Gentlemen and Players
“I suppose there can be no doubt about it,” ventured Anthony; “you
recognise the lady’s voice?”
“Of course,” retorted the Crown Prince, somewhat testily—still showing
signs of the shock to which he had been subjected so suddenly.
“Better see what the lady has to say then,” suggested Anthony
decisively. “She at least will be able to clear up some of the parts
that have been puzzling us. That’s very apparent!”
His Royal Highness spoke a few sharp words through the telephone and
then listened attentively for the lady’s answer. Anthony noticed him
nod repeatedly at what he heard and a sudden look of complete
amazement cross his face. “Hold on, Daphne, for a moment,” Anthony
heard him say. “Miss Carruthers says she left Seabourne at three
minutes past ten on Wednesday evening and that her train arrived at
Victoria at a quarter past eleven.” His voice contained a note of
triumph that he made no attempt to conceal. “You will notice, Mr.
Bathurst, that she had no other assignation.”
“I notice that she says she hadn’t,” replied that gentleman, “but go
on.”
“She tells me that she arrived at her home in Lexham Gardens,
Kensington, at twenty-five minutes to twelve. She has occupied a flat
there for some time now. Yesterday evening she had been to the theatre
and reached home about the same time as the previous evening. As she
entered she states that she heard her telephone ringing. Before she
could get into the room to answer it the ringing ceased and was not
again repeated. Being very tired and attaching no particular
importance to it, she didn’t trouble to make inquiries, she says, but
went straight to bed. Early this morning the Police called with the
fantastic story (to her, of course) that Daphne Carruthers had been
found murdered in a dental surgeon’s operating room at Seabourne.
Naturally she was able to laugh at their story and to convince them
that they were at that moment actually talking to the supposedly
murdered girl and that the story to which she was listening must be
all wrong somewhere. They’ve informed the Police at this end, she
says, of the dreadful mistake that has been made. She ’phoned me to
find out if possible how the ghastly error could have occurred and
also to allay any fears that I might have had on her behalf.” He
coughed. “She’s coming straight down here by the first fast train.”
“She can’t account in any way for the mistake, then?” queried Anthony.
The Crown Prince shook his head gravely. “No—she’s as much in the
dark, she tells me, as the Police themselves.”
“Did she tell you what time it was when the Police up the other end
sent the news down here? I mean the news that the first idea was all
wrong—that Daphne Carruthers was alive and that the murdered girl had
still to be identified.”
“‘Early this morning,’ was the phrase she used.”
“H’m!” rejoined Anthony. “I wonder why—how about your theory of the
blackmailer—it won’t quite answer now, will it?” He broke off abruptly
as this new aspect of the case came home to him.
His Royal Highness shook his head again. “It won’t—what shall we do?”
“Do you still want me to take the case?”
“Yes, please, if you will. I am far from satisfied and I shan’t feel
easy in my mind till it is all cleared up.” He looked at Anthony. “Why
has Miss Carruthers’ name been dragged into the case? Tell me that.
For some wicked and malicious reason, doubtless. Yes, Mr. Bathurst, I
do want you to take the case . . . if for nothing else to protect my
interests.”
“In that case, then,” said Anthony, “our best plan will be to await
Miss Carruthers’ arrival.”
The fast train that Miss Daphne Carruthers had indicated in her
telephone message did not fail either its reputation or its
description and within an hour and a half she was inquiring from the
before-mentioned gentlemen of faultless attire and magnificent bearing
who graced the entrance to the “Cassandra,” if she could be escorted
to Suite 17.
“It was extremely kind of you to meet me at the station,” she
exclaimed, turning charmingly and impulsively to the dignified man
that accompanied her. “I expect you had the biggest shock of your life
this morning—when you heard the news—didn’t you?”
Bannister smiled gravely as the escort announced them. “I certainly
sat up and took notice—and I’m still attempting to puzzle things out.
Sir Austin Kemble—the Chief Commissioner—he’s had a ‘pow-wow’ with me
early this morning—and taking into account the particular details that
he arranged—well—your ‘resurrection’ fairly mystifies me.”
The Crown Prince himself opened the door that admitted them, with a
gesture that bordered on the imperious. He raised his eyes inquiringly
as he observed the lady’s companion. “This gentleman?” he queried.
Daphne was quick to bridge the situation with an immediate
introduction. “Is the celebrated Chief-Inspector Bannister of Scotland
Yard,” she declared. “He is the gentleman in charge of this terrible
business and when he heard that I wasn’t dead—he arranged for me to
come down to Seabourne again and to meet me at the station. I know it
sounds awfully mixed up,” she concluded with a little _moue_, “but you
know what I mean.”
Bannister bowed. It was a situation in which he felt adequately ‘at
home.’ “Sir Austin Kemble ’phoned me this morning, Your Royal
Highness, as I expect you are well aware. Therefore I was not
surprised when Miss Carruthers expressed her desire to have an
interview with you before coming along to the Police Station with me.”
The Crown Prince looked unhappy and a trifle apprehensive.
“Strangely enough,” proceeded Bannister, “I’ve also been, as it were,
roped into the case. I’ve been staying here—at the ‘Cassandra’ for
over a week—Your Highness possibly——” His eyes for the first time
travelled the length of the room and caught sight of the tall figure
reclining negligently in the arm-chair. His Royal Highness, eagerly
seizing any favourable opportunity to closure any discussion upon his
own personal sojourn at the “Cassandra,” produced Mr. Bathurst from
the depths of the chair and introduced him, regardless of etiquette.
It was easy for an onlooker to observe that he found more favour in
Daphne’s sight than in that of the famous detective. It was obvious
that Richard Bannister, acclaimed hero of a hundred difficult cases,
required no assistance from Mr. Anthony Bathurst to carry the hundred
and first to a triumphant conclusion. Sensing an inimical atmosphere,
Anthony grinned at him cheerfully. He had had experience of this kind
of thing before—although never from one placed quite so high in the
Police service.
“I cannot describe the extent of my relief, my dear Daphne,” exclaimed
the Crown Prince, “to know that you are alive—after so many hours of
such deep sorrow—I am unable——”
“Cut it out, Alexis,” said the young lady abruptly; “these gentlemen
aren’t interested in your feelings—let’s get to work. From what Mr.
Bannister has told me in the car on our way down from the railway
station—the poor girl that’s been murdered went to the ‘Lauderdale
Hotel’ and booked accommodation there in my name. I want to find out
why—and quickly—at that.”
Anthony threw her an approving glance. She seemed eminently
businesslike; but the Crown Prince made no appreciable attempt to
emerge from the state of comparative subjection into which Miss
Carruthers’ opening cold douche had sent him. He sat there the picture
of offended dignity.
“I entirely agree,” declared Bannister. “First of all—I want you to
accompany me to Seabourne Police Station—doubtless you gentlemen would
like to come too.”
“I’m sure you’ll pardon me, Mr. Bannister,” ventured Anthony. “Have
you taken any further steps this morning to identify the dead
girl—since you heard that Miss Carruthers was alive—I mean?”
“That will be my next step,” was the reply. “I considered the matter
and decided to wait till I’d seen Miss Carruthers and heard if she
could throw any light on the mystery. I thought that would be my best
course.”
“Thanks—yes—I see your point.” Anthony followed the three people into
the big car that was waiting. Bannister took the wheel and threaded
his way through the thronged streets of the town.
“It will be in the nature of an education for me,” murmured Bathurst
in his most engaging of tones, “to watch your methods, Inspector. As
an amateur, I have long looked up to you, if I may use the phrase, as
perhaps our premier crime expert. I’ve always regarded your handling
of the affair of the murder at ‘Mawneys Crossing’ as little short of
masterly. The way in which you were able to connect the blood shed by
the raven——” He paused as he saw “Dandy Dick’s” eyes glisten at this
homage to his vanity.
“That was a nasty case,” said Bannister, “and I don’t think I unduly
flatter myself when I say that I certainly did handle it well.”
“The peculiar part of the present case,” went on Anthony—his eyes
twinkling, unobserved by the Inspector—“up to now—that is—is this
apparent ‘masquerade’ on the dead girl’s part.”
“H’m,” rejoined Bannister, non-committally.
“How did it happen?” queried Anthony.
The detective glared at a pedestrian that ambled across the road in
the track of the fast-travelling car and sounded the horn twice before
replying to the question. “The ‘Lauderdale’ people brought us the news
last night—very late. The reception-clerk there—name of John
Martin—took a telephone message on Wednesday evening—the evening
before the actual murder—mind you—from a lady who gave the name of
Daphne Carruthers. She booked a room at the hotel and told him, I
understand, that she would arrive some time on the following day. At
half-past one yesterday—less than an hour, mark you, before the
murder—the lady concerned arrived at the ‘Lauderdale.’ She referred to
the booking of the previous evening—as might have been expected—gave
Martin her suit-case to send up to her room and told him she had an
important call to make but would return in about an hour. The
suit-case was all in order, apparently, and labelled just as Martin
expected it to be—‘Miss Daphne Carruthers—11, Lexham Gardens,
Kensington.’ When she failed to return—he connected her, after a time,
with the inquiries that Sergeant Godfrey had caused to be made
immediately after the discovery of the body. He was right—his fears
were only too well founded—when we showed the body to him—he
identified it—unhesitatingly—as the girl of the hotel incident. There
you have the reason why we described the dead girl as we did. I don’t
see that we could have done anything else.”
Anthony drew thoughtfully at his cigarette. “How did she come to the
hotel—by car?”
“Yes,” replied Bannister, “and drove away by car. What is more—Martin
says—she herself was driving. The car was otherwise unoccupied.”
“Should be a comparatively simple matter to trace the car,” ventured
Anthony.
Bannister pushed out his lower lip as he swung round the corner of the
road in which was situated the Seabourne Police Station.
“It ought to be, but unfortunately Martin can’t say what make of car
it was, neither can he remember the number. In all probability, he
never saw that. I’ve had investigations going on all day, trying to
trace any car that’s been abandoned anywhere round about, but up to
the present no news of anything has come through. Here we are. Jump
out.”
The Crown Prince and Daphne fell in behind them.
“Come through into the private room,” said Bannister.
The constable on duty in the charge-room saluted promptly as they
passed through.
“Is Sergeant Godfrey in?” demanded Bannister, authoritatively.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell him I want him—at once.”
The constable disappeared even more promptly than he had saluted, to
return in a few moments with the Sergeant behind him.
“Any more news, Godfrey?”
“No, sir—I should think the news first thing this morning was
sufficient,” he added—rather lugubriously.
“I want the dead girl’s suit-case,” said Bannister, briskly.
“You took it——!”
“It’s in that cupboard,” rapped Bannister indicating the cupboard with
a gesture of the fore-finger. “I put it there last night—you’ve got
the keys.”
Godfrey nodded and quickly unlocked the cupboard door. Bannister
pulled out the case and stood it upright on the table. As has been
previously stated, it resembled hundreds of others, which very obvious
fact made Anthony shake his head with a feeling of misgiving. But not
so—Daphne Carruthers. That lady left the Crown Prince’s side and
excitedly pulled the two tie-on labels down to the level of her
vision. Her eyes flashed with her excitement. “_They’re my labels_,”
she cried, “_in my handwriting._” She fished impetuously in her
vanity-bag and produced a key. It fitted. The catches clicked and the
case swung open as she pulled at it. “And they’re my clothes inside,”
she cried in increased amazement. “What on earth is the meaning of
this? She’s taken all my things as well as my name.” Her eyes were
wide-opened and wondering, as she stood there waiting for one of them
to answer. Nobody obliged her—but Mr. Bathurst noticed that the Crown
Prince was trembling with excitement; the ash of his cigarette was
shaken to the floor.