A DEAL IN JEWELLERY
INSPECTOR FRENCH’S cheery self-confidence was never so strongly marked
as when his mind was free from misgiving as to his course of action in
the immediate future. When something was obviously waiting to be done he
invariably went straight in and did it, shrinking neither from
difficulty nor unpleasantness, provided only he could carry through his
task to a successful conclusion. It was only when he did not see his way
clear that he became depressed, and then he grew surly as a bear with a
sore head, and his subordinates kept at as great a distance from him as
their several activities would permit.
On the morning following his conversation with the stout representative
of the inquiry agency, he was in great form, signifying that not only
were his plans for the day satisfactorily in being, but that no doubt of
their super-excellence clouded his mind. He had decided first to call on
the jewellers to whom Mrs. X had paid the cheques, after which, if these
visits indicated no fresh line of attack, he would prosecute inquiries
at the White Star company’s office. By that time a reply from Pittsburg
should have arrived.
When he had made his usual report at the Yard, he took out the cheques
and made a note of the places to be visited. The first two were in
Piccadilly, and he began his quest by taking a bus thither.
By one o’clock he had been round the whole six, and as he sat lunching
in a small French restaurant off Cranbourne Street, he thought over what
he had learned. In each shop, after more or less delay, he had found the
salesman who had served Mrs. X. All six men remembered her, and her
proceedings with each seemed to have been the same. In each case she had
asked for a piece of jewellery for a dear friend who was going to be
married—something plain, but good; a diamond ring or a jewelled bangle
or some costly trifle which would please a young girl’s fancy. In each
shop her purchases came to somewhere between two and three hundred
pounds, and in each case she had proffered a cheque. She had volunteered
to wait while a messenger was sent to the bank, as she had admitted that
she couldn’t expect the shop people to take her cheque when they didn’t
know her. The salesmen had all protested that this was unnecessary, and
had politely kept her talking while they took the precaution. Finally, a
telephone from the bank having reassured them, they had handed her her
purchase and bowed her out. None of them had either noticed or suspected
anything unusual in the transactions, and all were satisfied everything
about them was O. K.
French was considerably puzzled by the whole business, but under the
stimulus of a cup of coffee, a possible theory flashed into his mind.
Was it not probable that this purchase of costly but commonplace
articles of jewellery at six different shops was simply a part of the
plan to transform Mr. Duke’s sixteen stones into money? As he thought
over it, French thought he could dimly grasp that plan as a whole.
First, the minds of Mr. Williams and of Mr. Hurst were prepared for what
was coming by a previous visit. It was impossible that any suspicion
could attach to that first visit, as when it was paid the robbery had
not taken place. And now French saw that, but for the accident of the
clerk, Orchard, visiting the office, these two gentlemen would not have
known anything about the robbery when the second call was made, a
distinctly clever achievement from the criminal’s point of view.
However, be that as it might, Mrs. X’s bluff carried her through, and
she exchanged her stones, or rather Mr. Duke’s, for Mr. Williams’s
cheque. But she was evidently afraid to cash the whole of the cheque,
and French saw her point, namely, that the opening of an account and the
lodging of £1500 was an astute move, calculated to prevent the suspicion
that might possibly be caused by the cashing of £3000 in small notes.
But this safeguard left her with the necessity of devising a plan for
cashing her deposit, and here, in the purchase of the jewellery, French
saw the plan. _Would she not sell what she had just bought?_ If she
could do so, there was the whole £3000 changed into untraceable notes.
Of course there would be a loss at every step of the operation. There
was first of all a loss in disposing of the jewels. Mr. Stronge had
valued them at £3300, and she had received only £3000 from Mr. Williams.
She would lose even more heavily if she really had sold the jewellery
she bought in Piccadilly and Regent Street, and she had lost a small
deposit which she had left in her bank. But in spite of this, her scheme
was well worth while. By it she would obtain perhaps seventy to eighty
per cent. of the value of the stones, whereas, if she had dealt with one
of the recognised fences she would not have received more than from
fifteen to twenty per cent. Moreover, her plan was safe. Up to the
present she had succeeded in concealing her identity, but application to
a fence would have left her either in his power to blackmail, or in that
of the intermediary she employed to reach him. No, the plan was clear
enough and good enough, too, and in spite of all French’s optimism there
remained at the back of his mind the sinking fear that she might yet
pull it off.
But if this theory were true, it followed that if he could trace these
sales he would be furnished with another jumping-off place or places
from which to resume his quest of the elusive Mrs. X. His next problem
therefore became, had Mrs. X sold the trinkets, and if so, could he
trace the sales?
He went back to the six jewellers, and obtained a detailed description
of the articles bought. Then he returned to the Yard, and with the help
of a directory and his knowledge of the City, drew up a list of dealers
who might be expected to handle such business. Half a dozen
plain-clothes men were then impressed into the service, with orders to
call on these persons and find out if any of the articles in question
had fallen into their hands.
Inspector French had just completed these arrangements when a cable was
handed to him. It was in reply to his of the previous night, and read:
“Mrs. Chauncey S. Root, Hotel Bellegarde, Mürren, till end of
month.”
Mürren? That was in Switzerland, wasn’t it? He sent for an atlas and a
Continental Bradshaw, and looked it up. Yes, it was in Switzerland;
moreover, it was close to where he had already been, past that lake with
the marvellous colouring—the Lake of Thun, and so to Interlaken and the
far-famed Bernese Oberland, places which he had long desired to visit.
It was with more than a little eagerness that he once more ran over his
reasons for wanting to see Mrs. Root, and then, satisfied, went to his
chief’s room. The great man listened and was convinced, and French,
jubilant, went to prepare for his departure on the following evening.
On his way to the Yard next morning, he called at the White Star offices
and got a copy of the _Olympic’s_ passenger list of the trip in
question. The ship, they told him, was in New York, but would be sailing
in another three days. She would therefore be due in Southampton on the
following Wednesday week.
He learned also that specimens of the handwriting of each traveller were
available. Forms were filled and declarations signed both in connection
with the purchase of the ticket and with the passing of the luggage
through the customs. If French was anxious to examine these, he could do
so by applying to their Southampton office or to the customs authorities
in the same city.
French decided that if his interview with Mrs. Root led to nothing, he
would follow this advice, and he resolved that in this case he would go
to Southampton when the _Olympic_ was in, so as to interview the ship’s
staff as well.
When he returned to the Yard, he found that some information had already
come in about the jewellery. One of his six plain-clothes men had had a
stroke of luck. At his very first call, Robsons’ of Oxford Street, he
had found a ring which answered the description of one of the purchased
articles, and which had been bought from a lady on the afternoon of the
day after that on which Mrs. X had opened her bank account. He had taken
the ring to Messrs. Lewes & Tottenham, who had made the sale in
question, and they identified it as that sold to Mrs. X and paid for by
a Mrs. Root’s cheque. Robson had paid £190 for it, while Messrs. Lewes &
Tottenham had charged £225, so the lady had lost rather badly over the
transaction. She had taken her money in notes of small value, the
numbers of which had not been observed.
The assistant at Robsons’ who had served Mrs. X could not recall her
appearance; in fact, it was only when confronted with the records of the
purchase that he remembered the matter at all. But he was satisfied the
client was an American lady, and he thought she was neither very old nor
very young, nor in any way remarkable looking.
Inspector French was delighted with his news. It proved to him beyond
possibility of doubt that his theory was correct. The purchase of these
jewels was simply part of the plan to turn the stolen diamonds into
money in a form which could not be traced. Further, it showed that he
had also been right in assuming the lady had not gone to France on the
evening she drove to Victoria; on the following day she was still in
London.
But so far as he could see, the discovery brought him no nearer to
finding the mysterious woman. The dealer’s assistant could not describe
her, nor had she left any traces which could be followed up. In fact,
here was another promising clue which bade fair to vanish in smoke, and
as he thought over the possibility, some measure of chagrin began to
dull the keenness of his delight.
During the forenoon another of the plain-clothes men struck oil, and by
lunch time a third transaction had come to light. Unfortunately, both of
these cases was as unproductive as the original discovery. None of the
shop people could remember who had sold the trinket. French went himself
to each shop, but his most persistent efforts failed to extract any
further information.
That night he left for Mürren. In due time he reached Berne, and
changing trains, travelled down past Spiez, under the great conical hill
of Niesen, along the shores of the lake of Thun and into Interlaken.
There he slept the night, and next morning took the narrow gauge line
that led south into the heart of the giants of the Bernese Oberland. He
felt overpowered by the towering chain of mountains, the Matterhorn, the
Eiger, the Mönch, the Jungfrau, and as they wound their way up the
narrow valley he felt as if the overwhelming masses were closing down on
him from either side. Reaching Lauterbrunnen, he went up by the
funiculaire to the Mürren plateau, and continued his way by the electric
tramway to the famous resort. There, as he walked to the Bellegarde, he
gazed fascinated across the valley at the mighty buttresses of the
Jungfrau, one summit of dazzling white succeeding another, up and up and
up into the clear, thin blue of the sky. It took more to bring him to
earth than a fellow-traveller’s gratified suggestion that at last they
would be able to get a decent drink after all that travelling through
the snow. He and his new friend went to the bar of the Bellegarde and
had two of Scotch, and gradually the magic of the mountains faded, and
the interview with Mrs. Root began to reassume its former importance.
An examination of the register revealed the name, Mrs. Chauncey S. Root,
Pittsburg, U. S. A., same as at the Savoy, but here it was written in
quite a different hand. The real Mrs. Root this time, French thought, as
he turned away from the office.
He decided to wait until after lunch before tackling the lady, but he
got the head waiter to point her out as she entered the restaurant. She
undoubtedly answered the description given by the American detectives as
well as by Mr. Williams, but on looking at her he recognized more than
ever the vague and unsatisfactory nature of that description. It was one
that would apply to hundreds of women.
In the lounge after lunch he spoke to her. He apologised for intruding,
explained who he was, and begged that she would give him an interview,
and, if possible, some information.
“Why certainly,” she agreed. “We’ll go right to my sitting-room,” and
French told himself that from nowhere on earth save the United States of
America could that voice have come.
“You are Mrs. Chauncey S. Root?” he began, when they were settled in the
private room of the best suite the hotel contained. “I should be glad
if, before we begin to talk, you would be good enough to let me see your
passport. I shall explain why later.”
“I guess you’d better tell me first,” she returned, leaning back in her
arm-chair and lighting a cigarette.
French smiled.
“As you will, madam. The fact is that two ladies, each calling herself
Mrs. Chauncey S. Root, of Pittsburg, U. S. A., crossed by the _Olympic_
to Southampton. I have been sent from Scotland Yard to find out which is
the real one.”
The lady looked incredulous.
“Say, now, what started you on to that yarn? I crossed by the _Olympic_,
but there was no one else of that name aboard.”
“Nevertheless a Mrs. Chauncey S. Root, who had just crossed by the
_Olympic_, turned up at the Savoy Hotel on the day the ship reached
Liverpool, and put through a fraud on a man in London to the tune of
£3000. I know, madam, it was not you, but I have to get some proof of it
that will convince my superiors.”
With little ejaculations of interest and astonishment the lady arose,
and unlocking a despatch case, took from it a book.
“You can have that passport right now,” she declared. “You have
interested me quite a lot. Start right in and tell me the story.”
French examined the document, and as he did so his last doubt vanished.
The lady before him was Mrs. Root. Mrs. X remained—Mrs. X.
Asking her to keep the story to herself, he told her in considerable
detail all that he knew of Mr. Williams’s mysterious visitor,
continuing:
“Now, Mrs. Root, you will see where I want your help. Some one has
impersonated you, some one who more than probably crossed with you from
New York. I want you to think whom it might have been. Here’s a copy of
the passenger list. Please take your time, and go over the people you
met on the trip. Eliminate those you are sure of, and put a mark
opposite the others. You follow what I mean?”
“I follow you all right, but it isn’t as easy as you seem to think. I
couldn’t remember all the people I came across between New York and
London.”
“I suppose not. But, after all, the thing isn’t so big as that. Only a
very few of the women would fill the bill. First, she must be roughly of
your height and your figure—not very like, of course, but
approximately. You need not mind her colouring, for she could make that
up—except her eyes; her eyes are a light golden brown. Can you remember
any one with eyes like that?”
The lady shook her head, and French went on:
“Then she must be a clever woman; clever and courageous and determined,
and something of an actress also. She must be all those things to have
carried such a deal off successfully.”
French paused to allow his words to sink in, then continued once more:
“And she knows quite a lot about you. Not only has she observed your
appearance, but she would obviously try to find out all she could about
you, so that she might answer questions she might be asked. Do none of
these points bring any one to your mind? Please, Mrs. Root, try to help
me. If you cannot give me some ideas I may as well confess I don’t know
where to turn next.”
“Well, I’ll do what I can, but I don’t see any light so far.” She
crossed the room and once more hunted through the despatch case. “Here
are some pictures I took with my kodak. Maybe they’ll suggest some one.”
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 any one 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 £1200 worth of the jewellery Mrs. X had
bought, and for this she had received £1090, making a loss on the
transaction of only about nine per cent.
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
money-lender 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 £3000, 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. Some one I’ve
seen in a train or a restaurant most likely. I don’t think it’s any one
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.