by Brian Flynn
“At a dirty little boarding-house, if you want to know—right at the back of the town—kept by a Mrs. Leach—damned good name for her, too,” he added reminiscently, “judged by the terms she charged in relation to the quality of her cuisine.”
“Give me the exact address, if you please?” ordered Bannister, with growing impatience.
“‘Sea View,’ it’s about three miles from the sea, to be exact—that’s the reason for the name, no doubt. Froam Road.”
Bannister made an entry in his book “Not a very great distance, though, from Coolwater Avenue, Mr. Warburton,” he added with a wealth of meaning.
“Too big a distance, by God,” raved Warburton. “If only I’d been nearer that swine would never have finished his dirty work. I’d have killed him with these hands!” He swung round on Bannister, passionately. “You can’t be such a fool as to think I’d lay a hand on Sheila Delaney of all people. I loved her far too much to hurt a hair on her pretty head. I worshipped the very ground she walked on.” His eyes caught Bannister’s and held them menacingly.
But the Inspector was rapid and ready to counter him adroitly. “You loved her too much—eh? You loved her so much that you haven’t called upon her for months! You’ve never gone near her. How do you explain that, Mr. Galahad?”
Warburtons’ reply was contemptuous and emphatic. “Haven’t called upon her,” he repeated, the contempt increasing with each word uttered. “When a girl doesn’t want a man—if he’s a sportsman he keeps away. I don’t suppose your education has taught you that much. He doesn’t hang round her with a whine, does he?”
Bannister’s temper, however, was badly frayed by now. “It depends,” he blazed. “Your story may be all right, Mr. Warburton. On the other hand it may not. I can assure you, it will have to be pretty strictly investigated.”
“When you like and where you like, Inspector Bannister. Go through it with a small tooth-comb. That cackle won’t put any wind up me.” He flung out of the room leaving Bannister white and furious.
“Well, Mr. Bathurst,” he said at length, “and what do you make of that charming gentleman? An extraordinary story, don’t you think?”
“He’s passing through a phase of deep emotion, Inspector,” responded Anthony; “In point of fact, I’m intensely sorry for him. As to his story—it’s more than extraordinary—to me it’s positively conflicting—yet—”
“Yet what?”
“I think it may prove to be of inestimable help eventually. When I’ve sorted things out a bit I think perhaps there may be a peep of silver lining shining through the clouds.”
“Hope to goodness you’re right—although I can’t see it myself.” He rattled the coins in his pocket.
“What’s your next step, Inspector?” queried Mr. Bathurst.
“Don’t quite know at this juncture—I’m torn between two or three intentions. There are several things I want to do. On the whole, I think I shall return to Seabourne. I’m confident the kernel of the affair will be found down there. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I rather fancy I shall put in one or two more days up here. It’s a county about which I know very little and I feel that I should like to have a bit of a run round. I was always interested in new places.”
“Hallo, Mr. Bathurst—the scent getting cold—eh?” Bannister’s tone was genially provoking and contained a strong hint of raillery.
“I wouldn’t say that,” replied Anthony, showing easily discernible signs of discomfiture. “I wouldn’t say that—a day or two’s rest shouldn’t make a huge difference.”
“None at all—in all probability,” laughed Bannister. The telephone rang and he crossed to it. The call was for him. Anthony listened attentively. “What?” the Inspector yelled. “You don’t say so? Two ‘fives’ and a ‘ten,’ eh? By Jove! That complicates matters with a vengeance. All right! I’ll be back to-morrow.” He replaced the receiver and turned to Mr. Bathurst. “That message settles me. I’m going back to Seabourne. Three of Miss Delaney’s stolen notes have been traced.”
“To whom?” asked Mr. Bathurst quietly. “To a guest at the ‘Cassandra,’” said Bannister. “You’ve met him, too! A certain Captain Willoughby!”
Chapter XVI
Of which Mr. Bathurst holds the ace
Mr. Bathurst was considerate enough to see Chief Inspector Bannister off from Westhampton station on the following morning. He was sufficiently solicitous also to procure for him a corner-seat—to obtain for him all the newspapers that he desired—and to press upon him a couple of Henry Clays. From which it will be unerringly inferred that they parted upon the best of terms. “I wish you the best of luck down in Seabourne, Inspector,” he said on parting. “Keep me posted if anything important pops up, won’t you?”
“I will,” promised Bannister. “Rely on me. And I hope when I see you again to be on the way to a successful termination of the case.”
Anthony grinned. “There’s nothing like a note of cheery optimism,” he murmured; “just enough to cover a sixpence.”
Bannister smiled back and waved his hand gaily as the train drew slowly from the long platform. Anthony made his way back to his hotel. There he sought the seclusion afforded by the smoke-room. Writing materials were to hand. Mr. Bathurst set to work upon what he always called his “Initial Summary of Facts.” Completed he snuggled back in his chair and surveyed the epitome complacently. This is how to read. (A) Present at Hunt Ball—”lever de rideau,” so to speak—Alexis—Sheila—Daphne—Major Carruthers—Sir Matthew Fullgarney (probably)—Alan Warburton—and the mysterious “Mr. X.” (B) Present at “Cassandra” when compromising photograph was taken—Alexis—Daphne—Captain Willoughby—“? Mr. X.” (C) Present at Seabourne at the time of the actual tragedy—Alexis—Sheila—Daphne—Alan Warburton—Captain Willoughby—“? Mr. X.”? Is “Mr. X.” one of these? If so, which one? Or is he another person altogether? A curious point how certain names are like a certain type of decimals—they keep recurring. (D) Sheila is deliberately shrouded under Daphne’s identity and provided with her suit-case—why? Arrangements are made in Daphne’s name—and that luggage is deliberately substituted—again why? (E) Sheila is poisoned at a dentist’s of all places. (F) “Pinkie” and Alan Warburton are agreed that there came a lover into her life. When exactly? Crown Prince? Mr. X? (G) Whose was the mysterious correspondence referred to by “Pinkie” Kerr? Who was the ardent horticulturalist that wrote concerning the beauty of the Iris? (H) Who wrote Branston’s address on the back of Alan Warburton’s visiting-card—Sheila herself, Warburton—or another? (I) Why did Sheila want the “Peacock’s Eye” on that particular day? (J) What is Lal Singh to do with the picture? Does he really fit in at all? (K) Colonel Dan drowned—Major Carruthers killed whilst motoring—Mrs. Delaney dead—Sheila murdered—is it just a line of coincidences or a sequence of intention? (L) Why exactly did the murderer, murderess, or murderers return post-hast to Tanfield? What did they want if they had the “Peacock’s Eye”? Anthony twisted the top of his fountain-pen round and round and smiled grimly. It was a smile that boded no good for a very clever criminal. Anthony Bathurst had formed certain conclusions. He added another heading. (M) Did Stark (E. Kingsley Stark) know Sir Felix Warburton? He spent another quarter of an hour or so studying his list then folded it carefully and placed it in his pocket. He looked at his watch, obtained his hat and stick from the stand outside the door of the smoke-room and sauntered to the front entrance of the hotel. The porter knew Crossley Road very well. He would assist Mr. Bathurst! Mr. Bathurst should follow the tram-lines, turn round by the “Ram and Raven,” pass the statue of Doctor Harvey, and he would see that Crossley Road was the first turning on the left. Mr. Bathurst accepted the instructions with a charming thankfulness and sallied forth. For the moment he had left the main question of Sheila Delaney’s murder. As Bannister had implied the day before—he was taking a rest—partly. But he had a shrewd idea at the back of his clever brain that the half-holiday would not prove complete
ly unprofitable. He turned down Crossley Road and was not long before he stood in front of Number 19. In response to his knock a rather slatternly woman appeared at the door. She eyed Mr. Bathurst with a disfavour that she took no pains to conceal. Which fact mattered but little to him. Mr. Bathurst always appeared to be supremely unconscious of little incidents of that kind.
“Mr. Warburton?” she echoed his request. “Yes, he’s in. Would you be wantin’ him?” she added unnecessarily.
“Naturally,” smiled Mr. Bathurst. “That was why I asked for him.”
The lady scowled ungraciously, but Mr. Bathurst could be as charming to scowls as he could be to “wreathed smiles.”
“What name shall I say?” she demanded more churlishly than ever.
“Say Mr. Bannister’s assistant.”
The lady disappeared with the mendacious information and left Mr. Bathurst kicking his heels outside the front door. Within a few minutes she returned.
“You’re to come upstairs,” she announced with the air of one bestowing the greatest of favours. “Mr. Warburton says as how he’ll see you.”
Anthony ascended the unpretentious staircase and was shown into a sitting-room that had seen a good many better days.
“Well, my inquisitive friend”—such was the manner of Mr. Warburton’s greeting—“to what particular strain of damned curiosity am I indebted for the honour of this visit?”
Anthony waved a deprecating hand. “I beg of you, Mr. Warburton, I beg of you! Do not, please, mistake your man. It would grieve me enormously if you were to do that, and I fear that my recovery from that grief would be extremely tardy. Let me assure you that I have no official connection whatever with the Police. Rest easy on that point.”
Warburton stared at him—incredulity and wonderment struggling to find expression. “What the hell do you mean?”
“Precisely what I say. I do not come from the Police.”
“What were you doing then with Bannister yesterday, eh?”
Again Mr. Bathurst raised a mildly protesting hand. “Ah! there we do meet on more appropriate terms. I will tell you, Mr. Warburton. I am watching the case on behalf of His Royal Highness Alexis, Crown Prince of Clorania. Does that surprise you? My name is Anthony Bathurst.”
Warburton sprang to his feet—furious with anger. “Then get out of here,” he cried. “As quickly as you know how or—” He stopped irresolutely.
Mr. Bathurst, as has been observed more than once, was always very fit—thank you, and Mr. Warburton was intelligent enough to note the fact. One glance at the lithe and muscular six feet length of body was ample for him in which to arrive at his conclusions.
“I think not,“said Mr. Bathurst, sweetly—as sweetly as he knew how, which is considerably so. “And I’ll tell you why, Mr. Warburton, in case you don’t know.” There was no sweetness in his tone now—rather a grim menace. “Have you ever heard of the Princess Imogena of Natalia?”
“What do you mean?” muttered Warburton.
“I was called into this case, Mr. Warburton, before it assumed the tragic aspect that unhappily it has now.” He took a bundle of letters from his pocket. “Your handwriting, I fancy!” he held one out to Alan Warburton.
The latter’s lower lip dropped as he gazed at the letter sullenly. “There’s no need for you to answer,” said Anthony, “your face betrays you.” Warburton remained obstinately silent. “There’s no fifty thousand pounds for you this journey, my young friend—you may be housed rather as a guest of His Majesty.”
“It’s of no consequence to me now—you won’t frighten me with that.”
“Perhaps not! But nevertheless I’m very curious on one point. What bluff were you calling? You had absolutely nothing at the back of you. What was your game?”
Warburton’s face twisted into a sneering laugh. “I knew he’d been meeting her,” he declared. “That was good enough for me to work on.”
“Good enough for blackmail? A dirty word and a dirty trade! However did you imagine you would be able to keep the strings pulled tightly enough when you knew absolutely nothing—when you were groping in the dark? You must be mad.”
“I knew he was meeting Sheila Delaney and a word of that in his future bride’s ear would have cooked his goose all right, don’t you worry. At any rate I frightened the swine. I put the fear of God in his carcass sufficiently for him to call you into the case.”
“You’ll cut a sorry figure in the dock, Warburton and you’ll get a stiff sentence—you won’t have a leg to stand on.”
“I’ll stand in no dock,” sneered Warburton. “And what is more, you know it! I can see dear Alexis cutting almost a sorry figure as I should—and a bit sorrier—Prosecute?” He laughed with an almost affected bitterness. “He’ll never prosecute me—he hasn’t got half the pluck.”
Anthony folded up the letters preparatory to putting the bundle away in his breast pocket. “I’m going,” he announces. “What the Crown Prince decides to do is entirely his own affair. I can promise you that. I shall refrain from advising him either way. In some circumstances, I might feel sorry for you. Good morning.”
Warburton sat sullenly in his chair and made no reply. Anthony stopped on the threshold. “By the way,” he declared, “you might oblige me in one little matter, will you? I want the address of an important gentleman of these parts. I have no doubt you can give it to me—Sir Matthew Fullgarney.”
Warburton stared wonderingly. “Dovaston Court.” He gave the information with surliness. “Two miles out of Westhampton on the Bedford Road.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Bathurst. He closed the door gently behind him.”
Chapter XVII
Bannister strikes the trail
Bannister left the Seabourne train with a quickness of step that denoted serious business in front. The express had made excellent time from Victoria, as a result of which the Inspector’s spirits had considerably risen. This “note” story that had been telephoned to him was really interesting. At last there had come tangible evidence upon which he and his subordinates could get to work. He walked quickly down the platform, passed the barrier and flung himself into a waiting “taxi.” When he had heard from Sergeant Godfrey, at Westhampton, that the missing notes had been traced to the possession of Captain Willoughby, he had instructed the Sergeant to take no immediate action but temporarily, at least, to hold his hand. To hold his hand until Bannister himself could arrive upon the scene and direct the plan of operations. He dashed into the Police Station and within a matter of a few minutes was interviewing Sergeant Godfrey.
“Tell me the whole story from the beginning, Godfrey,” he ordered. “I mean from the time when I sent you the numbers of the notes.”
“That’s an easy matter,” replied Godfrey. “We circulated the missing numbers as you instructed us in the usual way and within a couple of ours received surprising information. Information from the Seabourne Branch of the Southern and Home Counties Bank. The Manager telephoned us here and I went along myself to hear what he had to say. It appears that one of his cashiers remembered taking some five pound notes over the counter on the previous day. He looked at them again just out of curiosity when our inquiry went through to his Bank and discovered to his surprise that two of them corresponded with those taken from Miss Delaney. They had been paid into the credit of the ‘Cassandra’ Hotel. There was no doubt about it. He shewed me the entry on the paying-in slip. I thanked the Manager and rolled off at once to the ‘Cassandra.’ Saw the Manager there, saw the cashier, saw pretty nearly everybody concerned. ‘Quite right,” they said, ‘the notes had come from them certainly.’ The cashier was able to remember receiving them, perfectly. They had been paid over in settlement of his weekly account by Captain Willoughby, who was staying at the hotel for some time. I enjoined absolute silence upon all of them for the time being and ‘phoned the news direct to you. Willoughby is blissfully ignorant that the notes have been traced to him! What will you do—see him?”
“Most assu
redly,” chipped in Bannister. “I can’t neglect to follow this up. Say what you like—it’s most important. These notes in the first instance must have been taken from the dead girl. There’s more than one point in connection with this case that I haven’t been able to clear up yet—but this note business doesn’t look like falling into that category. So, I’m thankful for small mercies.”
“Right then,” responded Godfrey. “I’ll come up to the ‘Cassandra’ with you. I’d like to hear what this Captain Willoughby has to say.”
Captain Willoughby was in and Bannister reflected how strange it was that Willoughby had been talking to him on the very evening that Godfrey had so unexpectedly brought the problem to him. Now it had fallen to his duty to see Willoughby and examine him in the clearing-up of the affair. “One never knows,” muttered Bannister to himself, “even one’s next-door neighbour.” Willoughby received them in his own room. He had stayed at the “Cassandra” so many times that he had come to regard one particular room as his own.
“Well, Inspector”—he greeted the two men with the utmost cordiality—“here we are again, then! What can I do for you this time?”
The pallor and anxiety that had marked his face a few mornings before were gone and Captain Willoughby looked at his best.
“Quite right,” exclaimed Bannister. “You can do something for me. I am going to ask you an exceedingly delicate question. Think carefully before you answer it.”
Willoughby’s paleness returned—Bannister’s remark had obviously “rattled” him. “What is it?” he asked anxiously.
“A few days ago you settled your bill here with a couple of five point notes—is that so? Do you admit it?”
“Of course,” muttered Willoughby; “what of it?”
“Only this. Those two five pound notes are very interesting indeed to us. Could you go a step further and tell us from where you got them?” Bannister prided himself upon what he considered was his ability to come straight to the point.
