Inspector French’s Greatest Case

go on deck or when occasionally she sat in the saloon, was but rarely seen. This was, thought French, a likely enough ruse for the fugitives to adopt, and his suspicions were strengthened by the fact that Miss da Silva’s general appearance was not unlike that of Mrs. Vane. But Mr. Jennings soon demolished his house of cards. The da Silvas were obviously Brazilian. They, or rather the girl, for the old man had been too feeble even to deal with the business of the tickets, spoke fluent Portuguese, the Portuguese of a native, and her English was not only broken, but was spoken as a Portuguese alone speaks it. Besides, she looked like a Portuguese. They lived at Rio, so Mr. Jennings had gathered, and had visited England to see Mr. da Silva’s brother, a London merchant. They had booked to Para, near where other relatives lived, and from where they would return to Rio. They had taken tickets and reserved their staterooms some time before the Vanes.

French was disappointed. He booked on to Lisbon on chance, then not wishing to be seen, he retired to his cabin, leaving Sergeant Carter to watch the ladder leading to the shore boats.

As he sat smoking beside the open porthole, he kept on racking his brains for some method of solving his problem, but at last it was a chance word of the purser’s that give him his idea. Mr. Jennings had dropped in just after the ship, pushing out between the two great stone moles of the harbour, had dipped her nose into the deep, slow-moving Atlantic swell, and he had said: “Talking of disguises, it’s a pity you couldn’t disguise yourself and come into the saloon tonight, Mr. French. We are having our first singsong, and you would have a good chance then of seeing the lady passengers.”

“That’s rather an idea,” French had replied. “Could you not hide me somewhere, say, near the door of the saloon through which those attending must enter, so that I could see each as she passed?”

Mr. Jennings had believed it might be possible, and had promised to see what could be done. And then as he was taking his leave, the idea flashed into French’s mind, and he had called him back.

“Don’t trouble about that business in the meantime, Mr. Jennings. Would it be convenient to you to call back again in half an hour? I shall have something to ask you then.”

Jennings glanced at him curiously, but all he said was “Right-o!” as he went on his business. After the allotted span he came back, and French spoke earnestly.

“Look here, Mr. Jennings, if you could do something for me you’d put me under a heavy debt of gratitude. I’ll tell you what it is. First I want you to smuggle me into the saloon before the concert begins, without anyone having seen me. I want to sit in some place where I can’t be seen by a person entering until he or she is right inside the room. Is that possible?”

“Why, yes, I think so. I’ll fix it for you somehow. I take it your notion is that if the lady sees you so suddenly and unexpectedly she will give herself away?”

“Quite, but there is something else, Mr. Jennings. That scheme would only work if she knows my appearance, but I don’t think she does. I want someone to read this out as an item. Will you do it?”

He handed over a sheet of paper which he had covered with writing during his half-hour’s wait. It read:

“Riddle.

“A prize of a 5-lb. box of chocolates is offered for the best answer to the following riddle:

“If she is Winter in Comedy,
Ward in Olympic,
Root in Savoy, and
Vane in Crewe,
What is she on the Enoch?”

Mr. Jennings looked somewhat mystified.

“I don’t quite get you?” he suggested.

“Woman’s aliases and the places where she used them.”

Something like admiration showed in the purser’s eyes.

“My word! Some notion, that! If the woman is there and hasn’t smelt a rat, she’ll give herself away when she hears that. But why don’t you read it yourself?”

“If she makes a move to leave I want to be out before her. If she leaves, it will mean that her husband is not present, and I want to get her before she can warn him. Carter’ll be on the same job.”

“Well, I’ll read it if you like, but frankly I’d rather you had someone else to do it.”

“What about Captain Davis?”

Jennings glanced round and sank his voice.

“If you take my advice, you’ll leave the old man out of it altogether. He just mightn’t approve. He treats the passengers as his guests, and bluffing them like that mightn’t appeal to him.”

“But I’m not bluffing them,” French retorted with a twinkle in his eye. He drew a pound note from his pocket and passed it over. “That’s for the chocolates, and whoever puts in the best answer gets it. It’s all perfectly straight and above board. Whether we get the woman over it or not no one need ever know.”

The purser smiled, but shook his head doubtfully.

“Well, it’s your funeral. Anyway, I’ve said I’ll go through with it, and I will.”

“Good!” French was once more his hearty, complacent self. “Now there is another matter if this one fails. Mrs. Vane may stay in her cabin. I want you to check the women present by your list, and give me a note of any absentees. Then I shall go round their cabins and make some excuse to see each.”

The purser agreed to this also. “I’ll send you some dinner here, and at once,” he added as he rose to take his leave, “then I’ll come for you while the passengers are dining, and get you fixed up in the saloon.”

“Better send Carter here, and he can dine with me while I explain the thing to him.”

When Mr. Jennings had gone, French stood in front of his porthole gazing out over the heaving waters. Daylight