by Brian Flynn
“Well, Bannister?” snapped Sir Austin. “I presume you have had the pleasure of reading this clotted tripe served up by the ‘Bugle’ for its readers’ daily mastication? What about it? I’d like to blow their damned offices up.” He crumpled the offending newspaper in his muscular hands and flung it savagely into the waste-paper basket under his table.
“Those articles don’t worry me, sir,” replied Bannister. “That’s only paper talk.”
“That’s all very well, talk’s cheap, I know full well—”
“When I say to you that they don’t worry me, sir, I have no wish to seem or to sound offensive. I’m not, as it were, throwing the responsibility of failure upon you. I’m quite prepared to shoulder my share. What I meant was this. I’ve tackled a few hundred cases during my time here, sir, and I can honestly say that my failures have been few. And some of those I’m including in the category of failures were only comparative failures. I’m due for retirement, as you know, in a month or so, and I shall leave no stone unturned to hang this Seabourne murderer—take if from me. I wouldn’t have my last case a ‘stumer’ for a fortune. And I am not entirely without a ray of hope at the moment.” Bannister spoke quietly, confidently and determinedly. He was a man whom it was difficult to “rattle.”
Sir Austin moved uneasily in his chair but at the same time appeared to be a little mollified. “I’m well aware of that, Bannister, and I’m not disposed to blame you overmuch. That’s why I decided to run this little conference now. I spoke to Chief-Inspector Macmorran yesterday and told him that I intended to have a chat with you about it. I asked Mr. Bathurst to come along too, because I knew he had been interested on behalf of the Crown Prince of Clorania and was in close touch with the case. Also, I have heard something of his reputation. I remember the Hanover Galleries murder very well and I have had the pleasure of meeting Sir Charles Considine.” he smiled at Anthony and if the smile contained a tinge of condescension and just a hint of patronage, Anthony consoled himself with the comforting thought that a Brigadier-General is usually no respecter of persons.
“Now, Bannister,” said Sir Austin, “where exactly do you stand? What do you know? Let me hear it.”
Bannister took some sheets of notepaper from his coat pocket. “It’s a most mysterious and baffling case,” he began. “That’s not said in any sense of self-defence. I don’t suppose for one moment that the omniscient fiction-weaver whose effort illuminates the columns of the ‘Daily Bugle’ realises one-tenth of the difficulties that the Police have encountered. You know the main outline of the case, sir, so I won’t waste your time or my own with any unnecessary detail. Rather will I condense my report and give you the salient points as they impress me.” He looked at the Commissioner for approval. A quick nod from Sir Austin gave it to him. “First of all,” he continued, “we were faced with that remarkable attempt on the part of the murderer to confuse the identity of the murdered girl with that of another lady—Miss Daphne Carruthers. Why? Was it deliberate? You might venture half a dozen reasons and yet be wrong. For there is the undoubted fact that both Miss Delaney and Miss Carruthers had a Westhampton connection—please note that! Then, taking events in what I will term logical sequence, we have, one, the association—the admitted association, mind you—of the Crown Prince of Clorania with Miss Carruthers, and two, the association of the Crown Prince with Miss Delaney by Alan Warburton, who was—we have good reason to suppose—Sheila Delaney’s discarded lover. Not a bad mixture for a detective to commence with—eh?” Sir Austin Kemble grunted non-committally. “Don’t forget also,” proceeded Bannister—a suggestion of resentful vehemence creeping into his tone—“that Sheila Delaney had the Carruthers girl’s suitcase in her possession and that a room was actually booked for her at the ‘Lauderdale’ Hotel in Miss Carruthers’ name. Booked by telephone—two people in the ‘Lauderdale’ vouched for it.”
Sir Austin broke in rather dictatorially.
“Tried tracing the call?” he said brusquely.
“I have that,” replied Bannister instantly, “un-successfully.” He jerked his head with impatience. “What I’ve told you so far, I’ll call, for the sake of clarity, the first section of the case. I’ll now embark upon what I will term the second. Miss Delaney, at some time or other, was robbed—you know that, don’t you? She was robbed of one hundred pounds in notes and also—what is much more to the point—of a supposedly wonderful precious stone worth a very large sum, I believe. The figure ‘twenty thousand pounds’ has been mentioned to me in connection with it.”
“That’s the stone to which you refer in your notes as ‘The Peacock’s Eye’?”
“Exactly—a blue-tinted emerald, I believe—stated to be unique as far as individual possession goes. If there are others floating around nobody has seen them. Now we come to a most extraordinary chain of events. Extraordinary and yet ultimately with quite a simple explanation. According to my investigations the stolen notes—or some of them—were first traced to a Captain Willoughby—a guest at the ‘Cassandra’ Hotel, Seabourne. This Captain Willoughby, I may say, has a connection—through his fiancée—with no less a person than Miss Daphne Carruthers. Mark that! When I got here I felt I was nearly home. Not so likely! Willoughby got the notes from a Hebrew bookmaker! Who is a patient of Branston, the very dentist concerned with the murder! Still on the track, say I. Morley, the bookmaker—the dentist’s patient—got them from Branston himself! There I am again—just like ‘Felix.’ Would you believe it? Branston turns up—he got them from his housekeeper, who released him—so they say, the pair of them—from his surprising imprisonment when Miss Delaney was being murdered! And the housekeeper found the notes on Branston’s premises after the murder! Or says she did. Some little kettle of fish, don’t you think, sir? Some little mayonnaise—eh?” He wiped his lips with his handkerchief. It was easy to see that Bannister was amazed. “Let the ‘Bugle’ have a blow at that. Nevertheless, I’ve got a stray theory—I’m very hopeful, as I told you earlier. I’ve almost decided to arrest Branston and the housekeeper—Mrs. Bertenshaw—I can make out a strong ‘prima-facie’ case against them.” He paused—waiting for his Chief’s comment upon this last statement.
Sir Austin drummed upon the table with the finger-tips of his left hand—apparently uncertain. “Can’t see it myself,” he interjected. “Not on what you have given me so far. What about this ‘Peacock’s Eye?’ Where’s that?”
Bannister shrugged his shoulders rather impatiently. “I can’t trace any attempt to dispose of that—so far. All the notorious ‘fences’ have been and are still being—very carefully watched—by some of our best men. In my opinion not more than four of the known ‘fences’ would look at the proposition.”
“And are they?” put in Sir Austin.
Bannister thought for a moment. “Levigne and Kharkoff in Paris—Stefanopoulos in Amsterdam—and Schneitzer in London. Personally—of course, I maybe wrong, I know—but I wouldn’t consider anybody else.”
To Anthony, of course, the names were entirely unfamiliar. He docketed them in the pigeon-hole of his memory and was just in the midst of the requisite mental process when Sir Austin Kemble turned to him and addressed him. He noticed that the Commissioner was smiling again. “And you, Mr. Bathurst—what have you got to tell me? Is your story on all fours with Bannister’s? Are you in agreement with him? Or have you formed a different opinion?”
Anthony returned smile for smile. “Frankly, sir,” he said, “Chief-Inspector Bannister has given you more information than I could possibly have done. I was with him at Westhampton when the first news of the stolen notes came through to us and I left him to follow that particular trail on his lonesome. I haven’t investigated it at all. So he’s got ahead of me—you see. I can only cry ‘peccavi’—perhaps I should have attached more importance to it.”
Sir Austin Kemble looked at him long and hard. “Perhaps?” he queried.
“Perhaps!” insisted Anthony.
“You mean—”
Anthony shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I shouldn’t arrest either Branston or Mrs. Bertenshaw on the evidence submitted if I were the Inspector—still—don’t mind me, I’m only an amateur.”
Bannister frowned into space.
But Sir Austin Kemble stuck to his guns. “You have something in your mind, Mr. Bathurst,” he said very deliberately; “I am sure of it. I should be pleased to hear what you have to say—that was my purpose in asking you to be present at this interview. Three heads are better than two. I am all attention.”
Anthony bowed. “I’m complimented, sir—many thinks. At the moment though, I’m afraid you’ll find me something of a disappointment. I am like the Chief-Inspector here. I feel that I am still confronted with very grave difficulties. Until those difficulties are removed—my hands are of necessity tied. It would be worse than useless for me to bring a charge against any person unless I were fully prepared to prove that charge to the hilt. That is my position now—in a nutshell. I have formed certain ideas. I am willing to admit that much. Beyond that—however, I cannot go. All I can do is to wait—very patiently and very hopefully. Perhaps one day—my chance to prove the truth of my theory will come.” He spoke very quietly, but both Sir Austin and Bannister were able to detect a wealth of infinite purpose in his voice-tone.
“I don’t know that I altogether follow you, Mr. Bathurst,” said Sir Austin. “What do you mean exactly when you say that you must wait? For what must you wait?”
Anthony’s eyes regarded him with unswerving steadiness. “For the murderer to make a mistake, Sir Austin—when that happens I hope to be aware of it. When I’m aware of it—I shall draw the net round—tight. I shall want your help, sir, of course, and Bannister’s, too. I don’t mean for a moment that I’m big enough to carry it through single-handed. But that’s my intention—to bide my time.” There was no element of braggadocio in what he said—merely the coldness of quiet determination.
Sir Austin started his finger-drumming again. He was dissatisfied. “Permit me to remark, Mr. Bathurst, that the time for you to move may never come. The murderer—or murderers possibly—may never make the mistake for which you are suggesting that we should wait. How do we go on then?” Anthony was unmoved by the Commissioner’s suggestion.
“How then?” He thought the question over for a moment or two and then quickly discarded it as a real possibility. “Take it from me, sir, the move will be made. It must be. You need have no qualms upon that point whatever. The move for which I am waiting will be the natural sequence—perhaps corollary is a better word—of Miss Delaney’s murder. It will be tedious and irksome—this waiting period. I agree—but at all events when I move I shall be sure. It is a comfortable thought—to be sure.”
Sir Austin rose from his chair. “Very well, then, Mr. Bathurst, since neither Bannister nor you can advise any immediate course of action—I must bow to your joint decision to wait. Even though it imposes a strain upon my patience. I will inform the Crown Prince of Clorania of what has passed between us. Good-day.” He held out his hand to Bannister and then to Anthony. As he left them at the door of the room the Inspector turned to Bathurst.
“What’s your point, Mr. Bathurst?” he said. “What’s this move you say you’re waiting for? I couldn’t follow your argument at all. You amateurs amuse me.”
“I expect we do,” returned Anthony good humouredly. “But you’re asking me too much to tell you what the precise nature of the move will be. I’m not a clairvoyant. At the same time, though, I am quite willing to tell you something of at least equal importance—that is, of course, if you would care to hear it?”
“What’s that?”
“The name of the person who murdered Sheila Delaney.”
Bannister regarded him with a look of amazement mingled with incredulity. “What?” he exclaimed; “are you serious?”
“Perfectly,” replied Anthony. He bent his head a little and whispered a name in the Inspector’s ear.
Bannister gasped. “Never!” he declared. “You can’t mean it!”
Anthony nodded gravely.
“Good God!” exclaimed Bannister again; “you can’t mean it, Mr. Bathurst.”
“I do—but it’ll be a very difficult matter to drive the charge home. Nobody realises that fact more than I. Think of the issues involved.”
“I’m thinking,” said Bannister; “it certainly will be ‘some’ job! Well I’m damned!” He shook his head—still pondering over the amazing nature of Mr. Bathurst’s confidence.”
Chapter XXV
Mr. Bathurst’s patience is rewarded
The golden sunshine of July passed into the mellower maturity of August. August in its turn yielded place to the quieter beauty of September and russet-brown October reigned at due season in the latter’s stead. The mystery of the murder of Sheila Delaney—in the words of the cheaper Press—the “Dentist’s-Chair Murder” yet remained unsolved. The “Daily Bugle” continued its bugling. Sir Austin Kemble allowed himself at various odd times to dwell somewhat bitterly upon the vaticination of Mr. Bathurst and at other times was sorely taxed to restrain his growing impatience. Chief-Inspector Bannister was doomed to suffer the biggest disappointment of his hitherto distinguished career. The day for his retirement from his high position in the Criminal Investigation Department arrived after the manner of Time and Tide, and he was no nearer to arresting Sheila Delaney’s slayer when that eventful day came than he had been on the fateful July evening when Sergeant Godfrey had dragged him into the case. Sir Austin shook hands with him in farewell and shrugged his aristocratic shoulders in rather cynical commiseration. “I know how keen you were, Bannister, to complete your Seabourne case and I also know the many difficulties against which you have been forced to contend. The fact that you have failed is merely to be deplored—that is all. To err is human. You take with you my very best wishes. Good-bye.”
Thus the mantle of Bannister fell upon Macmorran, and after the manner of mantles apparently made an excellent fit. Bannister however had not relinquished the trail altogether. Mr. Bathurst read his letter with undisguised interest. He also replied to it immediately.
“My dear Bannister,” he wrote, “Hearty congratulations upon your well-earned retirement. Which is it to be? The Sussex Downs or the entrancing West Country? I am perfectly certain that either would be graced by your presence. In relation to the question that you raised with regard to the somewhat baffling case that exercised our joint intelligences a few months ago—please don’t worry, you may rely on me. Rest assured that I should never attempt to conclude my case without acquainting you and inviting your valuable co-operation. I have too much admiration for Scotland Yard in general and incidentally yourself in particular. Also it might prove too big for me to adopt any other methods single-handed. I told you whom I suspected upon the occasion of our last meeting. You alone know of that suspicion. I am still waiting now, as I was at the time that I gave you my confidence. Hold yourself in readiness to move at a moment’s notice. When that time comes I will communicate with you. Then my dear Bannister—we will taste success! And then—
“Faithfully yours,
“Anthony L. Bathurst.”
This letter afforded the Ex-Inspector both consolation and satisfaction. At any rate, he would share in the triumph when the hands of Justice closed upon the criminal. He decided therefore to postpone his departure to the selected spot for his retirement at any rate, for a month or two—say till after Christmas. But Fate decreed that he was in action again before then. Anthony Bathurst’s expectations were realised. On a misty morning in mid-November that promised a better day the S.S. Nicholas Maes steamed out of Hull and began to plough her way through icy-cold green waves towards the rising morning sun and the City of Amsterdam. She was an undistinguished unit of the Holland S.S. Company but on this particular occasion perhaps, stood nearer to a place in the maritime sun than ever before. For “amongst those sailing” were two plain-clothes men from New Scotland Yard—ostensibly ordinar
y tourists—and a handsome, stalwart and venerable Indian. The passenger-list recorded the Indian as “Ram Das” and the two plain-clothes men as “Hobbs” and “Sutcliffe.” All these names, it is needless to say, had been assumed for the occasion. Similarly also Ex-Chief-Inspector Bannister, in at the death, true to Mr. Bathurst’s written promise, had thought it safer and better to register in a name other than his own. You never know how the sight of a name, observed quite by accident, will strike a person’s remoter memory and awaken an undesired interest. The two plain-clothes men were under explicit instructions to hold no communication whatever with anybody. Ram Das, or Lal Singh as we will call him from now henceforward was to be shadowed to every step and watched to every action without his suspicions being in any way aroused and New Scotland Yard is not in the habit of sending one man—eminent though he might be—to do two men’s work.
