Inspector French's greatest case

by Freeman Wills Crofts

The Inspector had found from long experience that the time spent in discussing his illness with an invalid was not wasted. The pleasure he gave had the effect of creating a sympathy and good feeling which assisted him when he came to the second part of the interview, the favour he wanted for himself. He was not altogether a hypocrite in this. It was part of the technique of his business, and besides, he was a good-natured man who really did like giving pleasure. He therefore talked asthma and asthma cures for some minutes before turning to the subject of Miss Cissie Winter.

But in the present case the excellent impression which he undoubtedly produced brought him but little benefit. The stout old doorkeeper remembered Miss Winter well, and instantly recognised her photograph, but he knew nothing about her present whereabouts. She had gone off with some man, a man whom also he remembered well, as on many occasions they had chatted together while the former waited at the stage door for the lady’s appearance. He was tall and well built, well on in middle age, and with the air of a professional or business man. His name, Dowds believed, was Vane, but of this he was not positive. Asked how he knew that the lady had gone off with this or any other man, it transpired that he did not really know at all, but that this had been the generally accepted theory at the time. He had never learned the man’s address, but he seemed to have plenty of money and was liberal in his tips. Since that time, about thirteen years previously, Dowds had not heard or seen anything of either. Of Miss Winter he had but a poor opinion. She might be a good actress, but she was hard and mean and had a sharp tongue. What the man could have seen in her he, Dowds, did not know, but he had evidently been pretty completely bowled over.

When French had gleaned these particulars, he found he had reached the end of the old doorkeeper’s usefulness, and he was soon on his way to his next call, the Aladdin theatre in Piccadilly.

Mr. Jacques was in the building, but engaged, and French fretted and fumed for nearly two hours before being ushered into his presence. But then he felt himself completely compensated for his long wait. Like most others who came in contact with him, French soon fell a victim to the great producer’s winning personality and charm of manner. The old gentleman apologised courteously for his engagement, which, he explained, was a troublesome rehearsal, and then listened with close attention to what French had to say.

But he could not tell so very much after all. He remembered Miss Winter, and after a search through some details of her life. He had first seen her in the Tivoli theatre in New York, some sixteen years previously, and had been struck by her acting. She had somehow learned of his presence, for she had followed him to his hotel, and explaining that she was anxious to get a footing on the English stage, had asked him for a part in one of the plays she had heard he was then bringing out. He had agreed, and when she had completed her New York engagement, she had followed him to England, and he had starred her in Oh, Johnny! and certain other plays of that period. In all she had appeared in seven productions, and Mr. Jacques had a high opinion of her capabilities.

Some three years later she had given him notice that she wished to leave the stage at the end of her then current contract. He had protested, telling her that she was ruining an extremely promising career, but she had insisted, explaining that she was going to be married. This he had not believed, though he had no definite reason for his opinion. It was generally accepted that she had gone off with some married man, but how this story arose he could not say. He had, at all events, completely lost sight of her. Her age when she left his company thirteen years earlier was twenty-nine, and her address was 17 Stanford Street, Chelsea.

“I’m afraid,” French said, “that she has turned crook,” and he outlined her impersonation of Mrs. Root.

“Of course I know nothing about that,” Mr. Jacques answered, “but I can at least tell you that no one could have carried out a scheme of the kind better than Cissie Winter. She had the brains and the nerve and the knowledge. I’m sorry to hear she has gone wrong, but if you are up against her, I can assure you you’ll find her no mean antagonist.”

French smiled ruefully as he rose.

“I’ve discovered that already,” he admitted, “but knowing what I know now, it can’t be long until I have my hands on her.”