The Man Who Did Not Pay
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 crimp’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. Froyant is in terror of
his life that he will be marked down. And I don’t wonder. He and I
have made a few enemies in our time.”
James Beardmore, with his hard, lined face and his stubbly grey beard,
might have been mistaken for the grandfather of the good-looking young
man who sat opposite to him. The Beardmore fortune had been painfully
won. It had materialised from the wreckage of dreams and had its
beginnings in the privations, the dangers and the heartaches of a
prospector’s life. This man whom Death had stalked on the waterless
plains of the Kalahari, who had scraped in the mud of the Vale River
for illusory diamonds, and thawed out his claim in the Klondyke, had
faced too many real dangers to be greatly disturbed by the threat of
the Crimson Circle. For the moment his perturbation was based on a
more tangible peril, not to himself, but to his son.
“I’ve got a whole lot of faith in your good sense, Jack,” he said, “so
don’t be hurt by anything I’m going to say. I’ve never interfered in
your amusements or questioned your judgment--but--do you think that
you’re being wise just now?”
Jack understood.
“You mean about Miss Drummond, father?”
The older man nodded.
“She’s Froyant’s secretary,” began the youth.
“I know she is Froyant’s secretary,” said the other, “and she’s none
the worse for that. But the point is, Jack, do you know anything more
about her?”
The young man rolled his napkin deliberately. His face was red and
there was a queer set look about his jaw which secretly amused Jim.
“I like her. She is a friend of mine. I’ve never made love to her, if
that is what you mean, dad, and I rather think our friendship would be
at an end if I did.”
Jim nodded. He had said all that was necessary and now he took up a
more bulky envelope and looked at it curiously. Jack saw that it bore
French postage stamps and wondered who was the correspondent.
Tearing open the flap, the old man took out a pad of correspondence,
which included yet another envelope heavily sealed. He read the
superscription and his nose wrinkled.
“Ugh!” he said, and put the envelope down unopened. He glanced through
the remainder of the correspondence, then looked across at his son.
“Never trust a man or woman until you know the worst of them,” he
said. “I’ve got a man coming to see me to-day who is a respectable
member of society. He has a record as black as my hat and yet I’m
going to do business with him--I know the worst!”
Jack laughed. Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of
their guest.
“Good morning, Yale--did you sleep well?” asked the old man. “Ring for
some more coffee, Jack.”
Derrick Yale’s visit had been an unmixed pleasure to Jack Beardmore.
He was at the age when romance had its full appeal and the
companionship of the most commonplace detective would have brought him
a peculiar joy. But the glamour which surrounded Yale was the glamour
of the supernatural. This man had unusual and peculiar qualities which
made him unique. The delicate æsthetic face, the grave mystery of his
eyes, the very gesture of his long, sensitive hands, were part of his
uniqueness.
“I never sleep,” he said good-humouredly as he unrolled his serviette.
He held the silver napkin ring for a second between his two fingers,
and James Beardmore watched him with amusement. As for Jack, his eager
admiration was unconcealed.
“Well?” asked the old man.
“Who handled this last has had very bad news--some near relation is
desperately ill.”
Beardmore nodded.
“Jane Higgins was the servant who laid the table,” he said. “She had a
letter this morning saying that her mother was dying.”
Jack gasped.
“And you felt that in the serviette ring?” he asked in amazement. “How
do you get that impression, Mr. Yale?”
Derrick Yale shook his head.
“I don’t attempt to explain,” he said quietly. “All that I know is
that the moment I took up my serviette I had a sensation of profound
and poignant sorrow. It is weird, isn’t it?”
“But how did you know about her mother?”
“I traced it somehow,” said the other almost brusquely; “it is a
matter of deduction. Have you any news, Mr. Beardmore?”
For answer Jim handed him the card he had received that morning.
Yale read the message, then weighed the card on the palm of his white
hand.
“Posted by a sailor,” he said, “a man who has been in prison and has
recently lost a great deal of money.”
Jim Beardmore laughed.
“Which I shall certainly not replace,” he said, rising from the table.
“Do you take these warnings seriously?”
“I take them very seriously,” said Derrick in his quiet way. “So
seriously that I do not advise you to leave this house except in my
company. The Crimson Circle,” he went on, arresting Beardmore’s
indignant protest with a characteristic gesture, “is, I admit,
vulgarly melodramatic in its operations, but it will be no solace to
your heirs to learn that you have died theatrically.”
Jim Beardmore was silent for a time, and his son regarded him
anxiously.
“Why don’t you go abroad, father?” he asked, and the old man snapped
round on him.
“Go abroad be damned!” he roared. “Run away from a cheap Black Hand
gang? I’ll see them----!”
He did not mention their destination, but they could guess.