings later, shortly
before eight o’clock, she came back to the office and said she had had
an urgent wire from Paris, and that she had to go over that night. She
hoped to be back in about a week, but she would not keep the rooms on,
as she was not certain of her plans. I made out the bill, and what
brings the thing back to my mind is that I had to charge her for that
night in accordance with our rule. She didn’t seem to mind, the way some
people do in such a case. She left then, and I never saw her since.”
This being all the pretty clerk could tell him, French asked next to see
the chambermaid who had attended No. 137 on the night in question.
From this woman he at first learned nothing. For a quarter of an hour he
prompted fruitlessly, then, just as in the case of the clerk, a chance
word brought a ray of light. Asked if she could remember having seen
luggage with _Olympic_ labels and the name Mrs. Root, she suddenly
admitted that she could. Her attention had been attracted by the name
Root, as she had been reading in the papers of a distinguished American
of the same name, and she had wondered if the owner of the luggage was
any connection. She remembered the luggage distinctly. There were two
big, new-looking American trunks, labelled on steamer labels, Mrs.
Something Root. Yes, she thought it was Chauncey. Something like that
anyway, some queer, foreign name that only an American would bear. But
though she remembered the luggage, the chambermaid could not recall
anything about the lady herself.
After fruitlessly interrogating several other of the hotel servants,
French retreated into a deserted corner of the lounge and set himself to
think the thing out. And presently it occurred to him that the trunks
might represent a clue. Did their removal not involve a taxi, and if so,
could he find it?
He went back to the head porter to make inquiries. Vehicles were usually
obtained from the rank in the street adjoining. Of course it frequently
happened that a driver looking for a fare would pass at the critical
moment and be employed, but seven out of ten were obtained from the
rank.
French left the hotel, and, sauntering down to the cab rank, engaged the
driver of the leading car in conversation. All the taxis on the rank,
the man stated, were the property of one firm, Metropolitan Transport,
Ltd. The men returned the runs they had made on their daily journals,
and French could, if he chose to apply to the office in Victoria Street,
learn all there was to be known about it.
French did choose, and a quarter of an hour later was in conversation
with the manager. But that gentleman was dubious that he could supply
the desired information. It was true they kept a pretty complete record
of the runs made and these had to balance with the readings of the
meters and with the money handed in, but obviously no note was made of
the names or descriptions of the fares. He could find out if a car had
gone from the Savoy to Victoria about 7.45 p.m. on the night of the 26th
November, but he could not say who might have travelled in it.
“If you could let me have a note of the cars which left the hotel
between 7.40 and 8.10, irrespective of their destinations, I should be
obliged,” French declared. “I could see all the drivers, and possibly
some one of them might remember the woman.”
“I can give you that,” the manager assented, “but it will take a little
time to get out.” He rang for a clerk and gave the necessary
instruction, then leaned back in his chair and went on conversationally,
“What’s the trouble? Is it indiscreet to ask?”
French smiled benevolently.
“Certainly not,” he assured the other. “I’ll tell you the whole thing.
We believe that the lady I’m after is a crook—a diamond thief. She gave
out that she was the wife of a wealthy American steel magnate, but we
believe she’s no more that than you are. She left the hotel that night
with two trunks and some small luggage, to go to Paris by the 8.20 from
Victoria, and has vanished. I’m trying now to trace her.”
The manager seemed interested.
“Well,” he said, “that’s a useful hint you have given just now. Our
drivers record the luggage, that is, outside luggage for which there is
a charge. It’ll narrow the thing down a bit if we’ve only to count
vehicles with two packages outside.”
“That’s a point,” French admitted, “and a good one. But I only know that
there were two large trunks besides hand luggage. There might have been
more than two packages outside.”
“It’s not likely. If there was only one lady she would have taken the
hand stuff in with her. Ah, here’s the list.”
From the tabulated sheet handed to the manager, it appeared that between
the hours of 7.40 and 8.10 on the night in question, no less than
twenty-eight taxis had left the Savoy. Of these, twenty had gone to
theatres. Of the remaining eight, two had gone to Euston, one to King’s
Cross, one to Hampstead, one to Kensington, and three to Victoria.
“There you are,” said the manager, pointing to the second to Victoria.
“See under extras, ‘Two packages.’ That’s what you want.”
It looked as if the manager was right. The first of the three vehicles
to Victoria had no outside luggage, and the third was for a party of
five. No. 2 had left at 7.55 with one passenger and two outside
packages.
“It’s promising enough,” French admitted. “If you could tell me where to
find the driver of that car I should be much obliged.”
“John Straker.” The manager picked up his desk telephone. “Where is John
Straker at present?” he called, and in a moment to French, “He’s out at
work. He’s on the stand beside the Savoy, and if you go there now, and
don’t mind waiting, you’ll see him. I’ll give you a note to him. It will
make him more ready to talk. He’s a peculiar-looking man, cleanshaven,
with a thin white face and hooked nose and very black eyes; you’ll
recognise him at once. Better take his time-book also. It may bring the
trip back to his memory.”
French, having thanked the manager, returned to the cab rank. As he
walked down it glancing at the drivers, a taxi drove up and took its
place at the tail of the line. Its driver answered the description, and
when he had switched off his engine and seemed at liberty, French
accosted him and explained his business.
For some seconds the man pondered, scratching his head and turning over
the leaves of his time-book. At last he looked at French.
“I remember the trip,” he said. “It’s a strange thing, but that was the
only trip I made to Victoria that week. It’s a place we’re at pretty
often, as you’ll understand. But I remember going that night. It was
with a lady, and she had two big boxes; I remember them because they
were rather big for the space on the car. But I got them fixed up all
right.”
“Where did you go to?”
“I believe the main line departure side of Victoria, though I’m not just
certain.”
“Good!” said French heartily. “Now, could you describe the lady?”
This, however, was beyond the driver’s powers. He had not noticed her
specially, nor could he describe the porter who had taken the luggage.
But French had not expected that, indeed, he was surprised and delighted
at having got so much.
The rest of that day and most of the next he spent at Victoria,
interviewing porters, inspectors, ticket collectors, and any other
officials he could find, who might by chance have seen the quarry. But
nowhere had he any luck. The unknown remained unknown.
As he continued turning the matter over in his mind, a further possible
clue in connection with the trunks occurred to him. They were large;
they could not be taken in the carriage. It was nearly certain,
therefore, that they must have been registered through. Were there
records, he wondered, of such registration?
He went to the registration office and saw the clerk in charge. Yes,
there were records; they were kept for a while and then destroyed. He
could with a little trouble turn up those for the Newhaven boat train on
the 26th November, and he would certainly do so to oblige the Inspector.
But the records, when at last they were produced, revealed neither the
name of Mrs. Root nor the fact that any one had registered two large
trunks by that train.
French discussed the possibility of those in question having been taken
unregistered. It seemed that this was possible, but most unlikely. In
any case, had it been done, the clerk believed the Customs people would
have noted it. But it would take some time to find out.
“Don’t trouble about it,” French told him; “at least, not in the
meantime.”
Suppose this woman crook was impersonating Mrs. Root, as he believed she
was, would she not, as soon as she had disposed of the diamonds, seek to
vanish and to resume her real personality? If so, did this not involve
getting rid of the trunks? Did she really require them, or had they
served their purpose when they reached Victoria?
As a forlorn hope, he decided he would act on this idea. Suppose she
wanted to get rid of them, how would she do it?
There were several ways, but he felt satisfied that the easiest and best
would be simply to leave them in the left luggage office. A considerable
time would elapse before any question would arise about them, and it
would then probably only take the form of their being opened by the
railway company, and their contents sold for what they would bring.
He went round to the left luggage office and propounded his inquiry. And
immediately he received a pleasant surprise. The clerk to whom he was
referred smiled, and turning over some papers, pointed to an item. It
read, “Two large American trunks: White Star labels, S. S. _Olympic_.
Mrs. Chauncey S. Root, passenger to Southampton.”
“Bit of luck for you, sir,” the clerk remarked. “I was looking over the
list only to-day, and I noticed the item. Boxes were left in on 26th of
last month, and have not been claimed.”
“I want to open them and perhaps take them to the Yard.”
The necessary authority was soon obtained, and French followed the clerk
to a huge room stored with luggage of all descriptions. Calling the
porter in charge, they were conducted to a corner in which stood two
large boxes, and French, looking at the labels, found they were those of
which he was in search.
“Pull those out, George,” the clerk directed, “so as this gentleman can
open them, and let him take them away if he wants to. That all you want,
sir?”
French, left to himself, began by satisfying himself that the
handwriting on the labels was the same as that of the cheques. Then,
taking a bunch of skeleton keys from his pockets, he set to work on the
locks. In a few moments both stood open.
For a space he stood staring down in amazement at their contents. They
were full of blankets! Just new, thin blankets of a poor cheap quality.
They were fairly tightly packed, and completely filled the trunks.
He took out the blankets, and opening each out, shook it to make sure
that no small article was concealed in the folds. But there was nothing.
Nor was there any smooth surface within the empty trunks upon which
finger impressions might have been left. They were lined with canvas,
fine as to quality, but still too rough to carry prints.
Inspector French felt more puzzled and baffled than ever. What, under
the sun, were the blankets for? And where was the woman who had carried
them about?
He was certainly no further on as to finding her, whether she had
crossed to France, or travelled to some other point on the Southern
system, or had simply walked out of the station and been swallowed up in
the wilderness of London, she was just as completely lost to him as
ever. Hard luck that so unexpected a lift as the finding of the trunks
should have led to so little.
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 £3000 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 £3300 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 arm-chair, let himself in.