Never once did Thalia Drummond look back until she reached the shelter of the little summer house. Her face was drawn and white, and her breath came gaspingly as she stood for a second in the doorway of the little hut, and looked back to the wood. A swift glance round and she was in the house and on her knees tugging with quivering hands at the end of a floor board. It came up disclosing a black cavity. Another second’s hesitation, and she threw into the hole the revolver she had held in her hand, and dropped the board back into its place.
VI
“Thalia Drummond Is a Crook”
The Commissioner looked down at the newspaper cutting before him and tugged at his grey moustache. Inspector Parr, who knew the signs, watched with an apparently detached interest.
He was a short, thickset man, so lacking in inches that it was remarkable that he had ever satisfied the stringent requirements of the police authorities. His age was something below fifty, but his big red face was unlined. It was a face from whence every indication of intelligence and refinement was absent. The round, staring eyes were bovine in their lack of expression, the big fleshy nose, the heavy cheeks, pouched beneath the jaws, and the half-bald head, were units of his unimpressiveness.
The Commissioner picked up the cutting.
“Listen to this,” he said curtly, and read. It was the editorial of the Morning Monitor and it was direct to a point of offensiveness.
“For the second time during the past year the country has been shocked and outraged by the assassination of a prominent man. It is not necessary to give here the details of this Crimson Circle crime, particulars of which appear on another page. But it is very necessary that we should state in emphatic and unmistakable terms that we view with consternation the seeming helplessness of police headquarters to deal with this criminal gang. Inspector Parr, who has devoted himself for the past year to tracking the murdering blackmailers, can offer us nothing more than vague promises of revelations which never materialise. It is obvious that police headquarters needs a thorough overhauling, and the introduction of new blood, and we trust that those responsible for the government of the country, will not hesitate to make the drastic changes which are necessary.”
“Well,” growled Colonel Morton, “what do you think of that, Parr?”
Mr. Parr rubbed his big chin and said nothing.
“James Beardmore was murdered after due warning had been given to the police,” said the Commissioner deliberately. “He was shot within sight of his house, and the murderer is at large. This is the second bad case, Parr, and I’ll tell you candidly that it is my intention to act on the advice which this newspaper gives.”
He tapped the cutting suggestively.
“On the previous occasion you allowed Mr. Yale to get away with all the kudos for the capture of the murderer. You have seen Mr. Yale, I presume?”
The detective nodded.
“And what does he say?”
Mr. Parr shifted uneasily on his feet.
“He told me a lot of nonsense about a dark man with toothache.”
“How did he get that?” asked the Commissioner quickly.
“From the shell of the cartridge he found on the ground,” said the detective. “I don’t take any notice of this psychometrical stuff—”
The Commissioner leant back in his chair and sighed.
“I don’t think you take notice of any stuff that is serviceable, Parr,” he said, “and don’t sneer at Yale. That man has unusual and peculiar gifts. The fact that you don’t understand them, does not make them any less peculiar.”
“Do you mean to say, sir,” said Parr, stirred into protest, “that a man can take a cartridge in his hand and tell you from that the appearance of the person who last handled it and what he was thinking about? Why, it is absurd!”
“Nothing is absurd,” said the Commissioner quietly. “The science of psychometry has been practised for years. Some people, unusually sensitive to impression, are able to tell the most remarkable things, and Yale is one of these.”
“He was there when the murder was committed,” replied Parr. “He was with Mr. Beardmore’s son, not a hundred yards away, and yet he did not catch the murderer.”
The Commissioner nodded.
“Neither have you,” he said. “Twelve months ago you told me of your scheme for trapping the Crimson Circle, and I agreed. We’ve both expected a little too much for your plan, I think. You must try something else. I hate to say it, but there it is.”
Parr did not answer for a time, and then to the Commissioner’s surprise, he pulled up a chair to the desk and sat down uninvited.
“Colonel,” he said, “I’m going to tell you something,” and he was so earnest, so unlike his usual self, that the Commissioner could only look at him in amazement.
“The Crimson Circle gang is easy to get. I can find every one of them, and will find them if you will give me time. But it is the hub of the wheel that I’m after. If I can get the hub the spokes don’t count. But you’ve got to give me a little more authority than I have at present.”
“A little more authority?” said the dumbfounded Commissioner. “What the devil do you mean?”
“I’ll explain,” said the bovine Mr. Parr, and he explained to such purpose that he left the Commissioner a very silent and a very thoughtful man.
After he left headquarters, Mr. Parr’s first call was at an office in the centre of the city.
On the third floor, in a tiny suite, which was distinguished only by the name of the occupant, Mr. Derrick Yale was waiting for him, and a greater contrast between the two men could not be imagined.
Yale, the overstrung, nervous, and sensitive dreamer; Parr, solid
