Chapter V

John Martin’s Evidence

For a few moments the two men smoked in silence, grateful doubtless for the short respite. The silence was soon disturbed by the ringing of the front door bell. Godfrey rose with an alert expectancy that he took no trouble to conceal. Bannister carefully shook his left trouser in an attempt to stabilise an immaculate crease. Mrs. Bertenshaw’s steps were heard hurrying to the front door to admit the two people whose visit had been so recently heralded by the telephone. Godfrey went to the door of the room and called down the hall.

“Bring the two gentlemen in here, Mrs. Bertenshaw.”

It was easy to see that the Manager of the “Lauderdale Hotel” was the man who entered first. A short, broad-shouldered, florid-faced man, he wore his dress-suit with that air of aggressive opulence that can only be captured with complete success by hotel managers, Sheikhs of the Box-office, and the gentlemen who hold undisputed sway in those cinemas usually designated as “super”—whatever that may mean. The reception-clerk was tall and thin and to all appearances, worried by the singular turn that events had taken.

“Sergeant Godfrey?” questioned the first of the newcomers. Godfrey came forward to meet and to greet him.

“I’m your man—Mr. Maynard—isn’t it?”

“That’s right—and I’m pretty certain I’ve some news for you. Very likely the information you’re wanting. After your men had been round making those inquiries for you, I guessed it was something pretty serious that was engaging your attention. So I put a few feelers round my staff, off my own bat, so to speak and I reckon that Martin here has got something important to tell you. Of course, it may be a mare’s nest that I’m bringing you—but somehow I don’t think so.” He shifted his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other with an adroitness that could only have been cultivated by assiduous practice. “Now, Martin,” he ordered rather imperiously, “spill your bib-ful.”

Martin fidgeted uneasily on the chair that he had immediately sought upon his arrival and got even nearer to its edge. He twisted his shabby hat in his hands with a circular movement and seemed at a loss to begin. His eyes sought those of Maynard—then wandered away until they encountered those of Chief-Inspector Bannister. Bannister’s glance afforded little encouragement however, so they travelled on again, waveringly and uncertainly until they reached those of the Sergeant.

“Come,” said the last-named, “don’t waste any time—tell us what you know.”

Martin licked his lips, cleared his throat, gulped once or twice and commenced his story. “Well, sir,” he started, “it isn’t very much that I’ve got to tell you, but I’ve the glimmering of an idea that the young lady you’re inquiring about came into the ‘Lauderdale’ about half-past one this afternoon. You see it was like this. About ten-fifty on Wednesday evening a ’phone message came through booking a room for a Miss Daphne Carruthers who was arriving the next day. About the time that I’ve just mentioned—half-past one of an afternoon—things are pretty quiet as a rule. A car drew up outside the hotel and a young lady alighted and walked into the vestibule. She came straight up to me and said, ‘I want a room please, for a fortnight—I believe it was booked last night for me—by ’phone. I’ll leave my luggage here now, although I’ve an important call to make. You might send out for my case—it’s in my car. Put it up in my room, will you please? I shall be back in about an hour.’ ‘Certainly, miss,’ I answered, ‘your room number will be sixty-six.’ I sent the porter out for her suit-case and sent him up to the room with it, confirming the name from the labels on it. ‘Thank you,’ she replies, trips out of the hotel, jumps into her car and drives off.”

“In what direction?” snapped Bannister.

“Towards Froam, sir.”

“Go on.”

“Well—a lot of other people came in and some went away and the young lady that was to come back in the hour went clean out of my mind. When your man came round this evening making those inquiries it all came back to me. Gentlemen—that young lady has never come back. Her suit-case is in Room Sixty-six just where I told the porter to put it.” He stopped and wiped his lips with his handkerchief and the perspiration from his brow.

Bannister interposed again—authoritatively. “Would you be able to remember this young lady, if you saw her again?”

Martin answered the question very readily. “Why, yes, sir, I stood talking to her face to face for quite a matter of a minute or two. She was a real beauty, I can tell you, sir. I haven’t forgotten her and no mistake.”

Bannister motioned to Godfrey to lead the way upstairs. Then he turned to the clerk. “Come with us, then—and prepare yourself for a shock.”

Martin’s white face went whiter as they ascended the stairs, Bannister leading and the Hotel Manager, Maynard, bringing up the rear. The Inspector waited to close the door of the surgery behind them.

“Let him have a look at her, Godfrey,” he said, turning to the Sergeant.

Godfrey uncovered the face again for Martin to see. The latter gave a low gasp of horror. Then he uttered an exclamation. “I was right, sir! It’s her right enough—as I was afraid it was when I came along. That’s the identical young lady that came to the ‘Lauderdale’ about half-past one this afternoon that I’ve been telling you about. Just fancy—to think of her as she was then in the best of health, as you might say—and now——”

Bannister abruptly put a stoppage upon his sentimental reminiscences. “You’re certain—absolutely certain—of what you say?”

“Positive, sir—you don’t see two like her every day of the week.”

The Inspector turned to Sergeant Godfrey. “You hear what he says? We’ll get along up to the ‘Lauderdale’ at once. What name did she give, Martin?”

“I’ve copied the name from the reception-book just as I entered it when she arrived. I thought I’d better do that in case it should turn out as I feared.”

He fumbled in his breast pocket for a moment—produced a slip of paper which was far from being clean and handed it to Bannister. The latter read it aloud, “‘Miss Daphne Carruthers.’ This will save you a lot of trouble, Godfrey. Here’s your identification! No need now to broadcast the news or publish a photograph or anything—it’s a great help, this evidence of yours, Martin. It will save the police very valuable time at the most important stage of the case—the very beginning. Just where we looked uncommonly like losing it.”

Maynard was obviously pleased at the Inspector’s tribute to a member of his staff. “Are you coming to the ‘Lauderdale’ now?” he inquired.

“This very minute—lock the door, Godfrey, put the key in your pocket and station your two men outside.”

A matter of a few minutes saw the journey accomplished. “Show these gentlemen the entry you made in the admission register, Martin,” said Maynard with a show of authority. The reception clerk ran his finger along the particular line. The name was as he had given it. Bannister glanced over his shoulder—then turned away—seemingly satisfied. The next step was an inspection of Room Sixty-six. The suit-case that had figured in Martin’s story lay on the floor between the wardrobe and the dressing-table. Bannister lifted it on to the bed. It was of good quality although of common type. There were, in all probability, hundreds similar to it in various places in Seabourne, on that very night. Two labels of the “tie-on” variety were attached to the handle. The handwriting on each of them was the same—suggestive certainly of a girl’s hand—“Daphne Carruthers, 11, Lexham Gardens, Kensington.” He tried the catches.

“It’s locked. Where are your keys, Godfrey?” Godfrey produced several bunches of keys—unavailingly.

Then the manager came to the rescue. He slipped from the room quickly—to return almost immediately with a large key-ring bearing keys of all shapes and sizes. Bannister’s attempts to open the case were eventually successful. He gave a grunt of satisfaction. Its contents were almost entirely clothes and toilet requisites. Clothes that one would reasonably anticipate finding in the suit-case of a young lady upon holiday in the summer. There was no letter, no card—nothing more personal than hair-brushes and face powder. The Inspector tossed the stuff back into the case.

“Your job, Godfrey, will be to get into touch with the place from where this girl’s come. Send a ’phone message through to Kensington as soon as you can and use the Press for all your worth. Get the London papers humming to-morrow morning like flies. We shall soon get information about Daphne Carruthers, you mark my words, even if we can’t get it from the place where she lived.” He turned to Maynard. “I’ll take charge of this”—he patted the suit-case—“you Godfrey—get those strings to work at once. By the way, Martin—the motor-car that the young lady was driving—did you notice what it was?”

Martin scratched his chin—then shook his head. “I didn’t sir, and that’s a fact. I was too much taken up with the young lady herself.”

“H’m,” muttered Bannister, “that’s a pity—we must see what we can do in that direction to-morrow morning. That car must be traced, Godfrey. I expect we shall have a pretty ticklish day to-morrow—with one thing and another.”

In which opinion Chief-Inspector Bannister was entirely accurate, although the day was destined also to have its compensations for him. Not the least of these compensations was his introduction to a certain Mr. Anthony Lotherington Bathurst. Even though Seabourne is a hundred and nine miles from Tranfield, and a trifle more than that from Westhampton—two places in which Mr. Bathurst had fully expected to be!