John Martin’s Evidence
For a few moments the two men smoked in silence, grateful doubtless
for the short respite. The silence was soon disturbed by the ringing
of the front door bell. Godfrey rose with an alert expectancy that he
took no trouble to conceal. Bannister carefully shook his left trouser
in an attempt to stabilise an immaculate crease. Mrs. Bertenshaw’s
steps were heard hurrying to the front door to admit the two people
whose visit had been so recently heralded by the telephone. Godfrey
went to the door of the room and called down the hall.
“Bring the two gentlemen in here, Mrs. Bertenshaw.”
It was easy to see that the Manager of the “Lauderdale Hotel” was the
man who entered first. A short, broad-shouldered, florid-faced man, he
wore his dress-suit with that air of aggressive opulence that can only
be captured with complete success by hotel managers, Sheikhs of the
Box-office, and the gentlemen who hold undisputed sway in those
cinemas usually designated as “super”—whatever that may mean. The
reception-clerk was tall and thin and to all appearances, worried by
the singular turn that events had taken.
“Sergeant Godfrey?” questioned the first of the newcomers. Godfrey
came forward to meet and to greet him.
“I’m your man—Mr. Maynard—isn’t it?”
“That’s right—and I’m pretty certain I’ve some news for you. Very
likely the information you’re wanting. After your men had been round
making those inquiries for you, I guessed it was something pretty
serious that was engaging your attention. So I put a few feelers round
my staff, off my own bat, so to speak and I reckon that Martin here
has got something important to tell you. Of course, it may be a mare’s
nest that I’m bringing you—but somehow I don’t think so.” He shifted
his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other with an adroitness
that could only have been cultivated by assiduous practice. “Now,
Martin,” he ordered rather imperiously, “spill your bib-ful.”
Martin fidgeted uneasily on the chair that he had immediately sought
upon his arrival and got even nearer to its edge. He twisted his
shabby hat in his hands with a circular movement and seemed at a loss
to begin. His eyes sought those of Maynard—then wandered away until
they encountered those of Chief-Inspector Bannister. Bannister’s
glance afforded little encouragement however, so they travelled on
again, waveringly and uncertainly until they reached those of the
Sergeant.
“Come,” said the last-named, “don’t waste any time—tell us what you
know.”
Martin licked his lips, cleared his throat, gulped once or twice and
commenced his story. “Well, sir,” he started, “it isn’t very much that
I’ve got to tell you, but I’ve the glimmering of an idea that the
young lady you’re inquiring about came into the ‘Lauderdale’ about
half-past one this afternoon. You see it was like this. About
ten-fifty on Wednesday evening a ’phone message came through booking a
room for a Miss Daphne Carruthers who was arriving the next day. About
the time that I’ve just mentioned—half-past one of an afternoon—things
are pretty quiet as a rule. A car drew up outside the hotel and a
young lady alighted and walked into the vestibule. She came straight
up to me and said, ‘I want a room please, for a fortnight—I believe it
was booked last night for me—by ’phone. I’ll leave my luggage here
now, although I’ve an important call to make. You might send out for
my case—it’s in my car. Put it up in my room, will you please? I shall
be back in about an hour.’ ‘Certainly, miss,’ I answered, ‘your room
number will be sixty-six.’ I sent the porter out for her suit-case and
sent him up to the room with it, confirming the name from the labels
on it. ‘Thank you,’ she replies, trips out of the hotel, jumps into
her car and drives off.”
“In what direction?” snapped Bannister.
“Towards Froam, sir.”
“Go on.”
“Well—a lot of other people came in and some went away and the young
lady that was to come back in the hour went clean out of my mind. When
your man came round this evening making those inquiries it all came
back to me. Gentlemen—that young lady has never come back. Her
suit-case is in Room Sixty-six just where I told the porter to put
it.” He stopped and wiped his lips with his handkerchief and the
perspiration from his brow.
Bannister interposed again—authoritatively. “Would you be able to
remember this young lady, if you saw her again?”
Martin answered the question very readily. “Why, yes, sir, I stood
talking to her face to face for quite a matter of a minute or two. She
was a real beauty, I can tell you, sir. I haven’t forgotten her and no
mistake.”
Bannister motioned to Godfrey to lead the way upstairs. Then he turned
to the clerk. “Come with us, then—and prepare yourself for a shock.”
Martin’s white face went whiter as they ascended the stairs, Bannister
leading and the Hotel Manager, Maynard, bringing up the rear. The
Inspector waited to close the door of the surgery behind them.
“Let him have a look at her, Godfrey,” he said, turning to the
Sergeant.
Godfrey uncovered the face again for Martin to see. The latter gave a
low gasp of horror. Then he uttered an exclamation. “I was right, sir!
It’s her right enough—as I was afraid it was when I came along. That’s
the identical young lady that came to the ‘Lauderdale’ about half-past
one this afternoon that I’ve been telling you about. Just fancy—to
think of her as she was then in the best of health, as you might
say—and now——”
Bannister abruptly put a stoppage upon his sentimental reminiscences.
“You’re certain—absolutely certain—of what you say?”
“Positive, sir—you don’t see two like her every day of the week.”
The Inspector turned to Sergeant Godfrey. “You hear what he says?
We’ll get along up to the ‘Lauderdale’ at once. What name did she
give, Martin?”
“I’ve copied the name from the reception-book just as I entered it
when she arrived. I thought I’d better do that in case it should turn
out as I feared.”
He fumbled in his breast pocket for a moment—produced a slip of paper
which was far from being clean and handed it to Bannister. The latter
read it aloud, “‘Miss Daphne Carruthers.’ This will save you a lot of
trouble, Godfrey. Here’s your identification! No need now to broadcast
the news or publish a photograph or anything—it’s a great help, this
evidence of yours, Martin. It will save the police very valuable time
at the most important stage of the case—the very beginning. Just where
we looked uncommonly like losing it.”
Maynard was obviously pleased at the Inspector’s tribute to a member
of his staff. “Are you coming to the ‘Lauderdale’ now?” he inquired.
“This very minute—lock the door, Godfrey, put the key in your pocket
and station your two men outside.”
A matter of a few minutes saw the journey accomplished. “Show these
gentlemen the entry you made in the admission register, Martin,” said
Maynard with a show of authority. The reception clerk ran his finger
along the particular line. The name was as he had given it. Bannister
glanced over his shoulder—then turned away—seemingly satisfied. The
next step was an inspection of Room Sixty-six. The suit-case that had
figured in Martin’s story lay on the floor between the wardrobe and
the dressing-table. Bannister lifted it on to the bed. It was of good
quality although of common type. There were, in all probability,
hundreds similar to it in various places in Seabourne, on that very
night. Two labels of the “tie-on” variety were attached to the handle.
The handwriting on each of them was the same—suggestive certainly of a
girl’s hand—“Daphne Carruthers, 11, Lexham Gardens, Kensington.” He
tried the catches.
“It’s locked. Where are your keys, Godfrey?” Godfrey produced several
bunches of keys—unavailingly.
Then the manager came to the rescue. He slipped from the room
quickly—to return almost immediately with a large key-ring bearing
keys of all shapes and sizes. Bannister’s attempts to open the case
were eventually successful. He gave a grunt of satisfaction. Its
contents were almost entirely clothes and toilet requisites. Clothes
that one would reasonably anticipate finding in the suit-case of a
young lady upon holiday in the summer. There was no letter, no
card—nothing more personal than hair-brushes and face powder. The
Inspector tossed the stuff back into the case.
“Your job, Godfrey, will be to get into touch with the place from
where this girl’s come. Send a ’phone message through to Kensington as
soon as you can and use the Press for all your worth. Get the London
papers humming to-morrow morning like flies. We shall soon get
information about Daphne Carruthers, you mark my words, even if we
can’t get it from the place where she lived.” He turned to Maynard.
“I’ll take charge of this”—he patted the suit-case—“you Godfrey—get
those strings to work at once. By the way, Martin—the motor-car that
the young lady was driving—did you notice what it was?”
Martin scratched his chin—then shook his head. “I didn’t sir, and
that’s a fact. I was too much taken up with the young lady herself.”
“H’m,” muttered Bannister, “that’s a pity—we must see what we can do
in that direction to-morrow morning. That car must be traced, Godfrey.
I expect we shall have a pretty ticklish day to-morrow—with one thing
and another.”
In which opinion Chief-Inspector Bannister was entirely accurate,
although the day was destined also to have its compensations for him.
Not the least of these compensations was his introduction to a certain
Mr. Anthony Lotherington Bathurst. Even though Seabourne is a hundred
and nine miles from Tranfield, and a trifle more than that from
Westhampton—two places in which Mr. Bathurst had fully expected to be!