That Leads Round the Mulberry-Bush
“What do you mean, exactly?” queried Sergeant Godfrey.
“If you cast your mind back, Godfrey,” enlarged Bannister, “Branston’s
evidence was pretty much as follows. When he was released from the
work-room by his housekeeper after his unexpected imprisonment he
rushed to the room where he found Miss Delaney lying dead. Then he
described what happened afterwards as a ‘schemozzle.’ That was the
actual word used. When I asked him if the gentleman arrived whom he
was expecting at half-past two he stated that he never gave him
another thought—he lost all sense of the impending appointment as it
were. ‘I clean forgot him,’ he said. ‘If he came he probably went
away’—that was the gist of what Branston said, and it struck me as
being perfectly natural.” Godfrey nodded, affirmatively.
“Ay! That’s so. I remember now—that’s what Branston did say—quite
right.” Bannister turned to Willoughby. “Thank you for the
information, Mr. Willoughby. But you quite understand by now that it
was vitally necessary for me to obtain it? You will see also that I
must now interview this Mr. Jacob Morley—immediately. Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, Inspector. I should be obliged if you would explain
to Morley.”
“Don’t worry on that point,” responded Bannister with grim
earnestness, “I’ll explain everything all right. You needn’t lose any
sleep.” He made his exit, the Sergeant following upon his heels.
Macbeth Court Mansions were about half-a-mile distant from the
“Cassandra.” They were of an imposing appearance. It was obvious at
the quickest and most cursory of glances that they were inhabited
exclusively by the affluent. Speculating builders, bookmakers and
master butchers almost monopolised the possession of them. Number nine
looked as prosperous as any but neither Bannister nor Godfrey felt any
surprise at that fact. They had been guardians of the country’s law
long enough to realise the Midas touch of a really successful and
enterprising “Turf Accountant.” Stable form has a habit of being so
unstable. Bannister rang the bell. It was answered by a smart maid
whose ancestors had undoubtedly seated themselves disconsolately and
tearfully by the waters of Babylon. A few minutes later and they were
conducted into the presence of the master of the house. Judging by the
satisfied expression of his face more than one equine celebrity had
recently rolled up “for the book.”
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
If the allusion to the maid’s ancestry were anything like correct it
was equally discernible to the careful onlooker that Mr. Jacob
Morley’s ancestors had lent assistance towards the hanging up of the
harps.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Morley. Your maid told you who we were, I
presume?”
“Yes,” he smiled, benignly, “I am very delighted to see you, very
delighted indeed. I shall be pleased to accommodate you. You will find
that I shall always give you a square deal and my terms are very
liberal——”
Bannister raised his hand in immediate protest. But Jacob was either
blind or impervious to its meaning. He went on his way. “The Mayor of
Seabourne, the Town Clerk, several of the magistrates—the Clerk to the
Justices himself—they are all clients of mine. After they have fined
the wicked people who back horses in the street with their paltry
shillings, they send me their own little commissions——”
Bannister broke in sharply and this time was not to be denied. “You
mistake the purpose of my visit, Mr. Morley. Kindly give me your
closest attention. I am investigating the murder of a lady—a Miss
Sheila Delaney—who was murdered here in Seabourne last week. You have
no doubt heard of the affair? I am Chief-Inspector Bannister of New
Scotland Yard.”
Morley seemed thunderstruck and was profuse in his apologies. “I
apologise, gentlemen. But business is business. You understand—I am
sure. Yes—I read of the case. The local papers were full of it. Very
dreadful. Very shocking. But why have you come to see me—I don’t
understand——?” He spread out his hands after the manner of his ancient
race—a mute but expressive invitation for explanation.
For the moment Bannister was distinctly puzzled. He had met Hebraic
cleverness before during the course of his distinguished career—many
times in fact, and he knew that it always demanded the craftiest of
countering.
“I understand, Mr. Morley, that on the afternoon in question—to be
precise on the fifth of July—that was the day of the murder—you had an
appointment with your dentist, Mr. Branston of Coolwater Avenue at
half-past two in the afternoon. You were supposed to call for a set of
artificial teeth. A few minutes before that time Miss Delaney was
murdered. Now, Mr. Morley—did you or did you not keep that
appointment?”
Jacob Morley raised his hands eloquently. “I did not, Mr. Inspector. I
did not! I was prevented by extreme pressure of business. Two of my
clerks were away that afternoon, as a matter of fact. One was ill—the
other was attending a wedding and I had given him permission to be
absent. I did not go to Mr. Branston’s. I had to postpone the
appointment. I swear it. Ask Mr. Branston himself, if you doubt my
word—he will confirm what I am telling you?”
“Unfortunately Mr. Branston can’t,” replied Bannister rather coldly.
“All he can say is that he didn’t see you there, which you will admit
isn’t quite the same thing. There was so much confusion, consequent
upon the discovery of the murder that he forgot all about the
appointment that you had made with him and didn’t remember it till
late that same evening. Which hardly corroborates your story, Mr.
Morley.”
“It is in my favour,” cried Morley. “It is on my side. It is not
against me.” He stopped to see the effect of his assertions. “Stop a
minute,” he cried, “I can prove what I say. I will show you. I went to
him on the following Saturday afternoon—it was my Sabbath—I had the
time—he fixed me up with my teeth then—these same teeth that I am
wearing now.”
He favoured Bannister with a tooth-paste smile, apparently as a
guarantee of the truth of his statement. But the Inspector shook his
head.
“The fact that you went on Saturday doesn’t prove that you didn’t go
on the afternoon of the murder,” he pronounced relentlessly. “You must
see that.”
Morley became crestfallen. “It is ridiculous to suppose that I had
anything——” He stopped short and glanced furtively at Bannister.
“Shall I finish the sentence for you?” demanded the latter.
Morley wagged his head very slowly. Then he reacquired a touch of lost
dignity. “I did _not_ keep the appointment on the afternoon of the
murder,” he repeated slowly, and almost with resignation, “that is all
I have to say.”
“Very good,” responded Bannister. “Then perhaps you can answer this!”
He looked intently at Morley, who looked more startled and discomposed
than ever. “Information has been given to the Police that certain
bank-notes were stolen from the unfortunate girl—in fact for all we
know that theft may have been the motive of the murder. I say—for all
we know. The numbers of those stolen notes are also known to the
Police. Does that interest you at all, Mr. Morley?”
Morley licked his lips and gazed at his questioner with something of
the look that one associates with a rabbit fascinated by a snake.
“No,” he mumbled dryly. “Why in the name of goodness should it?”
Bannister’s face grew sterner. “Then I will proceed, Mr. Morley.
_Three of those stolen notes have been traced!_ They were paid into
the Seabourne branch of the Southern and Home Counties Bank. They came
from the ‘Cassandra’ Hotel.” He stopped here and watched Morley so
closely that not the slightest movement of the latter’s face could
escape him. But only for a moment. “The ‘Cassandra’ Hotel people took
them from a gentleman who is staying there. Another of your clients,
Mr. Morley, and one whom you didn’t mention just now—a certain Captain
Willoughby.” Morley went very white—his face seemed to be drained
suddenly of every vestige of colour.
“Well?” he said thickly. “Well—and supposing I do know this gentleman,
this Captain Willoughby, supposing he is a client of mine—what about
it?”
“A very reasonable question, Mr. Morley,” said Bannister, “and quite
one that I expected.” He became almost suave. “I shall be delighted to
answer it. I have interviewed this Captain Willoughby in reference to
his possession of these particular bank-notes and he in turn refers me
to _you_.”
“To _me_? To _me_? Tell me, Inspector, tell me more about these notes.
What value were they?”
“Twenty pounds, Mr. Morley. Two ‘fives’ and a ‘ten.’”
Morley sprang to his feet and nodded excitedly. “I knew it,” he cried,
“I knew it! Everything is all right!”
“Knew what?” demanded Bannister.
“Wait a minute, Mr. Inspector. Have a little patience and I will show
you something that will interest you very much. Yes—yes—very much
indeed.” He rubbed his palms appreciatively and went to his desk. What
he had just heard had evidently made a big difference to his outlook.
He pulled open a drawer on the left-hand side. He rummaged therein for
a few seconds and then extracted an envelope. This done he came back
to the Inspector and Godfrey.
“Look at that!” he exclaimed triumphantly. He held something towards
them. It was a five-pound note. “The number, I mean,” cried the Jew.
Bannister referred to his tell-tale list. “It is one of them,” cried
Morley again. “Yes? Am I then right? It is one of the missing numbers?
For a certainty—eh?”
“It is, Mr. Morley,” announced Bannister gravely, “and I shall be
obliged with the explanation.”
“You shall have it,” replied Morley—all his racial confidence
regained—“and I can assure you that I am more than pleased to remember
so well to be able to give it to you. I paid those notes to Captain
Willoughby—he had some successful and pleasant business with me last
week. But another gentleman living in the district who does business
with me was not so successful as Captain Willoughby. As a matter of
fact, for some months now he’s been working a ‘system.’ A ‘system’
that has had a long run of failure, like most systems. I am sorry for
him. He has lost a lot of money over it. But there—business is
business. What can I do? I have to send my accounts in——” He paused
and looked at Bannister slyly. “The gentleman that I’ve just
mentioned—the gentleman who paid me the notes that I in turn paid to
Captain Willoughby—is Mr. Ronald Branston—the dentist. He called here
to see me—to settle his outstanding account. He usually pays by
cheque—this last time he paid in notes. The note you are holding,
Inspector, is one of them.” Jacob Morley smiled complacently.