The crimson circle
The card bore a symbol familiar enough to the two men, but at the very
sight of that Crimson Circle, Jack shuddered. Within the hoop was
written:
“_You are serving the losing side. Serve us instead and you shall be
rewarded tenfold. Continue your present work, and you die on the
fourth of next month._”
“That gives you about ten days,” said Parr seriously, and it might
have been the pain he had suffered, or excitement, but he seemed
suddenly to lose his colour. “Ten days,” he muttered.
“Of course, I take not the slightest notice of that threat,” said
Derrick Yale cheerfully. “I must confess that after my unpleasant
experience at the office I almost credit them with supernatural
gifts.”
“Ten days,” repeated the detective. “Have you made any plans?
Ordinarily, where would you be on the fourth of next month?”
“It is curious that you should ask that,” said Yale, “but I had
arranged to go down to Deal for some fishing. A friend of mine has
lent me a motor-launch, and I thought of spending the night in the
Channel; in fact, I had arranged to go on that day.”
“You can make what arrangements you like, but you are not going
alone,” said Parr emphatically. “And now you can all clear out. Thank
your lucky stars that my aunt has not wakened, and that mother isn’t
here!”
The last he said was intended for Jack, and Jack smiled
understandingly.
Chapter XXIX.
“The Red Circle”
It was Harvey Froyant’s boast that he trusted nobody completely. He
trusted the lawyer up to a point, but his known connection with
questionable people would have been alone sufficient to prevent Harvey
from trusting implicitly to his agent.
Two nights after the shooting of Inspector Parr the little lawyer
called on his employer, and he was all a-quiver with excitement. He
had traced one of the new series of bank-notes which the Crimson
Circle had taken from Brabazon.
“Now, we’ve got a good line on this, Mr. Froyant, and if we continue
in the direction we are going, we can certainly pick up the original
changer.”
But here Mr. Harvey Froyant was firm. He could not and would not place
the case completely in the hands of this man. So far might the
knowledgeable firm of Heggitt take him, but he would carry on the rest
through another agency. He said so in as many words.
“I’m sorry you won’t let me go on with it,” said the disappointed
Heggitt. “I have undertaken this search personally, and I can assure
you that there are only a few steps now between the man we discovered
with the money and the man you are looking for.”
Harvey Froyant knew that as well as the lawyer.
Jack Beardmore had spoken a great truth when he said that this mean
man would never be satisfied until he had recovered the money he had
lost. It was a goad and an irritation, a source of thought which kept
him awake at night and woke him in the morning with a sense of blank
despair.
And Harvey was well equipped to carry the investigations to their
final stage now that he had the ground clear for him. He had derived
his fortune from buying and selling land in every country in the
world. Beginning with practically no capital, he had, by personal
application to his business, built up a seven figure fortune. And this
had not been accomplished by sitting in an office and trusting to
subordinates. It had involved considerable travel, restless inquiry
and relentless probing into the private circumstances of negotiators,
a peculiarity he had shared with James Beardmore, though this he did
not know.
He took up his own case with alacrity, and informed neither Yale nor
Parr of his intentions.
As Heggitt had said, it was a fairly simple matter to trace the note,
for at least three stages. His investigations brought Mr. Froyant
successively to a money-changer’s in the Strand, a tourist office and
finally to a highly respectable bank. And here he was particularly
favoured, for it was a branch of one of the banks which conducted his
business.
For three days he pried and questioned, searched books--which he had
no right to search--and slowly but surely he came to a conclusion. He
was not, however, satisfied to leave the matter with the discovery of
the original passer of the note. Not even the bank manager, who gave
him facilities for examining private accounts, and was afterwards
reprimanded by his superiors for doing so, knew exactly what object he
had, or against whom his investigations were directed.
On the morning of the first day Froyant left hurriedly for France. He
spent only two hours in Paris, and the night found him on his way to
the south. Toulouse he reached at nine o’clock in the morning; here
again luck was with him, for an important official of the city had
been an agent of his in a purchase he had made a few years before.
Monsieur Brassard offered his guest an emphatic welcome, which Mr.
Froyant discounted on the ground that his former agent was under the
impression that a new deal and a new commission was in prospect. This
seemed to be the case, for he was less enthusiastic when he learnt the
object of the visit.
“I do not trouble myself with these matters,” he said, shaking his
head, “for although I am a lawyer, my dear Mr. Froyant, my practice
does not touch the criminal court.” He stroked his long beard
thoughtfully. “I remember Marl very well indeed--Marl and another man,
an Englishman, I think.”
“A man named Lightman?”
“Yes, that was the fellow. Good gracious, yes!” He made a grimace of
disgust. “Of course, that is common history,” he went on. “They were
scoundrels, those men. One shot the cashier and the watchman of the
Nimes Bank, and there were two murders here in Toulouse with which
their names were associated. I remember their names very well--and the
terrible incident!” He shook his head.
“What terrible incident?” asked Mr. Froyant curiously.
“It was when Lightman was led to execution. I think our executioners
must have been drunk, for the knife did not work; twice, three times
it fell, but only just touched his neck. And when the horrified
spectators interfered--you know our French people are very
emotional--there would have been a riot if they had not taken the
prisoner back to gaol. Yes, the Red Circle escaped the knife.”
Mr. Froyant, who was sipping a cup of coffee, leapt to his feet,
overturning the cup and its contents.
“The what?” he almost shouted.
Mr. Brassard looked at him open-mouthed.
“Why, what is wrong, m’sieur?” he asked, one eye on the damaged
carpet.
“The Red Circle! What do you mean?” demanded Froyant, trembling with
excitement.
“That was Lightman,” nodded Brassard, astonished at the effect his
words produced. “It was his public name. But my clerk will know more,
for he was interested in the matter, which I was not.”
He rang the bell, and an elderly Frenchman came in.
“Do you remember the Red Circle, Jules?”
The aged Jules nodded.
“Very well, m’sieur. I was at the execution. What horror!” He raised
his two hands in an expressive gesture.
“Why was he called the Red Circle?” demanded Froyant.
“Because of a mark.” The man drew his long finger about his neck.
“Around his throat, m’sieur, was a red circle; it was the colour of
his skin, and it was a legend long before the execution that no knife
would ever touch him, for such marks are said to be charmed. I think
it was a birth-mark, but I know that on the way to the execution I met
a great number of people--my friend Thiep, for example--who were sure
that the execution would not take place. If they were as sure that the
executioner and his assistants would be drunk,” added Jules, “and that
they had put up the guillotine in the morning so badly that the knife
would not work, I think they would have been more intelligent.”
Mr. Froyant was now breathing quickly.
Little by little the truth was being revealed, and now he saw the
whole thing clearly.
“What happened to the Red Circle?” he asked.
“I do not know,” shrugged Jules. “He was sent to one of the island
settlements, but Marl was released because he had given evidence for
the Republic. I heard some time ago that Lightman had escaped, but I
don’t know how true that is.”
Lightman had escaped, as Froyant had already guessed. He passed that
day in a feverish search of all available documents, in a visit to the
Public Prosecutor, and he ended a strenuous twelve hours in the bureau
of the prison governor, examining photographs.
It may be said that Mr. Harvey Froyant went to bed that night in the
Hotel Anglaise with a feeling of complete satisfaction, and with the
added pleasure that he had succeeded where the cleverest police had
failed. The secret of the Crimson Circle was no longer a secret.
Chapter XXX.
The Silencing of Froyant
Harvey Froyant’s visit to France had not escaped attention, and both
Derrick Yale and Inspector Parr knew that he had gone; so also did the
Crimson Circle, if Thalia Drummond’s telegram reached its destination.
Curiously enough these telegrams and messages which Thalia was sending
was the excuse for Derrick Yale’s call at police head-quarters, on the
very evening that Mr. Froyant was returning triumphantly from France.
Parr, returning to his office, found Yale sitting at the inspector’s
table, delighting a small but select audience of police officials with
an exhibition of his curious power.
His ability in this direction was amazing. From a ring which a police
inspector handed him he told the mystified hearer not only his known
history but, to his confusion, a little secret history of the man’s
life.
As Parr came in his assistant gave him a sealed envelope. He glanced
at the typewritten address, and then laid it on Yale’s outstretched
hand.
“Tell me who sent that?” he said, and Yale laughed.
“A very small man with an absurd yellow beard; he talks through his
nose and keeps a shop.”
A slow smile dawned on Parr’s face.
Yale added:
“And that isn’t psychometry, because I happen to know it is from Mr.
Johnson of Mildred Street.”
He chuckled at the inspector’s blank expression, and when they were
alone, explained.
“I happen to know that you discovered the place to which all the
Crimson Circle messages were sent. I, on the contrary, have known of
its existence for a long time, and every message which has been sent
to the Crimson Circle has been read by me. Mr. Johnson told me you
were making inquiries, and I asked him to give you a very full
explanation in the addressed envelope which you sent to him.”
“So you knew it all the time?” asked Parr slowly.
Derrick Yale nodded.
“I know that messages intended for the Crimson Circle have been
addressed to this little newsagent, and that every afternoon and
evening a small boy calls to collect them. It is a humiliating
confession to make, but I have never been able to trace the person who
picks the boy’s pocket.”
“Picks his pocket?” repeated Parr, and Yale enjoyed the mystery.
“The boy’s instructions are to put the letters in his pocket, and to
walk into the crowded High Street. Whilst he is there somebody takes
them from his pocket without his being any the wiser.”
Inspector Parr sat down on the chair which Yale had vacated, and
rubbed his chin.
“You’re an amazing fellow,” he said. “And what else have you
discovered?”
“What I have all along suspected,” said Yale, “that Thalia Drummond is
in communication with the Crimson Circle and has given him every scrap
of information which she has been able to gather.”
Parr shook his head.
“What are you going to do about that?”
“I told you all along that she would lead us to the Crimson Circle,”
said Yale quietly, “and sooner or later I am sure my predictions will
be justified. It is nearly two months since I induced our friend who