Maynard was obviously pleased at the Inspector’s tribute to a member of his staff. “Are you coming to the ‘Lauderdale’ now?” he inquired.
“This very minute—lock the door, Godfrey, put the key in your pocket and station your two men outside.”
A matter of a few minutes saw the journey accomplished. “Show these gentlemen the entry you made in the admission register, Martin,” said Maynard with a show of authority. The reception clerk ran his finger along the particular line. The name was as he had given it. Bannister glanced over his shoulder—then turned away—seemingly satisfied. The next step was an inspection of Room Sixty-six. The suit-case that had figured in Martin’s story lay on the floor between the wardrobe and the dressing-table. Bannister lifted it on to the bed. It was of good quality although of common type. There were, in all probability, hunddreds similar to it in various places in Seabourne, on that very night. Two labels of the “tie-on” variety were attached to the handle. The hand-writing on each of them was the same—suggestive certainly of a girl’s hand—“Daphne Carruthers, 11, Lexham Gardens, Kensington.” He tried the catches.
“It’s locked. Where are your keys, Godfrey?” Godfrey produced several bunches of keys—unavailingly.
Then the manager came to the rescue. He slipped from the room quickly—to return almost immediately with a large key-ring bearing keys of all shapes and sizes. Bannister’s attempt to open the case were eventually successful. He gave a grunt of satisfaction. Its contents were almost entirely clothes and toilet requisites. Clothes that one would reasonably anticipate finding in the suit-case of a young lady upon holiday in the summer. There was no letter, no card—nothing more personal than hair-brushes and face powder. The Inspector tossed the stuff back into the case.
“Your job, Godfrey, will be to get in touch with the place from where this girl’s come. Send a ’phone message through to Kensington as soon as you can and use the Press for all your worth. Get the London papers humming to-morrow morning like flies. We shall soon get information about Daphne Carruthers, you mark my words, even if we can’t get it from the place where she lived.” He turned to Maynard. “I’ll take charge of this”—he patted the suit-case—“you Godfrey—get those strings to work at once. By the way, Martin—the motor-car that the young lady was driving—did you notice what it was?”
Martin scratched his chin—then shook his head. “I didn’t sir, and that’s a fact. I was too much taken up with the young lady herself.”
“H’m,” muttered Banister, “that’s a pity—we must see what we can do in that direction to-morrow morning. That car must be traced, Godfrey. I expect we shall have a pretty ticklish day to-morrow—with one thing and another.”
In which opinion Chief-Inspector Bannister was entirely accurate, although the day was destined also to have its compensations for him. Not the least of these compensations was his introduction to a certain Mr. Anthony Lotherington Bathurst. Even though Seabourne is a hundred and nine miles from Tranfield, and a trifle more than that from Westhampton—two places in which Mr. Bathurst had fully expected to be!
Chapter VI
Mr. Bathurst changes his destination
Anthony Bathurst read the telegram that had so summarily interrupted his breakfast, with much more than a suspicion of a frown. Not that it was at all ambiguous or in any way difficult for him to understand. Indeed it was completely the reverse of these things. “Come at once to Hotel Cassandra, Seabourne,” was the message it conveyed and the sender’s name was shewn at the end of the message as “Mr. Lucius.” “His Royal Highness seems to imagine that I’m thoroughly at his beck and call,” he murmured to himself softly. “This will put the tin hat on my going to Westhampton—as I had intended.” he lit a cigarette and thrust his left hand into the pocket of his dressing-gown. Mr. Bathurst was a staunch adherent of the theory of breakfasting in comfort. “Seabourne?” he thought to himself. “Seabourne? What caught my eye in this morning’s paper concerning Seabourne?” he picked up the paper that had already been read and tossed aside—and eagerly sought the more prominent head-lines. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “I thought I wasn’t mistaken.” His eyes swept the paragraph with its sensational notice. The headings wee—“Strange Tragedy at Seabourne. Young Lady Murdered in Dentist’s Chair.” The paragraph below the head-lines ran as under. “About half-past two yesterday afternoon the Seabourne police were called to the Dental Surgery of Mr. Ronald Branston which is situated at the corner of Coolwater Avenue and the Lower Seabourne Road. A lady patient upon whom Mr. Branston had just previously attended had been discovered poisoned in the Dentist’s chair. Dr. Renfrew, the divisional Surgeon was called and gave it as his opinion that deceased had died from an administration of Hydrocyanic Acid. Mr. Branston himself has told the authorities a remarkable story. Sergeant Godfrey of the Marlshire County Police had charge of the case but has now had the good fortune to obtain the active co-operation of Chief-Inspector Bannister, one of the famous ‘Six’ of New Scotland Yard, who happens to be spending part of his annual holiday in Seabourne. Thanks to the untiring assiduity of the latter gentleman, the lady, in regard to whose identity the Police were at the outset without a vestige of a clue has now been identified as Miss Daphne Carruthers of 11, Lexham Gardens, Kensington, a visitor to Seabourne staying at the Lauderdale Hotel. Taking into consideration certain facts that Mr. Branston has communicated to them, the Police have no doubt that a brutal murder has been committed. Surprising developments are hourly expected.” Mr.
