The crimson circle
himself, to a firm of lawyers which he knew specialised in the tracing
of lost and stolen property.
Heggitts’ had rendered him good service before, and the next morning
brought a representative of the firm, Mr. James Heggitt, the senior
partner, a wizened little man with a chronic sniff.
The name of Heggitt was not one which was universally respected, nor
did lawyers, when they met, speak of it with affection or regard. And
yet it was one of the most prosperous firms of lawyers in the city.
The majority of its clients were on or over the border-line which
separates the lawful from the unlawful, but to the law-abiding also it
was very useful, and was frequently consulted by more eminent firms
whose clients wished to recover valuable goods which had been taken by
the light-fingered gentry. In some mysterious way Heggitts’ could
always place their finger upon a “gentleman” who had “heard” of the
property which was lost, and, in the majority of cases, the missing
article was restored.
“I got your note, Mr. Froyant,” said the little lawyer, “and I can
tell you now that none of these notes are likely to go through the
usual channels.” He paused and licked his lips, looking past Mr.
Froyant. “The biggest ‘fence’ of all has gone, so I’m not doing him
any injustice when I mention the fact.”
“Who was that?”
“Brabazon,” was the startling reply, and the other stared at him in
astonishment.
“You don’t mean Brabazon of Brabazon’s Bank?”
“Yes, I do,” said Heggitt, nodding. “I should say he did a bigger
business in stolen money than any other man in London. You see, it
could pass through his bank without anybody being the wiser, and as he
did a lot of business abroad and was constantly changing and
re-changing money for export, he got away with it. We knew who was
fencing it. At least, when I say we knew,” he corrected himself, “we
had a shrewd suspicion. As officers of the court, we should, of
course, have notified the authorities had we been certain. I thought
it better to call to explain to you that it is going to be a very
difficult job to trace this money. Most stolen notes are passed on
race-courses, but quite a considerable number find their way abroad,
where it is a much simpler matter to change them, and where they are
ever so much more difficult to trace. You say it was the Crimson
Circle who did it?”
“Do you know them?” asked Froyant quickly.
The lawyer shook his head.
“I have never had any dealings with them at all,” he said, “but, of
course, I knew about them, and enough to know that they are clever
people. It is likely that this man Brabazon has been doing their work,
consciously or unconsciously. In that case they might find a
difficulty in disposing of the stuff, for a bank-note ‘fence’ is one
of the hardest to find. What am I to do when I track one of these
notes and have discovered the person who passed it?”
“I want you to notify me at once,” said Froyant, “and nobody else. You
understand that this is a matter on which my life may hang, and if by
any chance the Crimson Circle get to know that I am trying to recover
the money it will be a very serious thing for me.”
The lawyer agreed.
The Crimson Circle apparently interested him, for he lingered, and
skilfully plied his employer with questions without Mr. Froyant
realising that he was being pumped.
“They are something new in criminals,” he said. “In Italy, where the
Black Hand thrives, the demand for money, followed by a threat of
death, is quite a common occurrence, but I should not have thought it
possible in this country. The most amazing thing of all is that the
Crimson Circle holds together. I should imagine,” he said
thoughtfully, “that there is only one man in it, and that he employs a
very considerable number of people unknown to one another and each
having his particular job to perform. Otherwise he would have been
betrayed a long time ago. It is only the fact that the people serving
him do not know him that makes it possible for him to carry on.”
He took up his hat.
“By the way, did you know Felix Marl? A client of ours is under charge
of burgling his house. Mr. Barnet. You may not have heard of him.”
Mr. Froyant had not heard of “Flush” Barnet, but he knew Marl, and
Marl interested him almost as much as the Crimson Circle interested
the lawyer.
“I knew Marl. Why do you ask?”
The lawyer smiled.
“A strange character,” he said. “A remarkable character in many ways.
He was a member of the gang engaged in frauds on French banks. I
suppose you didn’t know that? His lawyer came to see me to-day.
Apparently a Mrs. Marl has turned up to claim his property, and she
has told the whole story. He and a man named Lightman made a fortune
in France until they were caught. Marl would have been sent to the
guillotine, only he turned State’s evidence. Lightman, I believe, went
to the knife.”
“What a charming man Mr. Marl must have been!” said Mr. Froyant
ironically.
The little lawyer smiled.
“What charming people we all are when our lives are laid bare!” he
said, and Mr. Froyant resented the implied censure, for it was his
boast that his life was a book. He might have added in truth a
bank-book.
So Brabazon was a dealer in stolen notes and Marl a convicted
murderer! Mr. Froyant wondered how Marl managed to escape from his
term of imprisonment, which must have been a severe one, and he
inwardly rejoiced that his business relationships with the deceased
had not ended even more disastrously than they had.
He dressed and went to his club to dine, and his car was running into
Pall Mall when a hoarding poster showed under the light of a lamp and
reminded him of the unpleasant fact that he was a fifty-thousand
pounds poorer man that night than he had been in the morning.
“Ten thousand reward!” he muttered. “Bah! Who is going to turn King’s
evidence? I don’t suppose even Brabazon would dare.”
But he did not know Brabazon.
Chapter XXV.
The Tenant of River House
Mr. Brabazon sat in a chill upper room of River House, eating slowly
a large portion of bread and cheese. He wore the dress suit he was
wearing when the warning came to him, and he was a ludicrous figure in
the smartly-fitting, but now soiled and dusty garb. His white shirt
was grey with the grime of the house, he was collarless, and his
general air of dissipation was heightened by the stubbly beard that
decorated his face.
He finished his repast, opened the window carefully and threw out the
remnants of bread, and passing through the trap-door, he descended the
ladder and made his way to the big kitchen at the back of the house.
He had neither soap nor towel, but he made some attempt to wash
himself without their aid, utilising one of the two handkerchiefs he
had brought with him to the house in his flight. With the exception of
the clothes he stood up in, an overcoat and the soft felt hat he had
seized when he made his escape, he was quite unequipped for this
undesirable adventure.
The provisions which the mystery man had brought the night after he
had reached his hiding place were almost exhausted (he had spent
twenty-four hours without any food whatever, but in his agitation had
not realised the fact until the stranger arrived carrying a basket of
foodstuffs). As to his nerves, they were almost gone. A week spent in
that hovel without communion with man, with the knowledge that the
police were searching for him, and that a long term of imprisonment
would automatically follow his capture, had played havoc with his
placid features, and to the solitude had been added the terror of a
search.
He had shrunk in a corner behind a door which opened to the inner room
leading to the garret whilst the detective had explored the room. The
memory of Derrick Yale’s visit was a nightmare.
He settled himself down in the old chair that he had found in the
house, to spend yet another night. The man whose warning had sent him
flying to cover must come soon, and must bring more food. Brabazon was
dozing when he heard the sound of a key put into the lock below and
jumped up. He tiptoed carefully to the trap-door and lifted it and
then he heard the booming voice of the stranger.
“Come down,” it said, and he obeyed.
The previous interview had been in the passage where the darkness
seemed thicker than anywhere else in the house. He had accustomed
himself to the darkness and walked down the rickety stairs without
mishap.
“Stay where you are,” said the voice. “I have brought you some food
and clothing. You will find everything you need. You had better shave
yourself and make yourself presentable.”
“Where am I going?” asked Brabazon.
“I have taken a berth for you on a steamer leaving Victoria Dock
to-morrow for New Zealand. You will find your passport papers and
ticket in the grip. Now listen. You are to leave your moustache, or
what there is of it unshaven, and shave your eyebrows. They are the
most conspicuous features of your face.”
Brabazon wondered when this man had seen him. Mechanically his hand
stole up to his shaggy eyebrows and mentally he agreed with the
mysterious visitor.
“I have not brought you any money,” the voice went on. “You have sixty
thousand which you stole from Marl--you closed his account, forging
his name to a cheque, believing that I would settle with him--as I
did.”
“Who are you?” asked Brabazon.
“I am the Crimson Circle,” was the reply. “Why do you ask that
question? You have met me before.”
“Yes, of course,” Brabazon muttered. “I think this place is driving me
mad. When may I leave this house?”
“You may leave to-morrow. Wait until nightfall. Your ship leaves on
the following morning, but you can get on board to-morrow night.”
“But they will be watching the ship,” pleaded Brabazon. “Don’t you
think it is too dangerous?”
“There is no danger for you,” was the reply. “Give me your money.”
“My money?” gasped the banker, turning pale.
“Give me your money.” There was an ominous note in the voice that
spoke in the darkness, and tremblingly Brabazon obeyed.
Two large packets of money passed into the gloved hand of the visitor,
and then:
“Here, take this.”
“This” was a thinner wad of notes, and the sensitive fingers of the
banker told him that they were new.
“You can change them when you get abroad,” said the man.
“Couldn’t I leave to-night?” Brabazon’s teeth were chattering now.
“This place gives me the horrors.”
The Crimson Circle was evidently thinking, for it was some time before
he spoke.
“If you wish,” he said, “but remember you are taking a risk. Now go
upstairs.”
The order was sharp and peremptory, and meekly Brabazon obeyed.
He heard the door close, and peering through the dusty windows, he saw
the dark shadow stalk along the path and disappear into the darkness.
Presently he heard the gate click. The man was gone.
Brabazon groped for the bag which the other had left and, finding it,
carried it to the kitchen. Here he could show a light without fear of
detection, and he lit one of the scraps of candle he had discovered in
his search of the house during the week.
The stranger had not exaggerated when he said that the bag contained
all that Brabazon required. But the banker’s first thought was to
examine the money which the other had put into his hand. They were
notes of all series and all numbers. His own had been in a series, and
yet they were new. He looked at them curiously. He knew that new
bank-notes were not usually issued higgledy-piggledy, and then he
guessed the reason. The Crimson Circle had blackmailed somebody and
had asked that the notes should not be numbered consecutively. He put
the money down and began to change.
It was a very smart Brabazon who stepped cautiously through the gates