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, manœuvre 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 any one 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 any one 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 some one 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 any one should want to bring trunks of blankets
across the Atlantic. I’ve never known any one 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 it’s 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 some one 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:
“On the 24th November last at about 3.00 p.m., I was passing through the
crowd on the outer quays when I heard a woman cry out. ‘Thief, thief,’
she shouted, and she ran up and caught me by the arm. She was middling
tall and thinnish, her face pale and her hair dark. She spoke in an
American voice, and seemed upset or excited. She said to me, breathless
like, ‘Say, officer,’ she said, ‘I’ve just had my despatch case stolen.’
I asked her where, and how, and what was in it. She said right there
where we were standing, and not three seconds before. She was carrying
it in her hand, and it was snatched out of it. She turned round and saw
a man juke away in the crowd. She shouted and made after him, but he was
away before she could get near. I asked her what the case was like, and
she said a small square brown morocco leather one with gold fittings. I
went and told the two men on duty close by, and we kept a watch on the
exits, but we never saw a sign of it.” Sergeant McAfee shook his head
gloomily as he concluded. “She hadn’t any call to be carrying a gold
fitted case in that crowd anyway.”
“That’s a fact, Sergeant,” the Superintendent agreed. “And you never
came on any trace of it?”
“No, sir. I brought her up to the station, and took her name and all
particulars. There’s the report.” He unfolded a paper and laid it on the
Superintendent’s desk.
In the document was a detailed description of the lady, of the alleged
despatch case and its contents, and of the means that had been taken to
try to trace it. The pawnbrokers had been advised and a special watch
kept on fences and other usual channels for the disposal of stolen
goods.
When French had digested these particulars, he brought out once more his
photographs and handed them to the Sergeant.
“Look at those, Sergeant, and tell me if you see the woman among them.”
Slowly the Sergeant turned them over, gazing at them in precisely the
same puzzled way as had done Mr. Williams, Mr. Scarlett, and the other
London men to whom they had been shown. And with the same doubt and
hesitation he presently fixed on Mrs. Ward.
“That would be to be her,” he declared slowly, “that is, if she’s there
at all. It isn’t a good likeness, but I believe it’s her all the same.”
“You wouldn’t swear to her?”
“I’d hardly. But I believe it’s her for all that.”
French nodded. The Sergeant’s statement, agreeing as it did with those
of Messrs. Williams, Scarlett and Co., seemed capable of but one
explanation. Mrs. X was Mrs. Ward all right, but before meeting these
men she had made herself up to impersonate Mrs. Root. They saw a
likeness to Mrs. Ward because it really was she, but they were doubtful
because she was disguised.
The Inspector leaned forward and tapped the photograph.
“Put it this way, Sergeant,” he suggested. “Here is a picture of the
lady as she really is. When you saw her she was made up to look like
another woman. How’s that, do you think?”
In Sergeant McAfee’s lacklustre eye there shone a sudden gleam. “That’s
just what it is, sir,” he answered with an approach to something almost
like interest in his manner. “That’s it and no mistake. She’s like the
photograph by her features, but not by her make-up.” He nodded his head
several times in appreciation.
“Very good.” Inspector French invariably liked as many strings to his
bow as he could get. “Now I want some hint from you that will help me
trace her.”
But this was just what Sergeant McAfee could not supply. The woman had
given two addresses, the Savoy in London and Mrs. Root’s home in
Pittsburg. There was no help in either, and no other information was
forthcoming.
He lunched with his friend the Superintendent, afterwards withdrawing to
the lounge of his hotel to have a quiet smoke and to think things over.
While he sat there, a page appeared with a telegram. It was a reply from
the police at York and read:
“Your wire. No one of that name or address known.”
French swore disgustedly. He had, of course, realised that the name
might be false, but yet he had hoped against hope that he might really
have reached the end of at least this portion of his quest. But here he
was, as far from the truth as ever! He would now have to make a fresh
start to trace this elusive lady—he used another adjective in his
mind—and he couldn’t see that he was any better equipped for the search
now than when he had started out from Mr. Williams’s office. It was a
confoundedly exasperating case—just bristling with promising clues
which one after another petered out as he came to follow them up. Being
on it was like trying to cross a stream on stepping-stones which
invariably gave way when he came to place his weight on them. It was an
annoying thought also that that would scarcely be the view his chief
would take of the matter. The chief had not been over-complimentary
already in his comments on his handling of the case, and French felt
that he would view this new check in anything but a sympathetic spirit.
However, grousing about it wouldn’t lead anywhere, and with an effort he
switched his thoughts back to his problem. As he thought it over a
further point occurred to him.
Since his first visit to the Savoy he had wondered why the lady had
turned up there so much later than the other passengers from the
_Olympic_, and now he saw the reason. The episode of the handbag had
taken place some four hours after the vessel’s arrival, long after the
special boat train had left. Mrs. X—for she was still Mrs. X—must
therefore have travelled up by an afternoon train, probably the 5.26 or
6.22 p.m. from the West Station, which got in 6.58 and 8.20
respectively. Now, why this delay? What had she done during these four
hours?
The answer was not far to seek. Was it not to give her time and
opportunity to assume her disguise? He felt it must be so.
The lady was her natural self—other than in name—on board the
_Olympic_, and having no opportunity to alter her appearance, she had
passed through the customs in the same character. Hence the ship’s staff
and the customs officer had instantly recognised her photograph. But it
was obvious that her impersonation of Mrs. Root must begin before she
interviewed the Southampton police, and that accounted for the
hesitation of Sergeant McAfee and the people in London in identifying
her. She had therefore made herself up between passing through the
customs at, say, eleven o’clock, and calling on the Sergeant at three.
Where was she during those four hours?
He put himself in her place. Confronted with her problem, what would he
have done?
Gone to a hotel, unquestionably. Taken a room in which to assume the
disguise. Had Mrs. X engaged a bedroom in one of the Southampton hotels
for that afternoon?
As he thought over the thing, further probabilities occurred to him. The
lady would go up to her bedroom as one person and come down as another.
Therefore, surely, the larger the hotel, the less chance of the
transformation being observed. One of a crowd, she would go to the
reception office and engage a room for a few hours’ rest, and pay for it
then and there. Then, having accomplished the make-up, she would slip
out, unobserved in the stream of passers-by. Yes, French felt sure he
was on the right track, and, with a fresh accession of energy, he jumped
to his feet, knocked out his pipe, and left the building.
He called first at the South Western and made his inquiries. But here he
drew blank. At the Dolphin he had no better luck, but at the Polygon he
found what he wanted. After examining the records, the reception clerk
there was able to recall the transaction. About midday an American lady
had come in, and saying she wanted a few hours’ rest before catching the
5.26 to London, had engaged a bedroom on a quiet floor until that hour.
She had registered, and French, on looking up the book, was delighted to
find once more the handwriting of the lady of the cheques. It was true
that on this occasion she figured as Mrs. Silas R. Clamm, of Hill Drive,
Boston, Mass.; but knowing what he knew of her habits, French would have
been surprised to have found a name he had seen before.
At first he was delighted at so striking a confirmation of his theory,
but as he pursued his inquiries his satisfaction vanished, and once more
depression and exasperation swept over him. For the reception clerk
could not remember anything more than the mere fact of the letting of
the room, and no one else in the building remembered the woman at all.
With his usual pertinacity, he questioned all who might have come in
contact with her, but from none of them did he receive the slightest
help. That Mrs. X had made herself up at the hotel for her impersonation
stunt was clear, but unfortunately it was equally clear that she had
vanished from the building without leaving any trace.
The worst of the whole business was that he didn’t see what more he
could do. The special clues upon which he had been building had failed
him, and he felt there was now nothing for it but to fall back on the
general one of the photographs. One of the portraits was excellently
clear as to details, and he decided he would have an enlargement made of
Mrs. X, and circulate it among the police in the hope that some member
at some time might recognise the lady. Not a very hopeful method
certainly, but all he had left.
He took an evening train from the West Station, and a couple of hours
afterwards reached his home, a thoroughly tired and disgruntled man.