The Crimson Circle

To
Bryan

Prologue

The Nail

It is a ponderable fact that had not the 29th of a certain September been the anniversary of Monsieur Victor Pallion’s birth, there would have been no Crimson Circle mystery; a dozen men, now dead, would in all probability be alive, and Thalia Drummond would certainly never have been described by a dispassionate inspector of police as “a thief and the associate of thieves.”

M. Pallion entertained his three assistants to dinner at the Coq d’Or in the city of Toulouse, and the proceedings were both joyous and amiable. At three o’clock in the morning it dawned upon M. Pallion that the occasion of his visit to Toulouse was the execution of an English malefactor named Lightman.

“My children,” he said gravely but unsteadily, “it is three hours and the ‘red lady’ has yet to be assembled!”

So they adjourned to the place before the prison where a trolley containing the essential parts of the guillotine had been waiting since midnight, and with a skill born of practice they erected the grisly thing, and fitted the knife into its proper slots.

But even mechanical skill is not proof against the heady wines of southern France, and when they tried the knife it did not fall truly.

“I will arrange this,” said M. Pallion, and drove a nail into the frame at exactly the place where a nail should not have been driven.

But he was getting flurried, for the soldiers had marched on to the ground. …

Four hours later (it was light enough for an enterprising photographer to snap the prisoner close at hand), they marched a man from the prison. …

“Courage!” murmured M. Pallion.

“Go to hell!” said the victim, now lying strapped upon the plank.

M. Pallion pulled a handle and the knife fell … but only as far as the nail.

Three times he tried and three times he failed, and then the indignant spectators broke through the military cordon, and the prisoner was taken back into the gaol.

Eleven years later that nail killed many people.

I

The Initiation

It was an hour when most respectable citizens were preparing for bed, and the upper windows of the big, old-fashioned houses in the square showed patches of light, against which the outlines of the leafless trees, bending and swaying under the urge of the gale, were silhouetted. A cold wind was sweeping up the river, and its outriders penetrated icily into the remotest and most sheltered places.

The man who paced slowly by the high iron railings shivered, though he was warmly clad, for the unknown had chosen a rendezvous which seemed exposed to the full blast of the storm.

The debris of the dead autumn whirled in fantastic circles about his feet, the twigs and leaves came rattling down from the trees which threw their long gaunt arms above him, and he looked enviously at the cheerful glow in the windows of a house where, did he but knock, he would be received as a welcome guest.

The hour of eleven boomed out from a nearby clock, and the last stroke was reverberating when a car came swiftly and noiselessly into the square and halted abreast of him. The two headlamps burned dimly. Within the closed body there was no spark of light. After a moment’s hesitation the waiting man stepped to the car, opened the door, and got in. He could only guess the outline of the driver’s figure in the seat ahead, and he felt a curious thumping of heart as he realised the terrific importance of the step he had taken. The car did not move, and the man in the driver’s seat remained motionless. For a little time there was a dead silence, which was broken by the passenger.

“Well?” he asked nervously, almost irritably.

“Have you decided?” asked the driver.

“Should I be here if I hadn’t?” demanded the passenger. “Do you think I’ve come out of curiosity? What do you want of me? Tell me that, and I will tell you what I want of you.”

“I know what you want of me,” said the driver. His voice was muffled and indistinct, as one who spoke behind a veil.

When the newcomer’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he detected the vague outline of the black silk cowl which covered the driver’s head.

“You are on the verge of bankruptcy,” the driver went on. “You have used money which was not yours to use, and you are contemplating suicide. And it is not your insolvency which makes you consider this way out. You have an enemy who has discovered something to your discredit, something which would bring you into the hands of the police. Three days ago you obtained from a firm of manufacturing chemists, a member of which is a friend of yours, a particularly deadly drug, which cannot be obtained from a retail chemist. You have spent a week reading up poisons and their effects, and it is your intention, unless something turns up which will save you from ruin, to end your life either on Saturday or Sunday. I think it will be Sunday.”

He heard the man behind him gasp, and laughed softly.

“Now, sir,” said the driver, “are you prepared for a consideration to act for me?”

“What do you want me to do?” demanded the man behind him shakily.

“I ask no more than that you should carry out my instructions. I will take care that you run no risks and that you are well paid. 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 banknotes, 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.