“Huh,” said the fat man. “Well, we told ’em. I handled it myself.”
“Did they tell you why they wanted to know?”
“Nope. Only asked the question.”
“That’s where they made the mistake. A woman called on Williams, saying she was Mrs. Root and had crossed by the Olympic. She said she had lost her despatch case with her passport and tickets and money, and she wanted a loan of £3,000 on the security of diamonds she had in her trunk.”
“Well? Was it not right?”
“It was perfectly right so far. Williams was satisfied from what you told him that she was the woman, and he lent the money.”
French paused, smiling, and his friend swore.
“Confound it, man! Can’t you get on? Were the stones paste?”
“Not at all. They took them to Stronge, of Hurst & Stronge’s, and he valued them. They were perfectly all right, worth £3,300 odd, but”—French paused and became very impressive—“they were all stolen from Duke & Peabody the night before!”
The fat man was visibly impressed. He stared fixedly at French, as he might had that philosopher turned into Mrs. Root before his eyes. Then heavily he smote his thigh.
“Je—hosaphat!” he observed slowly. “The night before! Some crook that! Tell me.”
“That’s about all there is to tell,” French declared. “The woman arrived at the Savoy about eight o’clock, the night before, ostensibly from the Olympic, and she left next night and has vanished. No clue so far. I traced her to Victoria and there lost the trail.”
The fat man thought profoundly.
“Well, if Williams & Davies want to blame us for it, they can look elsewhere,” he presently announced. “They asked us a question, and we gave them a correct and immediate reply.”
“I know that,” French agreed. “Williams asked you the wrong question. Mrs. Root was impersonated; at least, that’s my theory. But what I wanted to know from you was how you got your information. Between ourselves, are you satisfied about it?”
The fat man shook his fist good-humouredly.
“Now, young man,” he advised, “don’t you get fresh with me. But I’ll tell you,” he went on, suddenly grave. “It was through Pinkerton’s. We have an arrangement with them. I cabled their New York depot and they got the information.”
“I knew it would be all right,” French answered, “but I was curious to know how you worked.”
The two men chatted for some time, then French said he must go. Half an hour later he reached his house, and with a sigh of relief at the thought of his slippers and his armchair, let himself in.
XI
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 OK.
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
