“Bit of luck for you, sir,” the clerk remarked. “I was looking over the list only today, and I noticed the item. Boxes were left in on 26th of last month, and have not been claimed.”
“I want to open them and perhaps take them to the Yard.”
The necessary authority was soon obtained, and French followed the clerk to a huge room stored with luggage of all descriptions. Calling the porter in charge, they were conducted to a corner in which stood two large boxes, and French, looking at the labels, found they were those of which he was in search.
“Pull those out, George,” the clerk directed, “so as this gentleman can open them, and let him take them away if he wants to. That all you want, sir?”
French, left to himself, began by satisfying himself that the handwriting on the labels was the same as that of the cheques. Then, taking a bunch of skeleton keys from his pockets, he set to work on the locks. In a few moments both stood open.
For a space he stood staring down in amazement at their contents. They were full of blankets! Just new, thin blankets of a poor cheap quality. They were fairly tightly packed, and completely filled the trunks.
He took out the blankets, and opening each out, shook it to make sure that no small article was concealed in the folds. But there was nothing.
Nor was there any smooth surface within the empty trunks upon which finger impressions might have been left. They were lined with canvas, fine as to quality, but still too rough to carry prints.
Inspector French felt more puzzled and baffled than ever. What, under the sun, were the blankets for? And where was the woman who had carried them about?
He was certainly no further on as to finding her, whether she had crossed to France, or travelled to some other point on the Southern system, or had simply walked out of the station and been swallowed up in the wilderness of London, she was just as completely lost to him as ever. Hard luck that so unexpected a lift as the finding of the trunks should have led to so little.
But there was one thing it had led to. It settled the question of the impersonation. On no other hypothesis could the abandonment of the trunks be explained.
A point of which he had already thought recurred to him. If the unknown had impersonated Mrs. Root she either knew her or knew a great deal about her. The chances, therefore, were that Mrs. Root knew the unknown. It also seemed pretty certain that Mrs. X, as he began to call the unknown in his mind, had really crossed in the Olympic. How else would she obtain the labels and the dinner menu? Granted these two probabilities, it almost certainly followed that the real Mrs. Root and Mrs. X had met on board. If so, would it not be worth while interviewing Mrs. Root in the hope that she might by the method of elimination suggest the names of one or more persons who might have carried out the trick, and thus provide French with another point of attack.
Thinking it would be worth while to investigate the matter, he returned to the Yard and sent a cable to the Pittsburg police asking them to obtain Mrs. Root’s present address.
He glanced at his watch. It was not yet five o’clock, and he saw that he would have time to make another call before going off duty. Fifteen minutes later he pushed open the door of Dashford’s Inquiry Agency in Suffolk Street, off the Strand.
“Mr. Parker in?” he demanded of the bright young lady who came to the counter, continuing in response to her request for his name, “Inspector French from the Yard, but Mr. Parker’s an old friend and I’ll just go right in.”
The girl eyed him doubtfully as he passed through the counter, and, crossing the office, tapped at a door in the farther wall. Without waiting for a reply, he pushed the door open and passed within, shutting it behind him.
Writing at a desk in the centre of the room was an enormously stout man. He did not look up, but grunted impatiently “Well?”
“Well yourself,” French grunted, mimicking the other’s tone.
The fat man looked up, then a smile dawned on his rubicund countenance, and he got heavily to his feet and held out a huge hand. “Why, Joe, old son, I’m glad to see you. It’s a long time since you blew in. Bring the chair around to the fire and let’s hear the news.”
French did as he was told, as he answered, “All’s well, Tom? Busy?”
“Not too busy for a chat with you. How’s the Yard?”
“The Yard’s going strong; same old six and eightpence. I often think you did wisely to chuck it up and start in here. More your own boss, eh?”
The fat man shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he said slowly, handing a tobacco pouch to his visitor. “I don’t know. More your own boss, perhaps; but more worry. If you don’t get jobs here, you don’t get your pay, and no pension at the end except the interest on what you save up. I’ve thought of that pension many a time since I left.”
“Rubbish!” French exclaimed genially as he filled his pipe. “You’re too young to be talking of pensions. I was here looking for you about a week ago, but you were in Scotland.”
“Yes, I was at that Munro case. Acting for old Munro. I think he’ll pull it off.”
“I dare say.” The talk drifted on, then French turned it to the object of his call.
“I’m on a case that you people have had a finger in. I wish you’d tell me what you can about it. It’s that business of
