“Thalia Drummond is a Crook”
The Commissioner looked down at the newspaper cutting before him and
tugged at his grey moustache. Inspector Parr, who knew the signs,
watched with an apparently detached interest.
He was a short, thick-set man, so lacking in inches that it was
remarkable that he had ever satisfied the stringent requirements of
the police authorities. His age was something below fifty, but his big
red face was unlined. It was a face from whence every indication of
intelligence and refinement was absent. The round, staring eyes were
bovine in their lack of expression, the big fleshy nose, the heavy
cheeks, pouched beneath the jaws, and the half-bald head, were units
of his unimpressiveness.
The Commissioner picked up the cutting.
“Listen to this,” he said curtly, and read. It was the editorial of
the _Morning Monitor_ and it was direct to a point of offensiveness.
“‘For the second time during the past year the country has been
shocked and outraged by the assassination of a prominent man. It is
not necessary to give here the details of this Crimson Circle crime,
particulars of which appear on another page. But it is very necessary
that we should state in emphatic and unmistakable terms that we view
with consternation the seeming helplessness of police head-quarters to
deal with this criminal gang. Inspector Parr, who has devoted himself
for the past year to tracking the murdering blackmailers, can offer us
nothing more than vague promises of revelations which never
materialise. It is obvious that police head-quarters needs a thorough
overhauling, and the introduction of new blood, and we trust that
those responsible for the government of the country, will not hesitate
to make the drastic changes which are necessary.’”
“Well,” growled Colonel Morton, “what do you think of that, Parr?”
Mr. Parr rubbed his big chin and said nothing.
“James Beardmore was murdered after due warning had been given to the
police,” said the Commissioner deliberately. “He was shot within sight
of his house, and the murderer is at large. This is the second bad
case, Parr, and I’ll tell you candidly that it is my intention to act
on the advice which this newspaper gives.”
He tapped the cutting suggestively.
“On the previous occasion you allowed Mr. Yale to get away with all
the kudos for the capture of the murderer. You have seen Mr. Yale, I
presume?”
The detective nodded.
“And what does he say?”
Mr. Parr shifted uneasily on his feet.
“He told me a lot of nonsense about a dark man with toothache.”
“How did he get that?” asked the Commissioner quickly.
“From the shell of the cartridge he found on the ground,” said the
detective. “I don’t take any notice of this psychometrical stuff----”
The Commissioner leant back in his chair and sighed.
“I don’t think you take notice of any stuff that is serviceable,
Parr,” he said, “and don’t sneer at Yale. That man has unusual and
peculiar gifts. The fact that you don’t understand them, does not make
them any less peculiar.”
“Do you mean to say, sir,” said Parr, stirred into protest, “that a
man can take a cartridge in his hand and tell you from that the
appearance of the person who last handled it and what he was thinking
about? Why, it is absurd!”
“Nothing is absurd,” said the Commissioner quietly. “The science of
psychometry has been practised for years. Some people, unusually
sensitive to impression, are able to tell the most remarkable things,
and Yale is one of these.”
“He was there when the murder was committed,” replied Parr. “He was
with Mr. Beardmore’s son, not a hundred yards away, and yet he did not
catch the murderer.”
The Commissioner nodded.
“Neither have you,” he said. “Twelve months ago you told me of your
scheme for trapping the Crimson Circle, and I agreed. We’ve both
expected a little too much for your plan, I think. You must try
something else. I hate to say it, but there it is.”
Parr did not answer for a time, and then to the Commissioner’s
surprise, he pulled up a chair to the desk and sat down uninvited.
“Colonel,” he said, “I’m going to tell you something,” and he was so
earnest, so unlike his usual self, that the Commissioner could only
look at him in amazement.
“The Crimson Circle gang is easy to get. I can find every one of them,
and will find them if you will give me time. But it is the hub of the
wheel that I’m after. If I can get the hub the spokes don’t count. But
you’ve got to give me a little more authority than I have at present.”
“A little more authority?” said the dumbfounded Commissioner. “What
the devil do you mean?”
“I’ll explain,” said the bovine Mr. Parr, and he explained to such
purpose that he left the Commissioner a very silent and a very
thoughtful man.
After he left head-quarters, Mr. Parr’s first call was at an office in
the centre of the city.
On the third floor, in a tiny suite, which was distinguished only by
the name of the occupant, Mr. Derrick Yale was waiting for him, and a
greater contrast between the two men could not be imagined.
Yale, the overstrung, nervous, and sensitive dreamer; Parr, solid and
beefy, seemingly incapable of an independent thought.
“How did your interview go on, Parr?”
“Not very well,” said Parr, ruefully. “I think the Commissioner’s got
one against me. Have you discovered anything?”
“I’ve discovered your man with the toothache,” was the astonishing
reply. “His name is Sibly; he is a seafaring man, and was seen in the
vicinity of the house the following day. Yesterday,” he picked up a
telegram, “he was arrested for drunken and disorderly conduct, and in
his possession was found an automatic pistol, which I should imagine
was the weapon with which the crime was committed. You remember that
the bullet which was extracted from poor Beardmore, was obviously
fired from an automatic.”
Parr gaped at him in amazement.
“How did you find this out?”
And Derrick Yale laughed softly.
“You haven’t a great deal of faith in my deductions,” he said with a
glint of humour in his eyes. “But when I felt that cartridge I was as
certain that I could see the man as I am certain I can see you. I sent
one of my own staff down to make enquiries, with this result.” He
picked up the telegram.
Mr. Parr stood, a heavy frown disfiguring what little claim to beauty
he might have.
“So they’ve caught him,” he said softly. “Now I wonder if he wrote
this?”
He took out a pocket-book, and Derrick Yale saw him extract a scrap of
paper which had evidently been burnt, for the edges were black.
Yale took the scrap from his hand.
“Where did you find this?” he asked.
“I raked it out of the ashpan at Beardmore’s place yesterday,” he
said.
The writing was in a large scrawling hand, and the scrap ran:
_You alone_
_me alone_
_Block B_
_Graft_
“‘Me alone… you alone,’” read Yale. “‘Block B… Graft’?”
He shook his head.
“It is Greek to me.”
He balanced the letter upon the palm of his hand and shook his head.
“I can’t even feel an impression,” he said. “Fire destroys the aura.”
Parr carefully put away the scrap into his case and replaced it in his
pocket.
“There is another thing I’d like to tell you,” he said. “Somebody was
in the wood who wore pointed shoes and smoked cigars. I found the
cigar ashes in a little hollow, and his footprint was on the
flower-beds.”
“Near the house?” asked Derrick Yale, startled.
The solid man nodded.
“My own theory is,” he went on, “that somebody wanted to warn
Beardmore, wrote this letter and brought it to the house after dark.
It must have been received by the old man, because he burnt it. I
found the ashes in the place where the servants dump their cinders.”
There was a gentle tap at the door.
“Jack Beardmore,” said Yale under his breath.
Jack Beardmore showed signs of the distressing period through which he
had passed. He nodded to Parr and came toward Yale with outstretched
hand.
“No news, I suppose?” he asked, and turning to the other: “You were at
the house yesterday, Mr. Parr. Did you find anything?”
“Nothing worth speaking about,” said Parr.
“I’ve just been to see Froyant, he is in town,” said Jack. “It wasn’t
a very successful visit, for he is in a pitiable state of nerves.”
He did not explain that the unsatisfactory part of his call was that
he had not seen Thalia Drummond, and only one of the men guessed the
reason of his disappointment.
Derrick Yale told him of the arrest which had been made.
“I don’t want you to build any hopes on this,” he said, “even if he is
the man who fired the shot, he is certain to be no more than the
agent. We shall probably hear the same story as we heard before, that
he was in low water and that the chief of the Crimson Circle induced
him to commit the act. We are as far from the real solution as ever we
have been.”
They strolled out of the office together, into the clean autumn
sunlight.
Jack, who had an engagement with a lawyer who was settling his
father’s estate, accompanied the two men, who were on their way to
catch a train for the town where the suspected murderer was detained.
They were passing through one of the busiest streets when Jack uttered
an exclamation. On the opposite side of the road was a big
pawnbroker’s, and a girl was coming from the side entrance devoted to
the service of those who needed temporary loans.
“Well, I’m blessed!” It was Parr’s unemotional voice. “I haven’t seen
her for two years.”
Jack turned on him open-eyed.
“Haven’t seen her for two years,” he said slowly. “Are you referring
to that lady?”
Parr nodded.
“I’m referring to Thalia Drummond,” he said calmly, “who is a crook
and a companion of crooks!”