Churchill nodded again. “Quite right, sir.”
“Did you attend to her yourself?”
“I did. Don’t you remember that I brought her in here to see you—she requested an interview?”
“Yes, I felt pretty certain it was you who ushered her in here. Now tell me, what was the nature of her transaction with you at the counter?”
“I cashed a cheque for her amounting to a hundred pounds. The cheque was drawn to ‘self.’”
“Notes—all of it?”
“Every penny, sir.”
“Remember what you gave her?”
Churchill knitted his forehead. “five ‘tenners,’” he said slowly as the remembrance came to him—“that’s fifty—eight ‘fivers’—that’s ninety—the rest in currency notes—pounds and halve. I couldn’t say to those exactly.”
“Good,” declared Stark, “here’s another one for you—got the numbers of the big stuff?”
Churchill disappeared with alacrity to return to the room after a brief absence. He noticed that his Chief looked very perturbed. “There you are, sir. I made a note of them when I paid them out across the counter. I remember I had it out there somewhere.”
The Manager smiled gravely with just a touch of magnanimous patronage. “Excellent, Churchill! You never took a course in Pelmanism, did you?”
“No, sir, although I knew a man who did. He could remember extraordinarily difficult things—but used to forget the date of his wife’s birthday.”
“No doubt she reminded him, Churchill—that’s all now, thank you. Send Miss Rivers in to me as you go out, will you?—no, never mind—it doesn’t matter.”
Churchill favoured him with a puzzled stare as he departed but the lessons of experience had thought him that there was usually method in his Chief’s madness even though at times the latter was very much more discernible upon the surface than the former. What ever his faults the Manger’s ability commanded the confidence of his staff. Stark tapped the broad pad of blotting-paper in front of him very deliberately and turned the whole story over in his mind. He rose from his chair, paced the square of the room two or three times and sat down again. Still he seemed dissatisfied—uncertain. Walking to the telephone at the side of the room he suddenly lifted the receiver—then just as impulsively replaced it. He returned to his desk—his mind now thoroughly made up and quickly wrote a letter. In a few minutes the letter was in the hands of the Westhampton Superintendent of Police. Half an hour late it was being considered by Chief-Inspector Bannister at the Grand Hotel. He passed it over to Anthony Bathurst. This was its message:
“Mutual Bank,
“Westhampton,
“July 9th.
“If convenient I will call and see the Inspector-in-charge at 11.30 this morning as I am of the opinion that I am in a position to place before him important evidence relative to the murder of Miss Sheila Delaney at Seabourne this week. Will the Inspector please telephone Westhampton 29 to confirm appointment?”
“Faithfully yours,
“E. Kingsley Stark, Manager.”
Underneath was a P.S. “When you ’phone ask to speak to me personally. E.K.S.”
Mr. Bathurst tossed the sheet of notepaper back to the Inspector somewhat nonchalantly. “Mutual Bank, Bannister,” he said meaningly, “wasn’t that the Bank with which Sir Felix Warburton was implicated? The Bank where the frauds were?”
Bannister nodded in affirmation. “That is so!” Then he looked carefully at the signature at the foot of the letter. “E. Kingsley Stark,” he muttered, “I wonder if it’s really genuine information that’s going to prove of help to us or whether he’s the kind of man who always thinks he can assist the Police—very often the story that comes along is nothing less than nonsensical, and two-thirds imaginary. Still—I suppose I’d better ’phone him and see what he has to say.”
He descended the staircase that led from the coffee room, found the telephone and confirmed the appointment. “I’ve heard from Godfrey,” he informed Anthony when he had found his way back, “I heard early this morning. He reports that they’re fairly up against it down there. No additional facts whatever have been brought to light at that end. So it’s up to us, Mr. Bathurst.” He smiled at Anthony in encouraging anticipation.
“Well, we haven’t done too badly, Inspector, considering all things. And we may progress a bit farther this morning after this chap Stark’s visit.”
“That may be,” rejoined Bannister, “all the same I’ve a feeling in my bones that the solution to the affair lies in Seabourne. After I’ve seen Alan Warburton—and I certainly mean to do that as soon as possible—I’m turning my attention again to the ‘scene of the crime.’ Of course,” he added reflectively, “there may be something in this fantastic story of the Indian calling upon Miss Delaney—my experience as an investigator of all classes of crime teaches me to ignore nothing—to disregard nothing—to consider carefully everything—no matter how absurd, grotesque, impossible it may appear at first blush to be. I’ve always worked on those lines.”
“With that, Inspector, I’m bound to say that I cordially agree,” responded Anthony. “The truth may shine suddenly from the most unexpected quarter. All the same—I’m rather inclined to disagree with your first opinion—that the eventual solution will be discovered at Seabourne. In my opinion—I speak with all deference, of course—the answer to the riddle will be found up here.”
Bannister shrugged his shoulders. “Time will tell, Mr. Bathurst. Meanwhile there is Mr. E. Kingsley Stark.”
That gentleman was punctual to the minute. Half-past eleven saw him ascending the main staircase of the “Grand Hotel.” When he reached the top, Bannister met him on the carpeted landing. “Mr. Stark? Come in here, will you? I have arranged that we shall be free from interruption.
