Mr. Marl Goes Out
“So you’ve come, eh?” said Mr. Marl, rising to greet the girl. “My
word, but you look smart! And you look lovely, my dear, too!”
He took both her hands in his and led her into the little gold and
white drawing-room.
“Lovely!” he repeated in an almost hushed voice. “I can tell you I was
a little bit scared about taking you to the Ritz-Carlton. You don’t
mind my frankness, do you--have a cigarette?”
He fumbled in the tail-pocket of his dress coat, produced a large gold
case and opened it.
“You thought I’d turn up in one of Morne & Gillingsworth’s six guinea
models, eh?” she laughed as she lit the cigarette.
“Well, I did, my dear. I’ve had a lot of unhappy experiences,”
explained Marl as he seated himself heavily in an arm-chair. “I’ve had
’em turn up in queer clothes, I can tell you!”
“Do you make a practice of entertaining the young and the fair?”
Thalia had seated herself on the big padded fireguard and was looking
down at him under her half-closed lids.
“Well,” said Mr. Marl complacently, rubbing his hands. “I’m not so old
that I don’t get some pleasure out of ladies’ society. But you’re
stunning!”
He was a blonde, red-faced man with suspiciously brown hair,
suspiciously even teeth, and for this evening he had acquired a waist
which seemed wholly unreal.
“We’re going to dinner and then we’ll go on and see ‘The Boys and the
Girls’ at the Winter Palace,” he said, “and then,” he hesitated, “what
do you say to a little supper?” he asked.
“A little supper? I don’t take supper,” said the girl.
“Well, you can peck a bit of fruit, I suppose?” suggested Mr. Marl.
“Where?” asked the girl steadily. “Most of the restaurants are closed
before the theatres are out, aren’t they?”
“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t come back here? You’re not a
prude, my dear, are you?”
“Not much,” she confessed.
“I can see you home in my car,” he said.
“I’ve got my own car, thank you,” said the girl, and Mr. Marl’s eyes
opened. Then he began to laugh steadily at first, and his laughter
ended in an asthmatical paroxysm. Presently he gasped: “Oh, you wicked
little devil!”
The evening was an interesting one for Thalia, more interesting by
reason of the fact that she caught a glimpse of Mr. “Flush” Barnet in
the hall of the hotel as she passed through.
It was after the theatre was over and they were standing in the
vestibule, waiting for the lift-man to call their car, that Thalia
showed some symptom of hesitation, but the eloquent Mr. Felix Marl
overcame whatever reluctance she felt, and as the clock was striking
the half hour after eleven she passed into the hall, not failing to
notice that Mr. Marl did not ring for his servants, but let himself in
with his own latchkey.
The supper was laid in a rose-panelled dining-room.
“I will help you, my dear,” said Mr. Marl. “We won’t bother about the
servants.” But she shook her head.
“I can eat nothing, and I think I’ll go home now,” she said.
“Wait, wait,” he begged. “I want to have a little talk with you about
your boss. I can do you a lot of good in that firm--at the bank,
Thalia. Who called you Thalia?”
“My godfathers and godmothers, M. or N.” said Thalia solemnly, and Mr.
Marl squeaked his delight at her humour.
He was passing behind her, ostensibly to reach one of the dishes which
were set on the table, when he stooped and, had she not slipped from
his grasp, would have kissed her.
“I think I’ll go home,” said Thalia.
“Rubbish!” Mr. Marl was annoyed, and when Mr. Marl was annoyed he
forgot that he made any pretensions to gentle birth. “Come and sit
down.”
She looked at him long and thoughtfully, and then, turning suddenly,
went to the door, and turned the handle. It was locked.
“I think you had better open this door, Mr. Marl,” she said quietly.
“I think not,” chuckled Mr. Marl. “Now, Thalia, be the dear, good
little girl I thought you were.”
“I should hate to dissipate any illusions you may have about my
character,” said Thalia coolly. “You’ll open that door, please.”
“Certainly.”
He ambled toward the door, feeling in his pocket, then before she
could realise his intention he had seized her in his arms. He was a
powerful man, a head taller than she, and his big hands gripped her
arms like steel clamps.
“Let me go,” said Thalia steadily. She did not lose her nerve nor show
the least sign of fear.
Suddenly he felt her tense muscles relax. He had conquered.
With a quick intake of breath he released his hold of the sullen girl.
“Let me have some supper,” she said, and he beamed.
“Now, my dear, you are being the little girl I--what’s that?”
The last was a squeak of terror.
She had strolled slowly to the table and had taken up the brocade bag.
He had watched her and thought she was seeking a handkerchief. Instead
she had produced a small, black, egg-shaped thing, and with a flick of
her left hand had pulled out a small pin and dropped the pin on to the
table. He knew what it was--he had dabbled in army supplies and had
seen many Mills bombs.
“Put it down--no, no, put the pin in, you young fool!” he whimpered.
“Don’t worry,” she said coolly. “I have a spare pin in my bag--open
that door!”
His hand shook like a man with palsy as he fumbled at the keyhole.
Then he turned and blinked at her.
“A Mills bomb!” he mumbled, and fell back an obese mass of quivering
flesh against the delicate panelling.
Slowly she nodded.
“A Mills bomb,” she said softly, and went out, still gripping the
lever of the deadly egg-like thing. He followed her to the door and
slammed it after her, then went shakily up the stairs to his bedroom.
“Flush” Barnet, standing in the shadow of a clothes-press, heard the
click of locks and the snap of a bolt as Mr. Marl entered his room.
The house was still. Through the thick door of Mr. Marl’s bedroom no
sound came. There was no transom to the door, and the only evidence
that there was somebody in his room was afforded by a fret of light in
the ceiling of the passage, which came through a ventilator in the
wall of the bedroom.
During the war this house had been used as an officers’ convalescent
home, and certain hygienic arrangements had been introduced, which
were more useful than beautiful.
“Flush” crept softly in his stockinged feet to the door and listened.
He thought he heard the man talking to himself and looked around for
some means by which he could obtain a view of the room. There was a
small oaken table in the corridor and he placed this against the wall
and mounted. His eyes came to the level of the ventilator and he
looked down upon Mr. Marl pacing the room in his shirt-sleeves,
obviously disturbed. Then “Flush” Barnet heard a sound. Just a faint
“hush-hush” of feet on a carpet, and he slipped down, walked quickly
along the corridor, passing the head of the stairs.
The hall below was in darkness, but he felt rather than saw a figure
on the stairway. Whether it was man or woman he could not say, and did
not stop to discover. It might be one of the servants returning
furtively--servants did not always stay away when they were bidden.
“Flush” passed to the farther end of the corridor and from an angle in
the wall watched. He saw nobody pass the head of the stairs, but there
was no background. After a while he crept back again. There was
nothing to be gained by forcing the door of Marl’s bedroom, even if it
were possible. He had had time to inspect the house at his leisure,
and he had already decided upon investigating the little safe in the
library, for Mr. Marl’s own room had drawn blank.
The “investigation,” which took two hours and the employment of one of
the best sets of tools in the profession, was not unprofitable. But it
did not reveal the huge sum of money which he anticipated. He
hesitated. The night was too far through to make an attempt on the
bedroom, even if he had not already searched it from wall to wall. He
folded his kit and slipped it into one pocket, his loot into another,
and went upstairs again. There was no sound from Marl’s room, but the
light was still on. He tried to look through the keyhole, but the key
was still there. The only inducement there was for him to enter the
room was the possibility that the money was in the man’s clothes. This
likelihood was remote, he thought. Possibly Marl had taken it to some
safe deposit--a contingency which Barnet had foreseen.
He went slowly down the stairs, through the hall and the butler’s
pantry to the side door, where he had left his boots, his overcoat and
his shiny silk hat, for he was in evening dress. Then he stole softly
forth along the covered passage-way running by the side of the house.
Here a door opened into the little forecourt of Marl’s house. He
reached the garden and his hand was on the gate when somebody touched
him and he spun round.
“I want you ‘Flush,’” said a well-remembered voice. “Inspector Parr.
You may remember me?”
“Parr!” gasped the bewildered Barnet, and with an oath wrenched
himself free and leapt through the gate, but the three policemen who
were waiting for him were not so easy to dispose of, and they marched
“Flush” Barnet to the nearest police station, a worried man.
In the meantime Parr conducted a search of his own. Accompanied by a
detective he made his way to the hall of the house and up the stairs.
“This is the only room occupied apparently,” he said, and knocked at
the door.
There was no reply.
“Go along and see if you can rouse any of the servants,” said Parr.
The man came back with the startling information that there were no
servants in the house.
“There’s somebody here,” said the old inspector, and flashing his lamp
along the corridor he saw the table, and with an agility remarkable in
one of his age, he leapt up and peered through the ventilator.
“I can just see somebody asleep,” he said. “Hi! Wake up!” he called,
but there was no reply.
Hammering on the door did not produce any response.
“Go down and see if you can find a hatchet, we’ll break open the
door,” said Parr. “I don’t like this.”
Hatchet there was none, but they found a hammer.
“Can you show a light, Mr. Parr?” asked the man, and the inspector
flashed his lamp on the door. It was a white door--white except for
the Crimson Circle affixed to a panel as by a rubber stamp.
“Break in the door,” said Parr, breathing heavily.
For five minutes they smashed at a panel before they finally hammered
it through, and the sleeper within gave no sign of consciousness.
Parr reached his hand through the door, turned the key and, by dint of
stretching, found the bolt at the top. He slipped into the room. The
light was still burning and its rays fell across the man on the bed,
who lay upon his back, a twisted smile on his face, most obviously
dead.