The Crimson Circle Read Online

I am prepared at this moment to place in your hands a very large sum of money, which will enable you to meet your more pressing obligations. In return for this I shall want you to put into circulation all the money I send you, to make the necessary exchanges, to cover up the trail of bills and bank-notes, the numbers of which are known to the police; to dispose of bonds, which I cannot dispose of, and generally to act as my agent—" he paused, adding significantly, "and to pay on demand what I ask."

    The man behind him did not reply for some time, and then he asked with a hint of petulance; "What is the Crimson Circle?"

    "You," was the startling reply.

    "I?" gasped the man.

    "You are of the Crimson Circle," said the other carefully. "You have a hundred comrades, none of whom will ever be known to you, none of whom will ever know you."

    "And you?"

    "I know them all," said the driver. "You agree?"

    "I agree," said the other after a pause. The driver half-turned in his seat and held out his hand.

    "Take this," he said. "This" was a large, bulky envelope, and the newly initiated member of the Crimson Circle thrust it into his pocket.

    "And now get out," said the driver curtly, and the man obeyed without question.

    He slammed the door behind him and walked abreast of the driver. He was still curious as to his identity, and for his own salvation it was necessary that he should know the man who drove.

    "Don't light your cigar here," said the driver, "or I shall think that your smoking is really an excuse to strike a match. And remember this, my friend, that the man who knows me, carries his knowledge to hell."

    Before the other could reply the car moved on and the man with the envelope stood watching its red tail light until it disappeared from view.

    He was shaking from head to foot, and when he did light the cigar which his chattering teeth gripped, the flame of the match quivered tremulously.

    "That is that," he said huskily, and crossed the road, to disappear in one of the side-turnings. He was scarcely out of sight before a figure moved stealthily from the doorway of a dark house and followed. It was the figure of a man tall and broad, and he walked with difficulty, for he was naturally short of breath. He had gone a hundred paces in his pursuit before he realised that he still held in his hand the ship's binoculars through which he had been watching.

    When he reached the main street his quarry had vanished.

    He had expected as much and was not perturbed. He knew where to find him. But who was in the car? He had read the number and could trace its owner in the morning. Mr. Felix Marl grinned. Had he so much as guessed the character of the interview he had overlooked, he would not have been amused. Stronger men than he had grown stiff with fear at the menace of the Crimson Circle.

    PHILIP BASSARD paid, and lived, for apparently the Crimson Circle kept faith; Jacques Rizzi, the banker, also paid, but in a panic. He died from natural causes a month later, having a weak heart. Benson, the railway lawyer, pooh-poohed the threat and was found dead by the side of his private saloon.

    Mr. Derrick Yale, with his amazing gifts, ran down the coloured man who had crept into Benson's private car and killed him before he threw the body from the window, and the coloured man was hanged, without, however, revealing the identity of his employer. The police might sneer at Yale's psychometrical powers—as they did—but within forty-eight hours he had led the police to the criminal's house at Yareside and the dazed murderer had confessed.

    Following this tragedy many men must have paid without reporting the matter to the police, for there was a long period during which no reference to the Crimson Circle found its way into the newspapers. And then one morning there came to the breakfast table of James Beardmore, a square envelope containing a card, on which was stamped a Crimson Circle.

    "You are interested in the melodrama of life, Jack—read that."

    James Stamford Beardmore tossed the message across the table to his son and proceeded to open the next letter in the pile which stood beside his plate.

    Jack retrieved the message from the floor, where it had fallen, and examined it with a little frown. It was a very ordinary letter-card, save that it bore no address. A big circle of crimson touched its four edges, and had the appearance of having been printed with a rubber stamp, for the ink was unevenly distributed. In the centre of the circle, written in printed characters, were the words:

    "One hundred thousand represents only a small portion of your possessions. You will pay this in notes to a messenger I will send in response to an advertisement in the Tribune within the next twenty-four hours, stating the exact hour convenient to you. This is the final warning."

    There was no signature.

    "Well?" Old Jim Beardmore looked up over his spectacles and his eyes were smiling.

    "The Crimson Circle!" gasped his son.

    Jim Beardmore laughed aloud at the concern in the boy's voice.

    "Yes, the Crimson Circle—I have had four of 'em!"

    The young man stared at him. "Four?" he repeated. "Good heavens! Is that why Yale has been staying with us?"

    Jim Beardmore smiled.

    "That is a reason," he said.

    "Of course, I knew that he was a detective, but I hadn't the slightest idea—"

    "Don't worry about this infernal circle," interrupted his father a little impatiently. "I'm not scared of them.