Bannister Strikes the Trail
Bannister left the Seabourne train with a quickness of step that
denoted serious business in front. The express had made excellent time
from Victoria, as a result of which the Inspector’s spirits had
considerably risen. This “note” story that had been telephoned to him
was really interesting. At last there had come tangible evidence upon
which he and his subordinates could get to work. He walked quickly
down the platform, passed the barrier and flung himself into a waiting
“taxi.” When he had heard from Sergeant Godfrey, at Westhampton, that
the missing notes had been traced to the possession of Captain
Willoughby, he had instructed the Sergeant to take no immediate action
but temporarily, at least, to hold his hand. To hold his hand until
Bannister himself could arrive upon the scene and direct the plan of
operations. He dashed into the Police Station and within a matter of a
few minutes was interviewing Sergeant Godfrey.
“Tell me the whole story from the beginning, Godfrey,” he ordered. “I
mean from the time when I sent you the numbers of the notes.”
“That’s an easy matter,” replied Godfrey. “We circulated the missing
numbers as you instructed us in the usual way and within a couple of
hours received surprising information. Information from the Seabourne
Branch of the Southern and Home Counties Bank. The Manager telephoned
us here and I went along myself to hear what he had to say. It appears
that one of his cashiers remembered taking some five pound notes over
the counter on the previous day. He looked at them again just out of
curiosity when our inquiry went through to his Bank and discovered to
his surprise that two of them corresponded with those taken from Miss
Delaney. They had been paid into the credit of the ‘Cassandra’ Hotel.
There was no doubt about it. He shewed me the entry on the paying-in
slip. I thanked the Manager and rolled off at once to the ‘Cassandra.’
Saw the Manager there, saw the cashier, saw pretty nearly everybody
concerned. ‘Quite right,’ they said, ‘the notes had come from them
certainly.’ The cashier was able to remember receiving them,
perfectly. They had been paid over in settlement of his weekly account
by Captain Willoughby, who has stayed at the hotel for some time. I
enjoined absolute silence upon all of them for the time being and
’phoned the news direct to you. Willoughby is blissfully ignorant that
the notes have been traced to him! What will you do—see him?”
“Most assuredly,” chipped in Bannister. “I can’t neglect to follow
this up. Say what you like—it’s most important. These notes in the
first instance _must_ have been taken from the dead girl. There’s more
than one point in connection with this case that I haven’t been able
to clear up yet—but this note business doesn’t look like falling into
that category. So, I’m thankful for small mercies.”
“Right then,” responded Godfrey. “I’ll come up to the ‘Cassandra’ with
you. I’d like to hear what this Captain Willoughby has to say.”
Captain Willoughby was in and Bannister reflected how strange it was
that Willoughby had been talking to him on the very evening that
Godfrey had so unexpectedly brought the problem to him. Now it had
fallen to his duty to see Willoughby and examine him in the
clearing-up of the affair. “One never knows,” muttered Bannister to
himself, “even one’s next-door neighbour.” Willoughby received them in
his own room. He had stayed at the “Cassandra” so many times that he
had come to regard one particular room as his own.
“Well, Inspector”—he greeted the two men with the utmost
cordiality—“here we are again, then! What can I do for you this time?”
The pallor and anxiety that had marked his face a few mornings before
were gone and Captain Willoughby looked at his best.
“Quite right,” exclaimed Bannister. “You _can_ do something for me. I
am going to ask you an exceedingly delicate question. Think carefully
before you answer it.”
Willoughby’s paleness returned—Bannister’s remark had obviously
“rattled” him. “What is it?” he asked anxiously.
“A few days ago you settled your bill here with a couple of five pound
notes—is that so? Do you admit it?”
“Of course,” muttered Willoughby; “what of it?”
“Only this. Those two five pound notes are very interesting indeed to
us. Could you go a step further and tell us from where you got them?”
Bannister prided himself upon what he considered was his ability to
come straight to the point.
But Willoughby did not answer.
“I’ll go a step further,” continued the Inspector. “The cashier handed
you change for a ten-pound note two days after you settled that
particular account. Do you remember that? I should also like to know
from where you obtained that one.”
A look of annoyance flashed across Willoughby’s face. “Look here,
Inspector,” he said with a well-defined note of asperity, “I’m well
aware that you’re conducting an investigation of a murder-case, and
I’ve no doubt from all I hear about you that you’re getting a rough
passage. I am also equally aware that I should be prepared to assist
you and all that”—he paused and gave Bannister the benefit of a
straight look between the eyes—“but I’m damned if I can see why I
should be expected to tell you where my own money comes from!”
Bannister smiled cynically. “Perhaps I shall be able to stimulate your
imagination then. Give me those numbers, Godfrey, that I ’phoned to
you from Westhampton.”
The Sergeant passed the list over to his superior. Bannister held it
judicially. “Those three notes I may tell you to which I have just
made reference, the two ‘fives’ and the ‘ten,’ were handed to Sheila
Delaney at the ‘Mutual Bank,’ Westhampton, by the cashier there on the
morning that she was murdered. To the best of our knowledge, they were
stolen from her in Branston’s operating-room. That was why I put the
question to you. Certainly we have no reason to suspect that they were
taken from her before.” He handed the list back to Sergeant Godfrey.
“Perhaps you are now more likely—shall we say—to give me the
information I am requesting? I think so—eh?” His tone was cold and
hard.
Willoughby’s face as the Inspector spoke became more and more an open
register of astonishment and bewilderment. If he were not the victim
of genuine surprise, concluded Bannister, then he was a most
accomplished actor, for astonishment was written palpably upon every
line of his face.
“What?” he exclaimed, “you’re joking, surely.”
“Don’t be absurd. This is no time to quibble. And please come to the
point.”
Willoughby went white to the lips. He seemed about to make an angry
retort when suddenly a definite sense of his own awkward position came
home to him. The angry astonishment on his face gave place to a look
of sullen determination. “Well,” he said, “since you must know—those
notes were paid to me by a well-known Seabourne gentleman. So you can
rule me out of any connection with Miss Delaney.”
“Name—if you please?” said Bannister curtly. He was eminently
business-like now.
“Oh—I hate all this information-giving business—it seems to me always
to border on the unspeakable—no decent man can ever——”
Bannister broke in again—even more curtly perhaps than on the previous
occasion. “Cut out the sentiment—can’t you see it’s to your own
advantage to supply me with the information I want?”
“Of course I can,” snapped Willoughby, “and can’t _you_ see that’s
just the reason why a decent chap doesn’t want to do it. It’s to my
advantage and consequently to somebody else’s detriment. That’s just
the point.” He stopped again and bit his lip. “Well, I suppose there’s
no help for it that I can see. I’ll tell you the whole story. My
cousin is the well-known trainer of racehorses—Phipps-Holloway. He
doesn’t send out too many winners as he hasn’t got a very big string
now. But occasionally he pulls off a ‘coup’—usually with a dark
two-year-old. He pulled one off at the Newmarket First July Meeting.
He had a colt engaged in the July Stakes—‘Sherlock Holmes,’ by ‘Hurry
On,’ out of ‘Popingaol.’” Bannister winced; he regarded it as a most
unfortunate allusion. “He had won a good trial the week before and
‘Lobster’ gave me the tip. ‘Lobster’s’ my cousin. The colt opened at
‘tens’ but somebody evidently had got wind of the good thing—for when
‘The Blower’ money got wafted back on to the course—he came down ‘with
a rush’ to ‘fives’ and actually started second favourite. I only got
S.P. myself. I had a modest little tenner on—so I had fifty quid to
draw. I drew it. Off my bookmaker, here in Seabourne. I’ve an
arrangement that he pays all winnings in cash. That’s all there is to
it.”
“Off your bookmaker?” yelled Bannister. “Who in thunder’s he?”
Willoughby took out his pocket-book and handed Bannister the usual
card of the ordinary “Turf Accountant.” “Jacob Morley, 9, Macbeth
Court Mansions, Seabourne.”
Sergeant Godfrey was unable to restrain his excitement. “Jacob
Morley,” he cried, with a ring of triumph in his voice. “Jacob Morley!
Don’t you remember—Branston’s story the night we first investigated
the murder?”
Bannister nodded complacently. “I do,” he rejoined very quietly.
“Jacob Morley was the name of the patient who had an appointment with
Branston at the identical time that Sheila Delaney was found murdered.
He must have kept that appointment after all!”