Inspector French's Greatest Case by Freeman Wills Crofts

at Brigue, passed down the Rhone Valley, and changing again at Martigny, spent another four hours on what a fellow traveller with a nasal drawl described as “the most elegant ride he’d struck,” through Vallorcine and Argentiere to Chamonix. On crossing the divide, the panorama which suddenly burst on his view of the vast mass of the Mont Blanc massif hanging in the sky above the valley, literally took away his breath, and he swore that his next holidays would certainly be spent in the overwhelming scenery of these tremendous mountains.
    At Chamonix history tended to repeat itself. He reached his hotel, dined excellently, and then sought the manager. M. Marcel, like his
confrère
in Kandersteg, was courtesy personified, and listened carefully to French’s statement. But when he realised the nature of the problem he was called upon to solve, he could but shake his head and shrug his shoulders.
    â€œAlas, monsieur,” he wailed, “but with the best will in the world, how can I? I change so many English notes. … I recall giving those ten-pound notes to a gentleman from England, because it is comparatively seldom that I am asked to change French money into English, but I am constantly receiving English notes. No, I am sorry, but I could not tell you where those came from.”
    Though French had scarcely hoped for any other reply, he was nevertheless disappointed. He showed Colonel FitzGeorge’s photograph to the manager, who instantly recognised it as that of the Englishman for whom he had exchanged the notes. But he could give no further help.
    This clue having petered out, French determined to call for the register and make a search therein in the hope of recognising the handwriting of some entry. But before he did so he asked about Vanderkemp. Had any one of that name been a recent visitor?
    The manager could not recall the name, but he had a thorough search made of the records. This also drew blank. French then handed him the photograph of Vanderkemp which he had obtained in Amsterdam, asking if he had ever seen the original.
    With that the luck turned. M. Marcel beamed. “But yes, monsieur,” he exclaimed, with a succession of nods, “your friend was here for several days. He left about a fortnight ago. M. Harrison from one of your great Midland towns, is it not? He told me which, but I have forgotten.”
    â€œThat’s the man,” cried French heartily, delighted beyond words at this new development. “I have been following him round. Might I see his entry in the register?”
    Again the records were brought into requisition, and as he looked French felt wholly triumphant. On comparing the “J. Harrison, Huddersfield, England,” to which the manager pointed, with the samples of Vanderkemp’s handwriting which he had obtained from Mr. Schoofs, he saw that unquestionably they were written by the same hand. So Vanderkemp was his man! After this there could be no further doubt of his guilt.
    For a moment he remained silent, considering what this discovery meant. It was now evident that Vanderkemp, under the alias Harrison, had arrived at the Beau-Sejour Hotel about midday on the second day after the crime, and after staying a week, had departed for an unknown destination. But the matter did not end there. With a sudden, theatrical gesture the manager indicated that he had more to say.
    â€œYou have recalled something on my mind, monsieur,” he announced. “That M. Harrison asked me to change notes for him. In fact, I remember the whole thing clearly. His bill came to between four and five hundred francs, and he paid with an English ten-pound note. With the exchange as it is at present, he should have had about 300 francs change. But I now remember he asked me at the same time to change a second ten-pound note. I did so, and gave him about 1000 francs. So it is possible, I do not say certain, but it is possible. …” He shrugged his