“I’ve got a good answer to that, Inspector,” countered Godfrey.
“What’s that?”
“Suicides don’t want aching teeth pulled out. A man who has decided to cut his throat and spend the evening in the mortuary doesn’t go out to get a hair-cut beforehand—or a shave,” added the Sergeant.
Bannister nodded. “It’s a damned good point, Godfrey—that—but I very much doubt whether Branston would consider it big enough to upset successfully his edifice of ‘suicide.’ If he did—he’s a smarter chap than I’ve taken him for?”
“Don’t you think this criminal we’re hunting for is a smart chap, Inspector?” queried Godfrey. “I do—and that’s a fact. I shouldn’t like to meet many smarter.”
“Not so bad,” conceded Bannister, “not so bad—but I’ll wager to prove myself his equal—don’t worry.”
They entered the Police Station, Bannister confident, Godfrey pessimistic. “Do as I told you when we started the discussion, Godfrey,” said Bannister, “tell me all you know about Branston. It got side-tracked just now.”
“Well—we’ve looked into him pretty thoroughly ever since the affair started—as you know. Nothing’s been brought out to his discredit. He’s been practising in Seabourne about three years, came down here from somewhere in the Midlands. His business has been very successful and continues to develop—he’s certainly prosperous. He’s unmarried and as far as we know—unattached. If there’s a lady in his life—Seabourne hadn’t seen her. He’s addicted to a flutter on the ‘Turf’ and is a magnificent dancer. I have been told he’s the finest dancer in the whole of Seabourne. That’s his history, Inspector, as far as we’ve been able to pick it up.”
“H’m!” muttered Bannister, “not very much help there. There’s another thing that gets me, Godfrey. Those notes! Listen carefully to what I’m going to say now. Do you think any murderer who stole those notes would circulate them? Do you think he’d run the risk of such a procedure?”
“Well,” answered Godfrey, “come to that—he might and he might not. On the whole, I don’t think he would. But on the other hand he might think it a thousand to one against the numbers of the notes being known to anybody—that’s the point, you see.” He struck a match and lit his cigarette. “But I’ll tell you what, Inspector,” he supplemented, “since you’ve asked the question of me, I think if the murderer or murderess rather—I should say—were a woman—that she might have done. I’ve noticed from my own experience of our class of work that a woman often makes a mistake of that kind.”
“Godfrey,” said Bannister, “you know something or you suspect somebody! What are you hinting at?”
But Godfrey shook his head. “I know nothing, Inspector that you don’t know! But I’ll admit that I’m hinting at something.”
“Let’s have it, Godfrey!”
“You said just now that we had only one person’s corroboration of Branston’s story of his temporary imprisonment in his work-room.”
“That’s so—go on, I don’t see—”
“Has it ever struck you that Mrs. Bertenshaw, the housekeeper who arrived so opportunely, shall we say, to release Branston—might just as easily have shot the bolt that held him prisoner? She was the only person that you can swear was in the house with Branston and the murdered girl.” He looked at Bannister anxiously—scanning the Inspector’s impassive face to see how this theory was being received.
“By Jove,” whispered Bannister—almost to himself. Then he shook his head in disagreement. “Where did she get the poison from, Godfrey—have you thought of that?”
Godfrey shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, I can’t answer that for the moment—but it might be answered in several ways.”
“Have you looked her up at all? I’m relying on you for spade work,” asked Bannister.
Godfrey was ready with his facts. “She’s a widow—lost her husband about nine years ago. She’s got one son—believed to be abroad—in India, I believe. She herself comes of a West Country family. Her maiden name was Warrimore.”
“Nothing against her, then?”
“Nothing.”
“How do you explain the stolen notes getting to Branston? You can’t get away from Morley’s story.”
“Suppose we go to see him, Inspector,” declared Godfrey.”
“I don’t think we can do better. We’ll go up by car at once. Get one sent up here, will you?”
As they rounded the corner to Coolwater Avenue half an hour later, Bannister touched the Sergeant on the arm.“Something I’ve had on the tip of my tongue to ask you all day, Godfrey. Finger-prints! What results are there? I hear the report’s through—I’m told it came through this morning.”
“Scarcely any help at all. The brass bolt on the door of the room where Branston was imprisoned, gave us Mrs. Bertenshaw and Branston himself. The glass gave us Branston and Miss Delaney. Nothing there, you see—that you wouldn’t naturally expect.” For the second time in a few days Bannister was admitted by Mrs. Bertenshaw and on this occasion he subjected her to a more careful scrutiny than on the occasion before. She piloted them into what was evidently Branston’s library. The Inspector seized the occasion to have a good look round. Like the other parts of the establishment that he had previously seen, it was handsomely furnished. Moreover, the books on the shelves displayed the discriminating taste of the cultured reader. A cough heralded Ronald Branston’s entry.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen—what can I do for you—or is there news of importance?” His dark, good-looking face broke into a slight smile.
Bannister suddenly found himself unable to believe that Mr. Branston had managed to steer entirely clear of the feminine society of Seabourne. That story was a strain upon ordinary belief. At the same time he came to the point of his visit. “There is news, Mr. Branston,” he said curtly, “you may as well know it at once—Miss Delaney was undoubtedly robbed as well as murdered.”
“Robbed?” echoed Branston. “Robbed of what?”
“Something like a hundred pounds in notes—the numbers of which notes are known.”
Godfrey could have sworn Branston whitened a trifle as he heard this piece of news.
“Not only are they known, Mr. Branston—but what is more important still, some of them have already been traced. And traced to you!” A
