“Give me the address of this Miss Travers, will you?” demanded Bannister.
“Forty-four, Crowborough Mansions, Maida Vale.”
“Anthony glanced across at the Crown Prince who was shewing decided signs of discomfort at the turn the investigation had taken. Evidently he could see by now—almost as clearly as Mr. Bathurst did—that it was going to be extremely difficult, to say nothing of being, perhaps, extraordinarily indiscreet and risky to keep Bannister and Godfrey completely ignorant of the matter of the blackmailing letters. This last love-escapade of Alexis had certainly proved to be most unfortunate for him! He was inclined to rail at Fate for the maliciously-mischievous trick that she had played him. After all, look at it any way you like—he was a Royal personage—heir to a throne—not by any means an ordinary person—he should have been immune from trouble of this kind—Fate should have recognized—
Bannister broke in upon his rebellious musings. He turned sharply towards Godfrey and the statement and question he put to him were sufficiently startling to rouse even Anthony himself to an acuter alertness. As the Inspector spoke Anthony recognised that here was a Police-Officer of imagination far beyond the ordinary. Of course he had been aware all the time of Bannister’s almost International reputation. But Mr. Bathurst it must be observed was not a slavish believer in the value of mere reputations. He knew the strength of the hand that Dame Fortune frequently played towards their establishment. In emphasis of this point he had been known to quote more than once, “Reputations are what people think of us—character is what God and His Angels know of us.” Bannister’s question proved to him conclusively that whatever qualities might be lacking in the Inspector’s composition—imagination was not one of them.”
“Godfrey,” rapped Bannister, “you’ll find that the dead girl in the mortuary yonder is Lois Travers—what do you say to my idea—eh?”
The audacity of the theory appeared to take Godfrey’s breath away for he was some appreciable time before he replied.
“Can’t say, sir.” He shook his head. “I think I see the direction your thoughts are taking, but—” He shook his head again—doubtfully.
The idea struck Anthony as containing great possibilities. He rose from the chair in which he had been seated. “It’s certainly worth testing, Inspector,” he exclaimed. He jerked his head almost imperceptibly towards Miss Carruthers. Bannister caught his meaning.
“Do you feel that you could submit to the ordeal of viewing the body, Miss Carruthers?” he asked.
The lady thus addressed shuddered. “Please don’t ask me to do that,” she replied—white to the lips. “But I can’t believe it’s Lois. It’s terrible to think that—” She stopped as a sudden thought appeared to strike her. “Ask Captain Willoughby to look,” she exclaimed. “He’s almost certain to be at the ‘Cassandra’—’phone from here.”
“That’s certainly a good idea,” said Bannister grimly. “Captain Willoughby—the lady’s fiancé—will be able to settle the point at once. Get on to the ‘Cassandra,’ Godfrey, and tell him we want him down here at once, will you? Wrap it up a bit. Break it to him gently.”
Godfrey went out, to return in a matter of a few moments.
Godfrey nodded. “He’s coming straight down here.”
“How did he take it?” demanded Bannister.
“Seemed very upset at the possibility—naturally—I only hinted at it, too.”
The Crown Prince twirled the ends of his moustache. “After all, Inspector,” he contributed, “say what you like—you’ve nothing really tangible towards this theory of yours. You may be alarming Captain Willoughby needlessly—it seems to me—”
Bannister interrupted him. “Outside yourself, sir, Miss Travers was the only person who knew anything of Miss Carruthers’ whereabouts. Now this dead girl knew somethin about Miss Carruthers—that’s conclusive to my mind—she’s actually in possession of her suit-case. That’s one thing, at all events upon which I can base a theory.”
Anthony found himself partly in agreement with Bannister’s contention. The Crown Prince, however, seemed very much inclined to reject it; Daphne Carruthers herself could visualise only the horror of the idea.
“At any rate,” continued Bannister inexorably, “we shan’t have to wait very long to know for certain. Then we shall see who’s right. Captain Willoughby should be here at any minute, now.” He glanced at his watch.
“It seems a very remarkable thing to me, Inspector,” declared Anthony, “that this dead girl had nothing with here or on her by which she could be identified. For instance—a purse—where was her money, for instance, with which she intended to pay Branston, the dentist, for the extraction that she had just had?”
“Exactly what appealed to me, Mr. Bathurst. What you’re asking me was one of the first questions that I asked Godfrey. She only possessed what she stood up in. Let us say, rather, what she sat down in, plus a hat and a pair of gloves.”
The lines of his mouth relaxed a little as he uttered this grim pleasantry.
“Which makes it pretty obvious to me then,” exclaimed Anthony, “that she was not meant to be identified—for as long a period as possible. Things that would have identified here were taken from her—there’s not a doubt about it—the murderer—or murderers—there may have been two of them for all we know—wanted time to do something during this period of non-identification—they’re doing it now—at this minute—very possibly—the question is ‘what’? He paced the small room anxiously—his face betraying his excitement. “That’s your problem, Inspector,” he concluded turning to Bannister.
The latter smiled at Bathurst’s keenness. “Perhaps,” he rejoined. “For the moment I would rather concentrate on my own little idea and stick to that. You’re inclined, if you’ll allow me to say so, Mr Bathurst, to imagine ‘data.’ I prefer to work upon the ‘data’ that lie in front of me. It’s usually a more profitable proposition, I find.” He glanced at the Crown Prince and thence to Daphne Carruthers and Anthony read unmistakably the marks of approval in their eyes. Before
