by Brian Flynn
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell him I want him—at once.”
The constable disappeared even more promptly than he had saluted, to return in a few moments with the Sergeant behind him.
“Any more news, Godfrey?”
“No, sir—I should think the news first thing this morning was sufficient,” he added—rather lugubriously.
“I want the dead girl’s suit-case,” said Bannister, briskly.”
“You took it—!”
“It’s in that cupboard,” rapped Bannister indicating the cupboard with a gesture of the fore-finger. “I put it there last night—you’ve got the keys.”
Godfrey nodded and quickly unlocked the cupboard door. Bannister pulled out the case and stood it upright on the table. As has been previously stated, it resembled hundreds of other, which very obvious fact made Anthony shake his head with a feeling of misgiving. But not so—Daphne Carruthers. That lady left the Crown Prince’s side and excitedly pulled the two tie-on labels down to the level of her vision. Her eyes flashed with her excitement. “They’re my labels,” she cried, “in my handwriting.” She fished impetuously in her vanity-bag and produced a key. It fitted. The catches clicked and the case swung open as she pulled at it. “And they’re my clothes inside,” she cried in increased amazement. “What on earth is the meaning of this? She’s taken all my things as well as my name.” Her eyes were wide-opened and wondering, as she stood there waiting for one of them to answer. Nobody obliged her—but Mr. Bathurst noticed that the Crown Prince was trembling with excitement; the ash of his cigarette was shaken to the floor.
Chapter VIII
Daphne draws up the blinds
He gazed at her—amazed and incredulous—fascinated at the sudden and unexpected turn that she had given to the march of events. But his emotion at the news was such that he sought for and sank weakly into a convenient chair. Anthony then turned his attention to Bannister and to Sergeant Godfrey. Bannister’s eyes were gleaming with a strange mixture of curiosity and satisfaction. Here was a witness at last upon whose evidence he felt that he could thoroughly rely.
“This is most extraordinarily interesting, Miss Carruthers. Please explain how your luggage comes to be in the dead girl’s possession and in Room 66 at the ‘Lauderdale’ Hotel?”
Daphne turned upon her questioner two round eyes of beautiful astonishment. “I should very much like to be in a position to do so,” she exclaimed. “I am just as eager to know as you yourself are. Those two questions are just the two that I can’t answer,” she supplemented.
“When was this suit-case last in your possession?” demanded Bannister.
“On Wednesday evening,” she replied, “when I was on the point of leaving the ‘Cassandra.’ I left the hotel about twenty minutes to ten in order to catch the ten-three from the station. But as I had a handbag and two novels to carry, I left my suit-case to be forwarded to my home address. I labelled it—just as you see it now—and left appropriate instructions at the ‘Cassandra.’ It’s my usual practice if I’m travelling alone—I just hate to be lumbered up with heaps of things to carry.
“Where did you last actually see it?” queried Bannister with a soupçon of impatience.
Daphne puckered her brows. “One of the hotel porters took it downstairs for me—I tipped him—I didn’t see it again after he’d taken it from my room.”
“Pardon me a moment, Inspector,” intervened Anthony. “I should like to ask Miss Carruthers a question. Are the labels as you see them now tied in exactly the same manner and in exactly the same positions as you yourself tied and placed them?”
“Absolutely,” replied the lady, “one at each end of the handle.”
“There’s only one explanation that will fit the case,” broke in Alexis of Clorania, hoarsely. “The suit-case was stolen by this other girl—whoever she is—for some malicious motive that hasn’t yet been fathomed—it’s all part of the same dark plot—commencing with the—” He caught a warning glance from Anthony and summarily stopped.
Bannister broke in sharply. “I beg to differ. There’s more than one possible explanation, Your Royal Highness, come to that. Besides the possibility of the suit-case having been stolen by the dead lady—there’s also the rather likely possibility of an exchange of luggage having been effected unintentionally. We shall have to find out what the procedure is with regard to luggage at the ‘Cassandra.’ The exchange may even have taken place in some way at Seabourne Station and it may have been quite an innocent one.”
“The dead girl came by car, Inspector,” ventured Anthony.
“True—but from where? She may have met the car at the station—asked a porter there to put her suit-case in for her—and the man may have picked up Miss Carruthers’ by mistake—waiting on the platform somewhere, ready to be despatched to town.”
Bannister paused—then went on again directly. “Very likely the dead girl’s suit-case is still kicking its heels on the platform at Seabourne, for all we know to the contrary.”
“There is yet another likely possibility it seems to me,” said Anthony, quietly.
“What’s that, Mr. Bathurst?”
“That the suit-case was stolen by the murderer.”
Bannister contemplated the suggestion for a moment or two. “For what reason?”
“It’s impossible to say for the moment,” replied Anthony, “but you must admit it’s a distinct possibility.”
He turned to Daphne Carruthers. “How many people knew you were staying at Seabourne?” he queried.
The lady blushed rather charmingly. “Two only,” she answered, “a very special girl-friend—Lois Travers—and—” She hesitated and looked round the company.
Bannister noticed her hesitation. “Yes?” he interrogated, “and?”
“The Crown Prince here,” she answered with a certain amount of dismay.
“I see.” Bannister made an understanding motion with his head and Sergeant Godfrey relaxed his attitude of tension for a moment and permitted himself the luxury of a fugitive smile. “This young lady you mentioned—Miss Travers—I presume that I can regard her as a confidante of yours—yes?”
Daphne nodded. “Yes—she has my complete confidence. It was she who recommended the ‘Cassandra’ to me originally—when I came to Seabourne last year. Her fiancé stays here quite a lot, you see.”
“Oh,” muttered Bannister, “that’s rather interesting—what’s his name?”
“Captain Willoughby.”
“Really,” replied the Inspector, with a smile, “that fact, perhaps, is still more interesting—he’s by way of being an acquaintance of mine.”
“You’ve met him here, I take it, Inspector?” interjected Anthony.
“I have that,” answered Bannister with a set expression. “I was actually in conversation with him when Godfrey here ‘barged in’ and lugged me from a restful holiday into this.”
Anthony was beginning to realise that he was confronted with a curious combination of circumstances. The obstinate contention of the Crown Prince concerning the implication of the murder with the blackmailer might not be so fantastic after all. Here was a certain Captain Willoughby already fitting into the pieces of the puzzle at both ends. He had taken the photograph of Daphne and her Royal admirer during the year before and now he cropped up again in the same place at the very time coincident with the murder. Mr. Bathurst came to the conclusion that the matter would have to receive definite attention.
“Give me the address of this Miss Travers, will you?” demanded Bannister.
“Forty-four, Crowborough Mansions, Maida Vale.”
“Anthony glanced across at the Crown Prince who was shewing decided signs of discomfort at the turn the investigation had taken. Evidently he could see by now—almost as clearly as Mr. Bathurst did—that it was going to be extremely difficult, to say nothing of being, perhaps, extraordinarily indiscreet and risky to keep Bannister and Godfrey completely ignorant of the matter of the blackmailing lette
rs. This last love-escapade of Alexis had certainly proved to be most unfortunate for him! He was inclined to rail at Fate for the maliciously-mischievous trick that she had played him. After all, look at it any way you like—he was a Royal personage—heir to a throne—not by any means an ordinary person—he should have been immune from trouble of this kind—Fate should have recognized—
Bannister broke in upon his rebellious musings. He turned sharply towards Godfrey and the statement and question he put to him were sufficiently startling to rouse even Anthony himself to an acuter alertness. As the Inspector spoke Anthony recognised that here was a Police-Officer of imagination far beyond the ordinary. Of course he had been aware all the time of Bannister’s almost International reputation. But Mr. Bathurst it must be observed was not a slavish believer in the value of mere reputations. He knew the strength of the hand that Dame Fortune frequently played towards their establishment. In emphasis of this point he had been known to quote more than once, “Reputations are what people think of us—character is what God and His Angels know of us.” Bannister’s question proved to him conclusively that whatever qualities might be lacking in the Inspector’s composition—imagination was not one of them.”
“Godfrey,” rapped Bannister, “you’ll find that the dead girl in the mortuary yonder is Lois Travers—what do you say to my idea—eh?”
The audacity of the theory appeared to take Godfrey’s breath away for he was some appreciable time before he replied.
“Can’t say, sir.” He shook his head. “I think I see the direction your thoughts are taking, but—” He shook his head again—doubtfully.
The idea struck Anthony as containing great possibilities. He rose from the chair in which he had been seated. “It’s certainly worth testing, Inspector,” he exclaimed. He jerked his head almost imperceptibly towards Miss Carruthers. Bannister caught his meaning.
“Do you feel that you could submit to the ordeal of viewing the body, Miss Carruthers?” he asked.
The lady thus addressed shuddered. “Please don’t ask me to do that,” she replied—white to the lips. “But I can’t believe it’s Lois. It’s terrible to think that—” She stopped as a sudden thought appeared to strike her. “Ask Captain Willoughby to look,” she exclaimed. “He’s almost certain to be at the ‘Cassandra’—’phone from here.”
“That’s certainly a good idea,” said Bannister grimly. “Captain Willoughby—the lady’s fiancé—will be able to settle the point at once. Get on to the ‘Cassandra,’ Godfrey, and tell him we want him down here at once, will you? Wrap it up a bit. Break it to him gently.”
Godfrey went out, to return in a matter of a few moments.
Godfrey nodded. “He’s coming straight down here.”
“How did he take it?” demanded Bannister.
“Seemed very upset at the possibility—naturally—I only hinted at it, too.”
The Crown Prince twirled the ends of his moustache. “After all, Inspector,” he contributed, “say what you like—you’ve nothing really tangible towards this theory of yours. You may be alarming Captain Willoughby needlessly—it seems to me—”
Bannister interrupted him. “Outside yourself, sir, Miss Travers was the only person who knew anything of Miss Carruthers’ whereabouts. Now this dead girl knew somethin about Miss Carruthers—that’s conclusive to my mind—she’s actually in possession of her suit-case. That’s one thing, at all events upon which I can base a theory.”
Anthony found himself partly in agreement with Bannister’s contention. The Crown Prince, however, seemed very much inclined to reject it; Daphne Carruthers herself could visualise only the horror of the idea.
“At any rate,” continued Bannister inexorably, “we shan’t have to wait very long to know for certain. Then we shall see who’s right. Captain Willoughby should be here at any minute, now.” He glanced at his watch.
“It seems a very remarkable thing to me, Inspector,” declared Anthony, “that this dead girl had nothing with here or on her by which she could be identified. For instance—a purse—where was her money, for instance, with which she intended to pay Branston, the dentist, for the extraction that she had just had?”
“Exactly what appealed to me, Mr. Bathurst. What you’re asking me was one of the first questions that I asked Godfrey. She only possessed what she stood up in. Let us say, rather, what she sat down in, plus a hat and a pair of gloves.”
The lines of his mouth relaxed a little as he uttered this grim pleasantry.
“Which makes it pretty obvious to me then,” exclaimed Anthony, “that she was not meant to be identified—for as long a period as possible. Things that would have identified here were taken from her—there’s not a doubt about it—the murderer—or murderers—there may have been two of them for all we know—wanted time to do something during this period of non-identification—they’re doing it now—at this minute—very possibly—the question is ‘what’? He paced the small room anxiously—his face betraying his excitement. “That’s your problem, Inspector,” he concluded turning to Bannister.
The latter smiled at Bathurst’s keenness. “Perhaps,” he rejoined. “For the moment I would rather concentrate on my own little idea and stick to that. You’re inclined, if you’ll allow me to say so, Mr Bathurst, to imagine ‘data.’ I prefer to work upon the ‘data’ that lie in front of me. It’s usually a more profitable proposition, I find.” He glanced at the Crown Prince and thence to Daphne Carruthers and Anthony read unmistakably the marks of approval in their eyes. Before he could reply to Bannister’s sally—a smart young constable entered and announced Captain Willoughby. Mr. Bathurst eyed the new-comer with more than ordinary interest. He saw a tall, well-groomed man who was plainly not looking at his best. His finely-cut features, beautifully even teeth and glossy raven hair gave him a patrician appearance that was marred on this particular morning by the pallor and anxiety of his face.
“Chief-Inspector Bannister?” he inquired—then as his eyes caught sight of the Crown Prince of Clorania and Miss Carruthers, his apprehension seemed to increase. “Good morning”—he bowed to the two whom he knew.
“Good morning,” said Bannister. “Sergeant Godfrey has told you what I want of you—hasn’t he?”
Willoughby nodded—then broke in quickly and impetuously. “I feel certain you’re on the wrong track, Inspector,” he urged. “Miss Travers, my fiancée, is miles away from Seabourne—”
“We shall see,” said Bannister interrupting him. “For your sake—I sincerely hope you’re right—naturally—but personally—I’m not so sure! Come this way.” He conducted them across the stone-flagged station-yard to the small building in the corner that served Seabourne as a mortuary. Anthony and Sergeant Godfrey followed—separated from Bannister by Captain Willoughby, his fingers working nervously round his silver-knobbed stick. The Crown Prince and Daphne brought up the rear—the lady apparently having to some extent overcome her reluctance. The Inspector gave orders for the door of the mortuary to be unlocked and they passed in—the Crown Prince and his lady still last. Captain Willoughby braced his well-knit shoulders and walked on the white slab bare-headed—hat in hand. For one nerve-shattering second his shoulders remained braced. Then the rigid tension of his body relaxed.
“No—Inspector,” he said very quietly—his face ashen-pale—“this is not Miss Travers. This lady is a complete stranger to me.”
Bannister threw him a shrewd and challenging glance. “Then I’m glad and sorry,” he declared. “Sorry, of course, to have troubled you so needlessly.”
Willoughby bowed his thanks and as the light caught his face Anthony was able to discern the extent to which the ordeal had tried him. Then he noticed with surprise that the Crown Prince and Miss Carruthers had approached the white slab more closely. Daphne’s eyes were agleam with a mingled horror and excitement. “That girl, Inspector,” she cried uncontrollably, “I can identify her—I know her well—it’s Sheila Delaney!!!”
Chapter IX
/> Mr. Bathurst looks at a pair of shoes—and a luggage-wagon
Bannister’s eyes blazed! Whatever chagrin he may have felt at the failure of the theory that he had put forward was momentary. It almost instantly gave place to the excitement of the chase. The hunt was up!
“Sheila who?” he exclaimed.
“Sheila Delaney,” replied Daphne. “I—”
“How do you come to know her?” demanded Bannister peremptorily. “Was she a friend of yours?”
Daphne shook her head—her own excitement had passed for the time being and she was now feeling quite calm—stunned almost with the horror that she had been the first to unveil properly.
“Hardly a friend,” she replied. “Although I knew her very well. She was a great friend of my late uncle—Major Desmond Carruthers. I expect you have heard of him—he died in March of last year—he was killed in a motoring accident. He was Chief Constable of Westhamptonshire.” She looked at Bannister inquiringly.
Anthony was stung into the keenest attention. Westhamptonshire! Another coincidence or another link in the chain—which? He caught the Crown Prince’s eye and instantly formed the opinion that the mention of Westhamptonshire had increased that gentleman’s agitation. But Bannister was pressing eagerly for information.
“I remember the name, I think. Although I never connected you with him. Can you give me her home address? “Oh yes,” replied Miss Carruthers simply. “Rest Harrow, Tranfield, near Westhampton.”
Mr. Bathurst’s grey eyes flashed back to the Crown Prince. Westhampton and now Tranfield—the two places of the post-marks on the Crown Prince’s letters! Alexis had apparently appreciated the point just as quickly as Mr. Bathurst himself—his fingers were toying nervously with the ends of his bellicose moustache. Bannister noted the address in his book.
“Why was this young lady in Seabourne, Miss Carruthers?” he inquired. “Any idea?”
Daphne’s answer was a negative. “None whatever, Inspector. I haven’t set eyes on her for months.”