“Ay! That’s so. I remember now—that’s what Branston did say—quite right.” Bannister turned to Willoughby. “Thank you for the information, Mr. Willoughby. But you quite understand by now that it was vitally necessary for me to obtain it? You will see also that I must now interview this Mr. Jacob Morley—immediately. Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, Inspector. I should be obliged if you would explain to Morley.”
“Don’t worry on that point,” responded Bannister with grim earnestness, “I’ll explain everything all right. You needn’t lose any sleep.” He made his exit, the Sergeant following upon his heels.
Macbeth Court Mansions were about half-a-mile distant from the “Cassandra.” They were of an imposing appearance. It was obvious at the quickest and most cursory glances that they were inhabited exclusively by the affluent. Speculating builders, bookmakers and master butches almost monopolised the possession of them. Number nine looked as prosperous as any but neither Bannister nor Godfrey felt any surprise at that fact. They had been guardians of the country’s law long enough to realise the Midas touch of a really successful and enterprising “Turf Accountant.” Stable form has a habit of being so unstable. Bannister rang the bell. It was answered by a smart maid whose ancestors had undoubtedly seated themselves disconsolately and tearfully by the waters of Babylon. A few minutes later and they were conducted into the presence of the master of the house. Judging by the satisfied expression of his face more than one equine celebrity had recently rolled up “for the book.”
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
If the allusion to the maid’s ancestry were anything like correct it was equally discernible to the careful onlooker that Mr. Jacob Morley’s ancestors had lent assistance towards the hanging up of the harps.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Morley. Your maid told you who we were, I presume?”
“Yes,” he smiled, benignly, “I am very delighted to see you, very delighted indeed. I shall be pleased to accommodate you. You will find that I shall always give you a square deal and my terms are very liberal—”
Bannister raised his hand in immediate protest. But Jacob was either blind or impervious to its meaning. He went on his way. “The Mayor of Seabourne, the Town Clerk, several of the magistrates—the Clerk to the Justices himself—they are all clients of mine. After they have fined the wicked people who back horses in the street with their paltry shillings, they send me their own little commissions—”
Bannister broke in sharply and this time was not to be denied. “You mistake the purpose of my visit, Mr. Morley. Kindly give me your closest attention. I am investigating the murder of a lady—a Miss Sheila Delaney—who was murdered here in Seabourne last week. You have no doubt heard of the affair? I am Chief-Inspector Bannister of New Scotland Yard.”
Morley seemed thunderstruck and was profuse in his apologies. “I apologise, gentlemen. But business is business. You understand—I am sure. Yes—I read of the case. The local papers were full of it. Very dreadful. Very shocking. But why have you come to see me—I don’t understand—?” He spread out his hands after the manner of his ancient race—a mute but expressive invitation for explanation.
For a moment Bannister was distinctly puzzled. He had met Hebraic cleverness before during the course of his distinguished career—many times in fact, and he knew that it always demanded the craftiest of countering.
“I understand, Mr. Morley, that on the afternoon in question—to be precise on the fifth of July—that was the day of the murder—you had an appointment with your dentist, Mr. Branston of Coolwater Avenue at half-past two in the afternoon. You were supposed to call for a set of artificial teeth. A few minutes before that time Miss Delaney was murdered. Now, Mr. Morley—did you or did you not keep that appointment?”
Jacob Morley raised his hands eloquently. “I did not, Mr. Inspector. I did not! I was prevented by extreme pressure of business. Two of my clerks were away that afternoon, as a matter of fact. One was ill—the other was attending a wedding and I had given him permission to be absent. I did not go to Mr. Branston’s. I had to postpone the appointment. I swear it. Ask Mr. Branston himself, if you doubt my word—he will confirm what I am telling you?”
“Unfortunately Mr. Branston can’t,” replied Bannister rather coldly. “All he can say is that he didn’t see you there, which you will admit isn’t quite the same thing. There was so much confusion, consequent upon the discovery of the murder that he forgot all about the appointment that you had made with him and didn’t remember it till late that same evening. Which hardly corroborates your story, Mr. Morley.”
“It is in my favour,” cried Morley. “It is on my side. It is not against me.” he stopped to see the effect of his assertion. “Stop a minute,” he cried, “I can prove what I say. I will show you. I went to him on the following Saturday afternoon—it was my Sabbath—I had the time—he fixed me up with my teeth then—these same teeth that I am wearing now.”
He favoured Bannister with a tooth-paste smile, apparently as a guarantee of the truth of his statement. But the Inspector shook his head.
“The fact that you went on Saturday doesn’t prove that you didn’t go on the afternoon of the murder,” he pronounced relentlessly. “You must see that.”
Morley became crestfallen. “It is ridiculous to suppose that I had anything—” he stopped short and glanced furtively at Bannister.
“Shall I finish the sentence for you?” demanded the latter.
Morley wagged his head very slowly. Then he re-acquired a touch of lost dignity. “I did not keep the appointment on the afternoon of the murder,” he repeated slowly, and almost with resignation, “that is all I
