Mr. Parr’s Mother
Jack Beardmore had heard of Brabazon’s arrest, and went straight to
police head-quarters to see Mr. Parr.
He found that excellent gentleman had gone home.
“If it is important, Mr. Beardmore,” said the police clerk on duty,
“you will find him at home in his house at Stamford Avenue.”
Beyond his natural interest in the Crimson Circle and all that
pertained thereto, Jack had no particular wish to see the inspector,
and Derrick Yale had telephoned all that was known or could be told.
“Parr thinks this arrest may have an important development,” he said.
“No, I haven’t seen Brabazon, but I accompany Parr to-morrow morning
when he visits him.”
Yale, too, was apparently un-get-at-able; he had hinted that he had a
theatre party that night, and Jack bent his steps homeward. He had
sent his car away, for he felt he needed exercise to dissipate his
energies, and as he crossed the gloomy park, taking a short cut to his
house, he found himself wondering what sort of a home life a man like
Parr could have. He had never spoken about his family, and his mode of
living outside of the police head-quarters was almost as much of a
mystery as that which he was trying to unravel.
Where was Stamford Avenue, he wondered. He had reached a deserted spot
of the park, when he thought he heard footsteps behind him, and turned
his head. He was not a nervous type, and ordinarily the sound of
somebody walking in his rear would not have interested him
sufficiently to make him turn. The path here skirted a dense thicket
of rhododendrons. There was nobody in sight. Jack went on, quickening
his pace.
He heard no more footsteps, but looking round he thought he saw a man
walking on the grass by the side of the path. As Jack stopped he too
halted. He was doubtful as to what he should do. To challenge the man
might put him into an absurd position; there was no reason in the
world why any good citizen should not walk in the park at night, or,
for the matter of that, why they should not walk behind him anywhere
at a respectable distance.
And then ahead of him he made out a slowly strolling figure, and heard
the unmistakable “beat walk” of a policeman.
To his own amazement he felt relieved, and when he looked round, the
figure that had followed him had disappeared. He tried to reconstruct
his impression; whoever his tracker had been, he was smally made. At
first Jack had thought it was a boy; perhaps some poor park beggar who
was mustering up courage to approach him for the price of a night’s
bed. It seemed absurd that he was glad to be out of the park, and to
step into the well-lighted street, but it was the case.
He made an inquiry of a policeman.
“Stamford Avenue, sir? That bus you see over there will take you, or
you can get there in a taxi in ten minutes.”
Jack stood for a long time before he called the taxi-cab. Mr. Parr
would rightly resent this intrusion into his domestic privacy, and
really he had no excuse to offer. But making up his mind of a sudden,
he called a cab, and in a very short time was experiencing exactly the
same doubts and misgivings before the door of Inspector Parr’s
maisonette.
It was Parr himself who opened the door.
His face was naturally free from expression, and he neither showed
surprise nor annoyance at the arrival of his late visitor.
“Come in, Mr. Beardmore,” he said. “I have just arrived, and am having
supper. I suppose you’ve had your evening meal a long time ago.”
“Don’t let me interrupt you, Mr. Parr, only I was rather interested to
hear that you had caught Brabazon, and I thought I’d come along.”
The inspector was showing him into the dining-room, when suddenly he
stopped.
“Good Lord!” he said.
Jack could only wonder what had startled him.
“Do you mind waiting here?”
For the first time since Jack had known the police officer, Parr was
embarrassed.
“I must first tell an old aunt of mine who is staying here who you
are,” he said. “She’s not used to visitors. I’m a widower, you know,
and my aunt keeps house for me.”
He entered the dining-room hurriedly, closing the door behind him, and
Jack felt something of his host’s embarrassment.
A minute, two minutes passed. He heard a hurried movement in the room,
and Parr opened the door.
“Come in, sir.” His red face was even a deeper red. “Sit you down, and
please forgive me for keeping you waiting.”
The room in which he found himself was well and tastefully furnished.
Jack was annoyed with himself for expecting anything else.
Mr. Parr’s aunt was a faded lady with an absent manner, and she seemed
to cause Mr. Parr a considerable amount of anxiety. He scarcely took
his eyes from her as she moved about the room, and she hardly spoke
before he jumped in to interrupt her, always politely, but always very
definitely.
The inspector’s supper was set upon a tray; he had just about finished
when Jack had knocked at the door.
“I hope you’ll excuse our untidiness, Mr.--er----”
“Beardmore,” said Jack.
“She’ll never remember it,” murmured the inspector.
“I can’t keep the place as mother kept it,” she said.
“Of course not, of course not, auntie,” said Mr. Parr hurriedly. “A
little absent,” he murmured. “Now what did you want to know, Mr.
Beardmore?”
Jack laughingly excused himself for his call.
“The Crimson Circle is such a complicated business that I suspect
every new agent to be the central figure,” he said. “Do you think that
the arrest of Brabazon is going to help us?”
“I don’t know,” replied Parr slowly. “There is just a chance that
Brabazon will be a very big help indeed. By the way, I’ve put one of
my own men to look after him, and I have given instructions that the
jailer is not to go into the cell under any circumstances.”
“You’re thinking of Sibly, the sailor, who was poisoned?”
Parr nodded.
“Don’t you think, Mr. Beardmore, that that was one of the greatest
mysteries of all the mysterious Crimson Circle murders?”
He asked this question very soberly, but there was a little glint in
his eye which Jack did not fail to notice.
“You’re laughing. Why? I think it was mysterious, don’t you?”
“Very,” said the inspector. “In some respects, and the poisoning of
Sibly will, to my mind, be a much more important factor in the
eventual capture of the Crimson Circle than is the arrest of our
friend Brabazon.”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk about crime and criminals,” said his aunt
fretfully; “really, John, you are very trying. It may have suited
mother----”
“Yes, of course, auntie; I’m sorry,” said Parr hurriedly, and when she
had left the room, Jack Beardmore’s curiosity got the better of his
discretion.
“Mother seems to have been rather a paragon,” he smiled, and wondered
if he had made a _faux pas_.
The answering laugh reassured him.
“Yes, rather a paragon; she is not staying with us just now.”
“Is she your mother, Mr. Parr?”
“No, my grandmother,” said Mr. Parr, and Jack looked at him in
astonishment.