MRS. FRENCH TAKES A NOTION
BY the time Inspector French had finished supper and lit up a pipe of
the special mixture he affected, he felt in considerably better form. He
determined that instead of going early to bed, as he had intended while
in the train, he would try to induce the long-suffering Mrs. French to
listen to a statement of his problem, in the hope that light thereon
would be vouchsafed to her, in which in due course he would participate.
Accordingly, when she had finished with the supper things he begged her
to come and share his difficulties, and when she had taken her place in
her accustomed arm-chair and had commenced her placid knitting, he took
up the tale of his woes.
Slowly and in the fullest detail he told her all he had done from the
time he was sent to Messrs. Williams & Davies, when he first heard of
the mysterious Mrs. X, up to his series of visits of that day,
concluding by expressing his belief that Mrs. X and Mrs. Ward were one
and the same person, and explaining the difficulty he found himself up
against in tracing her. She heard him without comment, and when he had
finished asked what he proposed to do next.
“Why, that’s just it,” he exclaimed a trifle impatiently. “That’s the
whole thing. If I was clear about that there would be no difficulty.
What would you advise?”
She shook her head, and bending forward seemed to concentrate her whole
attention on her knitting. This, French knew, did not indicate lack of
interest in his story. It was just her way. He therefore waited more or
less hopefully, and when after a few minutes she began to question him,
his hopes were strengthened.
“You say that Mrs. Root and those steamer people thought the woman was
English?”
“That’s so.”
“There were quite a lot of them thought she was English?”
“Why, yes,” French agreed. “There was Mrs. Root and the doctor and the
purser and her dinner steward and at least four stewardesses. They were
all quite satisfied. And the other passengers and attendants must have
been satisfied too, or the thing would have been talked about. But I
don’t see exactly what you’re getting at.”
Mrs. French was not to be turned aside from her catechism.
“Well, do _you_ think she was English?” she persisted.
French hesitated. Did he? He really was not sure. The evidence seemed
strong, and yet it was just as strong, or stronger, for her being an
American. Mr. Williams, for example, was——
“You don’t know,” Mrs. French broke in. “Well, now, see here. Mr.
Williams said she was American?”
“That’s it,” her husband rejoined. “He said——”
“And that bank manager and his clerk, they thought she was American?”
“Yes, but——”
“And the shops she bought and sold the jewellery at, and the Savoy, and
the Southampton police, they all thought she was American?”
“Yes, but we don’t——”
“Well, that ought surely to give you something.”
“That they were sisters? I thought of that, but the handwriting shows
that they weren’t.”
“Of course I don’t mean sisters. Think again.”
French sat up sharply.
“What do you mean, Emily? I don’t follow what you’re after.”
His wife ignored the interruption.
“And there’s another thing you might have thought of,” she continued.
“That Williams man thought he had seen the woman before. What age is
he?”
French was becoming utterly puzzled.
“What age?” he repeated helplessly. “I don’t know. About sixty, I should
think.”
“Just so,” said his wife. “And that other man, that Scarlett, he thought
he had seen her before. What age is he?”
The Inspector moved nervously.
“Really, Emily,” he protested, “I wish you’d explain what you’re getting
at. I don’t take your meaning in the least.”
“You would if you’d use your head,” his wife snapped. “What age is that
Scarlett?”
“About the same as the other—fifty-five or sixty. But what has that got
to do——”
“But the young fellow, that bank clerk; he didn’t remember her?”
“No, but——”
“Well, there you are—silly! What would a woman be who could make up
like another woman, and put on an English or American talk, and be
remembered by old Londoners? Why, a child could guess that, Watson!”
When Mrs. French called her husband by the name of the companion of the
great Holmes, it signified two things, first, that she was in what he
always referred to as “a good twist,” and secondly, that she felt
pleasantly superior, having seen something—or thinking she had—which
he had missed. He was therefore always delighted when a conversation
reached this stage, believing that something helpful was about to
materialise.
But on this occasion he grasped her meaning as soon as she had spoken.
Of course! How in all the earthly world had he missed the point? The
woman was an actress; a former London actress! That would explain the
whole thing. And if so, he would soon find her. Actors’ club secretaries
and attendants, theatrical agents, stage doorkeepers, the editors of
society papers—scores of people would have known her, and he would have
an easy task to learn her name and her history.
He jumped up and kissed his wife. “By Jove, Emily! You’re a fair
wonder,” he cried warmly, and she, still placidly knitting,
unsuccessfully attempted to hide the affection and admiration she felt
for him by a trite remark anent the folly of an old fool.
Next morning, French, with a new and thoroughly satisfactory programme
before him, sallied forth at quite the top of his form. He had made a
list of theatrical agencies at which he intended first to apply, after
which, if luck had up to then eluded him, he would go round the theatres
and have a word with the stage door keepers, finally applying to the
older actor-managers and producers and any one else from whom he thought
he might gain information.
But his quest turned out to be even simpler than he had dared to hope.
The superior young ladies of the first three agencies at which he called
shook their pretty heads over the photograph and could throw no light on
his problem. But at the fourth, the girl made a suggestion at which
French leaped.
“No,” she said, “I don’t know any one like that, but if she’s left the
stage some time I wouldn’t; I’ve only been here about two years. And I
don’t know any one who could help you; this place has not been open very
long. But I’ll tell you,” she went on, brightening up. “Mr. Rohmer is
inside. If any one in London would know, he should. If you catch him
coming out you could ask him.”
Mr. Horace Rohmer! The prince of producers! French knew his name well,
though he had never met him. He thanked the girl and sat down to wait.
Presently she called to him, “He’s just going,” and French, stepping
forward, saw a short, stout, rather Jewish-looking gentleman moving to
the stairs. He hastened after him, and, introducing himself, produced
his photograph and asked his question.
The famous producer glanced at the card and smiled.
“Oh, Lor’ yes,” he announced, “I know her. But these people wouldn’t.”
He indicated the agency and its personnel with a backward nod. “She was
before their time. Why, that’s the great Cissie Winter; at least, she
had the makings of being great at one time. She was first lady in
Panton’s company a dozen years ago or more. I remember her in _Oh,
Johnny!_, _The Duchess_, _The Office Girl_, and that lot—good enough
plays in their day, but out of date now. I hope she’s not in trouble?”
“It’s a matter of stolen diamonds,” French answered, “but I’m not
suggesting she is guilty. We want some explanations, that’s all.”
“I should be sorry to hear there was anything wrong,” Mr. Rohmer
declared. “I thought a lot of her at one time, though she did go off and
make a muck of things.”
“How was that, sir?”
“Some man. Went off to live with some man, a married man, and well on to
being elderly. At least, that was the story at the time. I’m not
straight-laced, and I shouldn’t have minded that if she had only kept up
her stage work. But she didn’t. She just dropped out of sight. And she
might have risen to anything. A promising young woman lost. Sickening, I
call it.”
“I suppose you could give me no hint as to how I might trace her?”
The producer shrugged his shoulders.
“Not the slightest, I’m afraid. I didn’t even know that she was alive.”
“What theatres did she play in?”
“Several, but it was in the Comedy she did her best work.”
“I’ll try there.”
“You can try, but don’t build too much on it. Theatrical staffs change
quickly and have short memories. If you’ve no luck there you should go
to Jacques—you know, Richard Jacques the producer. If my memory serves
me, he put out those plays I mentioned. If not, he can tell you who
did.”
French was overjoyed. This was indeed a stroke of luck. He had proved
his theory—he was already beginning to overlook the part his wife had
played in it—he had done a neat piece of deduction, and it had been
justified. He had now obtained information which must lead him
infallibly to his goal. His next business must be at the Comedy, where,
if his luck held, he might obtain information which would put him
straight on the woman’s track.
As he turned away from the agency, French felt a touch on his shoulder.
It was Mr. Duke, and the old gentleman greeted him warmly and asked of
his progress.
“I’m just going in here for some coffee,” he went on, indicating the
somewhat old-fashioned and retiring restaurant before which they stood.
“Come and have a cup with me. It’s ages since I saw you or heard what
you were doing.”
French was full of his discovery, and eagerly seized the chance of a
victim to whom to unfold the tale of his prowess. Accordingly, when they
were seated in a quiet nook he began with gusto to relate his exploits.
He told of his visit to Mürren, and of the photographs given to him by
Mrs. Root, of his tracing the movements of the elusive lady in
Southampton, of his deduction that she was an actress, and finally of
his great stroke in learning her identity.
Mr. Duke, who had been following the recital with a thrilled interest
that satisfied even French’s egotism, remembered the lady’s name, though
he could not recall anything else about her.
“This will be good news for Vanderkemp,” he declared. “I must tell him
at once. Though you have taken off your surveillance, he feels that he
has never really been cleared of suspicion. This discovery of yours will
go far to satisfy him. Yes, and what then?”
He settled himself again to listen, but when he realised that French had
finished his tale and was no nearer finding Miss Cissie Winter than he
had been of getting hold of Mrs. X, his features took on an expression
of the keenest disappointment, bordering almost on despair.
“Good heavens, Inspector! After raising my hopes, don’t tell me now that
you are really practically no farther on,” he lamented. Then sinking his
voice, he went on slowly, “If something isn’t discovered soon I may tell
you I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m getting to the end of my
tether. I’m even getting short of cash. The insurance company won’t
pay—yet; they say it is not certain the stones will not be recovered.
They say I must wait. But my creditors won’t wait.”
He stopped and stared before him vacantly, and French, looking at him
more keenly than he had yet done, was shocked to see how old and worn
the man was looking. “Even if the insurance company paid all, I don’t
know that I could make ends meet,” he went on presently. “I’m beginning
to see ruin staring me in the face. I thought I was strong and could
scoff at reverses, but I can’t, Inspector, I can’t. I’m not the man I
was, and this affair has shaken me severely.”
French was somewhat taken aback by this outburst, but he felt genuinely
sorry for the old man, who at the close of a life of comparative luxury
and success was faced with failure and poverty. He gave him what comfort
he could, pointing out that the discovery of Mrs. X’s identity was a
real step forward, and expressed the belief that so well known a
personality could not long remain hidden.
“I sincerely trust you are right,” Mr. Duke answered, “and I am ashamed
of having made such a fuss. But do try, Inspector,” he looked
imploringly at the other, “do try to push on the affair. I know you
are,” he smiled, “doing all that any one could do, but it’s so
desperately important to me. You understand, I hope, that I am not
complaining? I fully appreciate your splendid work in the face of great
difficulties.”
French assured him that he himself was just as anxious to clear up the
mystery as any one else could be, and that he need not fear but that
everything possible would be done to that end, and with further
expressions of mutual amity they parted.
The Inspector next turned his steps to the Comedy theatre. Rehearsals
were in progress, and the building was open. Going round to the stage
door, he spoke to the doorkeeper.
“No, sir,” the man said civilly, “I’m not here long. Only about nine
months.”
“Who was before you?”
“A man they called Dowds, an old man. He was getting too old for the
job. That’s why he left.”
“Could you put me on to where I should find him?”
“I should try at the office, sir. I expect they’d have his address. To
the right at the end of this passage.”
With some difficulty French found his way to the office. A young man
glanced up from the desk over which he was bending. “Well, sir?” he said
briskly.
French explained his business. He was inquiring as to the whereabouts of
the former actress, Miss Cissie Winter, and failing information as to
her, he would be obliged for the address of the ex-stagedoor keeper,
Dowds, who might be able to assist him in his main inquiry.
“Miss Cissie Winter?” the sharp young man repeated. “I’ve heard of her,
but she wasn’t on here in my time. Any idea of her dates or plays?”
“Twelve or more years since she left the stage, I’m told. She played in
_The Office Girl_ and _The Duchess_ and _Oh, Johnny!_”
The young man whistled beneath his breath as he sat thinking.
“’Fraid I can’t help you about the lady,” he declared at last. “There
are no records here of twelve years back. But I can put you on to Dowds
all right, or at least I can give you his address when he left us.”
“Much obliged, I’m sure.”
The young man crossed the room, and taking a book out of a cupboard,
turned over the pages rapidly.
“29 Babcock Street. It’s off Charing Cross Road, about half-way down on
the left hand side going south. You’ll get him there if he hasn’t
moved.”
French, having noted the address, turned to go.
“Wait a sec’,” said the young man. “I’m not certain, but I believe
Richard Jacques put out those plays you mentioned. If so, he could
probably help you better than any one. He does business at that new
place he has taken over, the Aladdin in Piccadilly. You should try him.”
French thanked his new friend, and after again traversing the endless
corridors of the huge building, found himself once more in the street.
At 29 Babcock Street the door was opened to him by a respectable-looking
woman, who said that her husband, Peter Dowds, was within. His health
was poor, but if the gentleman would come in, he would make shift to
come down to see him.
French sat down to wait in the tiny parlour. Presently a shuffling
became audible in the hall, and the door, opening slowly, revealed a
short but immensely stout man, whose small eyes blinked inquisitively at
his visitor as the latter rose and wished him good-day.
“Good-day, good-day,” the man wheezed, as he steered himself across the
room and sank into one of the chairs. “It’s the asthma,” he went on in a
husky voice. “It’s always bad this time of year.” He stopped and sat
panting, then went on, “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes,” French admitted, “but I’m sorry to find your asthma so bad. What
do you do for it?”
The Inspector had found from long experience that the time spent in
discussing his illness with an invalid was not wasted. The pleasure he
gave had the effect of creating a sympathy and good feeling which
assisted him when he came to the second part of the interview, the
favour he wanted for himself. He was not altogether a hypocrite in this.
It was part of the technique of his business, and besides, he was a
good-natured man who really did like giving pleasure. He therefore
talked asthma and asthma cures for some minutes before turning to the
subject of Miss Cissie Winter.
But in the present case the excellent impression which he undoubtedly
produced brought him but little benefit. The stout old doorkeeper
remembered Miss Winter well, and instantly recognised her photograph,
but he knew nothing about her present whereabouts. She had gone off with
some man, a man whom also he remembered well, as on many occasions they
had chatted together while the former waited at the stage door for the
lady’s appearance. He was tall and well built, well on in middle age,
and with the air of a professional or business man. His name, Dowds
believed, was Vane, but of this he was not positive. Asked how he knew
that the lady had gone off with this or any other man, it transpired
that he did not really know at all, but that this had been the generally
accepted theory at the time. He had never learned the man’s address, but
he seemed to have plenty of money and was liberal in his tips. Since
that time, about thirteen years previously, Dowds had not heard or seen
anything of either. Of Miss Winter he had but a poor opinion. She might
be a good actress, but she was hard and mean and had a sharp tongue.
What the man could have seen in her he, Dowds, did not know, but he had
evidently been pretty completely bowled over.
When French had gleaned these particulars, he found he had reached the
end of the old doorkeeper’s usefulness, and he was soon on his way to
his next call, the Aladdin theatre in Piccadilly.
Mr. Jacques was in the building, but engaged, and French fretted and
fumed for nearly two hours before being ushered into his presence. But
then he felt himself completely compensated for his long wait. Like most
others who came in contact with him, French soon fell a victim to the
great producer’s winning personality and charm of manner. The old
gentleman apologised courteously for his engagement, which, he
explained, was a troublesome rehearsal, and then listened with close
attention to what French had to say.
But he could not tell so very much after all. He remembered Miss Winter,
and after a search through some details of her life. He had first seen
her in the Tivoli theatre in New York, some sixteen years previously,
and had been struck by her acting. She had somehow learned of his
presence, for she had followed him to his hotel, and explaining that she
was anxious to get a footing on the English stage, had asked him for a
part in one of the plays she had heard he was then bringing out. He had
agreed, and when she had completed her New York engagement, she had
followed him to England, and he had starred her in _Oh, Johnny!_ and
certain other plays of that period. In all she had appeared in seven
productions, and Mr. Jacques had a high opinion of her capabilities.
Some three years later she had given him notice that she wished to leave
the stage at the end of her then current contract. He had protested,
telling her that she was ruining an extremely promising career, but she
had insisted, explaining that she was going to be married. This he had
not believed, though he had no definite reason for his opinion. It was
generally accepted that she had gone off with some married man, but how
this story arose he could not say. He had, at all events, completely
lost sight of her. Her age when she left his company thirteen years
earlier was twenty-nine, and her address was 17 Stanford Street,
Chelsea.
“I’m afraid,” French said, “that she has turned crook,” and he outlined
her impersonation of Mrs. Root.
“Of course I know nothing about that,” Mr. Jacques answered, “but I can
at least tell you that no one could have carried out a scheme of the
kind better than Cissie Winter. She had the brains and the nerve and the
knowledge. I’m sorry to hear she has gone wrong, but if you are up
against her, I can assure you you’ll find her no mean antagonist.”
French smiled ruefully as he rose.
“I’ve discovered that already,” he admitted, “but knowing what I know
now, it can’t be long until I have my hands on her.”
“I suppose I ought to wish you luck,” Mr. Jacques declared, holding out
his hand, “but I don’t know that I can. I thought a lot of the young
woman once, and I’m sorry that she’s in trouble.”
Inspector French, having cabled to the New York police asking for
information as to the actress’s early history, made his way to 17
Stanford Street, which he found was a better-class boarding house. But
here he could learn nothing. The former proprietor was dead, and none of
the present staff had been connected with the place for thirteen years,
or had ever heard of Miss Winter.
Disappointed once more, he returned to the Yard and put through his
earlier scheme. He arranged to have the lady’s photograph inserted in
the next number of the _Police Bulletin_, together with the best
description of her that he could write, and a note that she was wanted.
It was not a promising clue, but it was all he had left.