The Tenant of River House
Mr. Brabazon sat in a chill upper room of River House, eating slowly
a large portion of bread and cheese. He wore the dress suit he was
wearing when the warning came to him, and he was a ludicrous figure in
the smartly-fitting, but now soiled and dusty garb. His white shirt
was grey with the grime of the house, he was collarless, and his
general air of dissipation was heightened by the stubbly beard that
decorated his face.
He finished his repast, opened the window carefully and threw out the
remnants of bread, and passing through the trap-door, he descended the
ladder and made his way to the big kitchen at the back of the house.
He had neither soap nor towel, but he made some attempt to wash
himself without their aid, utilising one of the two handkerchiefs he
had brought with him to the house in his flight. With the exception of
the clothes he stood up in, an overcoat and the soft felt hat he had
seized when he made his escape, he was quite unequipped for this
undesirable adventure.
The provisions which the mystery man had brought the night after he
had reached his hiding place were almost exhausted (he had spent
twenty-four hours without any food whatever, but in his agitation had
not realised the fact until the stranger arrived carrying a basket of
foodstuffs). As to his nerves, they were almost gone. A week spent in
that hovel without communion with man, with the knowledge that the
police were searching for him, and that a long term of imprisonment
would automatically follow his capture, had played havoc with his
placid features, and to the solitude had been added the terror of a
search.
He had shrunk in a corner behind a door which opened to the inner room
leading to the garret whilst the detective had explored the room. The
memory of Derrick Yale’s visit was a nightmare.
He settled himself down in the old chair that he had found in the
house, to spend yet another night. The man whose warning had sent him
flying to cover must come soon, and must bring more food. Brabazon was
dozing when he heard the sound of a key put into the lock below and
jumped up. He tiptoed carefully to the trap-door and lifted it and
then he heard the booming voice of the stranger.
“Come down,” it said, and he obeyed.
The previous interview had been in the passage where the darkness
seemed thicker than anywhere else in the house. He had accustomed
himself to the darkness and walked down the rickety stairs without
mishap.
“Stay where you are,” said the voice. “I have brought you some food
and clothing. You will find everything you need. You had better shave
yourself and make yourself presentable.”
“Where am I going?” asked Brabazon.
“I have taken a berth for you on a steamer leaving Victoria Dock
to-morrow for New Zealand. You will find your passport papers and
ticket in the grip. Now listen. You are to leave your moustache, or
what there is of it unshaven, and shave your eyebrows. They are the
most conspicuous features of your face.”
Brabazon wondered when this man had seen him. Mechanically his hand
stole up to his shaggy eyebrows and mentally he agreed with the
mysterious visitor.
“I have not brought you any money,” the voice went on. “You have sixty
thousand which you stole from Marl--you closed his account, forging
his name to a cheque, believing that I would settle with him--as I
did.”
“Who are you?” asked Brabazon.
“I am the Crimson Circle,” was the reply. “Why do you ask that
question? You have met me before.”
“Yes, of course,” Brabazon muttered. “I think this place is driving me
mad. When may I leave this house?”
“You may leave to-morrow. Wait until nightfall. Your ship leaves on
the following morning, but you can get on board to-morrow night.”
“But they will be watching the ship,” pleaded Brabazon. “Don’t you
think it is too dangerous?”
“There is no danger for you,” was the reply. “Give me your money.”
“My money?” gasped the banker, turning pale.
“Give me your money.” There was an ominous note in the voice that
spoke in the darkness, and tremblingly Brabazon obeyed.
Two large packets of money passed into the gloved hand of the visitor,
and then:
“Here, take this.”
“This” was a thinner wad of notes, and the sensitive fingers of the
banker told him that they were new.
“You can change them when you get abroad,” said the man.
“Couldn’t I leave to-night?” Brabazon’s teeth were chattering now.
“This place gives me the horrors.”
The Crimson Circle was evidently thinking, for it was some time before
he spoke.
“If you wish,” he said, “but remember you are taking a risk. Now go
upstairs.”
The order was sharp and peremptory, and meekly Brabazon obeyed.
He heard the door close, and peering through the dusty windows, he saw
the dark shadow stalk along the path and disappear into the darkness.
Presently he heard the gate click. The man was gone.
Brabazon groped for the bag which the other had left and, finding it,
carried it to the kitchen. Here he could show a light without fear of
detection, and he lit one of the scraps of candle he had discovered in
his search of the house during the week.
The stranger had not exaggerated when he said that the bag contained
all that Brabazon required. But the banker’s first thought was to
examine the money which the other had put into his hand. They were
notes of all series and all numbers. His own had been in a series, and
yet they were new. He looked at them curiously. He knew that new
bank-notes were not usually issued higgledy-piggledy, and then he
guessed the reason. The Crimson Circle had blackmailed somebody and
had asked that the notes should not be numbered consecutively. He put
the money down and began to change.
It was a very smart Brabazon who stepped cautiously through the gates
carrying his bag an hour later, and yet so remarkable was the change
which the shaved eyebrows had made, that when, at eleven o’clock that
night, he passed one of the many detective officers who were looking
for him, he was unrecognised.
He had engaged a room in a small hotel near Euston Station, and went
to bed. It was the first night of untroubled sleep he had enjoyed for
over a week.
The next day he spent in his room, not caring to trust himself abroad
in daylight, but in the evening, after a solitary meal served in his
sitting-room, he went out to take the air. He was gaining in
confidence, and was now satisfied that he could pass the scrutiny of
the ship detective. He chose the less frequented streets and was
passing near the Museum when he saw a bill newly pasted on the
hoarding, and stopped to read it.
As he read, an idea took shape. Ten thousand pounds and a free pardon!
It was by no means sure that he would escape in the morning; more
likely was it that he would be detected, and at best what would his
life be? The life of a hunted dog, for which even his money would not
compensate him. Ten thousand pounds and freedom! And nobody knew about
the money that he had tricked from Felix Marl’s estate. He would put
that in a safe deposit in the morning, go straight to police
head-quarters with information which he felt sure must lead to the
Crimson Circle’s undoing.
“I’ll do it,” he said aloud.
“I think you’re very wise.”
The voice was at his elbow and he swung round.
A little, stocky man had walked noiselessly behind him in his
rubber-soled shoes, and Brabazon recognised him instantly.
“Inspector Parr,” he gasped.
“That’s right,” said the inspector. “Now, Mr. Brabazon, will you come
a little walk with me, or are you going to make trouble?”
As they went into the police-station, a woman came out, and the pallid
Brabazon failed to recognise his former clerk. He stood in the steel
pen whilst the story of his iniquities was told in the cold, official
language of the warrant.
“You can save yourself a lot of trouble, Mr. Brabazon,” said Inspector
Parr, “by telling me the truth. I know where you are staying--at
Bright’s Hotel in the Euston Road. You arrived there late last night
and your passage is booked in the name of Thomson to New Zealand by
the _Itinga_, which is due to leave Victoria Dock to-morrow morning.”
“Good God!” said the startled Brabazon. “How did you know that?”
But here Inspector Parr did not inform him.
Brabazon did not intend lying. He told everything he knew. All that
had happened from the moment he was called by telephone and told to
make a get-away, until he was arrested.
“So you were in the house all the time?” said the inspector
thoughtfully. “How did you come to escape Mr. Yale’s search?”
“Oh, was it Yale?” said Brabazon. “I thought it was you. There was an
inner room--just a little storehouse, I think it was in the old
times--I got behind the door and hid. He came almost to the door. I
nearly died with fright.”
“So Yale was right again. You were there!” said the inspector speaking
half to himself. “Now, what are you going to do about it, Brabazon?”
“I’m going to tell you all I know about the Crimson Circle, and I
think I can give you information which will lead to his arrest. But
you’ll have to be smart.”
He was recovering something of his old pomposity, Parr observed.
“I told you that he exchanged my notes for his, and his notes for
mine. I’m sure he did that because he was afraid of the numbers being
taken, but my notes were in a series--series E.19, and I can give you
the number of every one of them,” he went on easily. “He wouldn’t
change the stuff he got.”
“That was Froyant’s money, I think,” said the inspector. “Yes, go on.”
“He dare not change that, but he will change mine. Don’t you see what
a chance this gives to you?”
The inspector was a little sceptical. Nevertheless, after Brabazon had
been locked in the cell, he called up Froyant on the ’phone and told
him as much of what had happened as was necessary for him to know.
“You’ve got the money?” said Froyant eagerly. “Come up to the house at
once.”
“I’ll bring it up to the house with pleasure,” replied Parr, “but I
feel I ought to warn you that this is not your money, although it is
the actual cash that was transferred by you to the Crimson Circle.”
Later on, in Mr. Froyant’s presence, he explained the situation. That
spare man made no attempt to hide his disappointment, for he seemed to
think that in whatever circumstances the money was recovered, he was
entitled to claim. After a while Inspector Parr got him into a more
reasonable frame of mind. Froyant was talking quite calmly on the
matter, when he suddenly broke off with the question:
“Have you the numbers of the notes which Brabazon handed to him?”
“They are easy to remember,” said Parr, “they belong to a series,” and
he recited the numbers, Mr. Froyant making a rapid note on his
desk-pad.