What Did Mr. Bathurst Whisper?
Brigadier-General Sir Austin Mostyn Kemble, K.C.V.O., D.S.O., turned
sharply in his revolving chair in his room at New Scotland Yard and
spoke somewhat peremptorily. The post of Commissioner of Police is
never a sinecure and very seldom a bed of roses. At the present moment
he was being subjected to a good deal of Press pin-pricking and
generally hostile criticism relative to the failure of his department
in the matter of the Seabourne mystery. It can readily be imagined,
therefore, that a temper habitually none too good was at this
particular time showing certain but unmistakable signs of severe
strain. Several of his subordinates needed no imagination to notice
this fact. Three weeks had elapsed since Ronald Branston had so
dramatically discovered Sheila Delaney’s body in his surgery and
despite the widely-circulated news in the columns of the Press that
Scotland Yard were on the point of a solution and that an arrest was
imminent—the murder or murderers still remained at large. It had
become apparent to the thoughtful that the Police Authorities were
completely baffled. On the morning in question the “Daily Bugle,”
ready as usual to criticise destructively, had published a most
scathing article by a novelist possessed of a most valuable copyright
on the “Supine and Decadent Condition of New Scotland Yard. Its Causes
and Remedy.” The chief point of the article in question had been the
oft-recurring statement that the “Seabourne Mystery” was the fifth
unsolved murder since Sir Austin Kemble had assumed the cares of
office. Incessant attention had been drawn to the fact that on three
of these occasions Scotland Yard had been called in almost at once and
that the old and threadbare excuse that the scent had been allowed to
get cold prior to expert advice being taken could in no way be urged.
In respect of the “Wokingham Wheelbarrow” murder, where the body of
the murdered farm-labourer had been discovered lying across a
wheel-barrow, in the instance of the crippled Polish moneylender,
whose body had been found in a hedge upon the outskirts of Leighton
Buzzard battered to death in horrible fashion by his own crutch, and
now in this last murder at Seabourne, it was pointed out relentlessly
that Scotland Yard had been there “when the tapes went up.” But
glaringly unavailingly. Its ineptitude was colossal! The article
concluded with an impassioned appeal that the higher reaches of the
Police and Detective professions should be radically re-organised and
flung open as attractive propositions to the best brains of the
country. Then and not until then could the country reasonably hope for
better things!
“Well, Bannister?” snapped Sir Austin. “I presume you have had the
pleasure of reading this clotted tripe served up by the ‘Bugle’ for
its readers’ daily mastication? What about it? I’d like to blow their
damned offices up.” He crumpled the offending newspaper in his
muscular hands and flung it savagely into the waste-paper basket under
his table.
“Those articles don’t worry me, sir,” replied Bannister. “That’s only
paper talk.”
“That’s all very well, talk’s cheap, I know full well——”
“When I say to you that they don’t worry me, sir, I have no wish to
seem or to sound offensive. I’m not, as it were, throwing the
responsibility of failure upon you. I’m quite prepared to shoulder my
share. What I meant was this. I’ve tackled a few hundred cases during
my time here, sir, and I can honestly say that my failures have been
few. And some of those I’m including in the category of failures were
only comparative failures. I’m due for retirement, as you know, in a
month or so, and I shall leave no stone unturned to hang this
Seabourne murderer—take it from me. I wouldn’t have my last case a
‘stumer’ for a fortune. And I am not entirely without a ray of hope at
the moment.” Bannister spoke quietly, confidently and determinedly. He
was a man whom it was difficult to “rattle.”
Sir Austin moved uneasily in his chair but at the same time appeared
to be a little mollified. “I’m well aware of that, Bannister, and I’m
not disposed to blame you overmuch. That’s why I decided to run this
little conference now. I spoke to Chief-Inspector Macmorran yesterday
and told him that I intended to have a chat with you about it. I asked
Mr. Bathurst to come along too, because I knew he had been interested
on behalf of the Crown Prince of Clorania and was in close touch with
the case. Also, I have heard something of his reputation. I remember
the Hanover Galleries murder very well and I have had the pleasure of
meeting Sir Charles Considine.” He smiled at Anthony and if the smile
contained a tinge of condescension and just a hint of patronage,
Anthony consoled himself with the comforting thought that a
Brigadier-General is usually no respecter of persons.
“Now, Bannister,” said Sir Austin, “where exactly do you stand? What
do you know? Let me hear it.”
Bannister took some sheets of notepaper from his coat pocket. “It’s a
most mysterious and baffling case,” he began. “That’s not said in any
sense of self-defence. I don’t suppose for one moment that the
omniscient fiction-weaver whose effort illuminates the columns of the
‘Daily Bugle’ realises one-tenth of the difficulties that the Police
have encountered. You know the main outline of the case, sir, so I
won’t waste your time or my own with any unnecessary detail. Rather
will I condense my report and give you the salient points as they
impress me.” He looked at the Commissioner for approval. A quick nod
from Sir Austin gave it to him. “First of all,” he continued, “we were
faced with that remarkable attempt on the part of the murderer to
confuse the identity of the murdered girl with that of another
lady—Miss Daphne Carruthers. Why? Was it deliberate? You might venture
half a dozen reasons and yet be wrong. For there is the undoubted fact
that both Miss Delaney and Miss Carruthers had a Westhampton
connection—please note that! Then, taking events in what I will term
logical sequence, we have, one, the association—the _admitted_
association, mind you—of the Crown Prince of Clorania with Miss
Carruthers, and, two, the association of the Crown Prince with Miss
Delaney by Alan Warburton, who was—we have good reason to
suppose—Sheila Delaney’s discarded lover. Not a bad mixture for a
detective to commence with—eh?” Sir Austin Kemble grunted
non-committally. “Don’t forget also,” proceeded Bannister—a suggestion
of resentful vehemence creeping into his tone—“that Sheila Delaney had
the Carruthers girl’s suit-case in her possession and that a room was
actually booked for her at the ‘Lauderdale’ Hotel in Miss Carruthers’
name. Booked by telephone—two people in the ‘Lauderdale’ vouch for
it.”
Sir Austin broke in rather dictatorially.
“Tried tracing that call?” he said brusquely.
“I have that,” replied Bannister instantly, “unsuccessfully.” He
jerked his head with impatience. “What I’ve told you so far, I’ll
call, for the sake of clarity, the first section of the case. I’ll now
embark upon what I will term the second. Miss Delaney, at some time or
other, was robbed—you know that, don’t you? She was robbed of one
hundred pounds in notes and also—what is much more to the point—of a
supposedly wonderful precious stone worth a very large sum, I believe.
The figure ‘twenty thousand pounds’ has been mentioned to me in
connection with it.”
“That’s the stone to which you refer in your notes as ‘The Peacock’s
Eye’?”
“Exactly—a blue-tinted emerald, I believe—stated to be unique as far
as _individual_ possession goes. If there are others floating around
nobody has seen them. Now we come to a most extraordinary chain of
events. Extraordinary and yet ultimately with quite a simple
explanation. According to my investigations the stolen notes—or some
of them—were first traced to a Captain Willoughby—a guest at the
‘Cassandra’ Hotel, Seabourne. This Captain Willoughby, I may say, has
a connection—through his fiancée—with no less a person than Miss
Daphne Carruthers. Mark that! When I got here I felt I was nearly
home. Not so likely! Willoughby got the notes from a Hebrew bookmaker!
Who is a patient of Branston, the very dentist concerned with the
murder! Still on the track, say I. Morley, the bookmaker—the dentist’s
patient—got them from Branston himself! There I am again—just like
‘Felix.’ Would you believe it? Branston turns up—he got them from his
housekeeper, who released him—so they say, the pair of them—from his
surprising imprisonment when Miss Delaney was being murdered! And the
housekeeper found the notes on Branston’s premises after the murder!
Or says she did. Some little kettle of fish, don’t you think, sir?
Some little mayonnaise—eh?” He wiped his lips with his handkerchief.
It was easy to see that Bannister was amazed. “Let the ‘Bugle’ have a
blow at that. Nevertheless, I’ve got a stray theory—I’m very hopeful,
as I told you earlier. I’ve almost decided to arrest Branston and the
housekeeper—Mrs. Bertenshaw—I can make out a strong ‘prima-facie’ case
against them.” He paused—waiting for his Chief’s comment upon this
last statement.
Sir Austin drummed upon the table with the finger-tips of his left
hand—apparently uncertain. “Can’t see it myself,” he interjected. “Not
on what you have given me so far. What about this ‘Peacock’s Eye?’
Where’s that?”
Bannister shrugged his shoulders rather impatiently. “I can’t trace
any attempt to dispose of that—so far. All the notorious ‘fences’ have
been and are still being—very carefully watched—by some of our best
men. In my opinion not more than four of the known ‘fences’ would look
at the proposition.”
“And they are?” put in Sir Austin.
Bannister thought for a moment. “Levigne and Kharkoff in
Paris—Stefanopoulos in Amsterdam—and Schneitzer here in London.
Personally—of course, I may be wrong, I know—but I wouldn’t consider
anybody else.”
To Anthony, of course, the four names were entirely unfamiliar. He
docketed them in the pigeon-hole of his memory and was just in the
midst of the requisite mental process when Sir Austin Kemble turned to
him and addressed him. He noticed that the Commissioner was smiling
again. “And you, Mr. Bathurst—what have you got to tell me? Is your
story on all fours with Bannister’s? Are you in agreement with him? Or
have you formed a different opinion?”
Anthony returned smile for smile. “Frankly, sir,” he said,
“Chief-Inspector Bannister has given you more information than I could
possibly have done. I was with him at Westhampton when the first news
of the stolen notes came through to us and I left him to follow that
particular trail on his lonesome. I haven’t investigated it at all. So
he’s got ahead of me—you see. I can only cry ‘_Peccavi_’—perhaps I
should have attached more importance to it.”
Sir Austin Kemble looked at him long and hard. “Perhaps?” he queried.
“Perhaps!” insisted Anthony.
“You mean——”
Anthony shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I shouldn’t arrest either
Branston or Mrs. Bertenshaw on the evidence submitted if I were the
Inspector—still—don’t mind me, I’m only an amateur.”
Bannister frowned into space.
But Sir Austin Kemble stuck to his guns. “You have something in your
mind, Mr. Bathurst,” he said very deliberately; “I am sure of it. I
should be pleased to hear what you have to say—that was my purpose in
asking you to be present at this interview. Three heads are better
than two. I am all attention.”
Anthony bowed. “I’m complimented, sir—many thanks. At the moment
though, I’m afraid you’ll find me something of a disappointment. I am
like the Chief-Inspector here. I feel that I am still confronted with
very grave difficulties. Until those difficulties are removed—my hands
are of necessity tied. It would be worse than useless for me to bring
a charge against any person unless I were fully prepared to prove that
charge to the hilt. That is my position now—in a nutshell. I have
formed certain ideas. I am willing to admit that much. Beyond
that—however, I cannot go. All I can do is to wait—very patiently and
very hopefully. Perhaps one day—my chance to prove the truth of my
theory will come.” He spoke very quietly, but both Sir Austin and
Bannister were able to detect the wealth of infinite purpose in his
voice-tone.
“I don’t know that I altogether follow you, Mr. Bathurst,” said Sir
Austin. “What do you mean exactly when you say that you must wait? For
what must you wait?”
Anthony’s eyes regarded him with unswerving steadiness. “For the
murderer to make a mistake, Sir Austin—when that happens I hope to be
aware of it. _When_ I’m aware of it—I shall draw the net
round—_tight_. I shall want your help, sir, of course, and
Bannister’s, too. I don’t mean for a moment that I’m big enough to
carry it through single-handed. But that’s my intention—to bide my
time.” There was no element of braggadocio in what he said—merely the
coldness of quiet determination.
Sir Austin started his finger-drumming again. He was dissatisfied.
“Permit me to remark, Mr. Bathurst, that the time for you to move may
_never_ come. The murderer—or murderers possibly—may never make the
mistake for which you are suggesting that we should wait. How do we go
on then?” Anthony was unmoved by the Commissioner’s suggestion.
“How then?” He thought the question over for a moment or two and then
quickly discarded it as a real possibility. “Take it from me, sir, the
move _will_ be made. It _must_ be. You need have no qualms upon that
point whatever. The move for which I am waiting will be the natural
sequence—perhaps corollary is the better word—of Miss Delaney’s
murder. It will be tedious and irksome—this waiting period, I
agree—but at all events when I move I shall be _sure_. It is a
comfortable thought—to be _sure_.”
Sir Austin rose from his chair. “Very well, then, Mr. Bathurst, since
neither Bannister nor you can advise any immediate course of action—I
must bow to your joint decision and wait. Even though it imposes a
strain upon my patience. I will inform the Crown Prince of Clorania of
what has passed between us. Good-day.” He held out his hand to
Bannister and then to Anthony. As he left them at the door of his room
the Inspector turned to Bathurst.
“What’s your point, Mr. Bathurst?” he said. “What’s this move you say
you’re waiting for? I couldn’t follow your argument at all. You
amateurs amuse me.”
“I expect we do,” returned Anthony good humouredly. “But you’re asking
me too much to tell you what the precise nature of the move will be.
I’m not a clairvoyant. At the same time, though, I am quite willing to
tell you something of at least equal importance—that is, of course, if
you would care to hear it?”
“What’s that?”
“_The name of the person who murdered Sheila Delaney._”
Bannister regarded him with a look of amazement mingled with
incredulity. “What?” he exclaimed; “are you serious?”
“Perfectly,” replied Anthony. He bent his head a little and whispered
a name in the Inspector’s ear.
Bannister gasped. “Never!” he declared. “You can’t mean it!”
Anthony nodded gravely.
“Good God!” exclaimed Bannister again; “you can’t mean it, Mr.
Bathurst.”
“I do—but it’ll be a very difficult matter to drive the charge home.
Nobody realises that fact more than I. Think of the issues involved.”
“I’m thinking,” said Bannister; “it certainly will be ‘some’ job! Well
I’m damned!” He shook his head—still pondering over the amazing nature
of Mr. Bathurst’s confidence.