THE
CRIMSON CIRCLE
BY
EDGAR WALLACE
HODDER AND STOUGHTON LTD
[DEDICATION]
TO
BRYAN
_All the characters represented in this book are purely imaginary._
Contents
Prologue. The Nail
Chapter I. The Initiation
Chapter II. The Man Who Did Not Pay
Chapter III. The Girl Who Was Indifferent
Chapter IV. Mr. Felix Marl
Chapter V. The Girl Who Ran
Chapter VI. “Thalia Drummond is a Crook”
Chapter VII. The Stolen Idol
Chapter VIII. The Charge
Chapter IX. Thalia in the Police Court
Chapter X. The Summons of The Crimson Circle
Chapter XI. The Confession
Chapter XII. The Pointed Boots
Chapter XIII. Mr. Marl Squeezes a Little More
Chapter XIV. Thalia is Asked Out
Chapter XV. Thalia Joins the Gang
Chapter XVI. Mr. Marl Goes Out
Chapter XVII. The Blower of Bubbles
Chapter XVIII. “Flush” Barnet’s Story
Chapter XIX. Thalia Accepts an Offer
Chapter XX. The Key of River House
Chapter XXI. River House
Chapter XXII. The Messenger of The Circle
Chapter XXIII. The Woman in the Cupboard
Chapter XXIV. £10,000 Reward
Chapter XXV. The Tenant of River House
Chapter XXVI. The Bottle of Chloroform
Chapter XXVII. Mr. Parr’s Mother
Chapter XXVIII. A Shot in the Night
Chapter XXIX. “The Red Circle”
Chapter XXX. The Silencing of Froyant
Chapter XXXI. Thalia Answers a Few Questions
Chapter XXXII. A Trip to the Country
Chapter XXXIII. The Posters
Chapter XXXIV. Blackmailing a Government
Chapter XXXV. Thalia Lunches with a Cabinet Minister
Chapter XXXVI. The Circle Meets
Chapter XXXVII. “I Will See You--If You Are Alive”
Chapter XXXVIII. The Arrest of Thalia
Chapter XXXIX. A Prison Diet
Chapter XL. The Escape
Chapter XLI. Who is The Crimson Circle?
Chapter XLII. Mother
Chapter XLIII. The Story Continued
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.
Chapter 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 débris 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 head-lamps 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 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.