The Mystery of the Peacock's Eye

by Brian Flynn

  “It’s feasible, certainly,” he conceded. “But it would be extremely injudicious of me to debate the case, with so little first-hand evidence upon which to go. The worst mistake any investigator can ever make is to let his brain run away and play mental Badminton with fanciful theories. It might pay, perhaps, once—or even twice—but I can hardly see it bringing consistent success. And, as, in this case, I am not likely to obtain any first-hand evidence—”

  His host interposed eagerly. “But you are, Mr. Bathurst. You are! Permit me to explain. I am privileged, as you may guess, by reason of my rank and powerful influence, to know many who sit in high places. I have this morning spoken to the Chief Commissioner of Police—Sir Austin Kemble,” he indicated the telephone on the table in the corner of the room, “he has given orders for you to have access to anything you desire in your handling of the case upon my behalf. Chief-Inspector Banister of Scotland Yard who was called in by the local police has already been informed to that effect. I am very anxious that my interests should be in the very ablest hands. I may need them.”

  Anthony waved aside the very direct compliment. “Really, Your—Mr. Lucius, rather, I am not at all sure that my engagements will allow me to do what you wish. As I pointed out to you previously, I am not a professional inquiry-agent.”

  The Crown Prince extended what was almost a suppliant hand. “But you took those letters of mine—you were going to investigate the secret that lay behind the writing of them—and I am sure that the affairs are connected. I would esteem it as the very greatest of favours if you—”

  “What makes you so positive of the connection between the two things?” demanded Anthony, with strong curiosity.

  Mr. Lucius shrugged his shoulders even more eloquently than before. Then he placed his two fingers upon where he imagined his heart to be, “I feel it here,” he explained—it was an un-English gesture, and to Mr. Bathurst, was far from satisfying.

  “The whole affair is puzzling,” declared the latter, “but one feature of it puzzles me very considerably. At the moment, that is. You have just informed me that Miss Carruthers has been staying here at the ‘Cassandra.’ That is so, isn’t it?”

  “Why—yes. As I told you just now she wrote to me—it was her idea—asking me to meet her here—at the ‘Cassandra’! What is it exactly that mystifies you?”

  “Simply this,” exclaimed Anthony, “the Press report that I read at breakfast this morning stated that Miss Carruthers was a guest at the ‘Lauderdale’ Hotel—certainly no mention was made of the ‘Cassandra.’”

  The Crown Prince looked startled out of his skin. “What!” he exclaimed, “the ‘Lauderdale’? It is impossible. You must be mistaken. That was not reported in my paper. How can it be? What paper was it—surely you must be mistaken?”

  Anthony demurred very quietly but firmly. “You will find I am not. It was the ‘Morning Message’—send for one and see for yourself.”

  His Royal Highness touched the bell. “A copy of the morning’s ‘Message,’” he said to the attendant, “as quickly as possible. I cannot believe it,” he muttered, as he paced the apartment after a minute’s silence. “The ‘Lauderdale’—it is incredible that—thank you.” He broke off and opened the newspaper that had been brought to him. “I ask your pardon, Mr. Bathurst, for seeming to doubt you—you are quite correct—the report says ‘a visitor to Seabourne, staying at the ‘Lauderdale’ Hotel. It is inexplicable—it must be a mis-print—or at any rate false information.”

  “I doubt it being that,” ventured Anthony, “the London Press is pretty accurate as a rule upon details of that nature. In murder cases especially. After all we may be puzzling our brains needlessly—the explanation of the tangle may be perfectly simple when we hit upon it. Miss Carruthers may have had a second assignation. She may have intended to stay in Seabourne longer that you thought. She may have simply moved her quarters from the ‘Cassandra’ to the ‘Lauderdale’ intentionally.”

  “Never,” cried His Royal Highness Alexis of Clorania, “never.” He brought down one of his palms upon the other in the same manner that he had employed before. The suggestion assailed his vanity. “I am quite certain of what I am saying. Miss Carruthers left me, as I informed you, to return to London. She had no assignation in Seabourne beyond her assignation at the ‘Cassandra’ with me.”

  This time it was Anthony’s turn to shrug his shoulders. “With all deference—I don’t know how you can be so certain on the point. May I remind you of your own words, ‘Can a man ever believe a woman with whom he has been in love?’”

  The Crown Prince winced slightly at the aptness of Mr. Bathurst’s reply. Then the wince gave place to a frown which in its turn was superseded by a distinct tendency to sullenness. “I know Miss Carruthers left me to go back to London. This tooth-ache or neuralgia or whatever it was must have come on suddenly and perhaps caused her to alter her plans very quickly. That is the only explanation I can offer at the moment.”

  “We shall have to wait,” supplemented Anthony, “until we get more reliable information—that is all we can do. But the two facts certainly do not tally—they contradict each other rather—you must see that.”

  “The ‘Morning Message’ has its facts wrong—that is the explanation,” said the Crown Prince pettishly, “it’s the only explanation that there can possibly be—their reporter has confused the two hotels.” He was interrupted by the sharp ringing of the telephone on the table in the corner. He walked to it—obviously angered at what he considered an interruption that need not have happened. “Yes—yes,” he said irritably as he picked up the receiver. “Yes, it’s Mr. Lucius speaking. Who is it… a trunk call… all right… yes… yes… Lucius speaking… I can’t hear properly… you’re very indistinct… speak up… what… you…”

  Anthony watched him curiously as he listened, his face white as death. Suddenly he gave a quick gasp, took the receiver from his ear and covered the mouthpiece with his disengaged hand… “Mr. Bathurst,” he said tremulously, turning to Anthony. “What on earth is the real meaning of all this ghastly business?… I’m speaking to Daphne Carruthers.”

  Chapter VII

  Gentlemen and Players

  “I suppose there can be no doubt about it,” ventured Anthony; “you recognised the lady’s voice?”

  “Of course,” retorted the Crown Prince, somewhat testily—still showing signs of the shock to which he had been subjected so suddenly.

  “Better see what the lady has to say then,” suggested Anthony decisively. “She at least will be able to clear up some of the parts that have been puzzling us. That’s very apparent!”

  His Royal Highness spoke a few sharp words through the telephone and then listened attentively for the lady’s answer. Anthony noticed him nod repeatedly at what he heard and a sudden look of complete amazement crossed his face. “Hold on, Daphne, for a moment,” Anthony heard him say. “Miss Carruthers say she left Seabourne at three minutes past ten on Wednesday evening and that her train arrived at Victoria at a quarter past eleven.” His voice contained a note of triumph that he made no attempt to conceal. “You will notice, Mr. Bathurst, that she had no other assignation.”

  “I notice that she says she hadn’t,” replied that gentleman, “but go on.”

  “She tells me that she arrived at her home in Lexham Gardens, Kensington, at twenty-five minutes to twelve. She has occupied a flat there for some time now. Yesterday evening she had been to the theatre and reached home about the same time as the previous evening. As she entered she states that she heard her telephone ringing. Before she could get into the room to answer it the ringing ceased and was not again repeated. Being very tired and attaching no particular importance to it, she didn’t trouble to make inquire is, she says, but went straight to bed. Early this morning the Police called with the fantastic story (to her, of course) that Daphne Carruthers had been found murdered in a dental surgeon’s operating room at Seabourne. Naturally she was able to laugh at their story and to
convince them that they were at that moment actually talking to the supposedly murdered girl and that the story to which she was listening must be all wrong somewhere. They’ve informed the Police at this end, she says, of the dreadful mistake that has been made. She ’phoned me to find out if possible how the ghastly error could have occurred and also to allay any fears that I might have had on her behalf.” He coughed. “She’s coming straight down here by the first fast train.”

  “She can’t account in any way for the mistake, then?” queried Anthony.

  The Crown Prince shook his head gravely. “No—she’s as much in the dark, she tells me, as the Police themselves.”

  “Did she tell you what time it was when the Police up the other end sent the news down here? I mean the news that the first idea was all wrong—that Daphne Carruthers was alive and that the murdered girl had still to be identified.”

  “‘Early this morning,’ was the phrase she used.”

  “H’m!” rejoined Anthony. “I wonder why—how about your theory of the blackmailer—it won’t quite answer now, will it?” He broke off abruptly as this new aspect of the case came home to him.

  His Royal Highness shook his head again. “It won’t—what shall we do?”

  “Do you still want me to take the case?”

  “Yes, please, if you will. I am far from satisfied and I shan’t feel easy in my mind till it is all cleared up.” He looked at Anthony. “Why has Miss Carruthers’ name been dragged into the case? Tell me that. For some wicked and malicious reason, doubtless. Yes, Mr. Bathurst, I do want you to take the case… if for nothing else to protect my interests.”

  “In that case, then,” said Anthony, “our best plan will be to await Miss Carruthers’ arrival.”

  The fast train that Miss Daphne Carruthers had indicated in her telephone message did not fail either its reputation or its description and within an hour and a half she was inquiring from the before-mentioned gentlemen of faultless attire and magnificent bearing who graced the entrance to the “Cassandra,” if she could be escorted to Suite 17.

  “It was extremely kind of you to meet me at the station,” she exclaimed, turning charmingly and impulsively to the dignified man that accompanied her. “I expect you had the biggest shock of your life this morning—when you heard the news—didn’t you?”

  Bannister smiled gravely as the escort announced them. “I certainly sat up and took notice—and I’m still attempting to puzzle things out. Sir Austin Kemble—the Chief Commissioner—he’s had a ‘pow-wow’ with me early this morning—and taking into account the particular details that he arranged—well—your ‘resurrection’ fairly mystifies me.”

  The Crown Prince himself opened the door that admitted them, with a gesture that bordered on the imperious. He raised his eyes inquiringly as he observed the lady’s companion. “This gentleman?” he queried.

  Daphne was quick to bridge the situation with an immediate introduction. “Is the celebrated Chief-Inspector Bannister of Scotland Yard,” she declared. “He is the gentleman in charge of this terrible business and when he heard that I wasn’t dead—he arranged for me to come down to Seabourne again and to meet me at the station. I know it sounds awfully mixed up,” she concluded with a little moue, “but you know what I mean.”

  Bannister bowed. It was a situation in which he felt adequately ‘at home.’ “Sir Austin Kemble ’phoned me this morning, Your Royal Highness, as I expect you are well aware. Therefore I was not surprised when Miss Carruthers expressed her desire to have an interview with you before coming along to the Police Station with me.”

  The Crown Prince looked unhappy and a trifle apprehensive.

  “Strangely enough,” proceeded Bannister, “I’ve also been, as it were, roped into the case. I’ve been staying here—at the ‘Cassandra’ for over a week—Your Highness possibly—” His eyes for the first time travelled the length of the room and caught sight of the tall figure reclining negligently in the arm-chair. His Royal Highness, eagerly seizing any favourable opportunity to closure any discussion upon his own personal sojourn at the “Cassandra,” produced Mr. Bathurst from the depths of the chair and introduced him, regardless of etiquette. It was easy for an onlooker to observe that he found more favour in Daphne’s sight than in that of the famous detective. It was obvious that Richard Bannister, acclaimed hero of a hundred difficult cases, required no assistance from Mr. Anthony Bathurst to carry the hundred and first to a triumphant conclusion. Sensing an inimical atmosphere, Anthony grinned at him cheerfully. He had had experience of this kind of thing before—although never from one placed quite so high in the Police service.

  “I cannot describe the extent of my relief, my dear Daphne,” exclaimed the Crown Prince, “to know that you are alive—after so many hours of such deep sorrow—I am unable—”

  “Cut it out, Alexis,” said the young lady abruptly; “these gentlemen aren’t interested in your feelings—let’s get to work. From what Mr. Bannister has told me in the car on our way down from the railway station—the poor girl that’s been murdered went to the ‘Lauderdale Hotel’ and booked accommodation there in my name. I want to find out why—and quickly—at that.”

  Anthony threw her an approving glance. She seemed eminently businesslike; but the Crown Prince made no appreciable attempt to emerge from the state of comparative subjection into which Miss Carruthers’ opening cold douche had sent him. He sat there the picture of offended dignity.

  “I entirely agree,” declared Bannister. “First of all—I want you to accompany me to Seabourne Police Station—doubtless you gentlemen would like to come too.”

  “I’m sure you’ll pardon me, Mr. Bannister,” ventured Anthony. “Have you taken any further steps this morning to identify the dead girl—since you heard that Miss Carruthers was alive—I mean?”

  “That will be my next step,” was the reply. “I considered the matter and decided to wait till I’d seen Miss Carruthers and heard if she could throw any light on the mystery. I thought that would be my best course.”

  “Thanks—yes—I see your point.” Anthony followed the three people into the big car that was waiting. Bannister took the wheel and threaded his way through the thronged streets of the town.

  “It will be in the nature of an education for me,” murmured Bathurst in his most engaging tones, “to watch your methods, Inspector. As an amateur, I have long looked up to you, if I may use the phrase, as perhaps our premier crime expert. I’ve always regarded your handling of the affair of the murder at ‘Mawneys Crossing’ as little short of masterly. The way in which you were able to connect the blood shed by the raven—” He paused as he saw “Dandy Dick’s” eyes glisten at this homage to vanity.

  “That was a nasty case,” said Bannister, “and I don’t think I unduly flatter myself when I say that I certainly did handle it well.”

  “The peculiar part of the present case,” went on Anthony—his eyes twinkling, unobserved by the Inspector—“up to now—that is—is this apparent ‘masquerade’ on the dead girl’s part.”

  ‘H’m,” rejoined Bannister, non-committally.

  “How did it happen?” queried Anthony.

  The detective glared at a pedestrian that ambled across the road in the track of the fast-travelling car and sounded the horn twice before replying to the question. “The ‘Lauderdale’ people brought us the news last night—very late. The reception-clerk there—name of John Martin—took a telephone message on Wednesday evening—the evening before the actual murder—mind you—from a lady who gave the name Daphne Carruthers. She booked a room at the hotel and told him, I understand, that she would arrive some time on the following day. At half-past one yesterday—less than an hour, mark you, before the murder—the lady concerned arrived at the ‘Lauderdale.’ She referred to the booking of the previous evening—as might have been expected—gave Martin her suit-case to send up to her room and told him she had an important call to make but would return in about an hour. The suit-case was all in order
, apparently, and labelled just as Martin expected it to be—‘Miss Daphne Carruthers—11, Lexham Gardens, Kensington.’ When she failed to return—he connected her, after a time, with the inquiries that Sergeant Godfrey had caused to be made immediately after the discovery of the body. He was right—his fears were only too well founded—when we showed the body to him—he identified it—unhesitatingly—as the girl of the hotel incident. There you have the reason why we described the dead girl as we did. I don’t see that we could have done anything else.”

  Anthony drew thoughtfully at his cigarette. “How did she come to the hotel—by car?”

  “Yes,” replied Bannister, “and drove away by car. What is more—Martin says—she herself was driving. The car was otherwise unoccupied.”

  “Should be a comparatively simple matter to trace the car,” ventured Anthony.

  Bannister pushed out his lower lip as he swung round the corner of the road in which was situated the Seabourne Police Station.

  “It ought to be, but unfortunately Martin can’t say what make of car it was, neither can he remember the number. In all probability, he never saw that. I’ve had investigations going on all day, trying to trace any car that’s been abandoned anywhere round about, but up to the present no news of anything has come through. Here we are. Jump out.”

  The Crown Prince and Daphne fell in behind them.

  “Come through into the private room,” said Bannister.

  The constable on duty in the charge-room saluted promptly as they passed through.

  “Is Sergeant Godfrey in?” demanded Bannister, authoritatively.