“The Red Circle”
It was Harvey Froyant’s boast that he trusted nobody completely. He
trusted the lawyer up to a point, but his known connection with
questionable people would have been alone sufficient to prevent Harvey
from trusting implicitly to his agent.
Two nights after the shooting of Inspector Parr the little lawyer
called on his employer, and he was all a-quiver with excitement. He
had traced one of the new series of bank-notes which the Crimson
Circle had taken from Brabazon.
“Now, we’ve got a good line on this, Mr. Froyant, and if we continue
in the direction we are going, we can certainly pick up the original
changer.”
But here Mr. Harvey Froyant was firm. He could not and would not place
the case completely in the hands of this man. So far might the
knowledgeable firm of Heggitt take him, but he would carry on the rest
through another agency. He said so in as many words.
“I’m sorry you won’t let me go on with it,” said the disappointed
Heggitt. “I have undertaken this search personally, and I can assure
you that there are only a few steps now between the man we discovered
with the money and the man you are looking for.”
Harvey Froyant knew that as well as the lawyer.
Jack Beardmore had spoken a great truth when he said that this mean
man would never be satisfied until he had recovered the money he had
lost. It was a goad and an irritation, a source of thought which kept
him awake at night and woke him in the morning with a sense of blank
despair.
And Harvey was well equipped to carry the investigations to their
final stage now that he had the ground clear for him. He had derived
his fortune from buying and selling land in every country in the
world. Beginning with practically no capital, he had, by personal
application to his business, built up a seven figure fortune. And this
had not been accomplished by sitting in an office and trusting to
subordinates. It had involved considerable travel, restless inquiry
and relentless probing into the private circumstances of negotiators,
a peculiarity he had shared with James Beardmore, though this he did
not know.
He took up his own case with alacrity, and informed neither Yale nor
Parr of his intentions.
As Heggitt had said, it was a fairly simple matter to trace the note,
for at least three stages. His investigations brought Mr. Froyant
successively to a money-changer’s in the Strand, a tourist office and
finally to a highly respectable bank. And here he was particularly
favoured, for it was a branch of one of the banks which conducted his
business.
For three days he pried and questioned, searched books--which he had
no right to search--and slowly but surely he came to a conclusion. He
was not, however, satisfied to leave the matter with the discovery of
the original passer of the note. Not even the bank manager, who gave
him facilities for examining private accounts, and was afterwards
reprimanded by his superiors for doing so, knew exactly what object he
had, or against whom his investigations were directed.
On the morning of the first day Froyant left hurriedly for France. He
spent only two hours in Paris, and the night found him on his way to
the south. Toulouse he reached at nine o’clock in the morning; here
again luck was with him, for an important official of the city had
been an agent of his in a purchase he had made a few years before.
Monsieur Brassard offered his guest an emphatic welcome, which Mr.
Froyant discounted on the ground that his former agent was under the
impression that a new deal and a new commission was in prospect. This
seemed to be the case, for he was less enthusiastic when he learnt the
object of the visit.
“I do not trouble myself with these matters,” he said, shaking his
head, “for although I am a lawyer, my dear Mr. Froyant, my practice
does not touch the criminal court.” He stroked his long beard
thoughtfully. “I remember Marl very well indeed--Marl and another man,
an Englishman, I think.”
“A man named Lightman?”
“Yes, that was the fellow. Good gracious, yes!” He made a grimace of
disgust. “Of course, that is common history,” he went on. “They were
scoundrels, those men. One shot the cashier and the watchman of the
Nimes Bank, and there were two murders here in Toulouse with which
their names were associated. I remember their names very well--and the
terrible incident!” He shook his head.
“What terrible incident?” asked Mr. Froyant curiously.
“It was when Lightman was led to execution. I think our executioners
must have been drunk, for the knife did not work; twice, three times
it fell, but only just touched his neck. And when the horrified
spectators interfered--you know our French people are very
emotional--there would have been a riot if they had not taken the
prisoner back to gaol. Yes, the Red Circle escaped the knife.”
Mr. Froyant, who was sipping a cup of coffee, leapt to his feet,
overturning the cup and its contents.
“The what?” he almost shouted.
Mr. Brassard looked at him open-mouthed.
“Why, what is wrong, m’sieur?” he asked, one eye on the damaged
carpet.
“The Red Circle! What do you mean?” demanded Froyant, trembling with
excitement.
“That was Lightman,” nodded Brassard, astonished at the effect his
words produced. “It was his public name. But my clerk will know more,
for he was interested in the matter, which I was not.”
He rang the bell, and an elderly Frenchman came in.
“Do you remember the Red Circle, Jules?”
The aged Jules nodded.
“Very well, m’sieur. I was at the execution. What horror!” He raised
his two hands in an expressive gesture.
“Why was he called the Red Circle?” demanded Froyant.
“Because of a mark.” The man drew his long finger about his neck.
“Around his throat, m’sieur, was a red circle; it was the colour of
his skin, and it was a legend long before the execution that no knife
would ever touch him, for such marks are said to be charmed. I think
it was a birth-mark, but I know that on the way to the execution I met
a great number of people--my friend Thiep, for example--who were sure
that the execution would not take place. If they were as sure that the
executioner and his assistants would be drunk,” added Jules, “and that
they had put up the guillotine in the morning so badly that the knife
would not work, I think they would have been more intelligent.”
Mr. Froyant was now breathing quickly.
Little by little the truth was being revealed, and now he saw the
whole thing clearly.
“What happened to the Red Circle?” he asked.
“I do not know,” shrugged Jules. “He was sent to one of the island
settlements, but Marl was released because he had given evidence for
the Republic. I heard some time ago that Lightman had escaped, but I
don’t know how true that is.”
Lightman had escaped, as Froyant had already guessed. He passed that
day in a feverish search of all available documents, in a visit to the
Public Prosecutor, and he ended a strenuous twelve hours in the bureau
of the prison governor, examining photographs.
It may be said that Mr. Harvey Froyant went to bed that night in the
Hotel Anglaise with a feeling of complete satisfaction, and with the
added pleasure that he had succeeded where the cleverest police had
failed. The secret of the Crimson Circle was no longer a secret.