“Flush” Barnet’s Story
Inspector Parr, after a further search, proceeded to the nearest
police station to interview Mr. “Flush” Barnet.
“Flush,” a depressed and weary man, had no illuminating information to
give.
The proceeds of his robbery lay upon the station-sergeant’s table, a
miscellaneous collection of rings and watches, a perfectly valueless
bank-book--valueless to “Flush,” at any rate--and a silver flask. But
the most surprising circumstance was that in “Flush” Barnet’s pocket
were two brand new bank-notes for a hundred pounds, which he insisted
stoutly were his own property.
Now burglars, and particularly the type of burglar that “Flush” Barnet
was, are notoriously improvident people. They do not work whilst they
have money, and with two hundred pounds in his possession, it is
certain that “Flush” Barnet would not have attempted to break into
Marisburg Place.
“They’re my own, I tell you, Mr. Parr,” he protested, “would I tell
you a lie?”
“Of course you would,” said Inspector Parr without heat. “If they are
your own, where did you get them?”
“They were given to me by a friend.”
“Why did you light a fire in the library?” asked Parr unexpectedly,
and “Flush” Barnet started.
“Because I was cold,” he said after a pause.
“H’m,” said Inspector Parr, and then as though speaking his thoughts
aloud, “he has two hundred of his own, he breaks into a house, he
burgles a safe and lights a fire. Now, why did he light the fire? Why
did he light the fire? To burn something he’d found in the safe!”
“Flush” Barnet listened without offering any comment, but he was
visibly distressed.
“Therefore,” said Parr, “you were paid to break into Marl’s house and
you got two hundred for pinching something from his safe and burning
it. Am I right?”
“If I died this moment----” began “Flush” Barnet.
“You’d go to hell,” said the inspector dispassionately, “where all
liars go. Who is your pal, Barnet? You’d better tell me, because I’m
in two minds whether I shall charge you with the murder----”
“Murder!” almost screamed “Flush” Barnet, as he sprang to his feet.
“What do you mean? I haven’t committed a murder!”
“Marl’s dead, that’s all; found dead in his bed.”
He left the prisoner in a state of mental prostration, and when he
returned in the early hours of the morning to renew his inquisition,
“Flush” Barnet told him all.
“I don’t know anything about Crimson Circles, Mr. Parr,” he said, “but
this is the truth.”
He added a pious wish that Providence would deal hardly with him if he
departed from veracity.
“I’m keeping company with a young lady at Brabazon’s bank. One night
when she was working late, I was waiting for her when a gentleman came
out of the side entrance of the bank and called me. I was surprised to
hear him mention my name, and I nearly dropped dead when I saw his
face.”
“It was Mr. Brabazon?” suggested Parr.
“That’s right, sir. He asked me into his private office. I thought
he’d got something against Milly.”
“Go on,” said Parr, when the man paused.
“Well, I’ve got to save myself, haven’t I? And I suppose I’d better
speak the whole truth. He told me that Marl was blackmailing him, and
that Marl had some letters of his which he kept in his private safe,
and offered me a thousand if I’d get them. That’s the truth. And then
he gave me an idea that Marl kept a lot of money in the house. He
didn’t exactly say so, but that is what he hinted. He knew I’d been
inside for burglary, he’d made inquiries about me, and said that I was
the right kind of man. Well, sir, I went round and took a squint at
the place, and it seemed to me that it was a bit difficult. There were
always men servants in the house, except when Mr. Marl was
entertaining ladies to supper,” he grinned. “I’d have given up the
job, only there’s a young lady in the office that Marl was sweet on.”
“Thalia Drummond?” suggested Parr.
“That’s right, sir,” nodded “Flush.” “It was what you might call an
act of Providence, him being sweet on her, and when I found that he’d
invited her to dinner, I thought that was a good opportunity to get
in. It seemed money for nothing when I found out that he’d drawn his
bank balance. I opened the safe--that was easy--and I found the
envelope, but it had no papers, only a photograph of a man and a woman
on a rock. I think it was a photograph of some place abroad, for there
were lots of mountains in the background, and he seemed to be pushing
her over and she was holding on to a bit of tree. Maybe it was one of
those cinema pictures. Anyway, I burnt it.”
“I see,” said Inspector Parr. “And that is all?”
“That’s all, sir. I never found any money.”
At seven o’clock, with a warrant in his pocket, and accompanied by two
detectives, Inspector Parr made a call at the block of flats where
Brabazon had his residence.
A servant in night attire opened the door to them and indicated the
banker’s room. The door was locked, but Parr kicked it open without
ceremony. The room, however, was empty. An open window and a fire
escape suggested the method by which the eminent banker had made his
get-away, and the fact that the bed had not been slept in and that
there was no sign of disorder in the room, showed that he had gone
hours before the detective’s arrival.
By the side of the bed there was a telephone, and Parr called the
exchange.
“Can you find if any message came through to this number during the
night?” he asked. “I am Inspector Parr, of police head-quarters.”
“Two,” was the reply. “I put them through myself. One from
Bayswater----”
“That was mine,” said the Inspector. “What was the other?”
“From the Western Exchange--at 2.30.”
“Thank you,” said the inspector grimly, and hung up the telephone.
He looked at his companions and rubbed his big nose irritably.
“Thalia Drummond is going to get another job,” he said.