THE HOUSE IN ST. JOHN’S WOOD
IT was one of Inspector French’s most constant grumbles that a man in
his position was never off duty. He might come home after a hard day’s
work looking forward to a long, lazy, delightful evening with a pipe and
a book, and before he had finished supper some development at
headquarters might upset all his plans and drag him off forthwith to do
battle with the enemies of his country’s laws. Not for him was the
eight-hour day, overtime at high rates, “on call” or country allowances,
expenses. . . . His portion was to get his work done, or take the
consequences in lack of promotion or even loss of such position as he
held.
“And no thanks for what you carry off either,” he would complain,
“though if you make a slip you hear about it before you’re an hour
older.” But his eye would twinkle as he said it, and most of his friends
knew that Mr. Inspector French was making an exceedingly good thing out
of his job, and was, moreover, destined by his superiors for even
greater and more remunerative responsibilities in the early future.
But on this evening his grouse was illustrated, if not justified.
Scarcely had he sat down to his meal when a ring came to the door, and
he was told that Constable Caldwell wished to speak to him.
“Let him wait,” Mrs. French answered before her better half could speak.
“Show him into the sitting-room, Eliza, and give him the evening paper.”
French half rose, then sank back into his seat.
“Ask him if it’s urgent,” he called after the retreating girl, partly
from genuine curiosity, and partly to preserve the fiction that he was
master of his own movements in his own house.
“It’s not so urgent as your supper. Just let him wait,” Mrs. French
repeated inexorably. “What difference will a minute or two make anyway?”
Her view, it soon appeared, was upheld by the constable himself.
“He says it’s not urgent,” Eliza corroborated, reappearing at the door.
“He can wait till you’re ready.”
“Very well. Let him wait,” French repeated, relieved that the incident
had ended so satisfactorily, and for another fifteen minutes he
continued steadily fortifying the inner man. Then taking out his pipe,
he joined his visitor.
“’Evening, Caldwell. What’s wrong now?”
Caldwell, a tall, heavy-looking man of middle age, rose clumsily to his
feet and saluted.
“It’s that there circular of yours, sir,” he explained. “I’ve found the
woman.”
“The deuce you have!” French cried, pausing in the act of filling his
pipe and immediately keenly interested. “Who is she?”
Caldwell drew his notebook from his pocket, and slowly turned the
well-thumbed pages. His deliberation irritated his quicker-witted
superior.
“Get along, Caldwell,” French grumbled. “Can’t you remember that much
without your blessed book?”
“Yes, sir,” the man answered. “Here it is.” He read from the book. “Her
name is Mrs. Henry Vane, and she lives in a small detached house in St.
John’s Wood Road; Crewe Lodge is the name.”
“Good!” French said heartily. “I suppose you’re sure about it?”
“I think so, sir. I showed the photograph to three different parties,
and they all said it was her.”
This sounded promising, particularly as French remembered that Dowds,
the ex-doorkeeper at the Comedy, had stated that Miss Winter’s admirer
was named Vane. He invited the constable to sit down and let him hear
the details, offering him at the same time a fill of tobacco.
Constable Caldwell subsided gingerly into a chair as he took the
proffered pouch.
“Thank you, sir, I don’t mind if I do.” He slowly filled and lighted his
pipe, ramming down the tobacco with an enormous thumb. “It was this way,
sir. I had that there circular of yours with the woman’s photo in my
pocket when I went off duty early this afternoon. On my way home I
happened to meet a friend, a young lady, and I turned and walked with
her. For want of something to say, so to speak, I showed her the photo,
not expecting anything to come of it, you understand. Well, the moment
she looked at it, ‘I know that there woman,’ she said. ‘You what?’ I
said. ‘You know her? Who is she, then?’ I said. ‘She’s a woman that
comes into the shop sometimes,’ she said, ‘but I don’t just remember her
name, though I have heard it,’ she said. ‘I should say the young lady,
her I was speaking to, worked in a drapery shop until a couple of weeks
ago, though she’s out of a job at the moment. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’d like
to know her name. Can’t you remember it?’ ‘No,’ she said, she couldn’t
remember it. She’d only heard it once, and hadn’t paid much attention to
it.”
“Yes?” French murmured encouragingly as the constable showed signs of
coming to an end.
“I said that if she couldn’t remember, that maybe some of the other
young ladies might know it. She wasn’t having any at first, for I had
promised to take her to tea and on to the pictures, and she was set on
going. But when she saw I was in earnest, she gave in, and we went round
to the shop she used to work in. After asking three or four of the
girls, we found one that remembered the woman all right. ‘That’s Mrs.
Vane,’ she said. ‘She lives up there in St. John’s Wood; Crewe Lodge is
the name. I’ve made up her parcels often enough to know.’”
“Good,” French approved once more in his hearty voice.
“I thought I had maybe better make sure about it,” went on the constable
in his slow, heavy way, “so I asked Miss Swann—that was the young lady
that I was with—to walk round that way with me. I found the house near
the Baker Street end, a small place and very shut in. I didn’t want to
go up and make inquiries, so I asked Miss Swann if she’d go next door
and ask if Mrs. Vane was in. She went and asked, and they told her to go
next door; that was to Crewe Lodge. So when I saw it was all right, I
put off going to the pictures for this evening and came straight here to
tell you.”
French beamed on him.
“You’ve done well, Constable,” he declared. “In fact, I couldn’t have
done it better myself. I shall see that you don’t lose by it. Take
another fill of tobacco while I get ready, and then call a taxi and
we’ll go right out now.”
He rang up Scotland Yard, asking for certain arrangements to be made,
with the result that by the time he and Constable Caldwell reached the
great building, two plain clothes men were waiting for them, one of whom
handed French a small handbag and a warrant for the arrest of Mrs. Vane,
alias Mrs. Ward, alias Mrs. Root of Pittsburg, U. S. A. Then the four
officers squeezing into the taxi, they set off for St. John’s Wood Road.
Big Ben was striking half-past nine as they turned into Whitehall. The
night was fine, but there was no moon, and outside the radius of the
street lamps it was pitchy dark. The four men sat in silence after
French had in a few words explained their errand to the newcomers. He
and Caldwell were both in a state of suppressed excitement, French owing
to the hope of an early solution of his difficulties, the constable to
the possibilities of promotion which a successful issue to the
expedition might involve. The other two looked upon the matter as a mere
extra job of work, and showed a lamentable lack of interest in the
proceedings.
They pulled up at St. John’s Wood Road, and dismissing the taxi,
followed Constable Caldwell to the gate of a carriage drive which there
pierced the high stone wall separating the houses from the street. On
the upper bar of the gate were the words, “Crewe Lodge.” To the right
hand was a wicket gate, but both it and the larger one were closed.
Inside the wall was a thick belt of trees through which the drive curved
back, and, lit up through the interstices of the branches by the street
lamps, the walls and gable of a small house showed dimly beyond. No
light was visible from the windows, and, after a moment’s hesitation,
French opened the wicket gate and all four entered.
“Wait here among the trees, Pye and Frankland,” he whispered. “Caldwell,
you come on with me.”
The drive was short, not more than forty yards long, and the complete
outline of the house was speedily revealed. It seemed even smaller than
the first glance had shown, but was charmingly designed, with a
broken-up roof, large bow windows, and a tiny loggia into which opened a
glass panelled door. To be so near the centre of a great city, it was
extraordinarily secluded, the trees and wall, together with some clumps
of evergreen shrubs, cutting off all view of the road and the
neighbouring houses.
The front of the house was in complete darkness, and instinctively
treading stealthily, the two men moved round to the side. Here also
there was no light, and they pushed slowly on until they had completed
the circuit and once more reached the front door.
“Looks as if the place is empty,” French whispered as he pressed the
electric bell.
There was no response to his repeated rings. The house remained dark and
silent. French turned again to the constable.
“Call up those other two men,” he ordered, and soon Pye was posted at
the corner between the front and side, and Frankland at that diagonally
opposite, with orders to keep out of sight and to allow any one who came
to enter, but no one to leave the building.
Electric torch in hand, French then began a guarded survey of the doors
and windows. Finally fixing on the door opening on the loggia, he made
Caldwell hold the light while, first with a bunch of skeleton keys, and
then with a bit of wire, he operated on the lock. For several minutes he
worked, but at last with a snap the bolt shot back, and turning the
handle, the two men cautiously entered the room and closed the door
behind them.
They found themselves in a small, expensively-furnished sitting-room,
evidently a lady’s. It was fitted up in a somewhat flamboyant and
pretentious manner, as if costliness rather than good taste had been the
chief consideration in its furnishing. It was unoccupied, but looked as
if it had been recently used, there being ashes in the grate and books
lying about, one of which lay open face downwards on a chair. On an
occasional table stood an afternoon tea equipage with one used cup.
French did not remain to make any closer examination, but passed on to a
tiny hall, off which opened three other rooms, and from which the
staircase led to the first floor. Beneath the stairs was a row of
clothes-hooks on which were hanging a man’s garments, a couple of hats
and coats, and a waterproof.
Rapidly he glanced into the other rooms. The first was a smoking-room, a
man’s room, furnished with dark-coloured, leather upholstery, and walls
panelled in dark oak. Next door was a dining-room, also small, but
containing a quantity of valuable silver. The fourth door led to the
kitchen, scullery, pantry, and yard. Here also there were evidences of
recent occupation in the general untidiness, as well as in the food
which these places contained.
Satisfied that no one was concealed on the ground floor, French led the
way upstairs. In the largest bedroom, evidently that of the mistress of
the house, there was a scene almost of confusion. Drawers and wardrobe
lay open, their contents tumbled and tossed, while the floor was
littered with dresses, shoes, and other dainty articles of feminine
apparel. French swore beneath his breath when he saw the mess. Things
were beginning to look uncommonly like as if the bird had flown.
However, it was possible that some one might arrive at any minute, and
he hurriedly continued his search.
Next door was a man’s dressing-room and bedroom. Here there was not the
same litter, nor was the unoccupied bedroom adjoining other than tidy,
but in the maids’ room, which he next entered, it was evident there had
been a recent clearing out. Here the wardrobe drawers were pulled out
and the door of a hanging press in the wall was standing open. Papers
and a few obviously worn-out garments littered the floor. But the room
differed from Madame’s in that everything of value had been taken.
French swore again. There seemed no doubt that he was late. Mrs. X,
alias Mrs. Vane, had taken fright and fled. If so, what hint, he
wondered, had she received of her danger?
He stood for a moment in the disordered room, thinking. Under these new
circumstances, what was his proper course?
First, it was obvious that he must make absolutely sure that this Mrs.
Vane was really the woman he sought. Next, he must learn if she had
really gone, and, if so, why, and, if possible, where. If her departure
was a flight, he must find out how or by whom she had been warned.
Lastly, he must follow her to her hiding-place and arrest her.
But he must not end with Mrs. Vane. Her husband must also be found. If
she was Mrs. X, the receiver of the stolen diamonds, possibly the
murderer of old Gething, Mr. Vane must be in it, too. It was
inconceivable that he could have avoided becoming involved.
His first job must therefore be to make all the inquiries he could as to
the mysterious occupants of Crewe Lodge. There were several obvious
lines of research. First there was the house itself. People left the
impress of their personalities on the houses they inhabited, and a
careful search of this one must yield considerable information as to the
pair. Next there were the servants. If they could be found, their
testimony might prove invaluable. From the neighbours and local
tradesmen and dealers he did not expect so much, but among them all some
useful hints would surely be gleaned. Lastly, there were the house
agents. They might or might not be able to help.
It was by this time nearly eleven, but he decided that his obvious duty
was then and there to begin the search of the house, even if it meant an
all-night job. He therefore called in Pye and Frankland, who were
experienced in such work, leaving Constable Caldwell to patrol the
grounds.
Then commenced an investigation of the most meticulous and thorough
description. Taking the house room by room, the three men went over with
the utmost care every piece of furniture, every book, every paper, every
article of clothing. Hour after hour the search proceeded in spite of a
growing weariness and hunger, and it was not until half-past six on the
following morning that it was complete. Then in the growing daylight the
three Yard men slipped out one by one on to the road, and joining forces
round the corner, walked to the nearest tube station, and went to their
several houses for breakfast. French rang up the Yard from the first
exchange they came to, and arranged for a man to be sent to relieve
Caldwell, who had been left in charge.
As French smoked his after-breakfast pipe before returning to the Yard,
he jotted down in his notebook a list of the points which had struck him
during the search. There was nothing that led him to either Mr. or Mrs.
Vane, but there was a certain amount that was suggestive.
In the first place, it seemed evident that the departure of the lady had
been sudden and unexpected. There was the evidence of the disordered
bedrooms, of the used-looking sitting-room with the book evidently laid
down where it could be picked up again without losing the place, of the
ashes in the sitting-room fireplace and range, the used tea tray, and of
the kitchen. There it appeared that cooking had been just about to
begin, for a number of saucepans were on the range, and various kinds of
food lay on the table as if ready for the saucepans. There was a good
deal of food of various kinds about the kitchen and larder, and some
wine and whisky in the dining-room sideboard. On the other hand, there
was no evidence of any hurried departure on the part of the master of
the house.
The date of the departure French thought he could roughly fix from the
condition of the food. The milk, of which there was a bowl and two jugs,
was sour, but not thick. Some fresh meat hanging in the larder was good.
The bread was rather dry and hard. Some lettuces lying on a shelf in the
scullery had gone limp. But some bunches of chrysanthemums standing in
water in the sitting-room, were quite fresh.
On the whole, he thought the evidence pointed to a flight some four days
earlier, and this view was supported by another piece of evidence on
which he had come.
In the letter box at the back of the hall door he had found a letter
addressed “Mrs. Vane, Crewe Lodge, St. John’s Wood Road.” The postmark
showed that it had been posted in London on the 3rd. It had, therefore,
been delivered on the evening of the 3rd or morning of the 4th. But this
was the 8th. Therefore the lady had gone at least four days earlier.
The letter itself had considerably intrigued him. It was simply a list
of certain sales and purchases of stock, covering a large number of
transactions, and running into some thousands of pounds in value. The
items were not dated, and there was no accompanying letter nor any
intimation of the sender. It was clear that some one was engaged in
complicated financial operations, but there was nothing to indicate his
or her identity.
That the Vanes were at least comfortably off seemed certain from the
general appointments of the house. The furniture and fittings were heavy
and expensive. The sitting-room was small, as has been stated, but
French reckoned that the carpet would not have been bought for less than
£120. Madame’s dresses were of rich silks, and while no actual jewellery
had been left behind, there were costly ornaments and personal
knick-knacks. Moreover, the half-empty box of cigars in the smoking-room
contained Corona Coronas. There was, however, no garage and no car, but
it was obvious that a car might have been kept at some neighbouring
establishment. Altogether it looked as if the couple had been living at
the rate of two or three thousand a year. But this was a matter that
could easily be tested, as the name of Mrs. Vane’s bank was among her
papers.
One other point struck the Inspector as curious. Neither the master nor
the mistress of the house seemed to have literary tastes. There was a
number of well-bound “standard works” in a bookcase in the smoking-room,
but it was evident from their condition that they were there purely as
part of the decorative scheme. Of actually read books in the
smoking-room there were none. In the sitting-room were a number of the
lighter type of novels, together with a number in French and Spanish
with extremely lurid and compromising jackets. But among these, as out
of place as an Elijah at a feast of Baal, lay a new copy of _The Concise
Oxford Dictionary_.
There were several old bills in Madame’s inlaid davenport, but save for
the names of firms with whom the lady had recently been dealing, French
had learned nothing from them. In the sitting-room also was an excellent
cabinet photograph of a lady who seemed to him the original of Mrs.
Root’s steamer snapshot, and this he had slipped into his jacket pocket.
Having completed his notes, he knocked the ashes out of his pipe and set
out upon the business of the day. Returning to St. John’s Wood Road, he
interviewed Esler, the constable who had been sent to relieve Caldwell,
and learned that no one had as yet approached the house. Then he began
to call at the adjoining houses and nearer shops. At each he stated that
he was looking for Mrs. Vane, but that her house was shut up, and asked
if any one could tell him how he might find her.
Aware that in a great city neighbours might live beside each other for
years without ever meeting, he did not hope for much result, and at the
first two houses at which he called he did not get any. But at the third
he had an unexpected stroke of luck. The maid who opened the door seemed
to know something about the Vane household. But she was suspicious, and
on French’s putting his usual questions, showed evident unwillingness to
give away information. Keeping any suggestion of eagerness out of his
manner, French went on conversationally:
“I wanted to see Mrs. Vane about a question of the ownership of a field
in the country near Canterbury, where she used to live. I represent
Messrs. Hill & Lewesham, the solicitors of Lincoln’s Inn, and we want
some information about the boundaries of her father’s place. It’s not
exactly important, but it would be worth five shillings to me to get in
touch with her, and if you could see your way to help me, you’d have
very fairly earned it.”
The girl seemed impressed. She glanced back into the hall, came out into
the porch, and drawing the door to after her, spoke rather hurriedly.
“I don’t know much about it,” she explained, “but I’ll tell you what I
can,” and she went on to say that on the previous Friday, that was five
days earlier, Mrs. Vane had got a cable that her husband in New York had
met with a serious accident and was dying, and for her to go at once.
She had packed hurriedly and driven off to catch the boat train for
Liverpool, closing the house. As to Mr. Vane himself, the girl knew
nothing. She seemed to consider him a negligible part of the
establishment. He was but seldom at home, and even then was rarely to be
seen.
French asked her how it came that she knew so much about the family, and
she explained that she and Mrs. Vane’s housemaid had become acquainted
over her young gentleman’s model aeroplane, which had flown over the
dividing wall into the grounds of Crewe Lodge, and which had been
ignominiously handed back by the girl in question. As a result of the
incident an acquaintance had grown up between the two, in the course of
which much information as to their respective employers had been
exchanged. On that Friday evening Mrs. Vane’s maid had called the
narrator to the wall by means of a certain signal which they had
devised, and had hurriedly told her of her mistress’s sudden call to
America, and also that the house was being closed and the services of
herself and the cook dispensed with. “She’s in a most terrible fluster
to catch the boat train,” the girl had said, “and we have to be out
before her so that she may lock up the house.” The girl had breathlessly
bid her friend good-bye and had vanished.
Though French was delighted to have learned these facts, they were not
in themselves all that he could have wished. The story of the husband in
New York might be true, in which case a good deal of the theory he had
been building up would fall to the ground. It would, however, be an easy
matter to find out whether the lady really did sail on the date in
question. He turned back to the servant.
“I should like very much to find that friend of yours,” he said. “Could
you give me her name and address?”
Her name, it appeared, was Susan Scott, but her address was not known.
For a moment French was at a loss, then by judicious questions he
elicited the facts that Miss Scott spoke like a Londoner, and that she
probably patronised one of the several registry offices to be found in
the region surrounding the Edgware Road.
“Now there is just one other thing,” he added. “Can you tell me the name
of the landlord or agents of Crewe Lodge?”
The girl was sorry she couldn’t.
“Then of this house?” French persisted. “As they are close together, the
two places may belong to the same man.”
The girl did not know that either, but she said that her master would
know, and that he had not yet gone out. French asked for an interview,
and on stating his identity, received the information that the agents
for both houses were Messrs. Findlater & Hynd, of Cupples Street, behind
the Haymarket.
Thinking he had got all the information he could, French paid over his
five shillings to the maid and took his departure.
The next item on his programme was a visit to Mr. Williams, and twenty
minutes later he pushed open the door of the office in Cockspur Street.
Mr. Williams greeted him with what with him took the place of
enthusiasm.
“Good-day, Inspector,” he exclaimed, “I’m glad to see you. You bring me
some good news, I hope?”
French sat down and drew from his pocket the cabinet photograph of Mrs.
Vane which he had found in that lady’s sitting-room.
“I don’t know, Mr. Williams,” he answered quietly, “whether that will be
news to you or not.”
Mr. Williams’s eyes flashed with excitement as he saw the portrait.
“Bless my soul!” he cried. “Have you found her at last? Mrs. Root!”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you. Are you sure it is Mrs. Root?”
“Sure? Absolutely positive. At least, that’s the woman who got my three
thousand pounds, whatever her name may be. Have you found her?”
“Well no,” French admitted. “I’ve not found her yet. But I’m in hopes.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Unfortunately, there’s not much to tell. I’ve got information to the
effect that this woman, the original of the photograph, left for New
York last Friday. I don’t know if it’s true. If it is, the American
police will get her on the ship.”
Mr. Williams pressed for details, but French was reticent. However,
before leaving he promised to let the other know the result of his
further inquiries.
From Cockspur Street it was but a short distance to the office of the
house agents, Messrs. Findlater & Hynd. Here French saw Mr. Hynd, and
learned that the firm were agents for Crewe Lodge. But beyond this fact
he learned little of interest and nothing helpful. The house had been
taken five years previously by Mrs. Vane, though Mr. Vane had signed the
lease. They were very desirable tenants, paying their rent promptly and
not demanding continual repairs.
“One more call before lunch,” French thought, and a few minutes later he
turned into the office of the White Star line. Here, though it did not
exactly surprise him, he received some information which gave him
considerably to think, and incidentally reassured him that at last he
was on the right track. No steamer, either of the White Star or of any
other line, had left Liverpool for America before the previous Saturday
afternoon, and there was no boat train from Euston on the Friday night.
Mrs. Vane was therefore without any doubt the woman of whom he was in
search, and her departure was definitely a flight.