The Peacock’s Eye
Mr. Stark—the manager of the Westhampton branch of the once
ill-starred Mutual Bank—sat in his spacious private room on the Bank
premises and thoughtfully stroked his chin with his long supple
fingers. He then picked up the morning paper again and read a
paragraph therein with much more than ordinary interest. This done he
put the paper down on his table and resumed his previous occupation of
chin-stroking. He was a man of striking appearance—tall—and of fine
physique generally—debonair and always dressed in the height of good
taste. When he had suddenly entered the industry of Westhampton—a
matter of about fourteen months ago he had caused something akin
to a sensation in Westhampton social circles, and many Westhampton
hearts surrendered to his fascination. Rumour had it that he was
extremely highly-connected and that he had been sent to Westhampton
immediately following upon the scandal caused by Sir Felix Warburton’s
downfall—upon a special mission. Banks must be like the wife of Cæsar!
Rumour also had it that he was or had been intimate with such people
as Sir Matthew Fullgarney—the late Major Carruthers and even with Lady
Brantwood herself. Brantwood Castle, it may be observed was the
biggest house for many miles around and Lady Brantwood suited it. It
was evident that upon this particular morning something had occurred
to worry him, and to cause him disturbance. Suddenly he came to what
was obviously an important decision. He pressed the bell that
communicated with the outer office. A junior clerk obeyed the summons.
“Tell Mr. Churchill that I want him, at once. If he’s busy tell Mr.
Jennings to go on the counter in his place. Churchill must come to
me.”
Within the space of a few moments Mr. Churchill—the first cashier to
designate him accurately—stood in front of the Manager. Mr. Stark
picked up the paper and handed it to him. He indicated the paragraph
that he had read so many times with a gesture both graphic and
eloquent. “Pretty dreadful, isn’t it?” he remarked when Churchill had
finished reading it. Churchill nodded his head slowly in agreement.
“Now, Mr. Churchill,” went on Mr. Stark, “what I want to say to you is
this. Miss Delaney called here on the morning of the day that she
appears to have been murdered. That’s a fact, isn’t it, Churchill?”
Churchill nodded again. “Quite right, sir.”
“Did you attend to her yourself?”
“I did. Don’t you remember that I brought her in here to see you—she
requested the interview?”
“Yes, I felt pretty certain it was you who ushered her in here. Now
tell me, what was the nature of her transaction with you at the
counter?”
“I cashed a cheque for her amounting to a hundred pounds. The cheque
was drawn to ‘self.’”
“Notes—all of it?”
“Every penny, sir.”
“Remember what you gave her?”
Churchill knitted his forehead. “Five ‘tenners,’” he said slowly as
the remembrance came to him—“that’s fifty—eight ‘fivers’—that’s
ninety—the rest in currency notes—pounds and halves. I couldn’t say to
those exactly.”
“Good,” declared Stark, “here’s another one for you—got the numbers of
the big stuff?”
Churchill disappeared with alacrity to return to the room after a
brief absence. He noticed that his Chief looked very perturbed. “There
you are, sir. I made a note of them when I paid them out across the
counter. I remembered I had it out there somewhere.”
The Manager smiled gravely with just a touch of magnanimous patronage.
“Excellent, Churchill! You never took a course in Pelmanism, did you?”
“No, sir, although I knew a man who did. He could remember
extraordinarily difficult things—but used to forget the date of his
wife’s birthday.”
“No doubt she reminded him, Churchill—that’s all now, thank you. Send
Miss Rivers in to me as you go out, will you?—no, never mind—it
doesn’t matter.”
Churchill favoured him with a puzzled stare as he departed but the
lessons of experience had taught him that there was usually method in
his Chief’s madness even though at times the latter was very much more
discernible upon the surface than the former. Whatever his faults the
Manger’s ability commanded the confidence of his staff. Stark tapped
the broad pad of blotting-paper in front of him very deliberately and
turned the whole story over in his mind. He rose from his chair, paced
the square of the room two or three times and sat down again. Still he
seemed dissatisfied—uncertain. Walking to the telephone at the side of
the room he suddenly lifted the receiver—then just as impulsively
replaced it. He returned to his desk—his mind now thoroughly made up
and quickly wrote a letter. In a few minutes the letter was in the
hands of the Westhampton Superintendent of Police. Half an hour later
it was being considered by Chief-Inspector Bannister at the Grand
Hotel. He passed it over to Anthony Bathurst. This was its message:
“Mutual Bank,
“Westhampton,
“July 9th.
“If convenient I will call and see the Inspector-in-charge at 11.30
this morning as I am of the opinion that I am in a position to place
before him important evidence relative to the murder of Miss Sheila
Delaney at Seabourne this week. Will the Inspector please telephone
Westhampton 29 to confirm appointment?
“Faithfully yours,
“E. Kingsley Stark, Manager.”
Underneath was a P.S. “When you ’phone ask to speak to me personally.
E.K.S.”
Mr. Bathurst tossed the sheet of notepaper back to the Inspector
somewhat nonchalantly. “Mutual Bank, Bannister,” he said meaningly,
“wasn’t that the Bank with which Sir Felix Warburton was implicated?
The Bank where the frauds were?”
Bannister nodded in affirmation. “That is so!” Then he looked
carefully at the signature at the foot of the letter. “E. Kingsley
Stark,” he muttered, “I wonder if it’s really genuine information
that’s going to prove of help to us or whether he’s the kind of man
who always thinks he can assist the Police—very often the story that
comes along is nothing less than nonsensical, and two-thirds
imaginary. Still—I suppose I’d better ’phone him and see what he has
to say.”
He descended the staircase that led from the coffee-room, found the
telephone and confirmed the appointment. “I’ve heard from Godfrey,” he
informed Anthony when he had found his way back, “I heard early this
morning. He reports that they’re fairly up against it down there. No
additional facts whatever have been brought to light at that end. So
it’s up to us, Mr. Bathurst.” He smiled at Anthony in encouraging
anticipation.
“Well, we haven’t done too badly, Inspector, considering all things.
And we may progress a bit farther this morning after this chap Stark’s
visit.”
“That may be,” rejoined Bannister, “all the same I’ve a feeling in my
bones that the solution to the affair lies in Seabourne. After I’ve
seen Alan Warburton—and I certainly mean to do that as soon as
possible—I’m turning my attention again to the ‘scene of the crime.’
Of course,” he added reflectively, “there may be something in this
fantastic story of the Indian calling upon Miss Delaney—my experience
as an investigator of all classes of crime teaches me to ignore
_nothing_—to disregard nothing—to consider carefully _everything_—no
matter how absurd, grotesque, impossible it may appear at first blush
to be. I’ve always worked on those lines.”
“With that, Inspector, I’m bound to say that I cordially agree,”
responded Anthony. “The truth may shine suddenly from the most
unexpected quarter. All the same—I’m rather inclined to disagree with
your first opinion—that the eventual solution will be discovered at
Seabourne. In my opinion—I speak with all deference, of course—the
answer to the riddle will be found up here.”
Bannister shrugged his shoulders. “Time will tell, Mr. Bathurst.
Meanwhile there is Mr. E. Kingsley Stark.”
That gentleman was punctual to the minute. Half-past eleven saw him
ascending the main staircase of the “Grand Hotel.” When he reached the
top, Bannister met him on the carpeted landing. “Mr. Stark? Come in
here, will you? I have arranged that we shall be free from
interruption. This gentleman is Mr. Anthony Bathurst—you can speak in
front of him with perfect confidence and you can depend upon his
discretion. I am Chief-Inspector Bannister of New Scotland Yard—you
wished to see me, I believe?”
Stark entered the room that Bannister indicated fluttering with
suppressed excitement and with a sense of tremendous impatience. He
had heard of Bannister—who hadn’t come to that?—and immediately, for
him, the case began to assume greater proportions than ever before. He
plucked the lemon-coloured glove from his right-hand and bowed to his
auditors, somewhat consequentially. “That is so,” he opened, “and I
think it will not be very long before I am able to convince you,
Inspector, that I have information for you of the most—er—paramount
importance. For I am sure that I have.”
“Let’s have it, then,” declared Bannister, “my ears are open. Sit
down.”
“At the present time,” proceeded Stark, “I hold the position of
Manager of the Westhampton branch of the Mutual Bank. But you know
that, of course.”
“One moment,” came the quick interruption, “how long have you held
that position?”
“I came here in May—the May of last year. What I have to tell you will
not take me very long. I read in this morning’s paper that the young
lady found murdered at the dentist’s at Seabourne has now been
identified as a Miss Sheila Delaney of Tranfield—the village adjoining
Westhampton. Am I correct in that statement, Inspector Bannister?”
“We have good and substantial reasons to believe so,” conceded
Bannister.
“Well then, you may be interested to hear that Miss Delaney, who was a
client of ours of some years’ standing cashed a cheque at our bank on
the morning of the very day that she was murdered, value a hundred
pounds. The cheque was made payable to ‘self’ and was of course drawn
against her current account.” He paused as though to measure
thoroughly the full effect of his statement.
“Go on,” said Bannister, a grim note sounding in his voice. Stark
looked at him quickly and went on as ordered.
“The notes handed to the lady by my cashier were partly ‘tens’—partly
‘fives’ and the remainder ordinary currency notes. There were ninety
pounds in bank notes. Those are the numbers.” He handed across to the
Inspector an envelope upon which the information was written.
Bannister beamed and rubbed the palms of his hands in unmistakable
pleasure.
“Splendid,” he cried, “you’ve done us a great service, Mr. Stark,
there’s no doubt about that. This should help the course of our
investigations tremendously.”
“I thought it would,” said Stark, flushed with pleasure at Bannister’s
approbation, “but please wait a minute—I haven’t finished yet. There’s
more to come.” He rose from his chair and walking to the door opened
it and looked sharply outside. Then he closed it again, came back to
his chair and drew it a little distance nearer to the Inspector.
“After Miss Delaney had received her money,” he was now speaking very
quietly and intensely, “she asked the cashier who attended to
her—Churchill by name—to show her in to me. Into my private room! He
did so. She came into my private office and made what I considered to
be an extraordinary request. You are doubtless aware that Banks often
keep in their strong-rooms certain valuables belonging to their
clients. Miss Delaney not only has a Deposit account with the ‘Mutual’
as well as the ordinary current account but we have also had lodged
with us for some years, I believe, a legacy left her by her father the
late Colonel Daniel Delaney. I refer, Inspector, to what is always
described in the Deposit-Note as ‘The Peacock’s Eye.’”
“What?” ejaculated Bannister. “What the blazes is that?”
Anthony also eagerly awaited the Manager’s answer.
“‘The Peacock’s Eye’ is the description given to a magnificent
blue-shaded emerald of somewhat peculiar shape. It is valued, I
believe, at something like twenty thousand pounds. Anybody who has not
been privileged to see it can have no adequate idea of its immense
size or unique beauty. Miss Delaney asked for the gem, signed for its
receipt and took the stone away with her.” He passed a slip of paper
over to the Inspector. “There’s her signature for it,” he explained.
Bannister pursed his lips in deep thought. Anthony bent over his
shoulder. Stark took advantage of their silence to continue his story.
“I pointed out to her the foolishness of the procedure as far as I
could—consistently that is with my duty and position as her Bank
Manager. I foreshadowed the risk she was running—tried to get her to
visualise certain dangers to which she was exposing herself and also
the stone. To no avail, gentlemen! The lady was adamant.”
“What did you do then?” inquired Bannister peremptorily.
“I went to our strong-room, opened Miss Delaney’s private safe in
which the jewel was kept, took the case containing the ‘Peacock’s Eye’
back to my own room and handed it to her. Whereupon Miss Delaney
signed the receipt-note that you’ve just examined.” He sat back in his
chair with a certain amount of self-satisfaction.
“Did anybody else in the service of your Bank know of this
transaction?”
“Nobody at all,” replied Stark firmly. “I confided the matter to no
one, neither then nor since, and nobody could possibly have known what
I was doing.”
“One moment, Mr. Stark,” Anthony broke in sharply, “had Miss Delaney
ever made this request before?”
“Never—during my tenure of the Managership. I couldn’t say regarding
the period before that—naturally.”
“If so—if she _had_ done it previously—I take it there would be
documentary substantiation of the occurrence?”
“I should say so—yes.”
“And you haven’t come across any?”
Stark shook his head with decision, “None.”
“Did the lady seem at all upset, nervous, or frightened, or was she
quite normal?”
“Well,” answered Stark, “I’ve seen her several times before and I
don’t think she’s the kind of girl to show such conditions as
nervousness or fright. She has always impressed me as very
self-reliant and capable. I should say she was a girl that could face
the music—could stand fire as you might say. But I’ll also say this.
On the morning in question she certainly seemed to me to be labouring
under a sort of—” he hesitated momentarily and sought mentally for
what he considered the correct description, “let me say ‘nervous
excitement’—perhaps the term ‘nervous eagerness,’ would fit the
situation even better.”
“A certain amount of agitation—eh?” suggested Bannister.
Stark shook his head. “Hardly that—as I said just now the best term to
use would be ‘nervous eagerness.’”
Anthony intervened again here. “I fully realise considerations of
professional etiquette, and all that, Mr. Stark, and I appreciate the
fact that you were almost debarred from putting any question to the
lady—but did she give you any tangible idea as to her intentions with
regard to the stone—why she had asked for it—what she proposed doing
with it and so forth?”
“None whatever! As you observe, it was not within my personal province
to subject Miss Delaney to any sort of inquisitorial examination—she
was entirely within her rights in demanding the stone—I was holding it
for her—I had to produce it. I did so. She took it away with her.
That’s all there was to it.”
“Why is it called ‘The Peacock’s Eye’?” The inquiry came from
Bannister.
“By reason of its strange shape. It is very similar to that of the
‘eye’ of the peacock’s train-feathers.”
Bannister showed his understanding with a quick nod of affirmation.
“Juno made a mistake there”—his mouth set half-humorously and
half-satirically—“instead of endowing her peacock with the hundred
eyes of Argus—she ought to have given them to the members of my
profession. A detective with a hundred eyes would stand a better
chance,” he added. “Two are hopelessly inadequate.”
Stark smiled at the Inspector’s sally.
“This cashier of yours,” went on Bannister—back to gravity again, “I
think you mentioned his name was Churchill—could he tell us anything
more—I suppose Miss Delaney said nothing to him? Very often, you know,
in cases of this kind—a chance remark—a word dropped here or there—is
sufficient to put us on the track of something big—was there anything
of that kind in this instance—do you know?”
Stark again gave a denial. “I’ve spoken to Churchill. I obtained the
numbers of the notes from him—thanks—er—to a system that I have been
instrumental in instituting in the working of my Branch. But I’m
certain that he knows no more than I have told you. He just cashed
Miss Delaney’s cheque—that was all.”
“Very good,” said Bannister. “At the present moment then, I don’t
think I can do better than to communicate these note-numbers to the
Sergeant who is in charge of the case at Seabourne. He can then take
the necessary steps to get them properly circulated. Mr. Stark—I’m
thinking that your evidence this morning throws a new light on this
dreadful affair. We have, at last, been able to establish a motive
that is clear-cut and definite. Previously we were forced to consider
motives that were undeniably ‘shadowy’—now we have something upon
which to work.” He turned towards Anthony Bathurst and his eyes shone
with concentrated eagerness. “You agree with me there, I take it, Mr.
Bathurst?”
The gentleman thus addressed took a moment or two before replying. Mr.
Bathurst never hurried unless necessity demanded. “Yes—perhaps I do.
But it’s an extraordinarily baffling case, I must say that. I don’t
think I’ve ever been called into a problem that presented so many
puzzling points. To me at the moment, the question that requires the
most delicate answer is, ‘why was Miss Delaney’s identity so cleverly
and so deliberately confused with that of Miss Carruthers?’”
“I think that can be answered quite easily,” replied Bannister, with a
touch of impatience. “In fact you outlined it yourself at Seabourne—it
was done to gain time. To gain time to accomplish something. You
haven’t altered your own opinion—surely?” Bannister eyed him keenly.
“You don’t quite get me, Inspector,” said Anthony, unperturbed at the
suggestion. “I’m going a step further along the road—that’s all. What
I mean now is this. Miss Delaney’s identity, we are agreed, was hidden
under somebody else’s. Now tell me this! Was it sufficient for the
murderer that the dead girl when discovered should be thought to be
_anybody but Sheila Delaney_ or _definitely thought to be Daphne
Carruthers_? Do you see the point there? It’s a distinction with a big
difference! You see now what I’m driving at, don’t you?” He
paused—then went on rapidly, “In other words is Daphne Carruthers a
more important card in the pack than we think? Is she _the_ card?” He
watched Bannister very carefully as he put the question to him. The
Inspector thrust his hands into his pockets and paced backwards and
forwards as he turned the question over. Anthony had raised a new
aspect of the case. Mr. Stark polished the silver knob of his
walking-stick most assiduously. He felt honoured to be present at such
a conference. He became almost imperial. It was a story that would
gain appreciably in the recounting. His already considerable
reputation as a _raconteur_ would be—Bannister broke in upon the
flight of his fancy.
“You’ve given me a poser, Mr. Bathurst—and I’m quite prepared to admit
as much. Certainly Daphne Carruthers can’t altogether be ruled out.
I’ll grant that. Then there’s another point to be considered. Where
does the Carruthers–Crown Prince–Captain Willoughby interest impinge
on the Delaney–Alan Warburton connection?—that’s what I can’t fathom—I
confess it’s got me fairly wondering.”
Anthony smiled—his slow, quiet smile. The smile that always seemed to
contain the quality of assurance. “There’s one common factor though to
both sides of that equation. Have you realised that?”
Bannister looked a trifle bewildered. “What’s that, Mr. Bathurst—I
don’t quite——?”
“Major Desmond Carruthers—the gentleman that was killed in the Spring
of last year. He was Daphne’s uncle and also I believe a close friend
of Colonel Delaney—he fits into each part of your little problem, you
see.”
“H’m,” muttered Bannister. “I see what you mean, but I don’t know that
I can link them up. I’m working in the dark.” He went to Mr. E.
Kingsley Stark and held out his hand. “I won’t detain you any longer,
Mr. Stark,” he announced cordially. “You’ve helped us considerably. If
I want to see you again concerning anything, I’ll let you know. Good
morning!”
Stark rose and bowed his acknowledgment. “Good morning, Inspector.
Good morning, Mr. Bathurst. I’m indeed happy to have been of service.”
Bannister conducted him to the door and watched him descend the
substantial staircase. He then crossed the landing and telephoned to
Ross certain instructions that were to be forwarded to Sergeant
Godfrey immediately. When he got back to Mr. Bathurst, he found that
gentleman ensconced in the most comfortable of all the chairs—his long
legs outstretched to the limit. Mr. Bathurst was a firm believer in
physical comfort as a stimulant to mental exercise. He turned his head
towards the Inspector as the latter entered.
“Well?” he said, “what do you make of him?”
“Stark?—very useful evidence—without a doubt. Why?”
“I’m not gainsaying that, Bannister,” murmured Anthony gently, “that
little story of the ‘Peacock’s Eye’ rather intrigued me, to tell the
plain and unvarnished truth. By the way, though, Inspector, did you
happen to notice his initials?”
Bannister raised his eyebrow—then pulled out the letter Mr. Stark had
sent. “E.K.S.?” he queried.
“Might conceivably be ‘X’ as pronounced,” suggested Anthony quietly,
“it only just struck me—that was all.”
Bannister stared. He opened his mouth to answer when a tap at the door
destroyed his intention. It was Falcon.
“There’s a gentleman wants to see you,” he declared. “He’s
downstairs—shall I show him up?”
“Who is it?” demanded Bannister. Falcon smiled.
“Mr. Alan Warburton.”