The Blower of Bubbles
It was long after midnight and Derrick Yale was sitting in his
pretty little study--he lived in a flat overlooking the park--when the
knock came to the door and he rose to admit Inspector Parr.
Parr related the incident of the evening.
“But why didn’t you tell me?” asked Derrick a little reproachfully,
and then laughed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I always seem to be butting
in on your affairs. But how came the murderer to escape? You say you
had had the house surrounded for two hours. Did the girl come out?”
“Undoubtedly; she came out and drove home.”
“And nobody else went in?”
“I wouldn’t like to swear that,” said Parr. “Whoever was in the house
had probably arrived long before Marl returned from the theatre. I
have since discovered that there was a way out through the garage at
the back of the house. When I said the house was surrounded that was
an exaggeration. There was a way through the back garden which I did
not know. I didn’t even suspect there were gardens there. Undoubtedly
he went through the garage door.”
“Do you suspect the girl at all?”
Parr shook his head.
“But why were you surrounding Marl’s house at all?” asked Derrick Yale
seriously.
The answer was as unexpected as it was sensational.
“Because Marl has been under police observation ever since he came
back to London,” said Parr. “In fact, ever since I discovered that he
was the man who wrote the letter, the scrap of which I found and which
I compared last week with his writing--I asked him for the address of
his tailor.”
“Marl?” said the other incredulously.
Inspector Parr nodded.
“I don’t know what there was between old man Beardmore and Marl, or
what brought him to the house. I’ve been trying to reconstruct the
scene. You may remember that when Marl came to the house on a visit he
was suddenly seized with a panic.”
“I remember,” nodded Yale. “Jack Beardmore told me about it. Well?”
“He refused to stay at the house, said he was going back to London,”
said Parr. “As a matter of fact, he went no farther than Kingside,
which is a station some eight or nine miles away. He sent his bag on
to London and came back by road. He was probably the person whom the
murderer saw in the wood that night. Now why had he come back if he
was so scared that he ran away in the first place? And why did he
write that letter for delivery in the night when he had every
opportunity to tell James Beardmore by day, when he was with him?”
There was a long silence.
“How was Marl killed?” asked Yale.
The other shook his head.
“That is a mystery to me. The murderer could not possibly have entered
the room. I had an interview with ‘Flush’ Barnet--as yet he knows
nothing about the murder--and he admits he broke in for the purpose of
burglary. He says he heard the sound of somebody moving about the
house, and very naturally hid himself. He also says he heard a strange
hissing sound, like air escaping from a pipe. Another remarkable clue
was a round wet patch on the pillow, within a few inches of the dead
man’s hand. It was exactly circular. At first I thought it was a
symbol of the Crimson Circle, until I discovered another patch on the
counterpane. The doctor has not been able to diagnose the cause of
death, but the motive is clear. According to his banker--I’ve just
been talking to Brabazon on the telephone--he drew a large sum of
money from the bank yesterday. In fact, Brabazon closed his account.
They had a quarrel over something or other. The safe was of course
opened by ‘Flush’ Barnet, but there was no money found on him when he
was searched at the police station. Curiously enough, we did discover
several little oddments that ‘Flush’ had picked up--now, who took the
money?”
Derrick Yale paced the floor, his hands behind him, his chin on his
breast.
“Do you know anything of Brabazon?” he asked.
The other did not reply immediately.
“Only that he is a banker and does a lot of foreign work.”
“Is he solvent?” asked Derrick Yale bluntly, and the inspector raised
his dull eyes slowly until they were on a level with the other’s.
“No,” he said, “and I don’t mind telling you that we’ve had one or two
complaints about his methods.”
“Were they good friends--Marl and Brabazon?”
“Fairly good,” was the hesitating reply. “The impression I have from
reports is that Marl had some hold over Brabazon.”
“And Brabazon was insolvent,” mused Derrick Yale. “And this afternoon
Marl closes his account. In what circumstances? Did he come to the
bank?”
Briefly the detective explained what had happened. It seemed that
there was precious little that did happen at Brabazon’s bank that he
did not know.
Derrick Yale was beginning to respect this man, whom at first he had
regarded, with a good-natured scorn, as a little stupid.
“I wonder if it would be possible for me to go to Marl’s house
to-night?”
“I came to suggest that,” said the other. “In fact, I kept a cab
waiting at the door with that idea.”
Derrick Yale did not speak during the journey to Bayswater, and it was
not until he stood in the hall of the house in Marisburg Place that he
broke the silence.
“We ought to find a small steel cylinder somewhere,” he said slowly.
The policeman standing on duty in the hall came forward and saluted
the inspector.
“We found an iron bottle in the garage, sir?” he said.
“Ah!” cried Derrick Yale triumphantly. “I thought so!”
He almost ran up the stairs ahead of the detective and paused in the
passage, which was now lighted. The little oak table stood against the
ventilator and toward that he moved. Then he went down on his hands
and knees and sniffed the carpet. Presently he choked and coughed and
got up, red in the face.
“Let me see that cylinder,” he said.
They brought it to him. The policeman’s description of it as a bottle
was nearer the truth. It was an iron bottle, at the end of which was
a small pipe to which was attached a tiny turn-key.
“And now there ought to be a cup somewhere,” he said, looking round,
“unless he brought it in a bottle.”
“There was a small glass bottle in the garage near this, sir,” said
the policeman who had found it, “it is broken, though.”
“Bring it to me quickly,” said Yale. “And I can only hope that it
isn’t so completely smashed that none of its contents are left.”
The stout Mr. Parr was regarding him sombrely.
“What is all this about?” he asked, and Derrick Yale chuckled.
“A new way of committing a murder, my dear Mr. Parr,” he said airily,
“now let us go into the room.”
The body of Marl lay on the bed covered by a sheet and the circular
patch of wet on the pillow had not dried. The windows were open and a
fitful wind kept the curtains fluttering.
“Of course you can’t smell it here,” said Yale speaking to himself,
and again went on his knees and nosed the carpet. And again he coughed
and rose hurriedly.
By this time they had returned with the lower half of a glass bottle.
It contained a few drops of liquid, and this Yale poured into his
hand.
“Soap and water,” he said; “I thought it would be. And now I’ll
explain how Marl was killed. Your thief, ‘Flush’ Barnet, heard a
hissing sound. It was the sound of a heavy gas escaping from this
cylinder. I may be wrong, but I should imagine there is enough poison
gas in that little iron bottle to settle your account and mine. It is
still lying on the floor, by the way. It is one of those heavy gases
which descend.”
“But how did it kill Marl? Did they pump it through the grating on to
his head?”
Derrick Yale shook his head.
“It is a much simpler and a much more deadly method which the Crimson
Circle employed,” he said quietly. “They blew bubbles.”
“Bubbles!”
Derrick Yale nodded.
“The end of this cylinder--you can still feel the slime of the soap
upon it--was first dipped into the soap solution, then thrust through
the grating. The tap was turned down and a bubble formed, which was
shaken off. From the ventilator,” he ran outside and jumped on to the
table, “yes, I thought so,” he said, “he could see Marl’s head. Two or
three of the bubbles must have been failures. One struck the pillow,
but I should imagine that that was blown after his death; one struck
the wall, you will find the wet patch, but one, and probably more,
burst on his face. He must have been killed almost instantaneously.”
Parr could only gape.
“I thought it all out on the way here. The circular patch on the
pillow reminded me of my own boyish exploits and their disastrous
effect when I started blowing bubbles in the bedroom. And then when
you mentioned the ventilator and the hissing noise, I was perfectly
certain that my theory was right.”
“But we smelt no gas when we came into the room,” said Parr.
“The wind may have blown away the fumes,” said Derrick Yale. “But
apart from that, the weight of the gas would send it to the floor, and
by its own density it would spread evenly--look!” He struck a match,
shielded it for a moment until it caught light, and then slowly
brought it down to the floor level. An inch from the carpet the match
was suddenly extinguished.
“I see,” said Inspector Parr.
“Now what about searching the place? Perhaps I can be of use,”
suggested Yale, but his offer of help did not meet with any very
gracious response.
A small police audience, which had listened awe-stricken whilst Yale
had developed his theory, could understand the inspector’s feelings.
Apparently Yale did, too, for with a good-humoured laugh he made his
excuses and went home. There are moments when the head-quarters police
should be left alone with their own emotions. Nobody realised this
more than Derrick Yale.