The Crimson Circle

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 tonight?”

“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 turnkey.

“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