Mr. Marl said nothing. With an effort he kept his trembling lips from quivering, and assumed, as he believed, an air of polite interest.
“You knew Mr. Beardmore very well?”
“Not very well,” said Marl. “I certainly have had business dealings with him.”
“Have you met him before?”
Marl hesitated. He was the kind of man to whom a lie came most readily, and his natural habit of mind was to state the exact opposite of the truth.
“No,” he admitted. “I had seen him years ago, but that was before he had grown a beard.”
“Where was Mr. Beardmore when you were coming into the house?” asked Parr.
“He was standing on the terrace,” replied Marl with unnecessary loudness.
“And you saw him?”
Marl nodded.
“They tell me, Mr. Marl,” Parr went on, looking down at his hat, “that for some reason or other you were startled—Mr. Jack Beardmore says that he thought you were momentarily terrified. What was the cause of that?”
Mr. Marl shrugged his shoulders and forced a smile.
“I think I explained it was a little heart attack. I am subject to them,” he said.
Parr had turned his hat so that he was looking into the interior, and he did not raise his eyes when he asked:
“It was not the sight of Mr. Beardmore?”
“Of course not,” said the other vigorously. “Why should I be scared of Mr. Beardmore? I’ve had a lot of correspondence with him, and know him almost as well—”
“But you hadn’t met him for years?”
“I hadn’t seen him for years,” corrected Marl irritably.
“And the cause of your agitation was just a heart attack, Mr. Marl?” asked the inspector.
For the first time his eyes rose and fixed themselves upon the other’s.
“Absolutely.” Marl’s voice did not lack heartiness. “I had forgotten all about my little seizure until you reminded me.”
“There is another point I wanted cleared up,” said the detective. His attention had gone back to his fascinating hat, which he was turning over and over mechanically until it had the appearance of a revolving butter-churn. “When you came to Mr. Beardmore’s house you were wearing pointed patent shoes.”
Marl frowned.
“Was I? I’ve forgotten.”
“Did you take any walk into the grounds, except the walk you had from the railway station?”
“No.”
“You didn’t walk around the house to admire the—er—architecture?”
“No, I did not. I was only in the house a few minutes, and then I drove away.”
Mr. Parr raised his eyes to the ceiling.
“Would it be asking you too much,” he demanded apologetically, “if I requested you to show me the patent shoes you wore that day?”
“Certainly,” said Marl, rising with alacrity.
He was out of the room a few minutes, and came back with a pair of long pointed patent boots.
The detective took them in his hand and looked earnestly at the sole.
“Yes,” he said. “Of course, these are not the boots you were wearing, because—” he rubbed the soles gently with his hand, “there is dust on them, and the ground has been wet for the last week.”
Marl’s heart nearly stopped beating.
“Those are the boots I wore,” he said defiantly. “What you call ‘dust’ is really dried mud.”
Parr looked at his dusty fingers and shook his head.
“I think there must be some mistake, Mr. Marl,” he said gently. “This is chalk dust.” He put the boots down and rose. “However, it isn’t very important,” he said. He stood so long, looking down at the carpet, that Mr. Marl, in spite of his fear, became impatient.
“Is there anything more I can do for you, officer?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Parr. “I want you to give me the name and address of your tailor. Perhaps you would write it down for me.”
“My tailor?” Mr. Marl glared at the visitor. “What the dickens do you want of my tailor?” And then, with a laugh, “Well, you are a curious man, inspector; but I’ll do it with pleasure.”
He went to his secretaire, pulled out a sheet of paper, wrote down a name and address and, blotting it, handed it to the detective.
“Thank you, sir.”
Parr did not even look at the address, but put the paper into his pocket.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but you will realise that everybody who was present at the house within twenty-four hours of Mr. Beardmore’s death must necessarily be interrogated. The Crimson Circle—”
“The Crimson Circle!” gasped Mr. Marl, and the detective looked at him straightly.
“Didn’t you know that the Crimson Circle were responsible for this murder?”
To do him justice, Mr. Felix Marl knew nothing of the kind. He had seen a brief report that James Beardmore had been found shot but the association of the murder with the Crimson Circle had not been disclosed except by the Monitor, a newspaper which Mr. Marl never read.
He dropped into a chair, quaking.
“The Crimson Circle,” he muttered. “Good God—I never thought—” he checked himself.
“What didn’t you think?” asked Parr gently.
“The Crimson Circle,” murmured the big man again. “I thought it was just a—” he did not complete his sentence.
For an hour after the detective’s departure Felix Marl sat huddled up in his chair, his head in his hands.
The Crimson Circle!
It was the first time he had ever been brought into even the remotest touch with that blackmailing organisation, and now its obtrusion upon the order of his thoughts was so violent that it disturbed every theory he had formed.
“I don’t like it,” he muttered as he got up painfully and turned on the light in the darkened room. “I think this is where I get away.”
He spent the evening examining his bankbook, and the examination was very comforting. He could squeeze out a little more, he thought, and then—
XIII
Mr. Marl Squeezes a Little More
Another agent of the Crimson Circle found her lines cast in pleasant places. She had been accepted by Mr. Brabazon without question, and evidently the man in the car possessed extraordinary influences.
What was even more extraordinary was that day followed day without a word from her mysterious employer. She had expected that he would almost immediately
