Willoughby’s paleness returned—Bannister’s remark had obviously “rattled” him. “What is it?” he asked anxiously.
“A few days ago you settled your bill here with a couple of five point notes—is that so? Do you admit it?”
“Of course,” muttered Willoughby; “what of it?”
“Only this. Those two five pound notes are very interesting indeed to us. Could you go a step further and tell us from where you got them?” Bannister prided himself upon what he considered was his ability to come straight to the point.
But Willoughby did not answer.
“I’ll go a step further,” continued the Inspector. “The cashier handed you change for a ten-point note two days after you settled that particular account. Do you remember that? I should also like to know from where you obtained that one.”
A look of annoyance flashed across Willoughby’s face. “Look here, Inspector,” he said with a well defined note of asperity, “I’m well aware that you’re conducting an investigation of a murder-case, and I’ve no doubt from all I hear about you that you’re getting a rough passage. I am also equally aware that I should be prepared to assist you and all that”—he paused and gave Bannister the benefit of a straight look between the eyes—“but I’m damned if I can see why I should be expected to tell you where my own money comes from!”
Bannister smiled cynically. “Perhaps I shall be able to stimulate your imagination then. Give me those numbers, Godfrey, that I ’phoned to you from Westhampton.”
The Sergeant passed the list over to his superior. Bannister held it judicially. “Those three notes I may tell you to which I have made reference, the two ‘fives’ and the ‘ten,’ were handed to Sheila Delaney at the ‘Mutual Bank,’ Westhampton, by the cashier there on the morning that she was murdered. To the best of our knowledge, they were stolen from her in Branston’s operating-room. That was why I put the question to you. Certainly we have no reason to suspect that they were taken from her before.” He handed the list back to Sergeant Godfrey. “Perhaps you are now more likely—shall we say—to give me the information I am requesting? I think so—eh?” His tone was cold and hard.
Willoughby’s face as the Inspector spoke became more and more an open register of astonishment and bewilderment. If he were not the victim of genuine surprise, concluded Bannister, then he was a most accomplished actor, for astonishment was written palpably upon every line of his face.
“What?” he exclaimed, “you’re joking, surely.”
“Don’t be absurd. This is no time to quibble. And please come to the point.”
Willoughby went white to the lips. He seemed about to make an angry retort when suddenly a definite sense of his own awkward position came home to him. The angry astonishment on his face gave place to a look of sullen determination. “Well,” he said, “since you must know—those notes were paid to me by a well-known Seabourne gentleman. So you can rule me out of any connection with Miss Delaney.”
“Name—if you please?” said Bannister curtly. He was eminently business-like now.
“Oh—I hate all this information-giving business-it seems to me always to border on the unspeakable—no decent man can ever—”
Bannister broke in again—even more curtly perhaps than on the previous occasion. “Cut out the sentiment—can’t you see it’s to your own advantage to supply me with the information I want?”
“Of course I can,” snapped Willoughby, “and can’t you see that’s just the reason why a decent chap doesn’t want to do it. It’s to my advantage and consequently to somebody else’s detriment. That’s just the point.” He stopped again and bit his lip. “Well, I suppose there’s no help for it that I can see. I’ll tell you the whole story. My cousin is a well-known trainer of racehorses—Phipps-Holloway. He doesn’t send out too many winners as he hasn’t got a very big string now. But occasionally he pulls of a ‘coup’—usually with a dark two-year-old. He pulled one off at the Newmarket First July Meeting. He had a colt engaged in the July Stakes—‘Sherlock Holmes,’ by ‘Hurry On,’ out of ‘Popingaol.’” Bannister winced; he regarded it as a most unfortunate allusion. “He had won a good trial the week before and ‘Lobster’ gave me a tip. ‘Lobster’s’ my cousin. The colt opened at ‘tens’ but somebody evidently got wind of a good thing—for when ‘The Blower,’ money got wafted back on to the course—he came down ‘with a rush’ to ‘fives’ and actually started second favourite. I had got S.P. myself. I had a modest little tenner on—so I had fifty quid to draw. I drew it. Off my bookmaker, here in Seabourne. I’ve an arrangement that he pays off winnings in cash. That’s all there is to it.”
“Off your bookmaker?” yelled Bannister. “Who the thunder’s he?”
Willoughby took out his pocket-book and handed Bannister the usual card of the ordinary “Turf Accountant.” Jacob Morley, 9, Macbeth Court Mansions, Seabourne.”
Sergeant Godfrey was unable to restrain his excitement. “Jacob Morley,” he cried, with a ring of triumph in his voice. “Jacob Morley! Don’t you remember—Branston’s story of the night we first investigated the murder?”
“Bannister nodded complacently. “I do,” he rejoined very quietly. “Jacob Morley was the name of the patient who had an appointment with Branston at the identical time that Sheila Delaney was found murdered. He must have kept that appointment after all!”
Chapter XVIII
That leads round the mulberry-bush
“What do you mean, exactly?” queried Sergeant Godfrey.
“If you cast your mind back, Godfrey,” enlarged Bannister, “Branston’s evidence was pretty much as follows. When he was released from the work-room by his housekeeper after his unexpected imprisonment he rushed to the room where he found Miss Delaney lying dead. Then he described what happened afterwards as a ‘schemozzle.’ That was the actual word used. When I asked him if the gentleman arrived whom he was expecting at half-past two he stated that he never gave him another thought—he
