The Pointed Boots
Mr. Felix Marl sat behind the locked door of his bedroom, and he was
engaged in a task which had the elements of unpleasant familiarity.
Twenty-five years before, when he was an inmate of the big French
prison at Toulouse, he had worked in a bootmaker’s shop, and the
handling of boots was an everyday experience. It is true his business
had been to repair, and not to destroy. To-day, with a razor-sharp
knife, he was cutting to shreds a pair of pointed patent leather shoes
which he had only worn three times. Strip by strip he cut the leather,
which he then placed on the fire.
Some men live intensely and suffer intensely. Mr. Felix Marl was one
of those who could crowd into a day the terrors of an æon. In some
manner a newspaper had got hold of the story of the footprint in
Beardmore’s ground, and a new fear had been added to the many which
confused and paralysed this big man. He was sitting in his shirt
sleeves, the perspiration rolling down his face, for the fire was a
big one and the room was super-heated.
Presently the last shred was thrown into the fire and he sat watching
it grill and flame before he put away the knife, washed his hands and
opened the windows to let out the acrid odour of burning leather.
It would have been better, he thought, if he had carried out his first
resolution, and he cursed himself for the cowardice which had induced
him to substitute his revolver for a fountain pen. But he was safe.
Nobody had seen him leave the grounds.
With such men as he, blind panic and unreasoning confidence succeed
one another, almost as a natural reaction. By the time he had
descended his stairs to his little library he had almost forgotten
that he was in any danger.
In the fading light of day he had written a conciliatory, even a
grovelling letter, and had, as he believed, delivered it safely. Would
it be found? He had another moment of panic.
“Pshaw!” said Mr. Marl, and dismissed that dangerous possibility.
His servant brought him a tea-tray and arranged it on a small table by
the side of his desk, where the big man sat.
“Will you see that gentleman now, sir?”
“Eh?” said Mr. Marl, turning round. “Which gentleman?”
“I told you there was a man who wanted to see you.”
Marl remembered that his boot-destroying operation had been
interrupted by a knock.
“Who is he?” he asked.
“I put his card on the table, sir.”
“Didn’t you tell him that I was engaged?”
“Yes, but he said he’d wait until you came down.”
The man handed him the card, and Mr. Marl reading it, jumped and
turned a sickly yellow.
“Inspector Parr,” he said unsteadily. “What does he want with me?”
His shaking hand fingered his mouth.
“Show him in,” he said with an effort.
He had not met Inspector Parr either professionally or socially, and
his first glance at the little man reassured him. There was nothing
particularly menacing in the appearance of the red-faced detective.
“Sit down, inspector. I’m sorry I was busy when you came,” said Mr.
Marl. When he was agitated his voice was almost bird-like in its
thinness.
Parr sat down on the edge of the nearest chair, balancing his Derby
hat on his knee.
“I thought I’d wait until you came down, Mr. Marl. I wanted to see you
about this Beardmore murder.”
Mr. Marl said nothing. With an effort he kept his trembling lips from
quivering, and assumed, as he believed, an air of polite interest.
“You knew Mr. Beardmore very well?”
“Not very well,” said Marl. “I certainly have had business dealings
with him.”
“Have you met him before?”
Marl hesitated. He was the kind of man to whom a lie came most
readily, and his natural habit of mind was to state the exact opposite
of the truth.
“No,” he admitted. “I had seen him years ago, but that was before he
had grown a beard.”
“Where was Mr. Beardmore when you were coming into the house?” asked
Parr.
“He was standing on the terrace,” replied Marl with unnecessary
loudness.
“And you saw him?”
Marl nodded.
“They tell me, Mr. Marl,” Parr went on, looking down at his hat, “that
for some reason or other you were startled--Mr. Jack Beardmore says
that he thought you were momentarily terrified. What was the cause of
that?”
Mr. Marl shrugged his shoulders and forced a smile.
“I think I explained it was a little heart attack. I am subject to
them,” he said.
Parr had turned his hat so that he was looking into the interior, and
he did not raise his eyes when he asked:
“It was not the sight of Mr. Beardmore?”
“Of course not,” said the other vigorously. “Why should I be scared of
Mr. Beardmore? I’ve had a lot of correspondence with him, and know him
almost as well----”
“But you hadn’t met him for years?”
“I hadn’t seen him for years,” corrected Marl irritably.
“And the cause of your agitation was just a heart attack, Mr. Marl?”
asked the inspector.
For the first time his eyes rose and fixed themselves upon the
other’s.
“Absolutely.” Marl’s voice did not lack heartiness. “I had forgotten
all about my little seizure until you reminded me.”
“There is another point I wanted cleared up,” said the detective. His
attention had gone back to his fascinating hat, which he was turning
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----