The crimson circle
cut the string and stripped away the paper wrapping.
“This glove is a fellow to that which was found in Froyant’s study.
The knife is an exact pair to the other.”
Parr took up the gauntlet and examined it.
“Yes, this is the left hand, and the one on Froyant’s desk was the
right,” he agreed. “It is a worn motor-glove. Who was the owner? Try
your psychometric powers, Yale.”
“I’ve already tried,” said the other, shaking his head, “but the glove
has passed through so many hands that the impressions I receive are
very confused. At any rate, this discovery confirms the theory that
Thalia Drummond is in the business up to her neck. As to the other
matter you were speaking about,” he said, as he wrapped the knife and
glove carefully in the paper, “I shall be most happy to assist you.”
“What I want from you,” said Parr, “is that you shall fill in the
spaces which I cannot fill,” he shook his head. “I only wish mother
could be there,” he said regretfully.
“Mother?” said the astonished Yale.
“My grandmother,” said Mr. Parr soberly. “The only detective in
England--bar you and I.”
It was the first time that Derrick Yale ever had reason to suspect
that Mr. Parr possessed a sense of humour.
* * * * *
It was typical of that period of excitement, when the name of the
Crimson Circle was on every tongue, that sensation should follow
sensation. But probably no incident created so much excitement as that
which, in scrawling headlines, greeted Derrick Yale as, sitting in bed
sipping his tea, he read the newspaper the following morning!
Thalia Drummond had escaped!
People escape from prison in works of fiction; they have been known to
make a temporary get-away from dread Dartmoor, but never before in the
history of the prison service had a woman escaped from Holloway. And
yet the wardress unlocking the door of Thalia Drummond’s cell in the
morning found it empty.
It took a great deal to shock Derrick Yale, but the news temporarily
paralysed him. He read the account of the escape word by word, and in
the end he was as mystified as ever.
But there it was in cold print, officially admitted, and communicated
to the early morning press by the Government with unnatural haste.
“Owing to the unusual importance of the prisoner, and the character of
the offence alleged against her, extraordinary precautions were taken
to guard her. The patrol which usually visits the ward in which her
cell was situated, was doubled, and instead of hourly, half-hourly
visits were paid by the officers on duty. It is not customary to look
into every cell on these occasions, but at three o’clock this morning
the wardress--Mrs. Hardy--looked through the observation hole and saw
the prisoner was there. At six o’clock when the cell door was opened,
Drummond was missing. The bars of the window were intact, and the door
had not been tampered with.
“A search of the prison grounds showed no trace of her footsteps, and
it is almost impossible that she could have escaped over the wall. It
is equally impossible that she could have left by the ordinary means,
since it would have necessitated her passing through six separate
doors, none of which had been forced, or through the gate-keeper’s
lodge, which is occupied throughout the night.
“This new proof of the Crimson Circle’s omnipotence and extraordinary
powers is very disconcerting, coming, as it does, at a moment when the
lives of Cabinet Ministers are threatened by this mysterious gang.”
Yale glanced at the clock. It was half-past eleven. And then he looked
at the newspaper and saw that his servant had brought him an early
edition of one of the evening papers. He was out of bed in a second
and, not waiting for breakfast, rushed off to head-quarters, to find
Inspector Parr in a very good humour, considering all the
circumstances.
“But this is incredible, Parr, it is impossible! She must have friends
in the prison!”
“That is my idea entirely,” said Parr. “I told the Commissioner in the
identical words that she must have friends in the prison. Otherwise,”
he said after a pause, “how did she get out?”
Yale looked at him suspiciously. It did not seem the moment or the
occasion for flippant talk, and Inspector Parr’s tone was undoubtedly
flippant.
Chapter XLI.
Who is The Crimson Circle?
Yale learnt no more details than those he had already read, and took
a taxi to his city office, which he had not visited for two days.
The escape of Thalia Drummond was a much more important affair than
Parr seemed to think. Parr! An awful thought occurred to Derrick Yale.
John Parr! That stolid, stupid-looking man--it was impossible! He
shook his head, yet put his mind resolutely to the task of piecing
together every incident in which Inspector Parr had figured, and in
the end:
“Impossible!” he muttered again, as he walked slowly up the stairs to
his office, declining the invitation of the lift-boy.
The first thing he noticed when he unlocked the door was that the
letter-box was empty. It was a very large letter-box, with a patent
flap device, designed so that it was impossible for an outside
pilferer to extract any of its contents. The wire cage reached almost
to the floor, and letters that came through the slot in the door had
to fall through revolving aluminium blades, which made the letter
thief’s task a hopeless one. And the letter-box was empty! There was
not so much as a tradesman’s circular.
He closed the door quietly and went into his own room. He took no more
than a pace into the interior and then stopped. Every drawer in his
desk was open. The little steel safe by the side of the fireplace,
concealed from view by the wooden panelling, had been unlocked, and
the door was now open. He looked under the desk. There was a tiny
cupboard, which only an expert could have found, and here Derrick Yale
had kept the more intimate documents connected with the Crimson Circle
case.
He saw nothing but a broken panel and the mark of the chisel that had
wrenched it free.
He sat for a long time in his chair, staring out of the window. There
was no need to ask who was the artist. He could guess that.
Nevertheless, he made a few perfunctory inquiries, and the lift boy
supplied him with all the information he needed.
“Yes, sir, your secretary has been this morning, the pretty young
lady. She came in soon after the offices were open. She was only here
about an hour, and then she left.”
“Did she carry a bag?”
“Yes, sir. A little bag,” said the boy.
“Thank you,” said Derrick Yale, and went back to head-quarters, to
pour into the phlegmatic Mr. Parr’s ear a tale of rifled desk and
stolen documents.
“Now, I’m going to tell you, Parr, what I have told nobody else, not
even the Commissioner,” said Yale. “We think of the Crimson Circle
organisation as being run by a man. I happen to know that this girl
has met the man who initiated her into the mysteries of the gang,
whatever they are. But I also know that, so far from being the master,
this mysterious gentleman in the motor-car, takes his orders, as
everybody else does, from the real centre of the organisation--which
is Thalia Drummond!”
“Good Lord!” said the inspector.
“You wonder why I had her in my office? I told you it was because I
thought she would bring us closer to the Circle. And I was right.”
“But why dismiss her?” asked the other quickly.
“Because she had done something which merited dismissal,” said Yale,
“and if I had not fired her then and there, she would have known that
I was keeping her in my office with an object. I might have saved
myself the trouble, apparently,” he smiled, “because this morning’s
work proves that she knew what my game was.” His thin, delicate face
darkened, and then he said almost sharply: “When you have told your
story to-night to the Prime Minister and his friends, I have a little
story to tell which I think will surprise you.”
“Nothing you can say will ever surprise me,” said Mr. Parr.
The third shock which Derrick Yale received that day came on his
return home. The first half of his surprise was to find that his
servant was out. The one woman he employed did not sleep on the
premises, but she was supposed to remain in the flat until nine
o’clock in the evening. It was exactly six when Derrick Yale came in
to find the place in darkness.
He turned on the light and made a tour of the rooms. Apparently, the
sitting-room was the only apartment which had been disturbed, but
here, whoever the intruder had been and he could guess her name, she
had been very thorough and painstaking. It was not necessary for him
to seek out the servant and discover what had happened. She had been
called away from the house by a message purporting to come from
him--he guessed that much. And whilst she was away Thalia Drummond had
examined the contents of the flat at her leisure.
“A clever young woman!” said Derrick without malice, for he could
admire even the genius which was employed against himself. She had
lost no time. Within twelve hours she had broken gaol, ransacked both
his office and his flat, and had removed documents which had a vital
bearing upon the Crimson Circle.
He dressed himself leisurely, wondering what would be her next move.
Of his own he was certain. Within twenty-four hours Inspector Parr
would be a broken man. From a drawer in his dressing-room he took a
revolver, looked at it for a moment speculatively, and slipped it into
his hip pocket. There was going to be a startling and a sensational
end to the chase of the Crimson Circle, an end wholly unforeseen by
the spectators of the tragic game.
In the wide lobby of the Prime Minister’s house he found a guest, the
excuse for whose presence he could not fathom. Jack Beardmore had
certainly been a sufferer from the activities of the Crimson Circle,
but he had no part in the latter incidents.
“I suppose you are surprised to see me, Mr. Yale,” laughed Jack, as he
took the other’s hand, “but you’re not more surprised than I am to be
invited to a meeting of the Cabinet.”
He chuckled.
“Who invited you?--Parr?”
“To be exact, the Prime Minister’s secretary. But I think Parr must
have had something to do with the invitation. Don’t you feel scared in
this company?”
“Not very,” smiled Derrick, slapping the other on the back.
A youthful private secretary bustled in and ushered them into the
severe drawing-room, where a dozen gentlemen were talking in two
groups.
The Prime Minister came forward to meet the detective.
“Inspector Parr has not arrived.” He looked questioningly at Jack. “I
presume this is Mr. Beardmore?” he said. “The inspector particularly
asked that you should be present. I suppose he has some light to throw
upon poor James Beardmore’s death--by the way, your father was a great
friend of mine.”
The inspector came in at that moment. He wore a dress suit which had
seen better days, a low collar with an awkwardly-tied bow, and he
seemed an incongruous figure in that atmosphere of intellect and
refinement. Following him came the grey-moustached Commissioner, who
nodded curtly to his junior and led the Prime Minister aside.
The two were engaged in a whispered conversation for a little time,
and then the colonel came across to where Yale was standing with Jack.
“Have you any idea what sort of a lecture Parr is going to give?” he
said, a little impatiently. “I was quite under the impression that he
was making a statement by invitation, but from what the Prime Minister
tells me, it was Parr who suggested he should give the history of the
Crimson Circle. I hope he isn’t going to make a fool of himself.”
“I don’t think he will, sir.” It was Jack’s quiet voice that had
interrupted, and the Commissioner looked at him inquiringly until Yale