Mr Schoofs was a dapper little man with a pompous manner and an evident sense of his own value. He spoke excellent English, and greeted his caller politely as he motioned him to a chair. French lost no time in coming to the point.
‘I have called, sir,’ he began in a harsh tone, not at all in accord with his usual ‘Soapy Joe’ character, while he transfixed the other with a cold and inimical stare, ‘with reference to the murder of Mr Gething. I am Inspector French of the Criminal Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard.’
But his little plot did not come off. Mr Schoofs merely raised his eyebrows, and with a slight shrug of his shoulders contrived to produce a subtle suggestion that he was surprised not with the matter, but with the manner, of his visitor’s announcement.
‘Ah yes!’ he murmured easily. ‘A sad business truly! And I understand there is no trace of the murderer and thief? It must be disquieting to Londoners to have deeds of violence committed with such impunity in their great city.’
French, realising that he had lost the first move, changed his tone.
‘It is true, sir, that we have as yet made no arrest, but we are not without hope of doing so shortly. It was to gain some further information that I came over to see you.’
‘I am quite at your disposal.’
‘I needn’t ask you if you can give me any directly helpful news, because in that case you would have already volunteered it. But it may be that you can throw light upon some side issue, of which you may not have realised the importance.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such, for example, as the names of persons who were aware of the existence of the diamonds in Mr Duke’s safe. That is one of many lines.’
‘Yes? And others?’
‘Suppose we take that one first. Can you, as a matter of fact, tell me if the matter was known of over here?’
‘I knew of it, if that is what you mean,’ Mr Schoofs answered in a slightly dry tone. ‘Mr Duke told me of his proposed deal, and asked me to look out for stones for him. Mr Vanderkemp also knew of it, as he bought a lot of the stones and took them to London. But I do not think anyone else knew.’
‘What about your clerk and office boy?’
Mr Schoofs shook his head.
‘It is impossible that either could have heard of 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.
‘Now 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 anyone 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.
‘I should like to have a chat with him. Is he in at present?’
‘No, 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.
‘He 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.’
‘But 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 Queenborough. At least, he was to do so, for I only saw him on the previous evening.’
‘Well, he never arrived. Was it on business he was going?’
‘Yes, Mr Duke wrote for him.’
‘Mr Duke wrote for him?’ French echoed, at last genuinely surprised. ‘What? To cross that day?’
‘To 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:
‘20th November.
‘H. A. SCHOOFS, ESQ.
‘I 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 more closely.
‘Are you sure this is really Mr Duke’s signature?’ he asked slowly.
Mr Schoofs looked at him curiously.
‘Why, yes,’ he answered. ‘At least, it never occurred to me to doubt it.’
‘You might let me see some of his other letters.’
In a few seconds half a dozen were produced, and French began whistling below his breath as he sat comparing the signatures, using a lens which he took from his pocket. After he had examined each systematically, he laid them down on the table and sat back in his chair.
‘That was stupid of me,’ he announced. ‘I should have learnt all I wanted without asking for these other letters. That signature is forged. See here, look at it for yourself.’
He passed the lens to Schoofs, who in his turn examined the name.
‘You see, the lines of that writing are not smooth; they are a mass of tiny shakes and quivers. That means that they have not been written quickly and boldly; they have been slowly drawn or traced over pencil. Compare one of these other notes and you will see that while