“Thanks,” French answered. “Then I shall deal with you.”
“We’re really closed for business today, you understand,” went on Mr. Schoofs. “I’m merely taking the opportunity to go through Mr. Duke’s papers and see how things stand. If only Harrington had had his partnership, it would be his job, but as it is, everything devolves on me.”
French, having replied suitably, made a move to go, but he lingered and went on:
“Unexpected, the old man going off like that, wasn’t it? I shouldn’t have thought he was that kind at all.”
Mr. Schoofs made a gesture of commiseration.
“Nor was he,” he agreed, “but it’s not so surprising after all. You possibly didn’t see him during the last week or two, but I can tell you, he was in a bad way; very depressed, and getting worse every day. I don’t think he was well—I mean in health, and I think it reacted on his mind. He was worrying over the loss of his money.”
“Was he really bankrupt?”
Mr. Schoofs had not the figures, but he very gravely feared it. It was a bad lookout for his daughter. Indeed, it was a bad lookout for them all. It was hard lines on elderly men when they had to give up their jobs and start life again. It was that damned war, responsible for this as well as most of the troubles of the times. It had probably made a difference to the Inspector also?
“Lost my eldest,” said French gruffly, and turned the conversation back to the late principal. He was, it seemed, going to Amsterdam on routine business. He had no stones with him, and there was therefore nothing to suggest that his disappearance could have been due to other than suicide.
French had not really doubted the conclusions of the Dutch police, but the death by violence of a man bearing a packet of great value is always suspicious, and he was glad to be sure such had not obtained in this instance.
His next visit was to Messrs. Tinsley & Sharpe, the Lincoln’s Inn solicitors. Mr. Tinsley was the sole surviving partner, and to him French was presently admitted.
It appeared that Mr. Duke had left everything to Sylvia, “Though, poor girl,” Mr. Tinsley added, “by all accounts that won’t be much.” Mr. Tinsley was executor, therefore any further dealings French might have about the robbery would be with him. Mr. Duke and he had been old friends; in fact, he had been Mr. Duke’s best man, he didn’t like to think how many years previously. He had been shocked by the change in the old gentleman when three days prior to his death he had called to see him. He seemed ill and depressed, and had said, “I’m not feeling well, Tinsley. It’s my heart, I’m afraid, and this confounded worry about money matters,” and had gone on to obtain the solicitor’s promise to look after Sylvia “if anything happened.”
“In the light of what has since taken place,” Mr. Tinsley concluded, “I am afraid he had made up his mind then that suicide was the easiest way out, though I was terribly surprised and shocked when I heard of it.”
“I am sure of that, sir,” French answered as he rose to go. “Then if any further developments occur about the robbery, I shall communicate with you.”
He returned to the Yard, made his report, and when he had attended to a number of routine matters, found it was time to knock off work for the day.
XV
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
