A Newspaper and a Second Suit-Case
“Much petrol in the tank, Inspector?”
Bannister looked. “Very little, Mr. Bathurst.”
Anthony bent down and took a good look at each of the tyres. Bannister
watched him.
“There’s one thing,” he added, “she hasn’t been cleaned up
lately—certainly not since the last time she was taken out. I’d bank
on that!”
Anthony agreed. “Doesn’t look like it, Inspector. I’ll tell you though
what does strike me,” he went on.
“What’s that?” queried Bannister.
“The hood and the side-screens are up.” Anthony point to them.
“What about it?”
“Well,” remarked Anthony slowly, “there’s been no rain for over a
week—and the temperature has been decidedly high for several days
now—hasn’t it? I should have thought that anybody driving that car
would have been only too glad to have kept it open. That’s the point
I’ve been considering. Of course—they may have been put up after the
car returned.”
He paused and rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers.
Bannister regarded him with the semblance of a grin playing round the
corners of his mouth. He translated it into words. “I haven’t yet
accepted as final your theory that this is the identical car that Miss
Delaney had at Seabourne,” he reminded Anthony.
The lines of Mr. Bathurst’s mouth were firmly set. “You can take it
from me that it is, Inspector,” he announced with an unmistakable air
of determination, “and I hope in time to be able to prove it to you.”
“Perhaps you will. I shall want some convincing though. Still—even
so—assuming for the moment that your idea is correct—the car after all
may have been used late at night—when the air begins to feel a bit
cold.”
“That’s perfectly true,” conceded Anthony, “and there’s yet another
possible explanation—one which I’m disposed to think may eventually
prove to be the correct one. The person that drove this car back to
Tranfield from Seabourne wanted to be screened from observation as
much as possible. So he or she had the side-screens in and the hood
up.”
“That’s certainly a point, Mr. Bathurst,” admitted Bannister, “I grant
you I hadn’t thought of that.” He rubbed the ridge of his jaw with his
finger-tips. “Give me a hand, Mr. Bathurst,” he said, “let’s get the
hood down—we shall be able to see things more clearly then. Mind your
fingers! That’s the ticket! Now get these side-screens out.”
Anthony pulled the rods from the sockets prior to opening the door of
the car.
“Hallo!” exclaimed the Inspector sharply, “what’s this under the
seat?” Anthony watched him as he bent down to pull an object out from
beneath the farther seat. It was a suit-case bearing the initials
“S.D.” “What do you make of this, Mr. Bathurst—the _second_ suit-case
we’ve encountered?”
Anthony smiled whimsically. “Two ladies—two suit-cases, Inspector. I
don’t know that I’m overwhelmingly surprised to run up against this
second one. If Miss Delaney intended to stay in Seabourne for any
length of time as the people at the ‘Lauderdale’ testify—and as the
postcard from Otterton indicates also—she would almost certainly carry
something in the nature of a suit-case. No,” he shook his head as
though attempting to measure the situation thoroughly, “I’m not
surprised, Inspector.”
“I grant you all that,” replied Bannister, “but I don’t know that I
expected to meet it in a motor-car at Tranfield. It’s locked,” he
added—trying the two catches.
“You’ll find the key on the bed in all probability, Inspector,” cut in
Anthony jerking his head in the direction of the room that they had
just left. “The murderer—if it were a man—took all Miss Delaney’s keys
and brought them back with him from Seabourne. Nothing of hers was
found in Branston’s surgery remember.”
Bannister grunted thoughtfully. Anthony picked up the suit-case. “Was
this case actually right underneath the seat, Inspector?” he asked.
“It was, Mr. Bathurst—why?”
“Does it suggest anything to you, Inspector?”
“Only too true! This car was pretty full up on the return journey.”
Anthony regarded him curiously. “Funny thing—that didn’t occur to me.
It’s strange how people see different explanations. Two heads are
better than one—you can’t get away from the truth of that. No—what I
was thinking was that the suit-case had been pushed under the seat to
hide it.”
Bannister turned slowly—his eyes narrowing. “By Jove—now that
possibility certainly might mean—” he strode to the doors of the
garage rapidly and decisively. Anthony’s idea seemed to have given him
a new and definite impetus.
“Ross,” he called, peremptorily. The local Sergeant came up quickly.
“Ross,” went on Bannister, “get a telegram despatched at once to ‘4,
Rolle Cottages, Otterton,’” he referred to the postcard they had found
on the mat, and then turned to Anthony. “I think Miss Carruthers said
the nurse’s name was ‘Carr,’ didn’t she?”
“Quite right, Inspector.”
“I’ll write the name and address down for you, Ross.” He suited the
action to the words and handed the Sergeant a slip of paper. Ross
placed it carefully within the leaves of an expansive pocket-book.
“Right you are, sir,” he said, saluting, “I’ll attend to it at once.”
“I want you to,” confirmed Bannister, “and when you’ve sent it off—you
see what I’ve said—come back here.”
Ross swung down the garden path and they heard the gate shut behind
him.
“I’ve sent for the old companion, Mr. Bathurst—this ‘Pinkie’ person—if
she’s lived with Miss Delaney for as long as we’ve been informed she
probably knows more about her than anybody else.”
Anthony nodded in agreement. Suddenly he walked to the front of the
car and looked intently at the pigeon-hole in the dash-board. “The car
has no mileage indicator,” he pointed out. Then he thrust in his hand
and drew out a newspaper, folded carefully. He opened it—then smiled
and handed it to his companion. “Let me call your attention,
Inspector, to the name and the date.”
Bannister turned eagerly to the title-page. “The ‘Seabourne Herald,’
Thursday, July 5th. Well, I’m jiggered.”
“I told you I would convince you that this car was the car that was
seen in Seabourne,” declared Anthony. “Copies of that stupendous
publication that is inflicted upon a long-suffering public under the
title of the ‘Seabourne Herald’ are not likely to have been on sale in
Tranfield or Westhampton for instance. I don’t think the ‘Seabourne
Herald’ circulates as far as that.”
Bannister polished his glasses very thoughtfully and carefully.
“You’re right, Mr. Bathurst,” he said after a moment or two spent in
this thought-stimulating occupation. “I believe the ‘Seabourne Herald’
is on sale in Seabourne on Thursday mornings—but I’ll tell you
frankly—I’m damned if I know what to make of it. Why was the car
brought back to Tranfield and then left here? Speed would surely be
equally important after the search had been made here? What were they
after? Again—did they succeed in finding it—whatever it was?” He
looked at Anthony.
Mr. Bathurst shrugged his shoulders. “Also, Inspector,” he
contributed, “there’s another point that I’m considering. Who is ‘X’?”
He knitted his brows in thought. “Tell me again,” he said, “what was
the exact wording of that postcard we found in the bedroom?”
The Inspector fished the card from his pocket and handed it to Mr.
Bathurst. Anthony read it for the second time. “Why did Miss Delaney
keep a seemingly unimportant card like that? I can only think of one
reason. What do you think, Inspector?”
Bannister’s reply was in the nature of a half-grimace. “There’s no
accounting for what women will do . . . with one it’s a whim . . .
with another it’s just temperamental . . . with a third, the caprice
of a moment—you can’t generalise. On the other hand this particular
card may have escaped destruction by a pure accident.”
“That’s all true—to a point,” intervened Anthony, “but many things
are kept for years by a woman—entirely valueless in themselves—just
because they have certain definite associations. Flowers—a
theatre-programme, a dance-programme—a letter—a postcard—because they
have sentimental values. They may be relics of long-ago romances. And
articles of the nature that I’ve just indicated are usually kept in a
very private place—such as a special drawer in the bedroom.”
Bannister opened the newspaper again. “I suppose there’s
nothing marked anywhere in the paper, is there?” He scanned the
columns—without success. “No,” he remarked after a few moments, “I
couldn’t imagine the ‘Seabourne Herald’ publishing anything deemed
worthy of marking.”
“Let’s look at the card again, Inspector, will you?”
Bannister handed it to him again and watched him over the top of
the newspaper. “The slope of this hand-writing is most unusual and
yet . . .”
“And yet what, Mr. Bathurst?”
“I can’t help a strong feeling that I’ve seen something like it
before.”
“You have—where?”
Anthony shook his head doubtfully. “Can’t place it for the moment—but
there’s a decorative flourish about it that at times seems to strike a
familiar note. It’s the kind of thing that’s difficult to
associate—one’s mind is groping as it were,” he stopped and frowned,
as he strove for elusive association. “It will come back to me,” he
asserted, confidently.
“Don’t you think we often imagine that we can see resemblances between
things when none really exists?” argued Bannister. “I mean this,” he
continued, “the existence of a general resemblance is very often
mistaken for something much more particular—don’t you think so?”
“It’s possible,” conceded Anthony.
“There’s Ross back,” declared Bannister listening to the sound of
approaching footsteps. “All right?” he queried.
“Everything O.K., sir,” answered the Sergeant.
“Any news come through for me from Seabourne?”
“None, sir.”
“I asked Sergeant Godfrey to keep me posted if anything important
transpired.”
“Did you expect anything?”
“I gave Godfrey instructions to try to trace the purchase of the
hydrocyanic acid—not that I think he’ll succeed,” he added sternly.
“I’ll wager my kingdom that little dose of poison was bought a good
many miles from Seabourne—even though there’s a signature in the
‘Poisons’ Book.’”
Ross nodded wisely. “Something to kill a dog, if you please, chemist?”
he quoted sarcastically.
Bannister grinned in satirical appreciation. “Every time!” he
exclaimed. “Well, Mr. Bathurst, what’s our programme now?”
Anthony pulled-to the door of the garage and locked them again. Then
he handed the keys and the postcard to Bannister. “It’s getting on,”
he said glancing at his watch, “I think I’ll stay the night in
Westhampton. Can you recommend me to a hotel, Sergeant Ross?”
“‘The Grand’ should suit you, sir, just up the High Street on the
right.”
“I think I’ll accompany you, Mr. Bathurst, if you’ve no objection?”
put in the Inspector, “I’ve seen all I want here, Sergeant; fasten the
place up, and we’ll get away.”
“The Grand” was of the solidly-comfortable type. The dining-room to
which Bannister and Anthony repaired gave promise of substantial
refreshment. It was some time since either of them had tackled
anything in the shape of food and the meal that the waiters placed
before them proved singularly acceptable. Anthony ordered a bottle of
“Pol Roger” and Bannister expanded under its inspiring influence. Four
or five other tables were occupied—in most instances by a pair of
people. Suddenly two young men, in morning dress, entered the room and
made their way to the left-hand corner of the dining-room, to the
table nearest to the fireplace and directly behind where Anthony was
seated. They seated themselves and gave their order to the waiter.
Shortly afterwards Anthony caught the sound of a familiar name. “Alan
Warburton?” he heard. “Haven’t seen him at all this journey—and I’ve
called at one or two of his favourite haunts too.” Anthony half-turned
in the direction of the speaker. He was just in time to see the man
addressed lean across the table and speak in low tones. The first man
paled, lifted his hand and then stopped suddenly short—his glass
half-raised to his lips. “Good God!” he gasped “Never!! Daphne
Carruthers?!! That’s a Westhampton name.”