by Brian Flynn
Bannister turned to Ross. “Seen anything of this Lal Singh in the neighbourhood—heard of him anywhere?
Ross shook his head. “Not so far as I know—I’ve heard nothing. But I’ll inquire for you if you like when I get back?”
“Do,” said the Inspector—it may be worth following up. I should have thought he would have been a pretty conspicuous figure.”
“There was an Indian chap found about ten years ago wandering round Nillebrook Water but the doctors reckoned he was ‘scatty’—bats in the belfry—you know. They brought him in as a lunatic ‘without settlement’ and bunged him in the County Mental Hospital. The Nillebrook ratepayers have had the somewhat doubtful pleasure of maintaining him ever since.” Ross chuckled and proceeded. “Perhaps he’s escaped,” he added, jokingly.
Bannister made no reply to what he considered an extravagant and inappropriate suggestion but returned to the woman. “You can assure me, I suppose, that your mistress had no money troubles?”
“Pinkie” scouted the idea on a strong note of indignation. “Absurd! You can clear your mind on that point,” she declared. “Miss Sheila was left very comfortably off—and with a considerable reserve,” she hinted darkly.
“That’s all right then,” put in Bannister, “I can rest easy on that score—eh?” He watched her carefully for a moment.
“Where will you be staying during the next few days?” intervened Anthony, “in case the Inspector or I should want a word with you?”
“I thought about going to stay with some friends in Westhampton—the name is Lucas—they live at—”
Anthony handed her an envelope that he took from his pocket. “Address this to yourself, would you mind? Then I can use it if I should find it necessary.” He handed her his fountain pen, and carefully put the envelope inside his wallet when she had addressed it. Later on, in the privacy of his bedroom he carefully studied it. A careful observer might have imagined that the handwriting afforded him some peculiar fascination. For a grim smile played round the corners of his lips as the words leapt vividly from the paper to his inquisitive eyes, “Miss Agnes Kerr, c/o Mrs. Lucas, 21, Crossley Road, Westhampton.” “Now that gives me much food for thought,” he soliloquised.
Chapter XIV
The Peacock’s Eye
Mr. Stark—the manager of the Westhampton branch of the once ill-starred Mutual Bank—sat in his spacious private room on the Bank premises and thoughtfully stroked his chin with his long supple fingers. He then picked up the morning paper again and read a paragraph therein with much more than ordinary interest. This done he put the paper down on his table and resumed his previous occupation of chin-stroking. He was a man of striking appearance—tall—and of fine physique generally—debonair and always dressed in the height of good taste. When he had suddenly entered the industry of Westhampton—a matter of about fourteen months ago he had caused something akin to a sensation in Westhampton social circles, and many Westhampton hearts surrendered to his fascination. Rumours had it that he was extremely highly-connected and that he had been sent to Westhampton immediately following upon the scandal caused by Sir Felix Warburton’s downfall—upon a special mission. Banks must be like the wife of Caesar! Rumour also had it that he was or had been intimate with such people as Sir Matthew Fullgarney—the late Major Carruthers and even with Lady Brantwood herself. Brantwood Castle, it may be observed was the biggest house for many mile around and Lady Brantwood suited it. It was evident that upon this particular morning somethin had occurred to worry him, and to cause him disturbance. Suddenly he came to what was obviously an important decision. He pressed the bell that communicated with the outer office. A junior clerk obeyed the summons.
Tell Mr. Churchill that I want him, at once. If he’s busy tell Mr. Jennings to go on the counter in his place. Churchill must come to me.”
Within the space of a few moments Mr. Churchill—the first cashier to designate him accurately—stood in front of the Manager. Mr. Stark picked up the paper and handed it to him. He indicated the paragraph that he had read so many times with a gesture both graphic and eloquent. “Pretty dreadful, isn’t it?” he remarked when Churchill had finished reading it. Churchill nodded his head slowly in agreement. “Now, Mr. Churchill,” went on Mr. Stark, “what I want to say to you is this. Miss Delaney called here on the morning of the day that she appears to have been murdered. That’s a fact, isn’t it, Churchill?”
Churchill nodded again. “Quite right, sir.”
“Did you attend to her yourself?”
“I did. Don’t you remember that I brought her in here to see you—she requested an interview?”
“Yes, I felt pretty certain it was you who ushered her in here. Now tell me, what was the nature of her transaction with you at the counter?”
“I cashed a cheque for her amounting to a hundred pounds. The cheque was drawn to ‘self.’”
“Notes—all of it?”
“Every penny, sir.”
“Remember what you gave her?”
Churchill knitted his forehead. “five ‘tenners,’” he said slowly as the remembrance came to him—“that’s fifty—eight ‘fivers’—that’s ninety—the rest in currency notes—pounds and halve. I couldn’t say to those exactly.”
“Good,” declared Stark, “here’s another one for you—got the numbers of the big stuff?”
Churchill disappeared with alacrity to return to the room after a brief absence. He noticed that his Chief looked very perturbed. “There you are, sir. I made a note of them when I paid them out across the counter. I remember I had it out there somewhere.”
The Manager smiled gravely with just a touch of magnanimous patronage. “Excellent, Churchill! You never took a course in Pelmanism, did you?”
“No, sir, although I knew a man who did. He could remember extraordinarily difficult things—but used to forget the date of his wife’s birthday.”
“No doubt she reminded him, Churchill—that’s all now, thank you. Send Miss Rivers in to me as you go out, will you?—no, never mind—it doesn’t matter.”
Churchill favoured him with a puzzled stare as he departed but the lessons of experience had thought him that there was usually method in his Chief’s madness even though at times the latter was very much more discernible upon the surface than the former. What ever his faults the Manger’s ability commanded the confidence of his staff. Stark tapped the broad pad of blotting-paper in front of him very deliberately and turned the whole story over in his mind. He rose from his chair, paced the square of the room two or three times and sat down again. Still he seemed dissatisfied—uncertain. Walking to the telephone at the side of the room he suddenly lifted the receiver—then just as impulsively replaced it. He returned to his desk—his mind now thoroughly made up and quickly wrote a letter. In a few minutes the letter was in the hands of the Westhampton Superintendent of Police. Half an hour late it was being considered by Chief-Inspector Bannister at the Grand Hotel. He passed it over to Anthony Bathurst. This was its message:
“Mutual Bank,
“Westhampton,
“July 9th.
“If convenient I will call and see the Inspector-in-charge at 11.30 this morning as I am of the opinion that I am in a position to place before him important evidence relative to the murder of Miss Sheila Delaney at Seabourne this week. Will the Inspector please telephone Westhampton 29 to confirm appointment?”
“Faithfully yours,
“E. Kingsley Stark, Manager.”
Underneath was a P.S. “When you ’phone ask to speak to me personally. E.K.S.”
Mr. Bathurst tossed the sheet of notepaper back to the Inspector somewhat nonchalantly. “Mutual Bank, Bannister,” he said meaningly, “wasn’t that the Bank with which Sir Felix Warburton was implicated? The Bank where the frauds were?”
Bannister nodded in affirmation. “That is so!” Then he looked carefully at the signature at the foot of the letter. “E. Kingsley Stark,” he muttered, “I wonder if it’s really genuin
e information that’s going to prove of help to us or whether he’s the kind of man who always thinks he can assist the Police—very often the story that comes along is nothing less than nonsensical, and two-thirds imaginary. Still—I suppose I’d better ’phone him and see what he has to say.”
He descended the staircase that led from the coffee room, found the telephone and confirmed the appointment. “I’ve heard from Godfrey,” he informed Anthony when he had found his way back, “I heard early this morning. He reports that they’re fairly up against it down there. No additional facts whatever have been brought to light at that end. So it’s up to us, Mr. Bathurst.” He smiled at Anthony in encouraging anticipation.
“Well, we haven’t done too badly, Inspector, considering all things. And we may progress a bit farther this morning after this chap Stark’s visit.”
“That may be,” rejoined Bannister, “all the same I’ve a feeling in my bones that the solution to the affair lies in Seabourne. After I’ve seen Alan Warburton—and I certainly mean to do that as soon as possible—I’m turning my attention again to the ‘scene of the crime.’ Of course,” he added reflectively, “there may be something in this fantastic story of the Indian calling upon Miss Delaney—my experience as an investigator of all classes of crime teaches me to ignore nothing—to disregard nothing—to consider carefully everything—no matter how absurd, grotesque, impossible it may appear at first blush to be. I’ve always worked on those lines.”
“With that, Inspector, I’m bound to say that I cordially agree,” responded Anthony. “The truth may shine suddenly from the most unexpected quarter. All the same—I’m rather inclined to disagree with your first opinion—that the eventual solution will be discovered at Seabourne. In my opinion—I speak with all deference, of course—the answer to the riddle will be found up here.”
Bannister shrugged his shoulders. “Time will tell, Mr. Bathurst. Meanwhile there is Mr. E. Kingsley Stark.”
That gentleman was punctual to the minute. Half-past eleven saw him ascending the main staircase of the “Grand Hotel.” When he reached the top, Bannister met him on the carpeted landing. “Mr. Stark? Come in here, will you? I have arranged that we shall be free from interruption. This gentleman is Mr. Anthony Bathurst—you can speak in front of him with perfect confidence and you can depend upon his discretion. I am Chief-Inspector Bannister of new Scotland Yard—you wished to see me, I believe?”
Stark entered the room that Bannister indicated fluttering with suppressed excitement and with a sense of tremendous impatience. He had heard of Bannister—who hadn’t come to that?—and immediately, for him, the case began to assume greater proportions than ever before. He plucked the lemon-coloured glove from his right-hand and bowed to his auditors, somewhat consequentially. “That is so,” he opened, “and I think it will not be very long before I am able to convince you, Inspector, that I have information for you of the most—er—paramount importance. For I am sure that I have.”
“Let’s have it, then,” declared Bannister, “my ears are open. Sit down.”
“At the present time,” proceeded Stark, “I hold the position of Manger of the Westhampton branch of the Mutual Bank. But you know that, of course.”
“One moment,” came the quick interruption, “how long have you held that position?”
“I came here in May—the May of last year. What I have to tell you will not take me very long. I read in this morning’s paper that the young lady found murdered at the dentist’s at Seabourne has now been identified as a Miss Sheila Delaney of Tranfield—the village adjoining Westhampton. Am I correct in that statement, Inspector Bannister?”
“We have good and substantial reason to believe so,” conceded Bannister.
“Well then, you may be interested to hear that Miss Delaney, who was a client of ours of some years’ standing cashed a cheque at our bank on the morning of the very day that she was murdered, value a hundred pounds. The cheque was made payable to ‘self’ and was of course drawn against her current account.” He paused as though to measure thoroughly the full effect of his statement.
“Go on,” said Bannister, a grim note sounding in his voice. Stark looked at him quickly and went on as ordered.
“The notes handed to the lady by my cashier were partly ‘tens’—partly ‘fives’ and the remainder ordinary currency notes. There were ninety pounds in bank notes. Those are the numbers.” He handed across to the Inspector an envelope upon which the information was written. Bannister beamed and rubbed the palms of his hands in unmistakable pleasure.
“Splendid,” he cried, “you’ve done us a great service, Mr. Stark, there’s no doubt about that. This should help the course of our investigations tremendously.”
“I thought it would,” said Stark, flushed with pleasure at Bannister’s approbation, “but please wait a minute—I haven’t finished yet. There’s more to come.” He rose from his chair and walking to the door opened it and looked sharply outside. then he closed it again, came back to his chair and drew it a little distance nearer to the Inspector. “After Miss Delaney had received her money,” he was now speaking very quietly and intensely, “she asked the cashier who attended to her—Churchill by name—to show her in to me. Into my private room! He did so. She came into my private office and made what I considered to be an extraordinary request. You are doubtless aware that Banks often keep in their strong-rooms certain valuables belonging to their clients. Miss Delaney not only has a Deposit account with ‘Mutual’ as well as the ordinary current account but we also had lodged with us for some years, I believe, a legacy left her by her father the late Colonel Daniel Delaney. I refer, Inspector, to what is always described in the Deposit-Note as ‘The Peacock’s eye.’”
“What?” ejaculated Bannister. “What the blazes is that?”
Anthony also eagerly awaited the Manager’s answer.
“‘The Peacock’s Eye’ is the description given to a magnificent blue-shaded emerald of somewhat peculiar shape. It is valued, I believe, at something like twenty thousand pounds. Anybody who has not been privileged to see it can have no adequate idea of its immense size or unique beauty. Miss Delaney asked for the gem, signed for its receipt and took the stone away with her.” He passed a slip of paper over to the Inspector. “There’s her signature for it,” he explained. Bannister pursed her lips in deep thought. Anthony bent over his shoulder. Stark took advantage of their silence to continue his story. “I pointed out to her the foolishness of the procedure as far as I could—consistently that is with my duty and position as her Bank Manager. I foreshadowed the risk she was running—tried to get her to visualise certain dangers to which she was exposing herself and also the stone. To no avail, gentlemen! The lady was adamant.”
“What did you do then?” inquired Bannister peremptorily.
“I went to our strong-room, opened Miss Delaney’s private safe in which the jewel was kept, took the case containing the ‘Peacock’s Eye’ back to my own room and handed it to her. Whereupon Miss Delaney signed the receipt-note that you’ve just examined.” He sat back in his chair with a certain amount of self-satisfaction.
“Did anybody else in the service of your Bank know of this transaction?”
“Nobody at all,” replied Stark firmly. “I confided the matter to no one, neither then nor since, and nobody could possibly have known what I was doing.”
“One moment, Mr. Stark,” Anthony broke in sharply, “had Miss Delaney ever made this request before?”
“Never—during my tenure of the Managership. I couldn’t say regarding the period before that—naturally.”
“If so—if she had done it previously—I take it there would be documentary substantiation of the occurrence?”
“I should say so—yes.”
“And you haven’t come across any?”
Stark shook his head with decision, “None.”
“Did the lady seem at all upset, nervous, or frightened, or was she quite normal?”
“Well,�
� answered Stark, “I’ve seen her several times before and I don’t think she’s the kind of girl to show such conditions as nervousness or fright. She has always impressed me as very self-reliant and capable. I should say she was a girl that could face the music—could stand fire as you might say. But I’ll also say this. On the morning in question she certainly seemed to me to be labouring under a sort of—” he hesitated momentarily and sought mentally for what he considered the correct description, “let me say ‘nervous excitement’—perhaps the term ‘nervous eagerness,’ would fit the situation even better.”
“A certain amount of agitation—eh?” suggested Bannister.
Stark shook his head. “Hardly that—as I said just now the best term to use would be ‘nervous eagerness.’”
Anthony intervened again here. “I fully realise considerations of professional etiquette, and all that, Mr. Stark, and I appreciate the fact that you were almost debarred from putting any question to the lady—but did she give you any tangible idea as to her intentions with regard to the stone—why she had asked for it—what she proposed doing with it and so forth?”
“None whatever! As you observe, it was not within my personal province to subject Miss Delaney to any sort of inquisitorial examination—she was entirely within her rights in demanding the stone—I was holding it for her—I had to produce it. I did so. She took it away with her. That’s all there was to it.”
“Why is it called ‘The Peacock’s Eye’?” The inquiry came from Bannister.
