by Brian Flynn
“Doctor Renfrew has come back,” she announced. “He’s upstairs with Mr. Branston.”
Godfrey turned to the Inspector. “Constables Stannard and Waghorn are on duty up in the room, sir,” he explained, “they had instructions from me to stay till I returned.”
Bannister nodded in understanding. “Take me up,” he ordered, decisively. Godfrey obeyed.
Bannister noticed that the operating room lay nearer to the left-hand side of the house—that is to say, the Coolwater Avenue side. As Godfrey had stated in his first account of the case—Branston’s appointments and furniture-equipment were without exception, of excellent quality. The stair-carpet was luxuriously thick and heavy and everything about the place denoted unmistakably that no expense had been spared in the matter of its furnishing and decoration. Doctor Renfrew came out of the large room—a spacious front room overlooking the Lower Seabourne Road—and glanced inquiringly at Godfrey’s companion.
“This is Chief-Inspector Bannister of Scotland Yard!” Godfrey was quick to introduce them. “The Bannister,” he supplemented rather grandiloquently. The Doctor shook hands.
“Proud to meet you, Inspector.”
“Good evening, Doctor.”
Doctor Renfrew, a tall, thin, nervous man, with watery eyes that blinked repeatedly behind gold-rimmed spectacles motioned to the door of the surgery.
“Will you go in at once?” he asked. Bannister nodded curtly and the three men entered the room. Constables Stannard and Waghorn sprang to their feet and saluted.
“Wait downstairs, you two men,” ordered Godfrey. He turned to the Doctor. “Where’s Mr. Branston?”
“Downstairs—he had dinner very late, I believe. I told him he’d probably be wanted before very long.”
Bannister in the meantime had walked across to the motionless shape that lay huddled in the dentist’s chair. He removed the silk handkerchief that covered the face. As far as he could judge from her appearance she was in her early twenties and in life must have been very beautiful—the face having an exquisite delicacy of line. She was dressed in what is usually termed a “three-piece suite”; of jumper, skirt and sleeveless coat. The coat and skirt were of a fine wool, in colour Cedar brown—the jumper being striped to tone. Her brown shoes were semi-brogue; like her stockings they were of the very best quality. She wore no jewellery and her fingers were ringless. Doctor Renfrew walked out of the room and returned a moment or two later carrying a hat and a pair of gloves.
“She left these in the ladies’ waiting-room,” he explained. “Mr. Branston has a separate room for ladies in which to wait if they so desire—it opens out of the front room, which is used more as a general waiting-room.”
Bannister nodded and looked at the hat. It was a pull-on waterproof felt with a pleated crown and turned-down brim. He glanced inside at the maker’s name. “Moore—Knightsbridge! A lady in very comfortable circumstances, I should say,” he declared. Godfrey nodded in agreement. “I think so too!”
“Well, Doctor Renfrew,” continued the Inspector, “what have you got to tell me?”
Doctor Renfrew wasted no time in telling him. “When I examined the deceased, it was apparent to me at once that death had been caused by narcotic poisoning—hydrocyanic acid to be precise. It was impossible to mistake the odour round the lips and mouth. She had had a big dose administered.”
Bannister pursed his lips. “How was it administered—any idea? For instance—can’t it be suicide?”
The doctor’s reply came quickly and readily. “In my opinion—judging from the position of the body—the poison was given from a small hand-syringe. After locking Branston in, the murderer entered the room through the door here—she heard him—turned in his direction and he used the syringe immediately. Her face would be right in front of him. Quite an easy matter—he had doubtless worked out all the details beforehand.”
“Cold-blooded business,” muttered Godfrey. “The kind of man I should take delight in hanging.”
“Any purse or anything with her?” demanded Bannister.
“Nothing,” answered the Sergeant. “Everything seems to have gone except the hat and this pair of gloves.”
A knock sounded on the door an Doctor Renfrew crossed the room to open it. Ronald Branston stood outside. “May I come in?” he queried.
Bannister beckoned to him. “I was just about to send down to you, Mr. Branston,” he commenced, “you must have read my thoughts to arrive so opportunely.”
Branston bowed. “A dreadful affair this,” he declared, “dreadful from whatever point of view you look at it. Pretty rotten for me, you know—in the business sense. It sounds frightfully callous, I know, but self-preservation’s the first law of nature. This job isn’t going to do my business any good and every man has to think of himself.” He flushed his dark skin.
Bannister eyed him sternly. “I am Chief-Inspector Bannister,” he said, “of ‘Scotland Yard.’ Sergeant Godfrey has requested my assistance. Tell me exactly what happened.”
Branston’s nostrils quivered slightly as he began to tell his story but he rapidly regained control over himself and his words came clearly and without a shade of tremor in his voice. “I can only repeat to you,” he stated, “what I have already told Sergeant Godfrey here. This unhappy lady entered the room in which we are now standing a few minutes before two o’clock this afternoon. I had just attended to a previous patient who was my first of the afternoon. She asked me to perform an extraction. I administered a simple local anaesthetic and extracted a left-hand bicuspid. The lady seemed quite comfortable after the extraction. I gave her the usual glass of water as a mouth-wash—there’s the very tumbler on that stand—just as she must have put it down before she was murdered—and then went along to my work-room. I had a special job on this afternoon as I’ve previously explained to the Sergeant and it’s my customary practice to let a patient alone for a moment or two after an extraction.”
“One minute,” broke in Bannister. “Was the extraction a necessary one?”
“Oh, undoubtedly—the tooth had been filled on previous occasion and the filling had worn away. The patient had been in considerable pain, she informed me, and I could well understand it. She had probably caught cold in the bad tooth.”
“Thank you,” observed the Inspector. “Please proceed.”
“Well, here comes the extraordinary part of the story.” Here Branston’s nervousness began to show itself again. “The job took me a little longer than I had anticipated—when I turned to open the door of the room in which I was working, I found to my complete astonishment that I was shut in. Somebody had shot the brass bolt on the outside of the work-room door. I called out and banged on the door but there I had to stay until my housekeeper heard me yelling and released me. I rushed back to the operating room and discovered—this.”
“How long were you away—as accurately, now, as you can possibly place it?”
Branston knitted his brows in reflection. “I wouldn’t put at more than seven minutes,” he answered, calculatingly.
“Did you hear any steps at all when you were in the work-room?”
He shook his head decisively. “No! I didn’t! The carpet on the stairs and along the landing to the work-room is very thick, you know.”
Bannister went to the door and looked out. “This back staircase leads to the patients’ entrance in Coolwater Avenue—I suppose?”
“That’s so, Inspector.”
The Inspector closed the door and came back. “The lady of course, was a chance patient—not an appointment case?”
“A complete stranger.”
“Were any other patients waiting, do you know?”
“I had no definite appointment till half-past two. I couldn’t say if there were any other chance cases waiting in either of the waiting-rooms. Certainly I can remember nobody coming out when we discovered what had happened.”
Bannister thought hard for a moment. “Did the expected client arrive at half-past two?”
“What’s his name?” demanded Bannister.
“He’s a Mr. Jacob Morley—a local gentleman—I rather fancy he styles himself a Turf accountant.” Branston permitted himself the suggestion of a smile.
“Sound man?”
Branston shrugged his shoulders. “I know nothing to the contrary.”
“All right, then, Mr. Branston,” put in Bannister after a slight pause, “I don’t think I need detain you any longer. That is all I want to know for the moment.”
Branston bowed and withdrew, Doctor Renfrew followed him.
Sergeant Godfrey caught his superior’s eye and understood the intended meaning. “I’ve told Stannard and Waghorn to watch points in that direction—that will be all right.”
“Very good,” rejoined the Inspector, “let’s hear Mrs. Bertenshaw’s story.”
The housekeeper corroborated Branston in every particular and was allowed to withdraw. Bannister looked at his watch. “It’s so confoundedly late, that it will be extremely difficult to get anything much done to-night. Tell me all you’ve done, so far, Godfrey.”
“I’ve had the body photographed and I’ve sent round to all the hotels and boarding-establishments to try to trace by discreet inquiries any young lady visitor who’s been missing, say, since luncheon time to-day.”
The Inspector showed his approval. “That’s all right as far as it goes. But she may be a new arrival to the town. She may have just come in. Stay—what about luggage?”
“She might have left it somewhere,” responded Godfrey. “At the railway station or at an hotel. The latter, I should be inclined to suggest as the more likely, taking into consideration the class of girl she appears to be.”
“Yes,” conceded Bannister. “I think perhaps you’re right. Now about this work-room Branston has been telling us of—have you taken a look in there—I suppose his story is authentic—eh? I can’t help feeling there’s something ‘fishy’ about it somewhere.”
“I’ve seen the room—you can come along and see it yourself before we go—I’ll say this—I found nothing there that seemed in any way to contradict his story. I’ve also had the brass bolt on the door treated for finger-prints.”
“Good man,” smiled Bannister. “You should certainly find Mrs. Bertenshaw’s there—I suppose you’ve taken hers and Branston’s?”
“You bet I have, sir,” grinned the Sergeant, “I’ve got them tucked away all serene.”
Bannister frowned and walked across to the stand where stood the tumbler of water. It was almost full. He smelt it. “The purest of pure water, Doctor Renfrew says. Seems like it,” said Bannister. “No odour, certainly.”
The Sergeant who was watching him seemed suddenly struck by an idea. “By Jove, sir,” he exclaimed, “I ought to have treated that glass for ‘prints’ as well as the bolt—don’t you agree?”
Bannister held the glass high up to the electric light and carefully examined it. “Perhaps you had,” he replied, “if it isn’t too late now to be effective.”
Godfrey went through the insufflating process in his usual workman-like manner. With a small insufflator or powder-blower, he exhaled a cloud of light yellow powder which settled on the glass in an even coating. Then he blew at it sharply. Most of the yellow powder was blown off, but a number of smeary yellow impressions were left behind, standing out in strong saffron relief against the white glass.
“Something to work on here,” he said. “I’ll have the job completed.” He slipped out but was quickly back. “I suggest we get Mrs. Pearson up here from the station,” he said after a short interval.
“The female searcher?” queried the Inspector.
“Yes—then we can have the body removed in the morning. If the poor girl’s still unidentified by then, perhaps the underclothes—”
“Sergeant Godfrey!” Branston’s voice sounded outside. “You’re wanted on my telephone, downstairs.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Bannister. “It may be news.”
Godfrey took off the receiver, listened and replaced it. “It’s the ‘Lauderdale Hotel’—they think they can identify the lady. At my suggestion they’re sending the reception-clerk along to us immediately. He will be here any moment—the Manager’s coming along with him.
“Good,” said Bannister. “We are moving at last.” He offered his cigarette-case with a gesture of satisfaction to Sergeant Godfrey.
And judging from the manner in which he selected a cigarette—Sergeant Godfrey thought so too!
Chapter V
John Martin’s evidence
For a few moments the two men smoked in silence, grateful doubtless for the short respite. The silence was soon disturbed by the ringing of the front door bell. Godfrey rose with an alert expectancy that he took no trouble to conceal. Bannister carefully shook his left trouser in an attempt to stabilise an immaculate crease. Mrs. Bertenshaw’s steps were heard hurrying to the front door to admit the two people whose visit had been so recently heralded by the telephone. Godfrey went to the door of the room and called down the hall.
“Bring the two gentlemen in here, Mrs. Bertenshaw.”
It was easy to see that the Manager of the “Lauderdale Hotel” was the man who entered first. A short, broad-shouldered, florid-faced man, he wore his dress-suit with that air of aggressive opulence that can only be captured with complete success by hotel managers, Sheikhs of the Box-office, and the gentlemen who hold undisputed sway in those cinemas usually designate as “super”—whatever that may mean. The reception-clerk was tall and thin to all appearances, worried by the singular turn that events had taken.
“Sergeant Godfrey?” questioned the first of the newcomers. Godfrey came forward to meet and to greet him.
“I’m your man—Mr. Maynard—isn’t it?”
“That’s right—and I’m pretty certain I’ve some news for your. Very likely the information you’re wanting. After your men had been round making those inquiries for you, I guessed it was something pretty serious that was engaging your attention. So I put a few feelers round my staff, off my own bat, so to speak and I reckon that Martin here has got something important to tell you. Of course, it may be a mare’s nest that I’m bringing you—but somehow I don’t think so.” He shifted his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other with an adroitness that could only have been cultivated by assiduous practice. “Now, Martin,” he ordered rather imperiously, “spill your bib-ful.”
Martin fidgeted uneasily on the chair that he had immediately sought upon his arrival and got even nearer to its edge. He twisted his shabby hat in his hands with a circular movement and seemed at a loss to begin. His eyes sought those of Maynard—then wandered away until they encountered those of Chief-Inspector Bannister. Bannister’s glance afforded little encouragement however, so they travelled on again, waveringly and uncertainly until they reached those of the Sergeant.
“Come,” said the last-named, “don’t waste any time-tell us what you know.”
Martin licked his lips, cleared his throat, gulped once or twice and commenced his story. “Well, sir,” he started, “It isn’t very much that I’ve got to tell you, but I’ve the glimmering of an idea that the young lady you’re inquiring about came into the ‘Lauderdale’ about half-past one this afternoon. You see it was like this. About ten-fifty on Wednesday evening a ’phone message came through booking a room for a Miss Daphne Carruthers who was arriving the next day. About the time that I’ve just mentioned—half-past one of an afternoon—things are pretty quiet as a rule. A car drew up outside the hotel and a young lady alighted and walked into the vestibule. She came straight up to me and said, ‘I want a room please, for a fortnight—I believe it was booked last night for me—by ’phone. I’ll leave
my luggage here now, although I’ve an important call to make. You might send out for my case—it’s in my car. Put it up in my room, will you please? I shall be back in about an hour.’ ‘Certainly, miss,’ I answered, ‘your room number will be sixty-six.’ I sent the porter out for her suit-case and sent him up to the room with it, confirming the name from the labels on it. ‘Thank you,’ she replys, trips out of the hotel, jumps into her car and drives off.”
“In what direction?” snapped Bannister.
“Towards Froam, sir.”
“Go on.”
“Well—a lot of other people came in and some went away and the young lady that was to come back in the hour went clean out of my mind. When your man came round this evening making those inquiries it all came back to me. Gentlemen—that young lady has never come back. Her suit-case is in Room Sixty-six just where I told the porter to put it.” He stopped and wiped his lips with his handkerchief and the perspiration from his brow.
Bannister interposed again—authoritatively. “Would you be able to remember this young lady, if you saw her again?”
Martin answered the question very readily. “Why, yes, sir, I stood talking to her face to face for a matter of a minute or two. She was a real beauty, I can tell you, sir. I haven’t forgotten her and no mistake.”
Bannister motioned to Godfrey to lead the way upstairs. Then he turned to the clerk. “Come with us, then—and prepare yourself for a shock.”
Martin’s white face went whiter as they ascended the stairs, Bannister leading and the hotel Manager, Maynard, bringing up the rear. The Inspector waited to close the door of the surgery behind them.
“Let him have a look at her, Godfrey,” he said, turning to the Sergeant.
Godfrey uncovered the face again for Martin to see. The latter gave a low gasp of horror. Then he uttered an exclamation. “I was right, sir! It’s her right enough—as I was afraid it was when I came along. That’s the identical young lady that came to the ‘Lauderdale’ about half-past one this afternoon that I’ve been telling you about. Just fancy—to think of her as she was then in the best of health, as you might say—and now—”
