by Brian Flynn
Anthony went straight to the point. “Did the lady in question accompany you?”
“No,” replied the Crown Prince, “she did not, But I—” he stopped—seemingly at a momentary loss for words.
“Was she there?” asked Anthony, quick to seize the point. The Crown Prince bowed his head in assent. The Crown Prince bowed his head in assent. “It would appear then—that, as I fore-shadowed—the root of the matter lies at Westhampton? Do you agree?” He eye the Crown Prince with intentness.
“It may—very possibly,” came the answer. “On the other hand it may be merely a coincidence. I visited many more places with the lady than Westhampton—as I stated, I have only been in that particular place once.”
“You may be right, of course,” conceded Anthony. “Where was the photograph taken?”
“At Seabourne—last summer.”
“By—?”
“A gentleman who was staying in the same hotel. With my own camera. He obliged me by taking it. It was a wish of the lady.”
“Can you recollect this gentleman’s name?”
The Crown Prince of Clorania frowned as though he found the questions distasteful and disconcerting.
“I think it was a Captain Willoughby. I’m not altogether sure. Naturally I wasn’t taking a prominent part in the social life of the hotel at the time.”
“What was the name of the Hotel?”
“The Cassandra.”
“Your Highness still desires to keep the identity of the lady a secret?”
“I have no option.”
“Very well,” said Anthony. “Leave these letters with me and I will do my best for you. Firstly, however, will you permit me to make a suggestion?”
“Yes, certainly!”
“Set a trap for your unknown correspondent. Lure him into it—then leave him to the tender mercies of Scotland Yard.”
The Crown Prince shook his head. “I’ve thought of that, but I fear the consequences. Some of the story would be certain to become public. I cannot afford it to. I must avoid that at all costs.”
“Pay the sum demanded, then,” ventured Anthony.
“Fifty thousand pounds?” exclaimed his client in amazement, anger conflicting with incredulity in his voice. “You must be unaware of my very limit resources. Comparatively speaking, Mr. Bathurst, I am a poor man.”
“You will give me ‘carte blanch’ naturally?” said Anthony.
“As long as you maintain the strictest secrecy—you may act in whatever way you choose. Personally, I shall let nothing stand in my way. And if you are successful—rest assured that your services will never be forgotten. I am a Vilnberg—we have long memories for those who serve us well. Only remember—time is getting short. December is not so very far ahead.”
He bowed, turned pompously and Anthony heard his decisive step descending the stairs.
Walking to the window, Bathurst watched the magnificently-liveried chauffeur open the door of the car—usher his master to his seat therein with perfect obsequiousness, then drive off quickly and almost noiselessly. With a semi-humorous shrug of the shoulders Anthony returned to his desk. Then he read through the five threatening letters again—with even more care and attention than before. After a little time thus expended, one fact began to stand out clearly from the correspondence and make a deep impression upon his mind. The threats contained in the letters were all indefinite—limited to the “telling of a story,” to “forwarding information of a most interesting and important nature,” “to acquainting a certain Royal lady with highly-important facts,” “to extending a circle of epistolary acquaintance.” He was unable to find any mention whatever of the possession for instance, of such a definite thing as a photograph—also there was no hint of the existence of compromising letters. “Seems to me,” muttered Anthony to himself, “that the strongest weapon this letter-writing gentleman possesses is the Crown Prince’s conscience—and he probably knows it.” He reached down for his A.B.C. and quickly flicked the pages for Westhampton. Then he turned back to Tranfield, which place he discovered was served at intervals by a local train service from Westhampton. “I can’t run down before next Friday,” he said to himself after consulting his diary, “it’s impossible for me to touch it till then.” He filled the bowl of his pipe and watched the flame of the match curl fiercely round the brown shreds of tobacco, “What happened exactly,” he asked himself, “at the Hunt Ball at Westhampton a year ago last February?”
Chapter III
Chief-Inspector Bannister gets a “Busman’s Holiday”
Although the “Big Six” of Scotland Yard are invested by an admiring public with superhuman powers, and attributes that border upon the magical, they are for all that, as human as that same circle of admirers. Which fact, doubtless, has brought comfort to the heart of many a hunted criminal when he has brought himself to realise it. In this relation, probably the most human of “the Six” was Chief Detective-Inspector Richard Bannister—known to his colleagues and to a host of friends as “Dandy Dick.” One of the most certain and regular indications of this humanity, to which allusion has just been made, is the desire at intervals, to rest from the exigencies of work and to take a holiday. At any rate, that was the particular trait that usually manifested itself in the case of Chief-Inspector Banister. Three years of strenuous activities had seen him bring during their passing at least half-a-dozen of the “Yard’s” biggest “cases” to successful and triumphant conclusions. On that account, therefore, he had no compunctions in taking a month’s vacation at Seabourne. The place had always attracted him exceedingly when he had been in a position to enjoy short stays there on previous occasions, and now on a much longer spell it seemed to possess for him an even greater measure of attraction. On the July evening in question he shifted his body to a more comfortable position in the deck-chair which he was occupying and lazily inclined his head to catch more clearly the strains of the Military Band playing in the band-stand on the magnificent promenade of which Seabourne is so justifiably proud. It was a perfect summer evening—the true fulfilment of a perfect summer day. A day of blue sky and majestic sun! The sea was beautifully calm and lapped the beach in a ceaseless creaming succession of lazy, indolent ripples, and now the stars were flashing into the nigh-sky one by one, as though they were tiny lights turned on by a giant hand. Bannister stretched his long legs from his deck-chair in complete physical enjoyment. As he did so a tall man came down the superbly-kept lawn that fronted the “Cassandra” Hotel and sank comfortably into the deck-chair next to Bannister. He nodded genially. “Glorious evening—I told you last night we were in for a perfect day to-day.”
“I remember,” replied Bannister. “You did.” He went on: “My luck as regards weather is absolutely in. I’ve actually had a week of uninterrupted sunshine—which I should imagine—speaking without a book—approaches a record for a summer holiday in England. Certainly, I’ve rarely been so fortunate in the past.” He removed the horn-rimmed glasses that he had been using as a protection against the glare of the sun and carefully wiped them with a silk handkerchief.
Captain Willoughby’s white teeth flashed in a smile of cordial agreement. “The same here. I’ve spent a good deal of time down here at Seabourne during the last year or two, but I haven’t often had the good luck to get weather like we are experiencing now. It’s almost equal to the Riviera. Been far to-day?”
“No,” answered Bannister, with a shake of the head, “I’ve taken matters very easily to-day. Purposely! I came down here for a thorough rest and I intend to stick to my resolve. I’m a firm believer in the idea of a restful holiday.”
Willoughby grinned. “Mind you keep it up all the time you’re here, then! I always think that those intentions are very similar to ‘New Year’ resolutions. They’re something like keeping a Diary, for instance. You know what I mean. Everything goes swimmingly for the first of January until about Epiphany. We carefully chronicle our petty personalities for just those few days—then our enthusia
sm wanes and the remaining days in our Diary calendar are usually quite innocent of ink or even indelible pencil.” He tossed away the end of his cigarette. “But I expect you’ve been guilty of that sort of thing yourself?”
“Perhaps not as much as you think. I’ve a lot of will-power. I can discipline myself to do things that are irksome—as a rule what I mean to do—I do. It’s my way,” Banister concluded rather abruptly.
As he spoke one of the maids came from the Hotel and crossed the grass to where he was sitting. By his chair she stopped. Bannister turned and looked up at her. “Yes?” he questioned. “Are you wanting me?”
“Pardon me, sir,” came her reply, “but you are Mr. Bannister, aren’t you? There’s somebody here wants to speak to you—I was to tell you it was very important, he said, sir.”
Bannister knitted his brows, as though puzzled at the interruption; the maid waited by his chair, irresolutely.
“Are you sure he asked for me by name?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir—he said it quite distinctly—the name was ‘Bannister’ all right, sir.”
“Who is it?” he asked again. “Do you know him at all?”
The maid hesitated a moment before giving him her answer. Then she spoke rather haltingly. “As a matter-of-fact, sir, I think it’s Sergeant Godfrey from the Seabourne Police Station—I know him you see, sir, through seeing him about the town.”
“Sergeant Godfrey from the Police Station,” frowned Bannister, “what the dickens does he want me for—at this time of the evening?”
He looked at the maid’s face as though he expected to find the answer to his question.
“I don’t know, sir, only as I told you before he said that it was very important.”
“Oh very well, then,” exclaimed Bannister, with an expression of infinite resignation, “but tell him where I am and ask him to come along out here if he wants me as badly as you suggest.”
She turned quickly and tripped back across the lawn. Bannister grunted to himself something inaudible and noticed that Willoughby was watching him closely.
“Couldn’t help hearing something of what she said,” he volunteered semi-apologetically, “hope it doesn’t spell trouble for you.”
Bannister’s eyes glinted through his glasses but before he could reply a tallish man with a brisk step had crossed the grass-plot and reached his chair.
“Good evening, sir,” he said somewhat deferentially, “may I have just a few words with you in private?”
Bannister glanced at him keenly and detected at once from the grim expression on his face that it was no petty trifle that had prompted this unexpected visit. He rose from his chair quietly. The Sergeant motioned him on one side and they withdrew about a dozen paces.
“I’m Sergeant Godfrey, sir, of the County Police and firstly I must ask you to excuse this disturbance I’m causing you. But the fact is I had the tip that the famous Chief-Inspector Bannister was staying in Seabourne and I’ve come to him for help.” He dropped his voice to a very low tone and almost whispered to the inspector. The latter started suddenly.
“Murder—are you sure, Godfrey?”
“Not a doubt about it, sir, as fare as I can see. Or any of the others for that matter. Let me tell you the facts of the case,” he supplemented eagerly. Scarcely waiting for the Inspector’s assent he embarked impetuously upon his narrative. “At twenty minutes past two this afternoon, we received a ’phone message at the station, asking us to proceed at once to Mr. Ronald Branston’s dental surgery. Mr. Branston, I may tell you, is a dental surgeon who has resided in Seabourne about three years. His place is at the corner of Coolwater Avenue—in the best and most secluded part of town—quite a ‘posh’ dentist’s—I can assure you—Mr. Branston himself was speaking on the ’phone. All he said was ‘Come at once.’ Constable Stannard went up and what he found when he got there made him immediately send for me. Mr. Branston’s story was as follows. A young lady entered his operating room about two o’clock this afternoon for an extraction. He gave her an ordinary local anaesthetic and according to what he says took out the tooth every smoothly and comfortably. He handed his patient a tumbler of water and left her in the chair for a few moments to recover. His reason for so doing he explains like this. At half-past two another customer of his was calling for a set of artificial teeth that he had promises should be ready at that time. His work-room, you must understand is about 12 yards away from his surgery—just across a landing. He was anxious to make sure, he says, that these teeth were thoroughly satisfactory and he admits that he may have been in the work-room a matter of seven or eight minutes. When he tried to leave—he found he was bolted in! A brass bolt on the outside of the work-room door had been slipped—to imprison him. For a few moments he scarcely realised what had happened—he shook the door thinking the catch or something had gone wrong and that it might perhaps open under pressure. But it was fastened securely. When the truth came home to him, that he was very effectively locked in as it were, he banged on the door with his fists and shouted for assistance.” Godfrey broke off and looked at Bannister. “Interested?” he queried.
“I am that,” replied the Inspector, “get on!”
“After a time, Branston’s cries attracted the attention of the housekeeper, a Mrs. Bertenshaw—she rushed up to the work-room, undid the bolt and let him out. Unable for the moment to fathom the affair—he dashed back to the surgery. To his utter consternation and horror the young lady he had just left there—was dead. She was sitting in the operating chair exactly as he had left her about ten minutes previously, except for the fact that the tumbler was on the stand by the chair. She had been murdered, Inspector! Poisoned! By Prussic Acid!”
Chapter IV
A Case of identity
“Certain of that?” queried Bannister. “How do you know she didn’t commit suicide?”
The Sergeant nodded vigorously in affirmation of the Inspector’s first question. “It’s murder for certain! All her personal belongings seemed to have been taken and all around the poor girl’s mouth hung that unmistakable bitter almonds smell. You couldn’t mistake it. I was sure that’s what it was before Doctor Renfrew, the divisional surgeon, arrived. When he did he quickly confirmed my idea. He says she had a pretty considerable dose of the stuff, too. Enough to kill three people. The murderer, whoever he was, didn’t intend taking any risks. Besides Branston’s story rules out the idea of suicide.”
“H’m,” said Bannister fingering his chin reflectively, “it certainly seems an extraordinary case. At first appearances to all events. It all seems to have been done in so short a time. Still it may turn out quite a simple affair before you’ve done with it.”
A grim smile played round Godfrey’s lips. Albeit he strove hard to conceal his disappointment. “I was hoping you would say ‘before we’ve done with it,’” he ventured.
Bannister frowned. “You were—were you?” Then he turned to his companion with a mixture of impatience and ill-temper. “Can’t you leave me alone when I’m on a holiday? For a time at least, that is. As I said it may be quite an easy case to solve when you get all your data!”
Godfrey looked dismayed at the Inspector’s remark. “No chance of that, I’m afraid, sir,” he said. “The fact is I can’t see any light at all. I’m up against it from the very commencement. I don’t even know who the young lady is.”
“What?” interjected Bannister. “Surely she had something on her or with her that will help to identify her—it’s inconceivable to me that she hasn’t.”
Godfrey shook his head. “She may have—some of her clothes may have marks that will lead to her identity. I haven’t examined any of them yet. I considered my best plan was to leave her almost exactly as she was when Stannard sent for me to come to the Surgery. I thought if I did that, sir, better intelligences than mine might read something into the case that was not apparent to me. I was thinking of you, sir. All the same—not knowing who she is means losing valuable time.”
Ba
nnister was temporarily proof against flattery. “Who told you I was here!” he demanded curtly.
“I’ve a cousin at ‘the Yard,’ sir,” explained the Sergeant, “he happened to mention the fact in a letter I had from him a few days ago.”
“Like his damned interference,” interjected Bannister, “why couldn’t he mind his own business and let me finish my holiday in peace?”
“I’m sorry, sir—but if I may make the suggestion—you’re suffering from what I should describe as the penalty of fame, sir.”
Bannister grinned cynically. “Oh—naturally—and all that.” Then he reluctantly resigned himself to his fate—the Sergeant’s last remark had been in the nature of a “coup de grâce.” He submitted himself to the inevitable. “How far away is the place, Godfrey?”
“I’ve a car outside the ‘Cassandra’,” Godfrey answered—relief manifested in every tone of his voice. “It will get us there in ten minutes easily.” The car proved equal to the task.
During the short journey, Bannister remained silent. Two attempts that Godfrey made to re-open discussion of the crime were waved aside unceremoniously. “Let me wait,” he declared. “Otherwise my brain will be full up with other people’s impressions and observations, which is a condition I always try to avoid, if at all possible.”
Ronald Branston’s Dental Surgery lay at the corner of Coolwater Avenue and the Lower Seabourne Road in front of Froam, a watering place some eight miles away. The entrance to the Surgery for the use of patients was situated in Coolwater Avenue, the outer door being open. The Inspector and Sergeant Godfrey made their way to the main entrance which was in the Lower Seabourne Road and rang the bell. A woman with a scared face answered their summons and admitted them, with a suggestion of reluctance in her manner. She addressed Godfrey however, with a certain deference.
