“I cannot describe the extent of my relief, my dear Daphne,” exclaimed the Crown Prince, “to know that you are alive—after so many hours of such deep sorrow—I am unable—”
“Cut it out, Alexis,” said the young lady abruptly; “these gentlemen aren’t interested in your feelings—let’s get to work. From what Mr. Bannister has told me in the car on our way down from the railway station—the poor girl that’s been murdered went to the ‘Lauderdale Hotel’ and booked accommodation there in my name. I want to find out why—and quickly—at that.”
Anthony threw her an approving glance. She seemed eminently businesslike; but the Crown Prince made no appreciable attempt to emerge from the state of comparative subjection into which Miss Carruthers’ opening cold douche had sent him. He sat there the picture of offended dignity.
“I entirely agree,” declared Bannister. “First of all—I want you to accompany me to Seabourne Police Station—doubtless you gentlemen would like to come too.”
“I’m sure you’ll pardon me, Mr. Bannister,” ventured Anthony. “Have you taken any further steps this morning to identify the dead girl—since you heard that Miss Carruthers was alive—I mean?”
“That will be my next step,” was the reply. “I considered the matter and decided to wait till I’d seen Miss Carruthers and heard if she could throw any light on the mystery. I thought that would be my best course.”
“Thanks—yes—I see your point.” Anthony followed the three people into the big car that was waiting. Bannister took the wheel and threaded his way through the thronged streets of the town.
“It will be in the nature of an education for me,” murmured Bathurst in his most engaging tones, “to watch your methods, Inspector. As an amateur, I have long looked up to you, if I may use the phrase, as perhaps our premier crime expert. I’ve always regarded your handling of the affair of the murder at ‘Mawneys Crossing’ as little short of masterly. The way in which you were able to connect the blood shed by the raven—” He paused as he saw “Dandy Dick’s” eyes glisten at this homage to vanity.
“That was a nasty case,” said Bannister, “and I don’t think I unduly flatter myself when I say that I certainly did handle it well.”
“The peculiar part of the present case,” went on Anthony—his eyes twinkling, unobserved by the Inspector—“up to now—that is—is this apparent ‘masquerade’ on the dead girl’s part.”
‘H’m,” rejoined Bannister, non-committally.
“How did it happen?” queried Anthony.
The detective glared at a pedestrian that ambled across the road in the track of the fast-travelling car and sounded the horn twice before replying to the question. “The ‘Lauderdale’ people brought us the news last night—very late. The reception-clerk there—name of John Martin—took a telephone message on Wednesday evening—the evening before the actual murder—mind you—from a lady who gave the name Daphne Carruthers. She booked a room at the hotel and told him, I understand, that she would arrive some time on the following day. At half-past one yesterday—less than an hour, mark you, before the murder—the lady concerned arrived at the ‘Lauderdale.’ She referred to the booking of the previous evening—as might have been expected—gave Martin her suit-case to send up to her room and told him she had an important call to make but would return in about an hour. The suit-case was all in order, apparently, and labelled just as Martin expected it to be—‘Miss Daphne Carruthers—11, Lexham Gardens, Kensington.’ When she failed to return—he connected her, after a time, with the inquiries that Sergeant Godfrey had caused to be made immediately after the discovery of the body. He was right—his fears were only too well founded—when we showed the body to him—he identified it—unhesitatingly—as the girl of the hotel incident. There you have the reason why we described the dead girl as we did. I don’t see that we could have done anything else.”
Anthony drew thoughtfully at his cigarette. “How did she come to the hotel—by car?”
“Yes,” replied Bannister, “and drove away by car. What is more—Martin says—she herself was driving. The car was otherwise unoccupied.”
“Should be a comparatively simple matter to trace the car,” ventured Anthony.
Bannister pushed out his lower lip as he swung round the corner of the road in which was situated the Seabourne Police Station.
“It ought to be, but unfortunately Martin can’t say what make of car it was, neither can he remember the number. In all probability, he never saw that. I’ve had investigations going on all day, trying to trace any car that’s been abandoned anywhere round about, but up to the present no news of anything has come through. Here we are. Jump out.”
The Crown Prince and Daphne fell in behind them.
“Come through into the private room,” said Bannister.
The constable on duty in the charge-room saluted promptly as they passed through.
“Is Sergeant Godfrey in?” demanded Bannister, authoritatively.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell him I want him—at once.”
The constable disappeared even more promptly than he had saluted, to return in a few moments with the Sergeant behind him.
“Any more news, Godfrey?”
“No, sir—I should think the news first thing this morning was sufficient,” he added—rather lugubriously.
“I want the dead girl’s suit-case,” said Bannister, briskly.”
“You took it—!”
“It’s in that cupboard,” rapped Bannister indicating the cupboard with a gesture of the fore-finger. “I put it there last night—you’ve got the keys.”
Godfrey nodded and quickly unlocked the cupboard door. Bannister pulled out the case and stood it upright on the table. As has been previously stated, it resembled hundreds of other, which very obvious fact made Anthony shake his head with a feeling of misgiving. But not so—Daphne Carruthers. That lady left the Crown Prince’s side and excitedly
