Still Parr regarded the carpet attentively.
“Well, when you walk in the park, young lady, keep at some distance from Jack Beardmore, because the last time you trailed him, you scared him!”
He had hit truly this time. Her face flushed crimson and her delicate eyebrows met in a frown.
“Mr. Beardmore isn’t easily scared,” she said, “and besides—besides—”
Suddenly she turned and went from the room, and when Parr, after a little further conversation, also went into the outer office, she looked up at him and scowled.
“There are times, inspector, when I positively hate you!” she said vehemently.
“You surprise me,” said Inspector Parr.
XXXII
A Trip to the Country
Police headquarters 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 headquarters, 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 headquarters, 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 headquarters 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
