The back streets surrounding Hatton Garden, in the City of London, do not form at the best of times a cheerful or inspiring prospect. Narrow and mean, and flanked with ugly, sordid-looking buildings grimy from exposure to the smoke and fogs of the town and drab from the want of fresh paint, they can hardly fail to strike discouragement into the heart of any one eager for the uplift of our twentieth century civilisation. But if on a day of cheerful sunshine the outlook is thus melancholy, it was

When Inspector French ushered the clerk, Orchard, into the inner office, they found Mr. Duke pacing the floor with an expression of utter mystification imprinted on his features. “I say, Inspector, here’s a puzzle,” he cried. “I happened to look behind the safe door, and I find it has been opened with a key. I thought at first it had been broken or forced or the lock somehow picked. But I see it is unlocked.” “Yes, I noticed that, sir,” French answered. “But I don’t follow you. What is the myste

The fact that he had been out all the previous night was not, in Inspector French’s eyes, any reason why he should be late at his work next day. At his usual time, therefore, he reached New Scotland Yard, and promptly engaged himself in the compilation of a preliminary report on the Hatton Garden crime. This completed, he resumed direct work on the case. There were still several obvious inquiries to be made, inquiries which might almost be called routine, in that they followed necessarily from t

About ten o’clock on the morning of the tenth day after the murder of Charles Gething, Inspector French sat in his room at New Scotland Yard wondering for the thousandth time if there was no clue in the affair which he had overlooked, no line of research which he had omitted to follow up. He had seldom found himself up against so baffling a problem. Though from the nature of the case, as he told himself with exasperation, a solution should be easily reached, yet he could find nothing to go on. T

Inspector French had not quite finished supper that evening when his telephone bell rang. He was wanted back at the Yard immediately. Some information about the case had come in. Cheerful and hopeful, he set off and in a few minutes was once more seated in his office. There a note was awaiting him, which had been delivered by hand a short time previously. He eagerly tore it open, and read: “City of London Banking Co., “Reading Branch, 11th December. “ Sir ,—With reference to your inquiry re cert

To a comparative stay-at-home like Inspector French, who considered a run to Plymouth or Newcastle a long journey, the trailing of Jan Vanderkemp across south-west France opened up a conception of the size of the globe whereon he moved and had his being, which left him slightly awestruck. The journey from Savoy to Spain seemed endless, the distances incredible, the expanse of country between himself and home illimitable. Hour after hour he sat in the train, while elms and oaks gave place to cypr

When Inspector French felt really up against it in the conduct of a case, it was his invariable habit to recount the circumstances in the fullest detail to his wife. She, poor woman, haled from the mysterious household employments in which her soul delighted, would resignedly fetch her sewing and sit placidly in the corner of the Chesterfield while her lord and master strode up and down the room stating his premises, arguing therefrom with ruthless logic and not a few gestures, sifting his facts

Taximan Tomkins was a wizened-looking man with a surly manner and the air of having a constant grievance, but he was evidently overawed by the situation in which he found himself, and seemed anxious to do his best to answer the Inspector’s questions clearly. He remembered the evening in question. He had been hailed by a gentleman near Liverpool Street, and told to drive to the Curtis Street Girls’ Club. There, after some delay, they had picked up a young lady. “What address did you get?” French

One morning about six weeks after the murder in Hatton Garden, Inspector French was summoned to the presence of his chief. “Look here, French,” he was greeted, “you’ve been at that Gething case long enough. I can’t have any more time wasted on it. What are you doing now?” French, his usual cheery confidence sadly deflated, hesitatingly admitted that at the moment he was not doing very much, embellishing this in the course of a somewhat painful conversation with the further information that he wa

During Inspector French’s brief lunch hour he continued turning over in his mind the immediate problem which Mr. Williams’s story had raised for him, namely, at what point he had best attack his new inquiry. The facts postulated a good deal of obvious detailed investigation, and he felt he should carry this through in his usual systematic way before attempting to evolve a comprehensive theory of the crime. He had first to learn what he could of the mysterious Mrs. Root, and in this connection he

Inspector French’s cheery self-confidence was never so strongly marked as when his mind was free from misgiving as to his course of action in the immediate future. When something was obviously waiting to be done he invariably went straight in and did it, shrinking neither from difficulty nor unpleasantness, provided only he could carry through his task to a successful conclusion. It was only when he did not see his way clear that he became depressed, and then he grew surly as a bear with a sore

Inspector French put up at a small hotel near the town station, and next morning was early at the White Star offices. There he learned that the Olympic was even at that moment coming in, and he went down to the quays and watched the berthing of the monster vessel. It was an impressive experience to see her creep up to her place, manœuvre into position, and make fast. Then from her gangways began to stream the travellers who, for the better part of a week, had journeyed aboard her. Some were hurr

By the time Inspector French had finished supper and lit up a pipe of the special mixture he affected, he felt in considerably better form. He determined that instead of going early to bed, as he had intended while in the train, he would try to induce the long-suffering Mrs. French to listen to a statement of his problem, in the hope that light thereon would be vouchsafed to her, in which in due course he would participate. Accordingly, when she had finished with the supper things he begged her

Some days later Inspector French was once again sent for by his chief. The great man seemed in an irritable frame of mind, and he began to speak before the other had well entered the room. “See here, French,” he greeted him; “here’s a fresh development in that confounded Gething case. Read that.” French stepped up to the desk and took the postal telegraph sheets his superior held out. They bore a message from the Chief of Police at the Hook, which had been sent out at 8.27 that morning. “Captain

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. . 

Inspector French had now so many points of attack in his inquiry that he felt somewhat at a loss as to which he should proceed with first. The tracing of Mrs. Vane was the immediate goal, but it was by no means clear which particular line of inquiry would most surely and rapidly lead to that end. Nothing would be easier than to spend time on side issues, and in this case a few hours might make all the difference between success and failure. The lady had already had five days’ start, and he could

Full of his new idea, French on arrival at his office on the following morning took from his archives the letter addressed to Mrs. Vane which he had found in the box on that lady’s hall door and spread it out before him on his desk. As he looked down the list of sales and purchases of stock, he was struck once again not only by the surprising number of the transactions, but also of the diversity of the stocks dealt in. There were British War Loan, Colonial Government and foreign railway stocks,

In the vast organisation of Scotland Yard the indexing of information on every available subject has been brought to something more than a fine art. If French had wished to know the number of inhabitants of Prague, the favourite recreations of the Elder Brethren of Trinity House, or the width of the Ganges at Allahabad, some notes or books of reference would immediately have been forthcoming which would have fully supplied the desired information. How much more when the question was merely one o

If Captain Davis experienced surprise on seeing French reappear at the door of his cabin, he gave no indication of his feelings. “Good-afternoon, Inspector,” he greeted him quietly. “Come aboard again? You should have stayed with us, you know.” He smiled quizzically. “It would have been much less tiring than going all that way round by land, and for the matter of that, a good deal cheaper. Found your criminals?” “Well, I’ve not,” French answered slowly, “—yet. But I hope to soon. Captain, I’ve h