Inspector French's Greatest Case by Freeman Wills Crofts Page A

it.”
    French, though he had begun inauspiciously, continued the interrogation with his usual suavity. He asked several other questions, but without either learning anything of interest, or surprising Schoofs into showing embarrassment or suspicious symptoms. Then he turned to the real object of his visit.
    â€œNow about your traveller, Mr. Schoofs. What kind of man is Mr. Vanderkemp?”
    Under the genial and deferent manner which French was now exhibiting, Schoofs had thawed, and he really seemed anxious to give all the help he could. Vanderkemp, it appeared, was a considerable asset to the firm, though owing to his age—he was just over sixty—he was not able to do so much as formerly. Personally, he was not very attractive; he drank a little too much, he gambled, and there were discreditable though unsubstantiated tales of his private life. Moreover, he was of morose temper and somewhat short manners, except when actually negotiating a deal, when he could be suave and polished enough. But he had been known to perform kind actions, for instance, he had been exceedingly good to his nephew Harrington. Neither Schoofs nor any one else in the concern particularly liked him, but he had one invaluable gift, a profound knowledge of precious stones and an accuracy in valuing them which was almost uncanny. He had done well for the firm, and Mr. Duke was glad to overlook his shortcomings in order to retain his services.
    â€œI should like to have a chat with him. Is he in at present?”
    â€œNo, he went to London nearly a fortnight ago. He has not returned yet. But I’m expecting him every day, as I have instructions from Mr. Duke to send him to Florence.”
    French looked interested.
    â€œHe went to London?” he repeated. “But I can assure you he never arrived there, or at least never reached Mr. Duke’s office. I have asked Mr. Duke on several occasions about his staff, and he distinctly told me that he had not seen this Mr. Vanderkemp since two or three weeks before the murder.”
    â€œBut that’s most extraordinary,” Schoofs exclaimed. “He certainly left here to go to London on—what day was it?—it was the very day poor Gething was murdered. He left by the day service via Rotterdam and Queensborough. At least, he was to do so, for I only saw him on the previous evening.”
    â€œWell, he never arrived. Was it on business he was going?”
    â€œYes, Mr. Duke wrote for him.”
    â€œMr. Duke wrote for him?” French echoed, at last genuinely surprised. “What? To cross that day?”
    â€œTo see him in the office on the following morning. I can show you the letter.” He touched a bell and gave the necessary instructions. “There it is,” he continued, handing over the paper which the clerk brought in.
    It was an octavo sheet of memorandum paper with the firm’s name printed on the top, and bore the following typewritten letter: —
    â€œ20th November.
    â€œH. A. S CHOOFS , E SQ .
    â€œI should be obliged if you would please ask Mr. Vanderkemp to come over and see me here at 10.00 a.m. on Wednesday, 26th inst., as I wish him to undertake negotiations for a fresh purchase. He may have to go to Stockholm at short notice.”
    The note was signed “R. A. Duke,” with the attendant flourish with which French had grown familiar.
    He sat staring at the sheet of paper, trying to fit this new discovery into the scheme of things. But it seemed to him an insoluble puzzle. Was Mr. Duke not really the innocent, kindly old gentleman he had fancied, but rather a member, if not the author, of some deep-seated conspiracy. If he had written this note, why had he not mentioned the fact when Vanderkemp was being discussed? Why had he shown surprise when he received Schoofs’ letter saying that the traveller had crossed to London? What was at the bottom of the whole affair?
    An idea struck him, and he examined the letter