“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.”