A Trip to the Country
Police head-quarters was on its trial. The uncomfortable amount of
space which the newspapers were giving to the latest of these
tragedies which were associated with the name of Crimson Circle, the
questions which were on the paper to be asked in Parliament, no less
than the conferences behind closed doors at head-quarters, and the
aloofness of all who were ordinarily connected with Inspector Parr in
his work, were ominous signs which he did not fail to appreciate.
There was hardly a newspaper which did not publish a very complete
list of the outrages for which the Crimson Circle was responsible, and
not one which did not mention pointedly the damning fact that from the
very beginning of the Circle’s activity, Inspector Parr had had charge
of the various cases.
He asked for, and was granted, leave to make enquiries in France.
During his few days’ absence, his superiors arranged for his
successor. He had only one friend at head-quarters, and that curiously
and strangely enough was Colonel Morton, the Commissioner in control
of Parr’s department.
Morton fought his case, but knew that it was a hopeless one from the
beginning. In this he had the assistance of Derrick Yale. Yale made an
early call at head-quarters and gave the fullest particulars with the
object of exonerating his official colleague.
“The mere fact that I was on the spot, and that I had been specially
engaged to protect Froyant, must take a lot of responsibility from
Parr’s shoulders,” he urged.
The Commissioner leant back in his chair and folded his arms.
“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Mr. Yale,” he said bluntly, “but
officially you have no existence, and I am afraid that nothing you
will say is going to help Mr. Parr. He has had his chance--in fact, he
has had several chances, and he has missed them.”
Just as Yale was going the Commissioner beckoned him to remain.
“You can throw light upon one subject, Mr. Yale,” he said. “It has
reference to the killing of the man who shot James Beardmore: you
remember Sibly, the sailor.”
Yale nodded, and resumed the seat he had vacated.
“Who was in the cell when you were taking this man’s evidence?”
“Myself, Mr. Parr and an official shorthand writer.”
“Man or woman?” asked the Commissioner.
“A man. I think he was a member of your staff. And that was all. The
jailer came in once or twice; in fact he came in while we were there,
and brought the water, which was found afterwards to contain the
poison.”
The Commissioner opened a folder and selected from many documents a
sheet of foolscap.
“Here is the jailer’s statement,” he said. “I’ll save you the
preliminaries, but this is what he says,” said the Commissioner; he
fixed his glasses and read slowly:
“The prisoner sat on his bed. Mr. Parr was sitting facing him and Mr.
Yale was standing with his back to the cell door, which was open when
I went in. I took a tin mug half full of water which I drew from a
faucet which had been fixed for the purpose of supplying drinking
water. I remember putting the tin down whilst I attended a bell call
from another cell. So far as I know it was impossible that this tin
could be tampered with, though it is true that the door into the yard
was open. When I went into the cell Mr. Parr took the tin from my
hand, and set it on a ledge near the door and told me not to interrupt
them.”
“You notice that no reference is made to the shorthand-writer. Was he
obtained locally, do you think?”
“I’m almost sure he was from your office.”
“I must ask Parr about that,” said the Commissioner.
Mr. Parr (who had returned from France) when questioned on the
telephone, admitted that the shorthand-writer was a local man whom he
had secured by making enquiries in the little town. In the confusion
which had followed the discovery that Sibly was dead, he had not
thought to enquire about the man’s identity.
A typewritten transcript of Sibly’s statement had been given to him,
and he remembered indistinctly paying the writer for his trouble. That
was as far as he could help the Commissioner, whose information on the
subject was not greatly increased.
Derrick Yale waited whilst this telephonic communication was in
progress, and when the colonel had finished, he gathered from his
dissatisfied expression that Parr’s information was of no particular
value.
“You don’t remember the man yourself?”
Yale shook his head.
“His back was to me, most of the time,” he said, “and he sat by the
side of Parr.”
The Commissioner muttered something about gross carelessness, and
then:
“I shouldn’t be surprised if your shorthand-writer was an emissary of
the Crimson Circle,” he said. “It was a piece of criminal neglect to
have taken a man whose identity cannot be established for such an
important piece of work. Yes, Parr has failed.” He sighed. “I am
sorry, in many ways. I like Parr. Of course, he’s one of the
old-fashioned police officers whom you bright outside men affect to
despise, and he hasn’t any extraordinary gifts, although he has been,
in his time, a remarkably good officer. But he’ll have to go. That is
decided. I may tell you this, because I have already made the same
intimation to Parr himself. It is a thousand pities.”
It was no news to Yale: nor was it news to the youngest officer at
police head-quarters.
But the person who seemed least concerned was Inspector Parr himself.
He went about his routine work as though unconscious that any
extraordinary change in his position was contemplated, and even when
he met his successor, who came to look at the office he was shortly to
occupy, was geniality itself.
One afternoon he met Jack Beardmore by accident in the park, and Jack
was struck by the stout little man’s good spirits.
“Well, inspector,” said Jack, “are we any nearer the end?”
Parr nodded.
“I think we are,” he said. “The end of me.”
This was the first definite news Jack had received of the inspector’s
retirement.
“But surely you’re not going? You have all the threads in your hands,
Mr. Parr. They can’t be so foolish as to dispense with you at this
very critical moment unless they have given up all hope of capturing
the scoundrel.”
Mr. Parr thought “they” had given up all hope long ago, but the
attitude of head-quarters was a subject which he did not care to
pursue.
Jack was going down to his country house. He had not visited the place
since his father’s death, and he would not have gone now but the
necessity had arisen for revising a number of farm leases, and since
the business could not be done in town, and there were other matters
which needed local attention, he decided to spend a night in a place
which had, in addition to the memory of this tragedy, memories almost
as distasteful.
“Going down into the country are you?” said Mr. Parr thoughtfully.
“Alone?”
“Yes,” said Jack, and then as he guessed the other’s thoughts, he
asked eagerly, “You would not care to come down as my guest, would
you, Mr. Parr? I should be delighted if you could, but I suppose this
Crimson Circle investigation will keep you in town.”
“I think they’ll get on very well without me,” said Mr. Parr grimly.
“Yes, I think I should like to come down with you. I haven’t been to
the house since your poor father’s death, and I should like to go over
the grounds again.”
He asked for an additional two days’ leave, and head-quarters, which
would have willingly dispensed with him for the remainder of his
lifetime, agreed.
As Jack was leaving that night the inspector went home, packed a small
Gladstone bag, and met him at the station.
Neither the weather nor the roads were conducive to a long motor-car
journey, and on the whole the inspector agreed that travelling by
train was more comfortable.
He had left a little note addressed to Derrick Yale, telling him where
he was going, and added at the foot:
“_It is possible circumstances may arise which would need my presence
in town. Do not hesitate to send for me if this should be the case._”
Remembering this postscript, Mr. Parr’s subsequent conduct was not a
little odd.