“I see,” said Inspector Parr.
“Now what about searching the place? Perhaps I can be of use,” suggested Yale, but his offer of help did not meet with any very gracious response.
A small police audience, which had listened awestricken whilst Yale had developed his theory, could understand the inspector’s feelings. Apparently Yale did, too, for with a good-humoured laugh he made his excuses and went home. There are moments when the headquarters police should be left alone with their own emotions. Nobody realised this more than Derrick Yale.
XVIII
“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 bankbook—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 banknotes 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
