“Looks to me as though the other lady’s away,” he remarked. “Let’s get along to the other rooms.”
On the left lay the dining-room and the lounge. On the right were three bedrooms. Suddenly Bannister gave a share exclamation and walked to the front door. From the mat he picked a postcard. “That explains this other woman’s absence,” he said to Anthony as he tossed it over to him.
Anthony read it. It was a picture postcard of the seaside-view variety. The view was of Budleigh Salterton. Its message was brief. “4, Rolle Cottages, Otterton. July 3rd. Dear Miss Sheila, I am having a lovely time and it’s so nice to be home again. The weather is beautiful—I only hope it will continue so for you. Much love from ‘Pinkie.’”
“One thing—you’ve got her address, Inspector,” remarked Anthony.
“I have that,” replied Bannister with a touch of tolerant cynicism. “And I’m afraid she’s going to be the second person to have her holiday rather ruthlessly disturbed.”
“Evidently the companion went away first—and Miss Delaney went down to Seabourne afterwards.”
“Intended staying there, too, Mr. Bathurst. The clerk at the ‘Lauderdale’ stated that she booked her room for a fortnight—this card to a certain extent confirms his statement. ‘I hope it will continue so for you,’—the sentence certainly implies that Miss Delaney intended being away for some time.”
Anthony assented.
“What about having a look over the rooms?” suggested Ross.
“That’s what I’m here for,” returned Bannister grimly.
The doors of the respective rooms seemed to be locked—with the respective keys left in the locks. The Inspector turned the key in the door of the dining-room and went in. Like the previous room that they had entered there were no signs of disorder or of very recent occupation. Everything was just as could be expected—quite consistent with the facts as Bannister and Anthony knew them. The occupants of the bungalow were away for a holiday—the rooms had been uninhabited for a matter of a few days. There was nothing whatever so far to excite comment. There were no papers, documents or letters lying about anywhere. Bannister walked to the open grate. It was beautifully clean. “Ross,” he said, after two or three seconds’ thought, “See if there’s a refuse-bin at the back of the bungalow. Keep your eyes open for any correspondence that may have been torn up and found its way in there. Unlikely,” he added—turning to Anthony—“but it’s just a chance. I’ve known it happen before now—especially when the number in the household is small. When you’ve only one other person living with you—especially a person of the type that we have here—it’s almost the same as living alone. There’s always a certain privacy.” Anthony saw the Inspector’s meaning and said so. “While Ross is out there,” continued Bannister, “we’ll glance at the other rooms.” The lounge was as reticent as the dining-room. “Nothing here,” grunted the Inspector. Anthony’s eyes examined it keenly and saw nothing to arrest his attention. The two men crossed to the other side of the hall. The door of the first room was almost exactly opposite to the door of the lounge. Bannister tried the handle. The door instantly yielded. “That’s funny, Mr. Bathurst.” Bannister shot the remark at him. “All the other rooms have been shut—the keys turned in the locks. The key was in this lock but this door is open” Anthony followed him in. “Good God!” exclaimed the Inspector; “Something’s been happening here.” The dressing-table was without its drawers. Anthony point to the bed. It was easy to see what had happened. The contents of the drawers had been turned out on the bed which presented an appearance of indescribable chaos and confusion. The drawers lay on the bed. Gloves, handkerchiefs, ribbons, silk scarves and stockings, powder, toilet requisites of all description lay scattered there in a shapeless heap. From the manner in which the various articles had been tossed aside it was evident that the drawers containing them had been subjected to a rigorous examination. “Looking for something, Mr. Bathurst! The question’s ‘what?’”
Anthony nodded. The case was getting trebly interesting to him. On the pillow at the head of the bed lay a lady’s hand-bag and several keys thrown in all directions. For a moment he regarded them intently, while Bannister busied himself with an examination of the Wilton hair-carpet that covered the floor. Anthony picked up the hand-bag and opened it. At the first glance it seemed to be empty, but Mr. Bathurst, in examinations of this kind, always made a point of being extremely through. A thin card nestled in one of the corners. Anthony drew it out carefully. It was a man’s visiting-card of the usual kind, “Alan Warburton, 19, Crossley Road, Westhampton.” He turned it over. On the other side another address had been carefully scrawled in pencil. “Ronald N. Branston—Dental Surgeon—Coolwater Avenue, Seabourne.”
“Inspector,” he called quietly. Bannister came round immediately from the far end of the bed. “What do you make of this?” he demanded. “Look at the back!”
Bannister’s eyes shone through his glasses with quick interest. “This is important, Mr. Bathurst—exceedingly important. Where did you find it?”
Anthony held up the bag in explanation. Bannister frowned—then stretched out his hand for it. Anthony walked to the bed and picked up several of the keys that had lain there.
“Have you seen this gentleman,” exclaimed the Inspector—he tapped the visiting-card with the back of his finger-nail. “It’s just possible that we’ve go the threads of the affair in our hands at last.”
“Yes,” smiled Anthony, “just ‘on the cards’ as you might say. If he recommended Miss Delaney to visit the Coolwater Avenue Surgery, it could certainly be argued against him that he might have known when to find her there. But look here, Inspector,” he paused—looked at the keys in his hand—then back to the hand-bag that Bannister was still holding.
“Well?” said Bannister, invitingly. Anthony smiled again. “It’s like this,
