by Brian Flynn
But Willoughby did not answer.
“I’ll go a step further,” continued the Inspector. “The cashier handed you change for a ten-point note two days after you settled that particular account. Do you remember that? I should also like to know from where you obtained that one.”
A look of annoyance flashed across Willoughby’s face. “Look here, Inspector,” he said with a well defined note of asperity, “I’m well aware that you’re conducting an investigation of a murder-case, and I’ve no doubt from all I hear about you that you’re getting a rough passage. I am also equally aware that I should be prepared to assist you and all that”—he paused and gave Bannister the benefit of a straight look between the eyes—“but I’m damned if I can see why I should be expected to tell you where my own money comes from!”
Bannister smiled cynically. “Perhaps I shall be able to stimulate your imagination then. Give me those numbers, Godfrey, that I ’phoned to you from Westhampton.”
The Sergeant passed the list over to his superior. Bannister held it judicially. “Those three notes I may tell you to which I have made reference, the two ‘fives’ and the ‘ten,’ were handed to Sheila Delaney at the ‘Mutual Bank,’ Westhampton, by the cashier there on the morning that she was murdered. To the best of our knowledge, they were stolen from her in Branston’s operating-room. That was why I put the question to you. Certainly we have no reason to suspect that they were taken from her before.” He handed the list back to Sergeant Godfrey. “Perhaps you are now more likely—shall we say—to give me the information I am requesting? I think so—eh?” His tone was cold and hard.
Willoughby’s face as the Inspector spoke became more and more an open register of astonishment and bewilderment. If he were not the victim of genuine surprise, concluded Bannister, then he was a most accomplished actor, for astonishment was written palpably upon every line of his face.
“What?” he exclaimed, “you’re joking, surely.”
“Don’t be absurd. This is no time to quibble. And please come to the point.”
Willoughby went white to the lips. He seemed about to make an angry retort when suddenly a definite sense of his own awkward position came home to him. The angry astonishment on his face gave place to a look of sullen determination. “Well,” he said, “since you must know—those notes were paid to me by a well-known Seabourne gentleman. So you can rule me out of any connection with Miss Delaney.”
“Name—if you please?” said Bannister curtly. He was eminently business-like now.
“Oh—I hate all this information-giving business-it seems to me always to border on the unspeakable—no decent man can ever—”
Bannister broke in again—even more curtly perhaps than on the previous occasion. “Cut out the sentiment—can’t you see it’s to your own advantage to supply me with the information I want?”
“Of course I can,” snapped Willoughby, “and can’t you see that’s just the reason why a decent chap doesn’t want to do it. It’s to my advantage and consequently to somebody else’s detriment. That’s just the point.” He stopped again and bit his lip. “Well, I suppose there’s no help for it that I can see. I’ll tell you the whole story. My cousin is a well-known trainer of racehorses—Phipps-Holloway. He doesn’t send out too many winners as he hasn’t got a very big string now. But occasionally he pulls of a ‘coup’—usually with a dark two-year-old. He pulled one off at the Newmarket First July Meeting. He had a colt engaged in the July Stakes—‘Sherlock Holmes,’ by ‘Hurry On,’ out of ‘Popingaol.’” Bannister winced; he regarded it as a most unfortunate allusion. “He had won a good trial the week before and ‘Lobster’ gave me a tip. ‘Lobster’s’ my cousin. The colt opened at ‘tens’ but somebody evidently got wind of a good thing—for when ‘The Blower,’ money got wafted back on to the course—he came down ‘with a rush’ to ‘fives’ and actually started second favourite. I had got S.P. myself. I had a modest little tenner on—so I had fifty quid to draw. I drew it. Off my bookmaker, here in Seabourne. I’ve an arrangement that he pays off winnings in cash. That’s all there is to it.”
“Off your bookmaker?” yelled Bannister. “Who the thunder’s he?”
Willoughby took out his pocket-book and handed Bannister the usual card of the ordinary “Turf Accountant.” Jacob Morley, 9, Macbeth Court Mansions, Seabourne.”
Sergeant Godfrey was unable to restrain his excitement. “Jacob Morley,” he cried, with a ring of triumph in his voice. “Jacob Morley! Don’t you remember—Branston’s story of the night we first investigated the murder?”
“Bannister nodded complacently. “I do,” he rejoined very quietly. “Jacob Morley was the name of the patient who had an appointment with Branston at the identical time that Sheila Delaney was found murdered. He must have kept that appointment after all!”
Chapter XVIII
That leads round the mulberry-bush
“What do you mean, exactly?” queried Sergeant Godfrey.
“If you cast your mind back, Godfrey,” enlarged Bannister, “Branston’s evidence was pretty much as follows. When he was released from the work-room by his housekeeper after his unexpected imprisonment he rushed to the room where he found Miss Delaney lying dead. Then he described what happened afterwards as a ‘schemozzle.’ That was the actual word used. When I asked him if the gentleman arrived whom he was expecting at half-past two he stated that he never gave him another thought—he lost all sense of the impending appointment as it were. ‘I clean forgot him,’ he said. ‘If he came he probably went away’—that was the gist of what Branston said, and it struck me as being perfectly natural.” Godfrey nodded, affirmatively.
“Ay! That’s so. I remember now—that’s what Branston did say—quite right.” Bannister turned to Willoughby. “Thank you for the information, Mr. Willoughby. But you quite understand by now that it was vitally necessary for me to obtain it? You will see also that I must now interview this Mr. Jacob Morley—immediately. Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, Inspector. I should be obliged if you would explain to Morley.”
“Don’t worry on that point,” responded Bannister with grim earnestness, “I’ll explain everything all right. You needn’t lose any sleep.” He made his exit, the Sergeant following upon his heels.
Macbeth Court Mansions were about half-a-mile distant from the “Cassandra.” They were of an imposing appearance. It was obvious at the quickest and most cursory glances that they were inhabited exclusively by the affluent. Speculating builders, bookmakers and master butches almost monopolised the possession of them. Number nine looked as prosperous as any but neither Bannister nor Godfrey felt any surprise at that fact. They had been guardians of the country’s law long enough to realise the Midas touch of a really successful and enterprising “Turf Accountant.” Stable form has a habit of being so unstable. Bannister rang the bell. It was answered by a smart maid whose ancestors had undoubtedly seated themselves disconsolately and tearfully by the waters of Babylon. A few minutes later and they were conducted into the presence of the master of the house. Judging by the satisfied expression of his face more than one equine celebrity had recently rolled up “for the book.”
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
If the allusion to the maid’s ancestry were anything like correct it was equally discernible to the careful onlooker that Mr. Jacob Morley’s ancestors had lent assistance towards the hanging up of the harps.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Morley. Your maid told you who we were, I presume?”
“Yes,” he smiled, benignly, “I am very delighted to see you, very delighted indeed. I shall be pleased to accommodate you. You will find that I shall always give you a square deal and my terms are very liberal—”
Bannister raised his hand in immediate protest. But Jacob was either blind or impervious to its meaning. He went on his way. “The Mayor of Seabourne, the Town Clerk, several of the magistrates—the Clerk to the Justices himself—they are all clients of mine. After they have fined th
e wicked people who back horses in the street with their paltry shillings, they send me their own little commissions—”
Bannister broke in sharply and this time was not to be denied. “You mistake the purpose of my visit, Mr. Morley. Kindly give me your closest attention. I am investigating the murder of a lady—a Miss Sheila Delaney—who was murdered here in Seabourne last week. You have no doubt heard of the affair? I am Chief-Inspector Bannister of New Scotland Yard.”
Morley seemed thunderstruck and was profuse in his apologies. “I apologise, gentlemen. But business is business. You understand—I am sure. Yes—I read of the case. The local papers were full of it. Very dreadful. Very shocking. But why have you come to see me—I don’t understand—?” He spread out his hands after the manner of his ancient race—a mute but expressive invitation for explanation.
For a moment Bannister was distinctly puzzled. He had met Hebraic cleverness before during the course of his distinguished career—many times in fact, and he knew that it always demanded the craftiest of countering.
“I understand, Mr. Morley, that on the afternoon in question—to be precise on the fifth of July—that was the day of the murder—you had an appointment with your dentist, Mr. Branston of Coolwater Avenue at half-past two in the afternoon. You were supposed to call for a set of artificial teeth. A few minutes before that time Miss Delaney was murdered. Now, Mr. Morley—did you or did you not keep that appointment?”
Jacob Morley raised his hands eloquently. “I did not, Mr. Inspector. I did not! I was prevented by extreme pressure of business. Two of my clerks were away that afternoon, as a matter of fact. One was ill—the other was attending a wedding and I had given him permission to be absent. I did not go to Mr. Branston’s. I had to postpone the appointment. I swear it. Ask Mr. Branston himself, if you doubt my word—he will confirm what I am telling you?”
“Unfortunately Mr. Branston can’t,” replied Bannister rather coldly. “All he can say is that he didn’t see you there, which you will admit isn’t quite the same thing. There was so much confusion, consequent upon the discovery of the murder that he forgot all about the appointment that you had made with him and didn’t remember it till late that same evening. Which hardly corroborates your story, Mr. Morley.”
“It is in my favour,” cried Morley. “It is on my side. It is not against me.” he stopped to see the effect of his assertion. “Stop a minute,” he cried, “I can prove what I say. I will show you. I went to him on the following Saturday afternoon—it was my Sabbath—I had the time—he fixed me up with my teeth then—these same teeth that I am wearing now.”
He favoured Bannister with a tooth-paste smile, apparently as a guarantee of the truth of his statement. But the Inspector shook his head.
“The fact that you went on Saturday doesn’t prove that you didn’t go on the afternoon of the murder,” he pronounced relentlessly. “You must see that.”
Morley became crestfallen. “It is ridiculous to suppose that I had anything—” he stopped short and glanced furtively at Bannister.
“Shall I finish the sentence for you?” demanded the latter.
Morley wagged his head very slowly. Then he re-acquired a touch of lost dignity. “I did not keep the appointment on the afternoon of the murder,” he repeated slowly, and almost with resignation, “that is all I have to say.”
“Very good,” responded Bannister. “Then perhaps you can answer this!” He looked intently at Morley, who looked more startled and discomposed than ever. “Information has been given to the Police that certain bank-notes were stolen from the unfortunate girl—in fact for all we know that theft may have been the motive of the murder. I say—for all we know. The numbers of those stolen notes are also known to the Police. Does that interest you at all, Mr. Morley?”
Morley licked his lips and gazed at his questioner with something of a look that one associates with a rabbit fascinated by a snake. “No,” he mumbled dryly. “Why in the name of goodness should it?”
Bannister’s face grew sterner. “Then I will proceed, Mr. Morley. Three of those stolen notes have been traced! They were paid into the Seabourne branch of the Southern and Home Counties Bank. They came from the ‘Cassandra’ Hotel.” He stopped here and watched Morley so closely that not the slightest movement of the latter’s face could escape him. But only for a moment. “The ‘Cassandra’ Hotel people took them from a gentleman who is staying there. Another of your clients, Mr. Morley, and one whom you didn’t mention just now—a certain Captain Willoughby.” Morley went very white—his face seemed to be drained suddenly of every vestige of colour.
“Well?” he said thickly. “Well—and supposing I do know this gentleman, this Captain Willoughby, supposing he is a client of mine—what about it?”
“A very reasonable question, Mr. Morley.” said Bannister, “and quite one that I expected.” He became almost suave. “I shall be delighted to answer it. I have interviewed this Captain Willoughby in reference to his possession of these particular bank-notes and he in turn refers me to you.”
“To me? To me? Tell me, Inspector, tell me more about these notes. What value were they?”
“Twenty pounds, Mr. Morley. Two ‘fives’ and a ‘ten.’”
Morley sprang to his feet and nodded excitedly. “I knew it,” he cried, “I knew it! Everything is all right!”
“Knew what?” demanded Bannister.
“Wait a minute, Mr. Inspector. Have a little patience and I will show you something that will interest you very much. Yes—yes—yes much indeed.” He rubbed his palms appreciatively and went to his desk. What he had just heard had evidently made a big difference to his outlook. He pulled open a drawer on the left-hand side. He rummaged therein for a few seconds and then extracted an envelope. This done he came back to the Inspector and Godfrey.
“Look at that!” he exclaimed triumphantly. He held something towards them. It was a five-pound not. “The number, I mean,” cried the Jew. Bannister referred to his tell-tale list. “It is one of them,” cried Morley again. “Yes? Am I then right? It is one of the missing numbers? For a certainty—eh?”
“It is, Mr. Morley,” announced Bannister gravely, “and I shall be obliged with the explanation.”
“You shall have it,” replied Morley—all his racial confidence regained—“and I can assure you that I am more than pleased to remember so well to be able to give it to you. I paid those notes to Captain Willoughby—he had some successful and pleasant business with me last week. But another gentleman living in the district who does business with me was not so successful as Captain Willoughby. As a matter of fact, for some months now he’s been working a ‘system.’ A ‘system’ that has had a long run of failure, like most systems. I am sorry for him. He has lost a lot of money over it. But there—business is business. What can I do? I have to send my accounts in—” He paused and looked at Bannister slyly. “The gentleman that I’ve just mentioned—the gentleman who paid me the notes that I in turn paid to Captain Willoughby—is Mr. Ronald Branston—the dentist. He called here to see me—to settle his outstanding account. He usually pays by cheque—this last time he paid in notes. The note you are holding, Inspector, is one of them.” Jacob Morley smiled complacently.
Chapter XIX
Ronald Branston’s story
“Branston! Branston after all!” insinuated Sergeant Godfrey to the Inspector as they made their way back to the station.
“Before proceeding any further, Godfrey,” said Bannister, turning to his companion, “tell me all you know about this Mr. Roland Branston, the dentist. We can’t get away from the hard fact that the only corroboration of Branston’s story comes from one of his own staff—that Mrs. Bertenshaw of his—the housekeeper.”
“Quite right, Inspector,” said the Sergeant. “I’ve been thinking the same thing myself.”
“Yet there’s something else to remember, Godfrey, when you come to think of it. Something most important. In fact, in my opinion, it would be difficult to over-esti
mate its importance. I’ve thought so all along. You know what I mean, don’t you, Godfrey?”
“Not exactly, sir.”
“I mean this. If it hadn’t been for Branston’s story—his account of his imprisonment and so on—it would have been at least ten to one on the affair being accepted as a plain case of suicide. If Branston wanted to murder the girl what on earth was to prevent him murdering her in exactly the same way as Doctor Renfrew considered she was murdered—walking quietly to his work-room as he states that he did—walking just as quietly back to the extraction room or whatever they call it and discovering upon his return, that ‘Miss Delaney had committed suicide during his absence’? There was no need for any fantastic story such as he has told us, Godfrey.” He continued in emphasis of his point. “Moreover, Godfrey, who would have doubted him? Would there have been anything to cause people to doubt him?”
Godfrey rubbed his chin critically. “How would he explain the missing notes? That fact was bound to come out sooner or later.”
“That she had no money with her when she arrived at his surgery! She’d given it away! Thrown it away! Done anything with it!” He looked at Godfrey—then added, “Suicides don’t need money, you know, Sergeant. It would have added colour to his story.”
“I’ve got a good answer to that, Inspector,” countered Godfrey.
“What’s that?”
“Suicides don’t want aching teeth pulled out. A man who has decided to cut his throat and spend the evening in the mortuary doesn’t go out to get a hair-cut beforehand—or a shave,” added the Sergeant.
Bannister nodded. “It’s a damned good point, Godfrey—that—but I very much doubt whether Branston would consider it big enough to upset successfully his edifice of ‘suicide.’ If he did—he’s a smarter chap than I’ve taken him for?”
“Don’t you think this criminal we’re hunting for is a smart chap, Inspector?” queried Godfrey. “I do—and that’s a fact. I shouldn’t like to meet many smarter.”