Daphne Draws Up the Blinds
He gazed at her—amazed and incredulous—fascinated at the sudden and
unexpected turn that she had given to the march of events. But his
emotion at the news was such that he sought for and sank weakly into a
convenient chair. Anthony then turned his attention to Bannister and
to Sergeant Godfrey. Bannister’s eyes were gleaming with a strange
mixture of curiosity and satisfaction. Here was a witness at last upon
whose evidence he felt that he could thoroughly rely.
“This is most extraordinarily interesting, Miss Carruthers. Please
explain how your luggage comes to be in the dead girl’s possession and
in Room 66 at the ‘Lauderdale’ Hotel?”
Daphne turned upon her questioner two round eyes of beautiful
astonishment. “I should very much like to be in a position to do so,”
she exclaimed. “I am just as eager to know as you yourself are. Those
two questions are just the two that I can’t answer,” she supplemented.
“When was this suit-case last in your possession?” demanded Bannister.
“On Wednesday evening,” she replied, “when I was on the point of
leaving the ‘Cassandra.’ I left the hotel about twenty minutes to ten
in order to catch the ten-three from the station. But as I had a
hand-bag and two novels to carry, I left my suit-case to be forwarded
to my home address. I labelled it—just as you see it now—and left
appropriate instructions at the ‘Cassandra.’ It’s my usual practice if
I’m travelling alone—I just hate to be lumbered up with heaps of
things to carry.”
“Where did you last actually _see_ it?” queried Bannister with a
_soupçon_ of impatience.
Daphne puckered her brows. “One of the hotel porters took it
downstairs for me—I tipped him—I didn’t see it again after he’d taken
it from my room.”
“Pardon me a moment, Inspector,” intervened Anthony. “I should like to
ask Miss Carruthers a question. Are the labels as you see them now
tied in exactly the same manner and in exactly the same positions as
you yourself tied and placed them?”
“Absolutely,” replied the lady, “one at each end of the handle.”
“There’s only one explanation that will fit the case,” broke in Alexis
of Clorania, hoarsely. “The suit-case was stolen by this other
girl—whoever she is—for some malicious motive that hasn’t yet been
fathomed—it’s all part of the same dark plot—commencing with the——” He
caught a warning glance from Anthony and summarily stopped.
Bannister broke in sharply. “I beg to differ. There’s more than one
possible explanation, Your Royal Highness, come to that. Besides the
possibility of the suit-case having been stolen by the dead
lady—there’s also the rather likely possibility of an exchange of
luggage having been effected _unintentionally_. We shall have to find
out what the procedure is with regard to luggage at the ‘Cassandra.’
The exchange may even have taken place in some way at Seabourne
Station and it may have been quite an innocent one.”
“The dead girl came by car, Inspector,” ventured Anthony.
“True—but from where? She may have met the car at the station—asked a
porter there to put her suit-case in for her—and the man may have
picked up Miss Carruthers’ by mistake—waiting on the platform
somewhere, ready to be despatched to town.”
Bannister paused—then went on again directly. “Very likely the dead
girl’s suit-case is still kicking its heels on the platform at
Seabourne, for all we know to the contrary.”
“There is yet another likely possibility it seems to me,” said
Anthony, quietly.
“What’s that, Mr. Bathurst?”
“That the suit-case _was stolen by the murderer_.”
Bannister contemplated the suggestion for a moment or two. “For what
reason?”
“It’s impossible to say for the moment,” replied Anthony, “but you
must admit that it’s a distinct possibility.”
He turned to Daphne Carruthers. “How many people knew you were staying
at Seabourne?” he queried.
The lady blushed rather charmingly. “Two only,” she answered, “a very
special girl-friend—Lois Travers—and——” She hesitated and looked round
the company.
Bannister noticed her hesitation. “Yes?” he interrogated, “and?”
“The Crown Prince here,” she answered with a certain amount of dismay.
“I see.” Bannister made an understanding motion with his head and
Sergeant Godfrey relaxed his attitude of tension for the moment and
permitted himself the luxury of a fugitive smile. “This young lady you
mentioned—Miss Travers—I presume that I can regard her as a
_confidante_ of yours—yes?”
Daphne nodded. “Yes—she has my complete confidence. It was she who
recommended the ‘Cassandra’ to me originally—when I came to Seabourne
last year. Her fiancé stays here quite a lot, you see.”
“Oh,” muttered Bannister, “that’s rather interesting—what’s his name?”
“Captain Willoughby.”
“Really,” replied the Inspector, with a smile, “that fact, perhaps, is
still more interesting—he’s by way of being an acquaintance of mine.”
“You’ve met him here, I take it, Inspector?” interjected Anthony.
“I have that,” answered Bannister with a set expression. “I was
actually in conversation with him when Godfrey here ‘barged in’ and
lugged me from a restful holiday into this.”
Anthony was beginning to realise that he was confronted with a curious
combination of circumstances. The obstinate contention of the Crown
Prince concerning the implication of the murderer with the blackmailer
might not be so fantastic after all. Here was a certain Captain
Willoughby already fitting into the pieces of the puzzle at both ends.
He had taken the photograph of Daphne and her Royal admirer during the
year before and now he cropped up again in the same place at the very
time coincident with the murder. Mr. Bathurst came to the conclusion
that the matter would have to receive definite attention.
“Give me the address of this Miss Travers, will you?” demanded
Bannister.
“Forty-four, Crowborough Mansions, Maida Vale.”
Anthony glanced across at the Crown Prince who was shewing decided
signs of discomfort at the turn the investigation had taken. Evidently
he could see by now—almost as clearly as Mr. Bathurst did—that it was
going to be extremely difficult, to say nothing of being, perhaps,
extraordinarily indiscreet and risky to keep Bannister and Godfrey
completely ignorant of the matter of the blackmailing letters. This
last love-escapade of Alexis had certainly proved to be most
unfortunate for him! He was inclined to rail at Fate for the
maliciously-mischievous trick that she had played him. After all, look
at it any way you like—he was a Royal personage—heir to a throne—not
by any means an ordinary person—he should have been immune from
trouble of this kind—Fate should have recognized——
Bannister broke in upon his rebellious musings. He turned sharply
towards Godfrey and the statement and question he put to him were
sufficiently startling to rouse even Anthony himself to an acuter
alertness. As the Inspector spoke Anthony recognised that here was a
Police-Officer of imagination far beyond the ordinary. Of course he
had been aware all the time of Bannister’s almost International
reputation. But Mr. Bathurst it must be observed was not a slavish
believer in the value of mere reputations. He knew the strength of the
hand that Dame Fortune frequently played towards their establishment.
In emphasis of this point he had been known to quote more than once,
“Reputations are what people think of us—character is what God and His
Angels know of us.” Bannister’s question proved to him conclusively
that whatever qualities might be lacking in the Inspector’s
composition—imagination was not one of them.
“Godfrey,” rapped Bannister, “you’ll find that the dead girl in the
mortuary yonder is Lois Travers—what do you say to my idea—eh?”
The audacity of the theory appeared to take Godfrey’s breath away for
he was some appreciable time before he replied.
“Can’t say, sir.” He shook his head. “I think I see the direction your
thoughts are taking, but——” He shook his head again—doubtfully.
The idea struck Anthony as containing great possibilities. He rose
from the chair in which he had been seated. “It’s certainly worth
testing, Inspector,” he exclaimed. He jerked his head almost
imperceptibly towards Miss Carruthers. Bannister caught his meaning.
“Do you feel that you could submit to the ordeal of viewing the body,
Miss Carruthers?” he asked.
The lady thus addressed shuddered. “Please don’t ask me to do that,”
she replied—white to the lips. “But I can’t believe it’s Lois. It’s
terrible to think that——” She stopped as a sudden thought appeared to
strike her. “Ask Captain Willoughby to look,” she exclaimed. “He’s
almost certain to be at the ‘Cassandra’—’phone from here.”
“That’s certainly a good idea,” said Bannister grimly. “Captain
Willoughby—the lady’s fiancé—will be able to settle the point at once.
Get on to the ‘Cassandra,’ Godfrey, and tell him we want him down here
at once, will you? Wrap it up a bit. Break it to him gently.”
Godfrey went out, to return in a matter of a few moments.
“Did you get him?”
Godfrey nodded. “He’s coming straight down here.”
“How did he take it?” demanded Bannister.
“Seemed very upset at the possibility—naturally—I only hinted at it,
too.”
The Crown Prince twirled the ends of his moustache. “After all,
Inspector,” he contributed, “say what you like—you’ve nothing really
tangible towards this theory of yours. You may be alarming Captain
Willoughby needlessly—it seems to me——”
Bannister interrupted him. “Outside yourself, sir, Miss Travers was
the only person who knew anything of Miss Carruthers’ whereabouts. Now
this dead girl knew something about Miss Carruthers—that’s conclusive
to my mind—_she’s actually in possession of her suit-case_. That’s one
thing, at all events upon which I can base a theory.”
Anthony found himself partly in agreement with Bannister’s contention.
The Crown Prince, however, seemed very much inclined to reject it;
Daphne Carruthers herself could visualise only the horror of the idea.
“At any rate,” continued Bannister inexorably, “we shan’t have to wait
very long to know for certain. Then we shall see who’s right. Captain
Willoughby should be here at any minute, now.” He glanced at his
watch.
“It seems a very remarkable thing to me, Inspector,” declared Anthony,
“that this dead girl had nothing _with_ her or _on_ her by which she
could be identified. For instance—a purse—where was her money—where
was her money, for instance, with which she intended to pay Branston,
the dentist, for the extraction that she had just had?”
“Exactly what appealed to me, Mr. Bathurst. What you’re asking me was
one of the first questions that I asked Godfrey. She only possessed
what she stood up in. Let us say, rather, what she sat down in, plus a
hat and a pair of gloves.”
The lines of his mouth relaxed a little as he uttered this grim
pleasantry.
“Which makes it pretty obvious to me then,” exclaimed Anthony, “that
she was not _meant_ to be identified—for as long a period as possible.
Things that would have identified her were taken from her—there’s not
a doubt about it—the murderer—or murderers—there may have been two of
them for all we know—wanted _time_ to do something during this period
of non-identification—they’re doing it now—at this minute—very
possibly—the question is ‘what’?” He paced the small room
anxiously—his face betraying his excitement. “That’s your problem,
Inspector,” he concluded turning to Bannister.
The latter smiled at Bathurst’s keenness. “Perhaps,” he rejoined. “For
the moment I would rather concentrate on my own little idea and stick
to that. You’re inclined, if you’ll allow me to say so, Mr. Bathurst,
to _imagine_ ‘data.’ I prefer to work upon the ‘data’ that lie in
front of me. It’s usually a more profitable proposition, I find.” He
glanced at the Crown Prince and thence to Daphne Carruthers and
Anthony read unmistakably the marks of approval in their eyes. Before
he could reply to Bannister’s sally—a smart young constable entered
and announced Captain Willoughby. Mr. Bathurst eyed the newcomer with
more than ordinary interest. He saw a tall, well-groomed man who was
plainly not looking at his best. His finely-cut features, beautifully
even teeth and glossy raven hair gave him a patrician appearance that
was marred on this particular morning by the pallor and anxiety of his
face.
“Chief-Inspector Bannister?” he inquired—then as his eyes caught sight
of the Crown Prince of Clorania and Miss Carruthers, his apprehension
seemed to increase. “Good morning”—he bowed to the two whom he knew.
“Good morning,” said Bannister. “Sergeant Godfrey has told you what I
want of you—hasn’t he?”
Willoughby nodded—then broke in quickly and impetuously. “I feel
certain you’re on the wrong track, Inspector,” he urged. “Miss
Travers, my fiancée, is miles away from Seabourne——”
“We shall see,” said Bannister interrupting him. “For your sake—I
sincerely hope you’re right—naturally—but personally—I’m not so sure!
Come this way.” He conducted them across the stone-flagged
station-yard to the small building in the corner that served Seabourne
as a mortuary. Anthony and Sergeant Godfrey followed—separated from
Bannister by Captain Willoughby, his fingers working nervously round
his silver-knobbed stick. The Crown Prince and Daphne brought up the
rear—the lady apparently having to some extent overcome her
reluctance. The Inspector gave orders for the door of the mortuary to
be unlocked and they passed in—the Crown Prince and his lady still
last. Captain Willoughby braced his well-knit shoulders and walked to
the white slab bare-headed—hat in hand. For one nerve-shattering
second his shoulders remained braced. Then the rigid tension of his
body relaxed.
“No—Inspector,” he said very quietly—his face ashen-pale—“this is not
Miss Travers. This lady is a complete stranger to me.”
Bannister threw him a shrewd and challenging glance. “Then I’m glad
and sorry,” he declared. “Sorry, of course, to have troubled you so
needlessly.”
Willoughby bowed his thanks and as the light caught his face Anthony
was able to discern the extent to which the ordeal had tried him. Then
he noticed with surprise that the Crown Prince and Miss Carruthers had
approached the white slab more closely. Daphne’s eyes were agleam with
a mingled horror and excitement. “That girl, Inspector,” she cried
uncontrollably, “I _can_ identify her—I know her well—it’s Sheila
Delaney!!!”