“Bring the two gentlemen in here, Mrs. Bertenshaw.”
It was easy to see that the Manager of the “Lauderdale Hotel” was the man who entered first. A short, broad-shouldered, florid-faced man, he wore his dress-suit with that air of aggressive opulence that can only be captured with complete success by hotel managers, Sheikhs of the Box-office, and the gentlemen who hold undisputed sway in those cinemas usually designate as “super”—whatever that may mean. The reception-clerk was tall and thin to all appearances, worried by the singular turn that events had taken.
“Sergeant Godfrey?” questioned the first of the newcomers. Godfrey came forward to meet and to greet him.
“I’m your man—Mr. Maynard—isn’t it?”
“That’s right—and I’m pretty certain I’ve some news for your. Very likely the information you’re wanting. After your men had been round making those inquiries for you, I guessed it was something pretty serious that was engaging your attention. So I put a few feelers round my staff, off my own bat, so to speak and I reckon that Martin here has got something important to tell you. Of course, it may be a mare’s nest that I’m bringing you—but somehow I don’t think so.” He shifted his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other with an adroitness that could only have been cultivated by assiduous practice. “Now, Martin,” he ordered rather imperiously, “spill your bib-ful.”
Martin fidgeted uneasily on the chair that he had immediately sought upon his arrival and got even nearer to its edge. He twisted his shabby hat in his hands with a circular movement and seemed at a loss to begin. His eyes sought those of Maynard—then wandered away until they encountered those of Chief-Inspector Bannister. Bannister’s glance afforded little encouragement however, so they travelled on again, waveringly and uncertainly until they reached those of the Sergeant.
“Come,” said the last-named, “don’t waste any time-tell us what you know.”
Martin licked his lips, cleared his throat, gulped once or twice and commenced his story. “Well, sir,” he started, “It isn’t very much that I’ve got to tell you, but I’ve the glimmering of an idea that the young lady you’re inquiring about came into the ‘Lauderdale’ about half-past one this afternoon. You see it was like this. About ten-fifty on Wednesday evening a ’phone message came through booking a room for a Miss Daphne Carruthers who was arriving the next day. About the time that I’ve just mentioned—half-past one of an afternoon—things are pretty quiet as a rule. A car drew up outside the hotel and a young lady alighted and walked into the vestibule. She came straight up to me and said, ‘I want a room please, for a fortnight—I believe it was booked last night for me—by ’phone. I’ll leave my luggage here now, although I’ve an important call to make. You might send out for my case—it’s in my car. Put it up in my room, will you please? I shall be back in about an hour.’ ‘Certainly, miss,’ I answered, ‘your room number will be sixty-six.’ I sent the porter out for her suit-case and sent him up to the room with it, confirming the name from the labels on it. ‘Thank you,’ she replys, trips out of the hotel, jumps into her car and drives off.”
“In what direction?” snapped Bannister.
“Towards Froam, sir.”
“Go on.”
“Well—a lot of other people came in and some went away and the young lady that was to come back in the hour went clean out of my mind. When your man came round this evening making those inquiries it all came back to me. Gentlemen—that young lady has never come back. Her suit-case is in Room Sixty-six just where I told the porter to put it.” He stopped and wiped his lips with his handkerchief and the perspiration from his brow.
Bannister interposed again—authoritatively. “Would you be able to remember this young lady, if you saw her again?”
Martin answered the question very readily. “Why, yes, sir, I stood talking to her face to face for a matter of a minute or two. She was a real beauty, I can tell you, sir. I haven’t forgotten her and no mistake.”
Bannister motioned to Godfrey to lead the way upstairs. Then he turned to the clerk. “Come with us, then—and prepare yourself for a shock.”
Martin’s white face went whiter as they ascended the stairs, Bannister leading and the hotel Manager, Maynard, bringing up the rear. The Inspector waited to close the door of the surgery behind them.
“Let him have a look at her, Godfrey,” he said, turning to the Sergeant.
Godfrey uncovered the face again for Martin to see. The latter gave a low gasp of horror. Then he uttered an exclamation. “I was right, sir! It’s her right enough—as I was afraid it was when I came along. That’s the identical young lady that came to the ‘Lauderdale’ about half-past one this afternoon that I’ve been telling you about. Just fancy—to think of her as she was then in the best of health, as you might say—and now—”
Bannister abruptly put a stoppage upon his sentimental reminiscences. “You’re certain—absolutely certain—of what you say?”
“Positive, sir—you don’t see two like her every day of the week.”
The Inspector turned to Sergeant Godfrey. “You hear what he says? We’ll get along up to the ‘Lauderdale’ at once. What name did she give, Martin?’
“I’ve copied the name from the reception-book just as I entered it when she arrived. I thought I’d better do that in case it should turn out as I feared.”
He fumbled in his breast pocket for a moment—produced a slip of paper which was far from being clean and handed it to Bannister. The latter read it aloud, “‘Miss Daphne Carruthers.’ This will
