“Very good,” responded Bannister. “Then perhaps you can answer this!” He looked intently at Morley, who looked more startled and discomposed than ever. “Information has been given to the Police that certain bank-notes were stolen from the unfortunate girl—in fact for all we know that theft may have been the motive of the murder. I say—for all we know. The numbers of those stolen notes are also known to the Police. Does that interest you at all, Mr. Morley?”
Morley licked his lips and gazed at his questioner with something of a look that one associates with a rabbit fascinated by a snake. “No,” he mumbled dryly. “Why in the name of goodness should it?”
Bannister’s face grew sterner. “Then I will proceed, Mr. Morley. Three of those stolen notes have been traced! They were paid into the Seabourne branch of the Southern and Home Counties Bank. They came from the ‘Cassandra’ Hotel.” He stopped here and watched Morley so closely that not the slightest movement of the latter’s face could escape him. But only for a moment. “The ‘Cassandra’ Hotel people took them from a gentleman who is staying there. Another of your clients, Mr. Morley, and one whom you didn’t mention just now—a certain Captain Willoughby.” Morley went very white—his face seemed to be drained suddenly of every vestige of colour.
“Well?” he said thickly. “Well—and supposing I do know this gentleman, this Captain Willoughby, supposing he is a client of mine—what about it?”
“A very reasonable question, Mr. Morley.” said Bannister, “and quite one that I expected.” He became almost suave. “I shall be delighted to answer it. I have interviewed this Captain Willoughby in reference to his possession of these particular bank-notes and he in turn refers me to you.”
“To me? To me? Tell me, Inspector, tell me more about these notes. What value were they?”
“Twenty pounds, Mr. Morley. Two ‘fives’ and a ‘ten.’”
Morley sprang to his feet and nodded excitedly. “I knew it,” he cried, “I knew it! Everything is all right!”
“Knew what?” demanded Bannister.
“Wait a minute, Mr. Inspector. Have a little patience and I will show you something that will interest you very much. Yes—yes—yes much indeed.” He rubbed his palms appreciatively and went to his desk. What he had just heard had evidently made a big difference to his outlook. He pulled open a drawer on the left-hand side. He rummaged therein for a few seconds and then extracted an envelope. This done he came back to the Inspector and Godfrey.
“Look at that!” he exclaimed triumphantly. He held something towards them. It was a five-pound not. “The number, I mean,” cried the Jew. Bannister referred to his tell-tale list. “It is one of them,” cried Morley again. “Yes? Am I then right? It is one of the missing numbers? For a certainty—eh?”
“It is, Mr. Morley,” announced Bannister gravely, “and I shall be obliged with the explanation.”
“You shall have it,” replied Morley—all his racial confidence regained—“and I can assure you that I am more than pleased to remember so well to be able to give it to you. I paid those notes to Captain Willoughby—he had some successful and pleasant business with me last week. But another gentleman living in the district who does business with me was not so successful as Captain Willoughby. As a matter of fact, for some months now he’s been working a ‘system.’ A ‘system’ that has had a long run of failure, like most systems. I am sorry for him. He has lost a lot of money over it. But there—business is business. What can I do? I have to send my accounts in—” He paused and looked at Bannister slyly. “The gentleman that I’ve just mentioned—the gentleman who paid me the notes that I in turn paid to Captain Willoughby—is Mr. Ronald Branston—the dentist. He called here to see me—to settle his outstanding account. He usually pays by cheque—this last time he paid in notes. The note you are holding, Inspector, is one of them.” Jacob Morley smiled complacently.
Chapter XIX
Ronald Branston’s story
“Branston! Branston after all!” insinuated Sergeant Godfrey to the Inspector as they made their way back to the station.
“Before proceeding any further, Godfrey,” said Bannister, turning to his companion, “tell me all you know about this Mr. Roland Branston, the dentist. We can’t get away from the hard fact that the only corroboration of Branston’s story comes from one of his own staff—that Mrs. Bertenshaw of his—the housekeeper.”
“Quite right, Inspector,” said the Sergeant. “I’ve been thinking the same thing myself.”
“Yet there’s something else to remember, Godfrey, when you come to think of it. Something most important. In fact, in my opinion, it would be difficult to over-estimate its importance. I’ve thought so all along. You know what I mean, don’t you, Godfrey?”
“Not exactly, sir.”
“I mean this. If it hadn’t been for Branston’s story—his account of his imprisonment and so on—it would have been at least ten to one on the affair being accepted as a plain case of suicide. If Branston wanted to murder the girl what on earth was to prevent him murdering her in exactly the same way as Doctor Renfrew considered she was murdered—walking quietly to his work-room as he states that he did—walking just as quietly back to the extraction room or whatever they call it and discovering upon his return, that ‘Miss Delaney had committed suicide during his absence’? There was no need for any fantastic story such as he has told us, Godfrey.” He continued in emphasis of his point. “Moreover, Godfrey, who would have doubted him? Would there have been anything to cause people to doubt him?”
Godfrey rubbed his chin critically. “How would he explain the missing notes? That fact was bound to come out sooner or later.”
“That she had no money with her when she arrived at his surgery! She’d given it away! Thrown it away! Done anything with it!” He looked at Godfrey—then added, “Suicides don’t need money, you know, Sergeant. It would have added colour to
