Chief-Inspector Bannister Gets a “Busman’s Holiday”
Although the “Big Six” of Scotland Yard are invested by an admiring
public with superhuman powers, and attributes that border upon the
magical, they are for all that, as human as that same circle of
admirers. Which fact, doubtless, has brought comfort to the heart of
many a hunted criminal when he has brought himself to realise it. In
this relation, probably the most human of “the Six” was Chief
Detective-Inspector Richard Bannister—known to his colleagues and to a
host of friends as “Dandy Dick.” One of the most certain and regular
indications of this humanity, to which allusion has just been made, is
the desire at intervals, to rest from the exigencies of work and to
take a holiday. At any rate, that was the particular trait that
usually manifested itself in the case of Chief-Inspector Bannister.
Three years of strenuous activities had seen him bring during their
passing at least half-a-dozen of the “Yard’s” biggest “cases” to
successful and triumphant conclusions. On that account, therefore, he
had no compunctions in taking a month’s vacation at Seabourne. The
place had always attracted him exceedingly when he had been in a
position to enjoy short stays there on previous occasions, and now on
a much longer spell it seemed to possess for him an even greater
measure of attraction. On the July evening in question he shifted his
body to a more comfortable position in the deck-chair which he was
occupying and lazily inclined his head to catch more clearly the
strains of the Military Band playing in the band-stand on the
magnificent promenade of which Seabourne is so justifiably proud. It
was a perfect summer evening—the true fulfilment of a perfect summer
day. A day of blue sky and majestic sun! The sea was beautifully calm
and lapped the beach in a ceaseless creaming succession of lazy,
indolent ripples, and now the stars were flashing into the night-sky
one by one, as though they were tiny lights turned on by a giant hand.
Bannister stretched his long legs from his deck-chair in complete
physical enjoyment. As he did so a tall man came down the
superbly-kept lawn that fronted the “Cassandra” Hotel and sank
comfortably into the deck-chair next to Bannister. He nodded genially.
“Glorious evening—I told you last night we were in for a perfect day
to-day.”
“I remember,” replied Bannister. “You did.” He went on: “My luck as
regards weather is absolutely in. I’ve actually had a week of
uninterrupted sunshine—which I should imagine—speaking without the
book—approaches a record for a summer holiday in England. Certainly,
I’ve rarely been so fortunate in the past.” He removed the horn-rimmed
glasses that he had been using as a protection against the glare of
the sun and carefully wiped them with a silk handkerchief.
Captain Willoughby’s white teeth flashed in a smile of cordial
agreement. “The same here. I’ve spent a good deal of time down here at
Seabourne during the last year or two, but I haven’t often had the
good luck to get weather like we are experiencing now. It’s almost
equal to the Riviera. Been far to-day?”
“No,” answered Bannister, with a shake of the head, “I’ve taken
matters very easily to-day. Purposely! I came down here for a thorough
rest and I intend to stick to my resolve. I’m a firm believer in the
idea of a restful holiday.”
Willoughby grinned. “Mind you keep it up all the time you’re here,
then! I always think that those intentions are very similar to ‘New
Year’ resolutions. They’re something like keeping a Diary, for
instance. You know what I mean. Everything goes swimmingly from the
first of January until about Epiphany. We carefully chronicle our
petty personalities for just those few days—then our enthusiasm wanes
and the remaining days in our Diary calendar are usually quite
innocent of ink or even indelible pencil.” He tossed away the end of
his cigarette. “But I expect you’ve been guilty of that sort of thing
yourself?”
“Perhaps not as much as you think. I’ve a lot of will-power. I can
discipline myself to do things that are irksome—as a rule what I mean
to do—I do. It’s my way,” Bannister concluded rather abruptly.
As he spoke one of the maids came from the Hotel and crossed the grass
to where he was sitting. By his chair she stopped. Bannister turned
and looked up at her. “Yes?” he questioned. “Are you wanting me?”
“Pardon me, sir,” came her reply, “but you _are_ Mr. Bannister, aren’t
you? There’s somebody here wants to speak to you—I was to tell you it
was very important, he said, sir.”
Bannister knitted his brows, as though puzzled at the interruption;
the maid waited by his chair, irresolutely.
“Are you sure he asked for me by _name_?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir—he said it quite distinctly—the name was ‘Bannister’ all
right, sir.”
“Who is it?” he asked again. “Do you know him at all?”
The maid hesitated a moment before giving him her answer. Then she
spoke rather haltingly. “As a matter-of-fact, sir, I think it’s
Sergeant Godfrey from the Seabourne Police Station—I know him you see,
sir, through seeing him about the town.”
“Sergeant Godfrey from the Police Station,” frowned Bannister, “what
the dickens does he want me for—at this time of the evening?”
He looked at the maid’s face as though he expected to find there the
answer to his question.
“I don’t know, sir, only as I told you before he said that it was very
important.”
“Oh very well, then,” exclaimed Bannister, with an expression of
infinite resignation, “but tell him where I am and ask him to come
along out here if he wants me as badly as you suggest.”
She turned quickly and tripped back across the lawn. Bannister grunted
to himself something inaudible and noticed that Willoughby was
watching him closely.
“Couldn’t help hearing something of what she said,” he volunteered
semi-apologetically, “hope it doesn’t spell trouble for you.”
Bannister’s eyes glinted through his glasses but before he could reply
a tallish man with a brisk step had crossed the grass-plot and reached
his chair.
“Good evening, sir,” he said somewhat deferentially, “may I have just
a few words with you in private?”
Bannister glanced at him keenly and detected at once from the grim
expression on his face that it was no petty trifle that had prompted
this unexpected visit. He rose from his chair quietly. The Sergeant
motioned him on one side and they withdrew about a dozen paces.
“I’m Sergeant Godfrey, sir, of the County Police and firstly I must
ask you to excuse this disturbance I’m causing you. But the fact is I
had the tip that the famous Chief-Inspector Bannister was staying in
Seabourne and I’ve come to him for help.” He dropped his voice to a
very low tone and almost whispered to the Inspector. The latter
started suddenly.
“_Murder_—are you sure, Godfrey?”
“Not a doubt about it, sir, as far as I can see. Or any of the others
for that matter. Let me tell you the facts of the case,” he
supplemented eagerly. Scarcely waiting for the Inspector’s assent he
embarked impetuously upon his narrative. “At twenty minutes past two
this afternoon, we received a ’phone message at the station, asking us
to proceed at once to Mr. Ronald Branston’s dental surgery. Mr.
Branston, I may tell you, is a dental surgeon who has resided in
Seabourne about three years. His place is at the corner of Coolwater
Avenue—in the best and most secluded part of the town—quite a ‘posh’
dentist’s—I can assure you—Mr. Branston himself was speaking on the
’phone. All he said was ‘Come at once.’ Constable Stannard went up and
what he found when he got there made him immediately send for me. Mr.
Branston’s story was as follows. A young lady entered his operating
room about two o’clock this afternoon for an extraction. He gave her
an ordinary local anæsthetic and according to what he says took out
the tooth very smoothly and comfortably. He handed his patient a
tumbler of water and left her in the chair for a few moments to
recover. His reason for so doing he explains like this. At half-past
two another customer of his was calling for a set of artificial teeth
that he had promised should be ready at that time. His work-room, you
must understand is about 12 yards away from his surgery—just across a
landing. He was anxious to make sure, he says, that these teeth were
thoroughly satisfactory and he admits that he may have been in the
work-room a matter of seven or eight minutes. When he tried to
leave—he found he was bolted in! A brass bolt on the outside of the
work-room door had been slipped—to imprison him. For a few moments he
scarcely realised what had happened—he shook the door thinking the
catch or something had gone wrong and that it might perhaps open under
pressure. But it was fastened securely. When the truth came home to
him, that he was very effectively locked in as it were, he banged on
the door with his fists and shouted for assistance.” Godfrey broke off
and looked at Bannister. “Interested?” he queried.
“I am that,” replied the Inspector, “get on!”
“After a time, Branston’s cries attracted the attention of his
housekeeper, a Mrs. Bertenshaw—she rushed up to the work-room, undid
the bolt and let him out. Unable for the moment to fathom the
affair—he dashed back to the surgery. To his utter consternation and
horror the young lady he had just left there—was dead. She was sitting
in the operating chair exactly as he had left her about ten minutes
previously, except for the fact that the tumbler was on the stand by
the side of the chair. She had been _murdered_, Inspector! Poisoned!
By Prussic Acid!”