The crimson circle
over and over mechanically until it had the appearance of a revolving
butter-churn. “When you came to Mr. Beardmore’s house you were wearing
pointed patent shoes.”
Marl frowned.
“Was I? I’ve forgotten.”
“Did you take any walk into the grounds, except the walk you had from
the railway station?”
“No.”
“You didn’t walk around the house to admire the--er--architecture?”
“No, I did not. I was only in the house a few minutes, and then I
drove away.”
Mr. Parr raised his eyes to the ceiling.
“Would it be asking you too much,” he demanded apologetically, “if I
requested you to show me the patent shoes you wore that day?”
“Certainly,” said Marl, rising with alacrity.
He was out of the room a few minutes, and came back with a pair of
long pointed patent boots.
The detective took them in his hand and looked earnestly at the sole.
“Yes,” he said. “Of course, these are not the boots you were wearing,
because----” he rubbed the soles gently with his hand, “there is dust
on them, and the ground has been wet for the last week.”
Marl’s heart nearly stopped beating.
“Those are the boots I wore,” he said defiantly. “What you call ‘dust’
is really dried mud.”
Parr looked at his dusty fingers and shook his head.
“I think there must be some mistake, Mr. Marl,” he said gently. “This
is chalk dust.” He put the boots down and rose. “However, it isn’t
very important,” he said. He stood so long, looking down at the
carpet, that Mr. Marl, in spite of his fear, became impatient.
“Is there anything more I can do for you, officer?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Parr. “I want you to give me the name and address of your
tailor. Perhaps you would write it down for me.”
“My tailor?” Mr. Marl glared at the visitor. “What the dickens do you
want of my tailor?” And then, with a laugh, “Well, you are a curious
man, inspector; but I’ll do it with pleasure.”
He went to his secretaire, pulled out a sheet of paper, wrote down a
name and address and, blotting it, handed it to the detective.
“Thank you, sir.”
Parr did not even look at the address, but put the paper into his
pocket.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but you will realise that everybody who was
present at the house within twenty-four hours of Mr. Beardmore’s death
must necessarily be interrogated. The Crimson Circle----”
“The Crimson Circle!” gasped Mr. Marl, and the detective looked at him
straightly.
“Didn’t you know that the Crimson Circle were responsible for this
murder?”
To do him justice, Mr. Felix Marl knew nothing of the kind. He had
seen a brief report that James Beardmore had been found shot but the
association of the murder with the Crimson Circle had not been
disclosed except by the _Monitor_, a newspaper which Mr. Marl never
read.
He dropped into a chair, quaking.
“The Crimson Circle,” he muttered. “Good God--I never thought----” he
checked himself.
“What didn’t you think?” asked Parr gently.
“The Crimson Circle,” murmured the big man again. “I thought it was
just a----” he did not complete his sentence.
For an hour after the detective’s departure Felix Marl sat huddled up
in his chair, his head in his hands.
The Crimson Circle!
It was the first time he had ever been brought into even the remotest
touch with that blackmailing organisation, and now its obtrusion upon
the order of his thoughts was so violent that it disturbed every
theory he had formed.
“I don’t like it,” he muttered as he got up painfully and turned on
the light in the darkened room. “I think this is where I get away.”
He spent the evening examining his bank-book, and the examination was
very comforting. He could squeeze out a little more, he thought, and
then----
Chapter XIII.
Mr. Marl Squeezes a Little More
Another agent of the Crimson Circle found her lines cast in pleasant
places. She had been accepted by Mr. Brabazon without question, and
evidently the man in the car possessed extraordinary influences.
What was even more extraordinary was that day followed day without a
word from her mysterious employer. She had expected that he would
almost immediately avail himself of her services, but she had been at
Brabazon’s (late Seller’s) Bank nearly a month before she received any
communication. It came one morning. She found the letter on her desk,
addressed in bold pen-print.
There was no sign of the Circle on the letter, which began without
preamble:
“_Make the acquaintance of Marl. Discover why he has a hold over
Brabazon. Send me the figures of his account and notify me immediately
his account is closed. Notify me also if Parr and Derrick Yale come to
the bank. Wire Johnson, 23, Mildred Street, City._”
She carried out her instructions faithfully, though it was not for a
few days that she had an opportunity of seeing Mr. Marl.
Only once did Derrick Yale come into the bank. She had seen him
before, when he was a guest of the Beardmores, and even if she had
not, she would have recognised him from the portrait of the famous
detective which had appeared in the newspapers.
What his business was she did not learn, but, looking out of the
corner of her eye from the little office she occupied alone, by virtue
of her position as Brabazon’s private secretary, she saw him talking
with one of the tellers at the counter, and duly notified the Crimson
Circle.
Inspector Parr, however, did not come, nor did she see Jack Beardmore.
She did not want to think too much of Jack. He was not a pleasant
subject.
* * * *
In moments of perturbation John Brabazon, the austere and stately
president of Seller’s Bank, had a characteristic little trick. His
white hands would stray to the hair, curly and thick at the back of
his head. One curl he would twist about his forefinger for a moment,
and then he would slowly bring the tips of his fingers across his bald
dome until they rested on his forehead. In such moments, with his head
bowed and his fingers resting on his brow, he had the appearance of
being engaged in prayer.
The gentleman who sat with him in his neat office had no
characteristics at all. He was a big man, who breathed noisily, and he
was puffy with lazy, indulgent living, but he did not fidget and his
hands were folded over his large waistcoat.
“My dear Marl,” the banker’s voice was soft and almost caressing, “you
try my patience at times. I will say nothing about the strain you put
upon my resources.”
The big man chuckled.
“I give you security, Brab--excellent security, old man. You can’t
deny that!”
Mr. Brabazon’s white fingers played a tune on the edge of his desk.
“You bring me impossible schemes, and hitherto I have been foolish
enough to finance them,” he said. “There must come an end to such
folly. You have no need for help. Your balance at this bank alone is
nearly a hundred thousand.”
Marl looked round at the door and bent forward.
“I’ll tell you a story,” he mumbled, “a story about a penniless young
clerk that married the widow of Seller, of Seller’s Bank. She was old
enough to be his mother, and died suddenly--in Switzerland. She fell
over a precipice. Don’t I know it? Wasn’t I takin’ photographs of the
bee-utiful mountain scenery? Did I ever show you the picture of that
accident, Brab? You are in it! Yes, you’re in it, though you told the
examining magistrate you were miles and miles away!”
Mr. Brabazon’s eyes were on the desk. Not a muscle of his face moved.
“Besides,” said Mr. Marl in a more normal tone, “you can afford it.
You’re making another matrimonial alliance--that’s the expression,
ain’t it?”
The banker raised his eyes and frowned at his visitor.
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
Mr. Marl was evidently amused. He slapped his knee and choked with
laughter.
“What about the person you met in Steyne Square the other night--the
one in the closed motor-car, eh? Don’t deny it! I saw you! A nice
little car, it was.”
Now, for the first time, Brabazon displayed signs of emotion. His face
was grey and drawn and his eyes seemed to have receded further into
their sockets.
“I will arrange your loan,” he said.
Mr. Marl’s expression of satisfaction was interrupted by a knock at
the door. At Brabazon’s “Come in,” the door opened to admit one whose
appearance put all other matters out of the visitor’s head.
The girl brought a paper which she placed before her
employer--evidently a pencilled telephone message.
“White--gold--red,” Mr. Marl’s senses registered the impression he
received. White, creamy white and delicate skin, red as poppies the
scarlet lips, yellow as ripe corn the hair. He saw her in profile, was
revolted a little at the firmness of her chin--Mr. Marl liked women
who were yielding and soft and malleable in his hands--but the beauty
of mouth and nose and brow--they made him blink.
He breathed a little more quickly, a little more loudly, and when she
had gone after a colloquy, in a low tone, he sighed.
“What a queen!” he said. “I’ve seen her somewhere before. What is her
name?”
“Drummond--Thalia Drummond,” said Mr. Brabazon, eyeing the gross man
coldly.
“Thalia Drummond!” repeated Felix slowly. “Isn’t she the girl who used
to be with Froyant? Bit sweet on her yourself, eh, Brabazon?”
The man at the writing-table looked at the other steadily.
“I do not make it a practice to be ‘sweet on’ my employees, Mr. Marl,”
he said. “Miss Drummond is a very efficient worker. That is all that I
require of my staff.”
Marl rose heavily, chuckling.
“I’ll see you to-morrow morning about that other business,” he said.
He laughed wheezily, but Mr. Brabazon did not smile.
“At half-past ten to-morrow,” he said, going to the door with the
visitor. “Or can you make it eleven?”
“Eleven,” agreed the man.
“Good morning,” said the banker, but did not offer his hand.
Hardly had the door closed on the visitor before Mr. Brabazon locked
it and returned to his desk. He took from his pocket-book a plain
white card, and dipping his pen in the red ink, drew a small circle.
Beneath he wrote the words:
“_Felix Marl saw our interview in Steyne Square. He lives at 79,
Marisburg Place._”
He put the card into an envelope and addressed it:
“_Mr. Johnson, 23, Mildred Street, City._”
Chapter XIV.
Thalia is Asked Out
Mr. Marl had to pass through the bank premises, and he glanced along
the two rows of desks without, however, catching a glimpse of the girl
whose face he sought. Near the end of the counter was a small
compartment, the occupant of which was shielded from observation by
opaque glass windows. The door was ajar, and he caught just a flash of
the figure and walked toward the door. A girl at a typewriter watched
him curiously.
Thalia Drummond looked up from her desk to see the big smiling face of
a man looking down at her.
“Busy, Miss Drummond?”
“Very,” she replied, but did not seem to resent his intrusion.
“Don’t get much fun here, do you?” he asked.
“Not a lot.” Her dark eyes were surveying him appraisingly.
“What about a bit of dinner one of these nights and a show to follow?”
he asked.
Her eyes took him in from his dyed hair to his painfully varnished
boots.
“You’re a wicked old man,” she said calmly, “but dinner is my
favourite meal.”
His grin broadened and the fires of conquest flickered in his faded
eyes.
“What about ‘The Moulin Gris’?” He suggested the restaurant, without
doubting her acceptance, but her lips curled scornfully.
“Why not at Hooligans Fish Parlour?” she asked. “No, it’s the
Ritz-Carlton or nothing for me.”
Mr. Marl was staggered, but pleased.
“You’re a princess,” he beamed, “and you shall have a royal feed! What
about to-night?”
She nodded.
“Meet me at my house in Marisburg Place, Bayswater Road. 7.30. You’ll
find my name on the door.”