by Brian Flynn
“By reason of its strange shape. It is very similar to that of the ‘eye’ of the peacock’s train-feathers.”
Bannister showed his understanding with a quick nod of affirmation. “Juno made a mistake there”—his mouth set half-humorously and half-satirically—“instead of endowing her peacock with the hundred eyes of Argus—she ought to have given them to the members of my profession. A detective with a hundred eyes would stand a better chance,” he added “Two are hopelessly inadequate.”
Stark smiled at the Inspector’s sally.
“That cashier of yours,” went on Bannister—back to gravity again, “I think you mentioned his name was Churchill—could he tell us anything more—I suppose Miss Delaney said nothing to him? Very often, you know, in cases of this kind—a chance remark—a word dropped here or there—is sufficient to put us on the track of something big—was there anything of that kind in this instance—do you know?”
Stark again gave a denial. “I’ve spoken to Churchill. I obtained the numbers of the notes from him—thanks—er—to a system that I have been instrumental in instituting in the working of my Branch. But I’m certain that he knows no more than I have told you. He just cashed Miss Delaney’s cheque—that was all.”
“Very good,” said Bannister. “At the present moment then, I don’t think I can do better than to communicate these note-numbers to the Sergeant who is in charge of the case at Seabourne. He can then take the necessary steps to get them properly circulated. Mr. Stark—I’m thinking that your evidence this morning throws a new light on this dreadful affair. We have, at last, been able to establish a motive that is clear-cut and definite. Previously we were forced to consider motives that were undeniably ‘shadowy’—now we have something upon which to work.” he turned towards Anthony Bathurst and his eyes shone with concentrated eagerness. “You agree with me there, I take it, Mr. Bathurst?”
The gentleman thus addressed took a moment or two before replying. Mr. Bathurst never hurried unless necessity demanded. “Yes—perhaps I do. But it’s an extraordinarily baffling case, I must say that. I don’t think I’ve ever been called into a problem that presented so many puzzling points. To me at the moment the question that requires the most delicate answer is, ‘why was Miss Delaney’s identity so cleverly and so deliberately confused with that of Miss Carruthers?’”
“I think that can be answered quite easily,” replied Bannister, with a touch of impatience. “In fact you outlined it yourself at Seabourne—it was done to gain time. To gain time to accomplish something. You haven’t altered your own opinion—surely?” Bannister eyed him keenly.
“You don’t quite get me, Inspector,” said Anthony, unperturbed at the suggestion. “I’m going a step further along the road—that’s all. What I mean now is this. Miss Delaney’s identity, we are agreed, was hidden under somebody else’s. Now tell me this! Was it sufficient for the murderer that the dead girl when discovered should be thought to be anybody but Sheila Delaney or definitely thought to be Daphne Carruthers? Do you see the point there? It’s a distinction with a big difference! You see now what I’m driving at, don’t you?” He paused—then went on rapidly, “In other words is Daphne Carruthers a more important card in the pack than we think? Is she the card?” He watched Bannister very carefully as he put the question to him. The Inspector thrust his hands into his pockets and paced backwards and forwards as he turned the question over. Anthony has raised a new aspect of the case. Mr. Stark polished the silver knob of his walking-stick most assiduously. He felt honoured to be present at such a conference. He became almost imperial. It was a story that would gain appreciably in the recounting. His already considerable reputation as a raconteur would be—Banister broke in upon the flight of his fancy.
“You’ve given me a poser, Mr. Bathurst—and I’m quite prepared to admit as much. Certainly Daphne Carruthers can’t altogether be ruled out. I’ll grant that. Then there’s another point to be considered. Where does the Carruthers—Crown Prince—Captain Willoughby interest impinge on the Delaney—Alan Warburton connection?—that’s what I can’t fathom—I confess it’s got me fairly wondering.”
Anthony smiled—his slow, quiet smile. The smile that always seems to contain the quality of assurance. “There’s one common factor to both sides of that equation. Have you realised that?”
Bannister looked a trifle bewildered. “What’s that, Mr. Bathurst—I don’t quite—?”
“Major Desmond Carruthers—the gentleman that was killed in the Spring of last year. He was Daphne’s uncle and also I believe a close friend of Colonel Delaney—he fits into each part of your little problem, you see.”
“H’m,” muttered Bannister. “I see what you mean, but I don’t know that I can link them up. I’m working in the dark.” He went to Mr. E. Kingsley Stark and held out his hand. “I won’t detain you any longer, Mr. Stark,” he announced cordially. “You’ve helped us considerably. If I want to see you again concerning anything, I’ll let you know. Good morning!”
Stark rose and bowed his acknowledgement. “Good morning, Inspector. Good morning, Mr. Bathurst. I’m indeed happy to have been of service.”
Bannister conducted him to the door and watched him descend the substantial staircase. He then crossed the landing and telephoned to Ross certain instructions that were to be forwarded to Sergeant Godfrey immediately. When he got back to Mr. Bathurst, he found that gentleman ensconced in the most comfortable of all the chairs—his long lets outstretched to the limit. Mr. Bathurst was a firm believer in physical comfort as a stimulant to mental exercise. He turned his head towards the Inspector as the latter entered.
“Well?” he said, “what do you make of him?”
“Stark?—very useful evidence—without a doubt. Why?”
“I’m not gainsaying that, Bannister,” murmured Anthony gently, “that little story of the ‘Peacock’s eye’ rather intrigued me, to tell the plain and unvarnished truth. By the way, though, Inspector, did you happen to notice his initials?”
Bannister raised his eyebrow—then pulled out the letter Mr. Stark had sent. “E.K.S?” he queried.
“Might conceivably be ‘X’ as pronounced,” suggested Anthony quietly, “it only just struck me—that was all.”
Bannister stared. He opened his mouth to answer when a tap at the door destroyed his intention. It was Falcon.
“There’s a gentleman wants to see you,” he declared. “He’s downstairs—shall I show him up?”
“Who is it?” demanded Bannister. Falcon smiled.
“Mr. Alan Warburton.”
Chapter XV
Alan Warburton leads trumps
“This is getting more interesting than ever,” exclaimed Bannister. “Lo and behold!—the man I was about to seek-seeks me. I wonder why. Send him up, Falcon.”
“Very good, Inspector.”
Both men were quick to see that Alan Warburton looked very much the worse for wear. He as unshaven, his hair anything but tidy, and his clothes unbrushed—so completely unbrushed and creased that they gave the impression of having been slept in. And very recently at that. His collar by no stretch of the imagination could be described as clean and his tie had been tied with glaring and almost exaggerated carelessness. He himself was in no different condition from the clothes in which he stood. His not too-clean hands were shaking, and in his eyes glittered something that looked exceedingly like a dangerous malevolence. Decidedly Mr. Warburton was looking anything but his best. Anthony had seen a suggestion of the same look before in the eyes of the mentally unbalanced and knew that it bordered upon a state of fanaticism. He was quite prepared therefore to hear startling news. He was not disappointed. He has been heard moreover, more than once afterwards to remark, when this astounding case has been the subject of discussion, that this coming of Warburton enabled him to disentangle the treads perhaps more than any other feature of the affair. Coincidental with Warburton’s voluntary entrance into the cast he avers that he began to see a glimmer of light stabbing through the dark
ness of doubt. He was able to reconcile certain suspicions with actual facts. Alan Warburton came to grips immediately. His self-control seemed to have entirely gone and he appeared mastered and dominated by a kind of raw desperation.
“Chief-Inspector Bannister?” he exclaimed abruptly.
“My name,” said Bannister laconically.
“I understand you’re in charge of the Seabourne murder case—my name is Alan Warburton.”
The Inspector watched him very carefully through his glasses. “Yes?” he murmured encouragingly. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got information for you,” went on Warburton, fiercely; “information that only I can give, information that lets daylight into the case. I know the murderer and I’ll give you his name and by Heaven may I be there when the swine swings.” He brought his fist down on to the centre of the table with a resounding crash.
“Steady, Mr. Warburton, steady. Collect yourself if you possibly can. Tell your story intelligently.”
Warburton turned and eye him with a dull smouldering glare. “What?” he demanded truculently; “what’s that you said? Intelligently? You’ll find my little recitation intelligent enough—too intelligent—God knows.” He buried his face in his hands to conceal the depth of his emotion. When he lifted it he was considerably calmer, but the dangerous light still remained fitfully flickering in his eyes. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I ask your indulgence. I’m on edge. My nerves are frayed to threads. I’ve been through red, blazing Hell these last few days. You see, I loved Sheila Delaney. I am the nephew of Sir Felix Warburton—another unlucky beggar”—he spoke with mordant bitterness—“and you can imagine I used to be in a good deal better circumstances than I am now. I’ve known Sheila since we were boy and girl together. We grew up side by side. Now she’s been murdered,” he burst out again. “And murdered by a lascivious blackguard”—he went on heedless of Bannister’s retraining hand—“and I’ll give the swine a name—Alexis—Crown Prince of Clorania—now you know,” he declared defiantly. Anthony saw Bannister start with astonishment.
“What?” he shouted. Then his professional training asserted itself and he began to reason calmly with the extraordinary situation. “Explain yourself, Mr. Warburton. It’s one thing to bring an accusation—it’s another thing justifying it.”
Warburton waved the challenge away almost imperiously—certainly disdainfully. He seemed very sure of himself and continued unperturbed and untroubled by Bannister’s curt demand. “I can justify myself all right—don’t you fret yourself. I shouldn’t be chatting here with you, Inspector Bannister, if I couldn’t do that. Ask Mr. Royal Highness Alexis what he was doing in Seabourne when Sheila went down there this last time. He’s been pestering her for months now—the skunk—ever since he met her in the February of last year. I know that and I can prove it.”
It was here that Mr. Bathurst took a hand. The date was his positive attraction. “The February of last year? Mr. Warburton—you aren’t quite so well placed for information as we are. I’ll explain what I mean a little later. But coming back to what you just said—where did Miss Delaney meet the gentleman you mentioned? I should be interested to know that.”
“At the Westhampton Hunt Ball.” Warburton shot the answer back in a tone that brooked no denial. “I can prove it, too, as I said. I was there myself and saw him.”
Anthony saw from the corner of his eye that Bannister was knitting his brows in perplexity. But only momentarily.
“Suppose you tell us the whole story, Mr. Warburton?” suggested the Inspector persuasively. “Begin at the beginning and marshal your facts in proper sequence so that we may properly understand it. We can then test its strength better.”
Warburton flung another defiant glance in Bannister’s direction. “Test its strength?” he echoed mockingly. “It’s true and you can’t get anything stronger than Truth. Order me a drink, will you, Inspector—it’s confoundedly dry work talking? My mouth’s as dry as a lime-kiln.”
Bannister frowned and touched the bell—without making any reply. Refreshed—Warburton began at the beginning as he had been directed and Anthony settled himself down to hear something that held a double interest for him. Although he was still agent for the Crown Prince he began to wonder where that gentleman actually stood and it seemed to him that Warburton’s story must throw light on the question. For he was beginning to harbour doubts about Alexis.
“There’s not much to tell,” said Alan Warburton moodily. “In the February of last year I was a guest at the Annual Hunt Ball at Westhampton. It’s quite a big thing in its way. I accompanied Sheila Delaney.”
“One moment,” broke in Bannister; “was there any understanding at that time between you and the lady?”
“Not in so many words—but I was very confident that there soon would be and so there would have been if—”
“Go on,” motioned Bannister.
“During the evening, Major Carruthers, who was Chief Constable then and a sort of guardian always of Sheila, introduced her to a man whom I had never seen before. I suspected him to be the Crown Prince. To cut the story short, Sheila fell for him badly, and from that moment I began to slump very badly as an ice-cutter. In fact I disappeared completely from Sheila’s map. She told me some weeks afterwards that the man was Alex, Crown Prince of Clorania. I implored her to give the man up. Shewed her how ridiculous it was. I told her she was playing with fire—that she was just providing temporary amusement for him. But she was like the rest of her sex. She wouldn’t listen to me. There are none so deaf as those that won’t hear! By God, I was right! She went to Seabourne to meet that swine and he murdered her. She’d served his purpose,” he declared vindictively. “But he’s not going to get away with it.”
Bannister had some interrogating to do. “You assert that Miss Delaney informed you that her lover was the Crown Prince of Clorania. You have no doubt on the point?”
“She told me what I’ve just told you. I couldn’t invent the name, could I?” he demanded churlishly.
“Did you attempt to verify her statement in any way? It would have been quite simple to do so, surely—up to a point?”
“I ascertained that it was perfectly true that the Crown Prince had attended the Ball that night—if that’s what you mean? I was quite satisfied, more than satisfied.”
“Have you ever seen a photograph of the Crown Prince?”
“Never—I’m not interested enough.”
“You say that you saw him introduced to Miss Delaney by Major Carruthers?”
“I did!”
“Could you recognise him again if you saw him?”
“I couldn’t swear to that. I might if I saw him in evening-dress. But he was some distance down the ballroom when the introduction took place and at other times I only saw his back—I tell you I wasn’t interested in the man—curse him!”
Mr. Bathurst leant across the table. “I should like to ask you something, Mr. Warburton.”
“What’s that?” replied Warburton discourteously.
Anthony ignored the discourtesy. He made allowances for Alan Warburton’s unsettled condition. “Do you know a lady—niece of the late Major Carruthers, I believe—a Miss Daphne Carruthers?”
“I’ve met her—I can’t say that I know her.”
“Cast your memory back to that February evening—was this Daphne Carruthers present at the Hunt Ball?”
“Yes, she was. I distinctly remember seeing her.”
“Good! Now tell me again. Did she meet or dance with the Crown Prince of Clorania? To the best of your knowledge that is.”
“As far as I know, certainly not.”
“You never saw them together?”
“No, I saw the Crown Prince with Major Carruthers. And as I said, Major Carruthers introduced Sheila to him, I’m positive of it. I’m almost certain he came to the Ball in the company of Major Carruthers.”
“Would you be prepared to assert that he didn’t come with a lady?”
“Most certainly I would!” Warburton was most empathic on the point.
“Don’t you think it strange, then,” went on Anthony, “that, although this distinguished guest came with Major Carruthers as you so positively declare, he never made the acquaintance of Daphne Carruthers—the Major’s own niece?”
“I don’t think about it. I don’t see what any of these questions had got to do with my story.”
“Don’t you?” interjected Bannister, unable to conceal a note of triumphant sarcasm; “don’t you? Would you be interested to know that the Crown Prince whom you are accusing of the murder of Miss Delaney was in Seabourne for the purpose of meeting Miss Carruthers?”
“Who says so?” blazed Warburton.
“I do,” rapped Bannister. “If you want to know, I left them there. They were at the ‘Hotel Cassandra’—I saw them myself—Mr. Bathurst here can support me—so you needn’t start arguing about it.”
Warburton went white as a sheet. But he quickly recovered himself. “What’s all this talk about Daphne Carruthers—anyway? I don’t quite get in on that. Why did the ‘Seabourne Chronicle’ of Saturday last say that the police had every justification for their first attempt at identification? Why was Daphne Carruthers supposed to have been murdered?”
“And where did you see the ‘Seabourne Chronicle’?” thundered Bannister.
“In Seabourne, of course,” stormed back Warburton. “Where do you image I saw it—in the Westhampton Free Library, or that I found it in a railway carriage?”
“Oh, then,” said the Inspector, with an ominous quietness, “so you’ve been recuperating at Seabourne too. Seems mighty popular just at the moment as a health-resort! What’s its special attraction?”
Warburton glared at him insolently. “What took me to Seabourne is no concern of yours, Inspector. You bark up the right tree. And keep barking up it till something comes down. Never mind about me. Concentrate on little Alexis.”
“Hold on for a moment. Where did you stay in Seabourne? Give me the address.”
