“Have you opened it?” she asked quickly.
“No,” he answered in a tone of surprise. “Why do you jump at me like that?”
“Will you do me a favour, Jack?”
It was the first time she had ever called him by name, and she could almost see him redden.
“Why—why, of course, Thalia, I’d do anything for you,” he said eagerly.
“Don’t open the envelope,” she said intensely. “Keep all the papers relating to Marl in a safe place. Will you promise that?”
“I promise,” he said. “What a queer request to make!”
“Have you told anybody about it?” she asked.
“I sent a note to Inspector Parr.”
He heard her exclamation of annoyance.
“Will you promise me not to tell anybody, especially about the photograph?”
“Of course, Thalia,” he answered. “I’ll send it along to you, if you like.”
“No, no, don’t do that,” she said, then abruptly she finished the conversation.
She sat for a few minutes breathing quickly, and then she rose, and putting on her hat, she locked up the office, and went to lunch.
Chapter XXXV.
Thalia Lunches with a Cabinet Minister
The fourth of the month had passed, and Derrick Yale was still alive. He commented on the fact as he came into the office which he and Inspector Parr jointly occupied.
“Incidentally,” he said, “I have lost my fishing.”
Parr grunted.
“It is better that you lost your fishing than that we lost sight of you,” he said. “I am perfectly convinced that if you had taken that trip, you would never have returned.”
Yale laughed.
“You have a tremendous faith in the Crimson Circle, and their ability to keep their promises.”
“I have—to a point,” said the inspector, without looking up from the letter he was writing.
“I hear that Brabazon has made a statement to the police,” said Yale, after an interval.
“Yes,” said the inspector. “Not a very informative one, but a statement of sorts. He has admitted that for a long time he was changing the money which the Crimson Circle extracted from their victims, though he was unaware of the fact. He also gives particulars of his joining the Circle, after which, of course, he acted as a conscious agent.”
“Are you charging him with the murder of Marl?”
Inspector Parr shook his head.
“We haven’t sufficient evidence for that,” he said, blotted his letter, folded it and enclosed it in an envelope.
“What did you discover in France? I have not had an opportunity of talking to you about that,” asked Yale.
Parr leant back in his chair, felt for his pipe, and lit it before he answered.
“About as much as poor old Froyant discovered,” he said. “In fact, I followed very closely the same line of investigation that he had. It was mostly and mainly about Marl and his iniquities. You know that he was a member of a criminal gang in France, and that he and his companion, Lightman—I think that was the name—were condemned to death. Lightman should have died, but the executioners bungled the job, and he was sent off to Devil’s Island, or Cayenne, or one of those French settlements, where he died.”
“He escaped,” said Yale quietly.
“The devil he did.” Mr. Parr looked up. “Personally, I wasn’t so interested in Lightman as I was in Marl.”
“Do you speak French, Parr?” asked Yale suddenly.
“Fluently,” was the reply, and the inspector looked up. “Why do you ask?”
“I have no reason, except that I wondered how you pursued your inquiries.”
“I speak French—very well,” said Parr, and would have changed the subject.
“And Lightman escaped,” said Yale softly. “I wonder where he is now.”
“That is a question I have never troubled to ask myself.” There was a note of impatience in the inspector’s voice.
“You were not the only person interested in Marl, apparently. I saw a note on your desk from young Beardmore, saying that he had discovered some papers relating to the late Felix. His father had also made inquiries about the man. Of course, James Beardmore would. He was a cautious man.”
He was lunching with the Commissioner, Mr. Parr learnt, and was not at all hurt that he was excluded from the invitation. He was very busy in these days, selecting the men who were to form the bodyguard of the Cabinet, and he could well afford to miss engagements which invariably bored him.
As it happens, his company would have been a great embarrassment, for Yale had something to communicate to the Commissioner, something which it was not well that Inspector Parr should hear. It was near to the end of the meal that he dropped his bombshell, and it was so effective that the Commissioner fell back in his chair and gasped.
“Somebody at police head-quarters,” he said incredulously. “Why, that is impossible, Mr. Yale.”
Derrick Yale shook his head.
“I wouldn’t say anything was impossible, sir,” he said, “but doesn’t it seem to you that all the evidence tends to support that idea? Every effort that we make to bring about the undoing of the Crimson Circle is anticipated. Somebody having access to the cell of Sibly, killed him. Who but a person having authority from head-quarters? Take the case of Froyant: there were a number of detectives on duty round and about the house; nobody apparently came in and nobody went out.”
The Commissioner was calmer now.
“Let us have this thing clear, Mr. Yale,” he said. “Are you accusing Parr?”
Derrick Yale laughed and shook his head.
“Why, of course not,” he said. “I cannot imagine Parr having a single criminal instinct. Only if you will think the matter out,” he leant over the table and lowered his voice, “and will go into every detail and every crime that the Crimson Circle has committed, you cannot fail to be struck by this fact: that, hovering in the background all the time was somebody in authority.”
“Parr?” said the Commissioner.
Derrick Yale bit his lower lip thoughtfully.
“I don’t want to think of Parr,” he said. “I would rather think of him as being victimised by a subordinate he trusts. You quite understand,” he went on quickly, “that I should not hesitate to accuse Parr if my discoveries took me in that direction. I would not even free you, sir, from suspicion, if you gave me cause.”
The Commissioner looked uncomfortable.
“I can assure you that I know nothing whatever about the Crimson Circle,” he said gruffly, and realising the absurdity of his protest, laughed.
“Who is that girl over there?” he pointed to a couple who were dining in a corner of the big restaurant. “She keeps looking across toward you.”
“That girl,” said Mr. Derrick Yale carefully, “is a young lady named Thalia Drummond, and her companion, unless I am greatly mistaken, is the Honourable Raphael Willings, a member of the Government and one who has been threatened by the Crimson Circle.”
“Thalia Drummond?” The Commissioner whistled. “Isn’t she the young person who was in very serious trouble some time ago? She was Froyant’s secretary, was she not?”
The other nodded.
“She is an enigma to me,” he said, shaking his head, “and the greatest mystery of all is her nerve. At this precise moment she is supposed to be sitting in my office answering telephone calls and dealing with any correspondence which may arrive.”
“You employ her, do you?” asked the astonished Commissioner, and then with a little smile, “I agree with you about her nerve, but how does a girl of that class come to be acquainted with Mr. Willings?”
Here Derrick Yale was not prepared to supply an answer.
He was still sitting with the Commissioner when he saw the girl rise and, followed by her companion, walk slowly down the room. Her way led her past his table, and she met his enquiring glance with a smile and a little nod, and said something over her shoulder to the middle-aged man who was following her.
“How is that for nerve?” asked Derrick.
“I should imagine you’d have something to say to the young lady,” was the Commissioner’s only comment.
Derrick Yale was very seldom conventional, either in his speech or his behaviour, but for once he found it difficult to deal with a painful situation other than in the time-honoured way.
The girl had reached the office a few minutes before him, and she was taking off her hat when he came in.
“One moment, Miss Drummond,” he said. “I have a few words to say to you before you continue your work. Why were you away from the office at lunch time? I particularly asked you to be here.”
“And Mr. Willings particularly asked me to go to lunch,” said Thalia with an innocent smile, “and as he is a member of the Government, I am sure you would not have liked me to refuse.”
“How did you come to know Mr. Willings?”
She looked at him up and down with that cool, insolent glance of hers.
“There are many ways one may meet men,” she said. “One may advertise for them in the matrimonial newspapers, or one may meet them in the park, or one may be introduced to them. I was introduced to Mr. Willings.”
“When?”
“This morning,” she said, “at about two o’clock. I sometimes go to dances at Merros Club,” she explained. “It is the relaxation which my youth excuses. That is where we became acquainted.”
Yale took some money from his pocket and laid it on the desk.
“There is your week’s wages, Miss Drummond,” he said without heat. “I shall not require your services after this afternoon.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Aren’t you going to reform me?” she asked him so seriously that he was taken aback. Then he laughed.
“You’re beyond reformation. There are many things I will excuse, and had there been a serious shortage in the petty cash, I could have overlooked that. But I cannot allow you to leave my office when I give you explicit instructions to stay here.”
She picked up the money and counted it.
“Exactly the sum,” she mocked. “You must be Scottish, Mr. Yale.”
“There is only one way that you could be reformed, Thalia Drummond.” His voice was very earnest, and he seemed to experience a difficulty in finding the right words.
“And what is that, pray?”
“For a man to marry you. I’m almost inclined to make the experiment.”
She sat on the edge of the desk and rocked with silent laughter.
“You are funny,” she said at last, “and now I see that you are a true reformer.” She was solemnity itself now. “Confess, Mr. Yale, that you only look upon me as an experiment, and that you have no more affection for me than I have for that aged and decrepit blue-bottle crawling up the wall.”
“I’m not in love with you, if that is what you mean.”
“I did mean something of the sort,” she said. “No, on the whole, I think I’ll take my dismissal and my week’s wages, and thank you for giving me the opportunity of meeting and serving such a brilliant genius.”
He ended the conversation as though he had made some business proposal which had been declined, and said something about giving her a reference, and there the matter ended for him. He went into his office, and did not even do her the honour of slamming the door after him.
And yet her dismissal was a serious matter for Thalia. It meant one of two things. Either that Derrick Yale seriously suspected her—and that was the gravest possibility to her—or else that her discharge was only a ruse, part of a deeper plan to bring about her undoing.
On her way home she recalled his reference to Johnson of Mildred Street. There might be something behind that beyond the revelation of the fact that he knew she was associated with the Crimson Circle, and he wanted her to know he knew.
When she reached her flat there was a letter waiting for her, as there had been on the previous night. The controlling spirit of the Crimson Circle was an assiduous correspondent as far as she was concerned. In the privacy of her own room she tore open the envelope.
“You did well,” (the letter ran). “You have carried out my instructions to the letter. The introduction to Willings was well managed and, as I promised you, there was no difficulty. I wish you to know this man thoroughly and discover what are his little weaknesses. Particularly do I wish to know his attitude of mind and the real attitude of the Cabinet towards my proposal. The dress you wore at lunch to-day was not quite good enough. Do not spare expense in the matter of costume. Derrick Yale is dismissing you this afternoon, but that need not trouble you, for there is no further need for you to stay in his office. You are dining to-night with Willings. He is particularly susceptible to feminine charms. If possible, let him invite you to his house. He has a collection of ancient swords of which he is very proud. You will then be able to discover the lay of the house.”
She looked into the envelope. There were two crisp notes for a hundred pounds, and as she put them into her little hand-bag her face was very grave.
Chapter XXXVI.
The Circle Meets
Mr. Raphael Willings was a product of his age. Though he was still in the early forties, he had pushed himself into Cabinet rank by the sheer force of his character. To describe him as a popular Minister would be to stretch the truth beyond permissible bounds. He was neither popular with his colleagues, nor with the country who, whilst recognising his remarkable powers and acclaiming him as the greatest of the parliamentary orators, nevertheless distrusted him. He had given so many proofs of his insincerity that it was remarkable that he should have attained to the position he occupied.
But he had a number of followers. Men who were unwavering in their faith, who could be depended upon to vote steadily at the lift of his finger, and the Government majority was too small to risk the exclusion of the Willings’ bloc.
Amongst his colleagues he had a bad name. It is not necessary to particularise the circumstances which produced his reputation, but it is a notorious fact that he escaped appearing in an unsavoury divorce case by the skin of his teeth. So unpopular was he that twice Merros Club and a fashionable night club of which he was a member and an habitué, were raided by the police in the hope of compromising this flighty politician. The raid had been planned by the wife of one of his colleagues, and that Willings was not unaware of the fact, was proved when the newspaper he owned aimed a bitter attack on the lady’s unfortunate husband, an attack so worded, so framed, that the Minister retired from public life.
A well-built man inclined to plumpness, slightly bald, there was no gainsaying his personal charm. He was under the impression that his introduction to Thalia Drummond had been skilfully manœuvred by himself. He would have been horrified to know that the lady who introduced him had received instructions that morning from the Crimson Circle to bring the introduction about. The Crimson Circle had its agents in all branches of life and in all classes. There were book-keepers, there was at least one railway director, there was a doctor and three chefs d’hotel amongst the hundred who obeyed the call of the Crimson Circle. They were well paid and their duties were not onerous. Sometimes, as in this case, they had no more to do than to bring about an introduction between two people whom the Crimson Circle desired to meet, but in every case their instructions came to them in exactly the same form.
The organisation of this great force was extraordinarily complete. In some uncanny way the chief of the Crimson Circle had smelt penury and disaster almost as soon as the suffering recipients of these two evil factors were aware that they were present. One by one they had been absorbed, each ignorant of the other’s identity, and profoundly ignorant of their master. He had come to them in strange places and circumstances. Each had his own function to perform, and generally the part which was played by the subordinate members of the league was ludicrously simple and unimportant.
A few members of the Circle had, in a panic, made statements to police head-quarters, and from them it was learned how simple were some of the tasks which were given out by the mystery man.
From fear of the tragic consequences of disloyalty, the majority of the Crimson Circle remained loyal to their unknown chief, and it was a remarkable tribute to his system of espionage, that when he sent forth his summons, as he did on the day Derrick Yale lunched with the Commissioner, calling every member of the Crimson Circle to the first meeting they had ever held, giving them the most explicit instructions as to the garb they should wear, and the means they should adopt to avoid disclosing themselves to their fellows, he omitted the waverers and the malcontents as though their very thoughts were written plainly before him.
To Thalia Drummond that meeting will always remain the most vivid and poignant memory of her association with the Crimson Circle.
The city contains many old churches, but none anterior in date to the church of St. Agnes on Powder Hill. It had escaped the ravages of the Great Fire, only to be smothered under by the busy city which had grown up about it. Enclosed by tall warehouses, so that its squat steeple was absent from the sky-line, it had a congregation which might be numbered on the fingers of two hands, although it supported a vicar who preached punctiliously every week to a congregation which was practically paid to attend. Once a churchyard had surrounded it, and the bones of the faithful had been laid to peace within its shadow, but the avaricious city, grudging so much waste building land, had passed Acts which had removed the bones to a more salubrious situation and had covered the place of family vaults with office buildings.
Entrance to the church was up an alley which led from a side passage and the figures which slunk along the unlighted way seemed to melt through the almost invisible doors into a gloom even thicker than the night.
For in the church of St. Agnes the Crimson Circle held the first and last meeting of his servitors.
Here, again, his organisation was marvellous. Every member of his company had received explicit orders telling him to the very minute when he must arrive, so that no two came together. How he obtained the keys of the church; what careful manœuvring he must have planned to bring the hour of meeting and the dispersal between the two periods when the lane would be patrolled by the City police, Thalia Drummond could only guess.
She came into the alley-way punctually, went up the two steps to a door which opened as she approached and was closed immediately she entered the lobby. There was no light of any kind, save for the faint light of night which filtered through a stained-glass window.
“Go straight ahead,” whispered a voice. “You will take the end of the second pew on the right.”
There were other people in the church. She could just distinguish them, two in each pew, a silent, ghostly congregation, none speaking to the other. Presently the man who had admitted her came into the church and walked to the altar rails, and at the first words she knew that the servants of the Crimson Circle sat in the presence of their master.
His voice was low and muffled and hollow; she guessed he wore the veil she had seen over his head the first night she had met him.
“My friends,” he said, and she heard every word, “the time has come when our society will be dispersed. You have read my offer in the public press; and you are interested to this extent, that I intend distributing at least twenty per cent. of the money which the Government must eventually give me amongst those who have served me. If there are any here who are nervous that we shall be interrupted, let me assure them that the police patrol does not pass for another quarter of an hour, and that it is quite impossible for the sound of my voice to reach outside the church.”
He raised his voice a little, and there was a hard note in it when he added:
“And to those who may have treachery in their hearts, and imagine that so widely announced a meeting might bring about my undoing, let me say that it is impossible that I shall be captured to-night. Ladies and gentlemen, I will not disguise from you that we are in considerable danger. Facts which may enable the police to identify me have on two occasions almost come to light. I have upon my tracks, Derrick Yale, who I will not deny is a source of considerable anxiety to me, and Inspector Parr”—he paused—“who is not to be despised. In this supreme moment I do not hesitate to call upon every one of you for an extraordinary effort of assistance. To-morrow you will each receive operation orders prepared in such detail that it will be impossible for you to misunderstand any particular requirement I have made known. Remember that you are as much in danger as I,” he said more softly, “and your reward shall be correspondingly great. Now you will pass out of the church one by one, at thirty seconds interval, beginning with the first two on the right, continuing with the first two on the left. Go!”
At intervals these dark figures glided along the aisle and vanished through the door to the left of the pulpit.
The man at the chancel rails waited until the church was empty and then he, too, passed through the door into the lobby and into the passage.
He locked the outer door and slipped the key into his pocket. The church clock was booming the half-hour when he called a taxi-cab and was driven westward.
Thalia Drummond had preceded him by a quarter of an hour, and in the taxi which carried her to the same end of the town she brought about a lightning transformation of her appearance. The old black raincoat which covered her to the throat, the heavy-veiled black hat, were taken off. Beneath it she wore a cloak of delicate silk tissue, covering an evening dress which would have satisfied her apparently exigent master.
She took off her hat and tidied her hair as well as she could, and when she stepped down at the flashing entrance of Merros Club and handed a small attaché case to the bowing attendant, she was a picture of radiant loveliness.
So Jack Beardmore thought. He was supping with some friends much against his will, for he hated the night side of life, when he saw her come in, and scowled jealously at her debonair escort.
“Who is he?”
Jack’s companion glanced across lazily.
“I don’t know the lady,” he said, “but the man is Raphael Willings. He is a big pot in the Government.”
Thalia Drummond had seen the young man before he had seen her, and she groaned inwardly. Half of what her host said she missed; her mind was completely absorbed in other directions, and it was not until a familiar phrase reached her ear that she turned her interest toward the Minister.
“Antique swords,” she said with a start. “I’m told you have a wonderful collection, Mr. Willings.”
“Are you interested?” he smiled.
“A little. In fact, quite a lot,” she said awkwardly, and it was not like Thalia to be at a loss for a reply.
“Could I ask you to come along to tea one day and see them?” said Raphael. “One doesn’t often find a woman who is interested in such things. Shall we say to-morrow?”
“Not to-morrow,” said Thalia hastily. “Perhaps the next day.”
He made the appointment then and there, writing it ostensibly on his cuff.
She saw Jack leave the club without a look in her direction, and she felt absurdly miserable. She did so want to talk to him and was praying that he would come over to their table.
Mr. Willings insisted upon driving her home in his car, and she left him with a sigh of relief. He did not harmonise with her mood that night.
There was a little forecourt to the flats in which she lived, and she had dismissed her admirer (he made no secret of this relationship) in the street outside. She had to walk a dozen paces to reach one of the two entrances, and even before she had sent her escort away, she was aware that a man was waiting for her in the darkened court. She stood on the pavement until Willings’s car had moved on, and then she came slowly toward the waiting man. He spoke for a minute in a voice that was a little above a whisper, and she responded in the same tone.
The conversation was of very short duration. Presently the man turned without sign or word of farewell, and walked quickly away and the girl entered her flat.
Though the man made no sign, he knew he was being followed. He had been waiting for ten minutes in the dark of the forecourt and had seen the stealthy figure in the doorway of a closed shop opposite the flats. Apparently, however, he was oblivious of the fact that somebody was walking behind him, somebody who he knew would presently overtake him and look into his face. He turned into a side thoroughfare where the street lamps were few and far between, and as he did so he slackened his pace. Presently the spy overtook him, choosing for the point of passing, a place within the radius of a lamp. He had bent his head to peer into the first man’s face when suddenly the quarry turned and sprang at him. The trailer was taken by surprise; before he could shout, a grip of iron was around his throat and he was flung half-senseless to the stone pavement. And then from nowhere in particular, appeared as by magic three men, who pounced upon the prostrate tracker and jerked him to his feet.
He glared round, dazed and shaken, and his eyes fell upon the man he had been set to watch.
“My God!” he gasped. “I know you!”
The other smiled.
“You will never be able to employ your information, my friend,” he said.
Chapter XXXVII.
“I Will See You—If You Are Alive”
Jack Beardmore went home savage and sick at heart. Thalia Drummond was an obsession to him, and yet he had every reason to believe the worst of her. He was a fool, a thrice-condemned fool, he told himself as he paced the library, his hands thrust into his pockets, his handsome young face clouded with the gloom of despair. He felt at that moment he would like to hurt her, punish her as she unconsciously had punished him. He flung himself down into his chair and sat for an hour with his head on his hands, covering the old ground which reason had so often trodden that it had left a worn and familiar track.
He got up sick and weary, and, opening a safe, took out a packet of documents and flung them on the table. It was the sealed envelope addressed to his father and unopened which interested him most, and he had a childish desire to open it if only to spite Thalia.
Why was she so anxious that he should not see the photograph which it contained? Was she so interested in Marl? He remembered with a scowl that she had spent the evening with that man on the night he died so mysteriously. He rose, and gathering the papers together, he carried them to his bedroom. He was so tired that he had not even the curiosity to probe into the mystery which attached to the photograph of an execution. He shivered at the thought of the grisly contents, and he dropped the package on his dressing-table with a little grimace and began leisurely to undress.
He quite expected that he would pass a sleepless night; his emotion and the state of his mind seemed to call for such an end to a miserable day, but youth, if it has its anguish, has also its natural reaction. He was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. And then he began to dream. To dream of Thalia Drummond; and in his dream, Thalia was in the power of an ogre whose face was remarkably like Inspector Parr’s. He dreamt of Marl, a grotesque terrifying figure, whom he somehow associated with Inspector Parr’s grandmother—that “mother” of whom he stood in such awe.
What woke him was the reflection of a light from the dressing-table mirror. The light had been extinguished when he sat up in bed, but, half-asleep as he was, he was certain that there had been a flash of some kind—it was hardly the season for lightning.
“Who is there?” he asked, and put out his hand to reach for the lamp. But the lamp was not there; somebody had moved it. Now he saw, and was out of bed in a second.
He heard a movement toward the door and ran. Somebody was in his grip, somebody who squirmed and struggled, and then he released his hold with a gasp. It was a woman—instinct told him that it was Thalia Drummond.
Slowly he put out his hand, groping for the electric switch, and the room was flooded with light.
It was Thalia—Thalia as white as death and trembling. Thalia who held something behind her and met his pained gaze with a tragic attempt at defiance.
“Thalia!” he groaned, and sat down.
Thalia in his room! What had she been doing?
“Why did you come?” he asked shakily, “and what are you concealing?”
“Why did you bring those papers up to your room?” she asked almost fiercely. “If you had left them in your safe—oh, why didn’t you leave them in your safe?”
And now he saw that she held the sealed packet containing the photograph of the execution.
“But—but, Thalia,” he stammered, “I don’t understand you. Why didn’t you tell me——”
“I told you not to look at the picture. I never dreamt you would bring it here. They have been here to-night searching for it.”
She was breathless, on the verge of tears that were not all anger.
“Been here to-night?” he said slowly. “Who have been here?”
“The Crimson Circle. They knew you had that photograph, and they came and burgled your library. I was in the house when they came, and prayed—prayed”—she wrung her hands and he saw the look of anguish on her face. “I prayed that they would find it, and now they will think you have seen the picture. Oh, why did you do it?”
He reached for his dressing-gown, realising that his attire was somewhat scanty, and in the warm folds he felt a little more assurance.
“You are still talking Greek to me,” he said. “The thing I understand perfectly is that my house has been burgled. Will you come with me?”
She followed him down the stairs and into his library. She had spoken the truth. The door of the safe hung drunkenly upon its hinges. A hole had been cut through the shutter and it was open. The contents of the safe lay upon the floor; the drawers of his desk had been forced open and apparently a search had been made amongst the papers on the desk. Even the waste-paper basket had been turned out and searched.
“I can’t understand it,” he muttered. He was pulling the heavy curtains across the window.
“You will understand better, though I hope you do not understand too well,” she said grimly. “Now, please take a sheet of paper and write as I dictate.”
“To whom must I write?” he asked in surprise.
“Inspector Parr,” she said. “Say ‘Dear Inspector.—Here is the photograph which my father received the day before his death. I have not opened it, but perhaps it may interest you.’ ”
Meekly he wrote as she ordered and signed the letter, which, with the photograph, she put into a large envelope.
“And now address it,” she said. “And write on it on the top left-hand corner, ‘From John Beardmore,’ and put after that ‘Photograph, very urgent.’ ”
With the envelope in her hand she walked to the door.
“I shall see you to-morrow, Mr. Beardmore, if you are alive.”
He would have laughed, but there was something in her drawn face, some message in her quivering lips, that checked the laughter on his.
Chapter XXXVIII.
The Arrest of Thalia
It was the seventh day following the meeting of the Cabinet, and, so far from agreeing with the terms of the Crimson Circle, the Government had made it known, in the most unmistakable terms, that it refused to deal with the Circle or its emissaries.
That afternoon Mr. Raphael Willings prepared for a visitor. His house in Onslow Gardens was one of the show places of the country. His collection of antique armour and swords, his priceless intaglios and his rare prints were without equal in the world. But he had no thought of his visitor’s antiquarian interests when he made his preparations, and he was less deterred than stimulated by a confidential document which had come to him, intimating in plain language the character which Thalia Drummond bore.
Thief she might be—well, she could take any sword in the armoury, any print on the wall, the rarest intaglio among his show cases, so long as she was pleasant and complacent.
When Thalia came she was admitted by a foreign-looking footman and remembered that Raphael Willings had only Italian servants in the house.
Warily she surveyed the room into which she was ushered. There were open windows at each end—which surprised her. She had expected to find a little tête-à-tête tea table. That was missing, and yet in this room was the cream of his collection, as she could see at a glance.
Willings came in a few seconds later, and greeted her warmly.
“Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die; perhaps to-day,” he said melodramatically. “Have you heard the news?”
She shook her head.
“I am the newest victim of the Crimson Circle,” he said gaily enough. “You probably read the newspapers, and know all about that famous company. Yes,” he went on with a laugh, “of all my colleagues I have the honour to be the first chosen for sacrifice; pour encourager les autres.”
She could not help wondering how, in these circumstances, Ralph Willings could preserve so unruffled a mien.
“As the tragedy is due to occur in this house some time this afternoon,” he was continuing, “I must ask you to extend your kindness——”
There was a tap at the door, and a servant came in to say something in Italian, which the girl did not understand.
Raphael nodded.
“My car is at the door, if you would honour me, we will have tea at my little place in the country. We shall be there in half-an-hour.”
This was a development she had not looked for.
“Where is your little place in the country,” she asked.
It was, he explained, between Barnet and Hatfield, and expatiated on the loveliness of Hertfordshire.
“I prefer to have tea here,” she said, but he shook his head.
“Believe me, my dear young lady,” he said earnestly, “the threat of the Crimson Circle distresses me not at all. Onslow Gardens is ‘paradise enow’ with so delightful a guest, but the police have been to see me this afternoon, and have changed all my plans. I told them that I had a friend coming to tea, and they suggested a more public rendezvous. The police, however, quite approve of my alternative scheme. Now, Miss Drummond, you are not going to spoil a very happy afternoon? I owe you a thousand apologies, but I shall be very disappointed if you refuse: I have sent two of my servants down to have everything in readiness, and I hope to be able to show you one of the loveliest little houses within a hundred miles of London.”
She nodded.
“Very well,” she said, and when he had gone, she strolled through the room examining its fascinating contents with every appearance of interest.
He came back wearing his greatcoat, and found her looking at a section of the wall which was covered with beautiful examples of the Eastern swordmaker’s art.
“They’re lovely, aren’t they? I’m so sorry I can’t explain the history of them,” he said, and then in a changed tone: “Who has taken the Assyrian dagger?”
There was undoubtedly a blank space in the wall where a weapon had hung, and a little label beneath the empty space was sufficient to call attention to its absence.
“I was wondering the same thing,” said the girl.
Mr. Willings frowned.
“Perhaps one of the servants have taken it down,” he suggested. “Though I have given them strict instructions that they are not to be cleaned except under my personal directions.” He hesitated, and then: “I’ll see about that when I come back,” he said, and he ushered her out of the room into the waiting limousine.
She could see that the loss of his precious trophy had disturbed him, for some of his animation had departed.
“I can’t understand it,” he said as they were passing through Barnet. “I know the dagger was there yesterday, because I was showing it to Sir Thomas Summers. He is keenly interested in Eastern steel work. None of the servants would dare touch the swords.”
“Perhaps you’ve had strangers in the room.”
He shook his head.
“Only the gentleman from police head-quarters,” he said, “and I’m quite sure he wouldn’t have taken it. No, it is a little mystery which we can put on one side at the moment.”
For the rest of the journey he was attentive, polite, and mildly amusing. Not once did he give the slightest hint that he entertained any other emotion towards her than that of a well-bred man for a respected guest.
He had not exaggerated the charms of his “little place” on the Hatfield Road. In truth, it lay nearly three miles from the main road, and was delightfully situated in the midst of rolling and wooded country.
“Here we are,” he said, as he led her through a panelled hall into an exquisitely decorated little drawing-room.
Tea was laid, but there was no servant in sight.
“And now, my dear,” said Willings, “we are alone, thank heaven.”
His tone, his very manner had changed, and the girl knew that the critical moment was at hand. Yet her hand did not tremble as she filled the teapot from the steaming kettle, seemingly oblivious to all that he was saying. She had poured out the tea and was setting his cup in its place, when, without preliminary, he stooped over her and kissed her; another second, and she was in his arms.
She did not struggle, but her grave eyes were fixed steadfastly on his, and she said quietly:
“I have something I’d like to say to you.”
“Well, you can say anything you wish, my dear,” said the amorous Willings, holding her tightly, and looking into her unflinching eyes.
Before she could speak again his mouth was against hers. She tried to get her arm between them, and to exercise the ju-jitsu trick she had learnt at school, but he knew something of that science. She had seen on entering the room that at one end was a curtained recess, and toward this he was half-lifting, half-carrying her. She did not scream, indeed, to Raphael, she seemed more yielding than he had dared to hope. Twice she tried to speak, and twice he stopped her. She struggled nearer and nearer to the curtained brocade.…
The two Italian servants were in the kitchen which was somewhat removed from the room, but they heard the scream and looked at one another, and then with one accord they flew into the hall. The door of the drawing-room was unlocked: they flung it open. Near by the curtain Raphael Willings lay on his face, three inches of Assyrian dagger in his shoulder, and standing by him, staring down at him was a white-faced girl.
One of the men jerked the dagger from his master’s back, and lifted him groaning to a sofa, whilst the other rushed to the telephone. In his agitation the Italian who was endeavouring to staunch the flow of blood from the wound, jabbered unintelligibly at the girl, but she did not hear him, and would not have understood him if she had.
Like one in a dream she walked slowly from the room, through the hall, and into the open.
Raphael Willings’s car was drawn up some distance from the front of the house, and the chauffeur had left it unattended.
She looked round; there was nobody in sight; then all her energies awakened, and she sprang into the driver’s seat and pressed the plug of the starter. With a whine and a splutter the engines started up, and she sent the car flying down the drive—but here was an obstacle. The iron gates at the end were closed, and she remembered that the chauffeur had had to get down to unlock them. There was no time to be lost. She backed the car, then sent it full speed at the gates. There was a smashing of glass, a crash as the gates broke, and she was in the road with a damaged radiator, lamps twisted beyond recognition, and a mudguard that hung in shreds. But the car was moving, and she set it spinning in the direction of London.
The hall porter of the flats in which she lived did not recognise her, she looked so wild and changed.
“Aren’t you well, miss?” he asked as he took her up in the lift.
She shook her head.
Once behind the door of her flat she went straight to the telephone and gave a number, and to the man who answered, she poured forth such a wild, incoherent story, a story so punctuated by sobs, that he found it difficult to discover exactly what had happened.
“I’m through, I’m through,” she gasped. “I can do no more! I will do no more! It was horrible, horrible!”
She hung up the receiver, and staggered to her room, feeling that she was going to faint unless she took tight hold of herself; hours passed before she was normal.
And it was in that condition that Mr. Derrick Yale found her when he called that evening—her old calm, insolent self.
“This is an unexpected honour,” she said coolly, “and who is your friend?”
She looked at the man who was standing behind Yale.
“Thalia Drummond,” said Yale sternly. “I have a warrant for your arrest.”
“Again?” she raised her eyebrows. “I seem always to be in the hands of the police. What is the charge?”
“Attempted murder,” said Yale. “The attempted murder of Mr. Raphael Willings. I caution you that what you now say may be taken down, and used in evidence against you.”
The second man stepped forward and took her arm.
Thalia Drummond spent that night in the cells of Marylebone Police Station.
Chapter XXXIX.
A Prison Diet
“As to what happened, I have yet to learn,” said Derrick Yale to a silent but attentive Inspector Parr. “I arrived at Onslow Gardens just after Willings had taken the girl away. The servants at the house were rather reluctant about giving me information, but I soon discovered that she had been taken to Willings’s house in the country. Whether she enticed him or he lured her is a matter for discovery. Probably he is under the impression that she went against her will. All along I have suspected Thalia Drummond as being something more than a servant of the Crimson Circle; naturally I was a little alarmed and flew off to Thetfield, arriving at the house just after she had left. She escaped in Willings’s car, smashing the lodge gates en route; by the way—that girl has got nerve.”
“How is Willings?”
“He will recover; the wound is superficial, but what is significant is the proof that the crime was premeditated. Willings only missed the dagger with which he was stabbed this afternoon, after he had left the girl alone in his armoury whilst he put on his overcoat. He thinks she must have carried it in her muff, and that, of course, is very likely. He gives me no very clear account of what were the events which immediately preceded the stabbing.”
“H’m,” said Inspector Parr. “What sort of a room was it? I mean, the room where this nearly—occurred?”
“A pretty little drawing-room communicating with what Willings calls his Turkish room. It is a marvellous replica of an Eastern interior, and I should imagine the scene of more or less disreputable happenings—Willings hasn’t the best of reputations. It is only separated from the drawing-room by a curtain, and it was near the curtain that he was found.”
Mr. Parr was so absorbed in his meditation that his companion thought he had gone to sleep. But the inspector was not asleep; he was very wide awake. He was conscious of the appalling fact that once more whatever kudos attached to the latest of the Crimson Circle’s outrages went to his companion, and yet he did not grudge him the honour.
Without warning he delivered himself of a sentiment which seemed to have no bearing whatever upon the matter they were discussing.
“All great criminals come to grief through trifling errors of judgment,” he said oracularly.
Yale smiled.
“The error of judgment in this case, I presume, being that they didn’t kill our friend Willings—he is not a nice man, and I should imagine of all the members of the Cabinet he could best be spared. But I for one am very grateful that these devils did not get him.”
“I am not referring to Mr. Willings,” said Inspector Parr rising slowly. “I am referring to a stupid little lie told me by a man who really should have known better.”
And with this cryptic utterance, Mr. Parr went off to break the news to Jack Beardmore.
It was typical of him that Jack was the first person who came to his mind when he learnt of Thalia Drummond’s arrest. He was fond of the boy, fonder than Jack could guess, and he knew, even better than Yale, how heavily the weight of Thalia Drummond’s guilt would lie upon the man who loved her.
Jack had already received his shock. The news of the girl’s arrest had been published in the stop-press columns of the late editions, and when Parr arrived he was the picture of desolation.
“She must have the best lawyers procurable,” he said quietly. “I don’t know that I ought to take you into my confidence, Mr. Parr, because you naturally will be on the other side.”
“Naturally,” said the inspector, “but I’ve got a sneaking regard for Thalia Drummond, too.”
“You?” said Jack in astonishment. “Why, I thought——”
“I’m human,” said the inspector. “A criminal to me is just a criminal. I have no personal grudge against the men I have arrested. Truland, the poisoner, whom I sent to the gallows, was one of the nicest fellows I’ve ever met, and I got quite fond of him after a bit.”
Jack shuddered.
“Don’t talk of poisoners and Thalia Drummond in the same breath,” he said testily. “Do you honestly believe she is the leading spirit of the Crimson Circle?”
Mr. Parr pursed his thick lips.
“If somebody came to me and told me the Archbishop was the leading light, I shouldn’t be surprised, Mr. Beardmore,” he said. “By the time this Crimson Circle business is settled, we are all going to have shocks. I started my investigations prepared to believe that anybody might be the Crimson Circle—you, or Marl, the Commissioner or Derrick Yale, Thalia Drummond—almost anybody.”
“And you still hold that opinion?” asked Jack with an attempt at a smile. “For the matter of that, Mr. Parr, you yourself might be the villain of the piece.”
Mr. Parr did not deny the possibility.
“Mother thinks——” he began, and this time Jack did actually laugh.
“Your grandmother must be a remarkable personality; has she views on the Crimson Circle?”
The inspector nodded vigorously.
“She always has had, since the first murder. She put her finger down on the very spot, Mr. Beardmore, but mother always could do that sort of thing. I’ve had my best inspirations from her; in fact, all the——” He stopped himself.
Jack was amused, but he was pitying, too. This man, so ill-equipped by nature for his work, had probably won himself a high place in the police service by dogged unimaginative persistence. In every service men had reached near to the top with no other merit than their seniority. It was just a little fantastic at this moment, when the keenest brains were exercised to lay this bizarre association by the heels, to hear this stout man talking solemnly of the advice he had received from his grandmother!
“I must come along and renew my acquaintance with your aunt,” said Jack.
“She has gone into the country,” was the reply, “and I’m all alone. A woman comes in every morning to clean the place, but there’s nobody there evenings—it doesn’t seem like home to me now.”
It was a relief to Jack to get on to the subject of Mr. Parr’s domestic affairs. Their very unimportance was a sedative to his racked mind. He felt that an evening spent with the inspector’s knowledgeable grandparent might even restore him to something like normality.
Parr himself led the conversation back to more serious channels.
“Drummond will be brought up to-morrow and remanded,” he said.
“Is there any hope of getting bail for her?”
Parr shook his head.
“No. She’ll have to go to Holloway, but that won’t do her much harm,” he said, heartlessly, as Jack thought. “It is one of the best prisons in the country, and maybe she’ll be glad of the rest.”
“How came Yale to arrest her? I should have thought that was your job?”
“I instructed him,” said Parr. “He has now the status of a regular police officer, and as he had been in the case earlier in the day, I thought I would let him continue it to the end.”
Just as the inspector had foreshadowed, the police-court proceedings of the next day were confined only to evidence of arrest, and Thalia Drummond was remanded in custody.
The court house was packed, and a big crowd, attracted by the sensational character of the charge, filled all the roads approaching the court.
Mr. Willings was not well enough to attend, but well enough to send his resignation to the Cabinet in response to the Prime Minister’s suggestion, contained in a letter couched in such unpleasant terms—and the acidulated vocabulary of the Prime Minister was notorious—that even he, the thick-skinned Willings, was pained.
Whatever happened, he was everlastingly disgraced; even the thick and thin supporters of his policy would be revolted by the evidence he must give. He had taken the girl—a comparative stranger—to his country house, made violent love to her, and had been stabbed. There could be no romantic version of that unpleasant story; and he heartily cursed himself for his stupidity.
Parr made one call upon the girl whilst she was in prison. She refused to see him in her cell, and insisted upon the interview taking place in the presence of a wardress. She explained her attitude when they sat together in the big gaunt waiting-room of the gaol, he at one end of the table and she at the other.
“You must excuse my not seeing you in my apartment, Mr. Parr,” she said. “But so many promising young emissaries of the Crimson Circle have met with an untimely end through interviewing policemen in their cells.”
“The only one I can recall,” said Parr stolidly, “is Sibly.”
“Who was a shining example of indiscretion.”
She showed her even white teeth in a smile.
“Now what do you want of me?”
“I want you to tell me what happened when you called at Onslow Gardens.”
She gave him a faithful and a detailed account of that afternoon visit.
“When did you discover the dagger was gone?”
“When I was looking round the room whilst Willings was putting on his coat. How is Lothario?”
“He’s all right,” said Parr. “I am afraid he will recover—I mean,” he added hastily, “I am glad to say he’ll get better. Was that the first time Willings noticed the absence of the dagger?”
She nodded.
“Did you carry a muff?”
“Yes,” she said. “Is that the place where the deadly weapon was supposed to be concealed?”
“Did you have your muff in your hand when you went into his house at Hatfield?”
She thought a moment.
“Yes,” she nodded.
Inspector Parr rose.
“You’re getting all the food you require?”
“Yes: from prison,” she said emphatically. “Prison food will suit me very well, thank you, and I do not want anybody, out of mistaken kindness, to send in luscious dishes from outside, as I understand prisoners on remand are allowed.”
He scratched his chin.
“I think you’re wise,” he said.
Chapter XL.
The Escape
The outrage upon Raphael Willings had produced something like a panic in the Cabinet.
Mr. Parr learnt how profound was the concern when he returned to head-quarters. And the Prime Minister was justified in his anxiety. The Crimson Circle had not stated when the next blow would fall, or upon whom.
The inspector was sent for to Downing Street, and was closeted with the Prime Minister for two hours. It was the first personal consultation he had had, and it was followed by a meeting of the inner Cabinet, a fact that was duly recorded in the newspapers.
It was said, but without authority, that the life of the Prime Minister had been threatened, and this statement was neither denied nor affirmed.
Derrick Yale, returning to his flat that night, found Inspector Parr waiting on the door-mat.
“Is anything wrong?” he asked quickly.
“I want your help,” said Parr, and did not speak again until he was sitting in a comfortable chair before the fire in Yale’s sitting room.
“You know, Yale, that I’ve got to go, and the Prime Minister is considering the advisability of my going a little sooner than I had expected. There has been a Cabinet committee appointed, and they are calling into question the methods which head-quarters are employing and I have been asked by the Commissioner to attend an informal meeting at the Prime Minister’s house to-morrow evening.”
“What is the idea?” asked Yale.
“I’m to give a sort of lecture,” said Parr gloomily, “and explain to the members of the Cabinet the methods I have employed against the Crimson Circle. You probably know that I have been given unusual powers, and that I have not been asked to tell the Government all I know. I intend doing that on Friday evening, and I want your help.”
“My dear chap, you have it before you ask it,” said Yale warmly, and Parr went on.
“There is still a lot about the Crimson Circle that is a mystery to me, but I am piecing it together. At the moment I am under the impression that there is somebody at police head-quarters who is working with them.”
“That is my view, too,” said Yale quickly. “Why do you say that?”
“Well,” said the slow Parr, “I’ll give you an instance. Young Beardmore had a photograph that he found in his father’s papers and this was posted to me. It arrived all right, with the seal of the envelope intact, but when I opened it, there was a blank card. I have since discovered that he gave that card to Thalia Drummond to post; he swears he stood on the doorstep and watched her slip it into the letter-box on the opposite side of the road. If that is the case, the envelope must have been tampered with after it reached head-quarters.”
“What kind of a photograph?” asked the other curiously.
“It was either a picture of an execution or the condemned man Lightman, for I think it was taken on the occasion when they tried to execute Lightman and failed. It came to old man Beardmore the day before his death—a great number of things seem to have happened to the victims of the Crimson Circle the day before their death—and was found by Jack and, as I say, sent on——”
“By Thalia Drummond!” said Yale significantly. “My view is that you can exonerate the people at head-quarters. This girl is deeper in the Crimson Circle than you imagine. I searched her house to-night—that is where I’ve been, and this is what I found.”
He went out into the hall and returned with a brown paper parcel, opened it, and the inspector stared.
A gauntlet glove and a long bright-bladed knife were exposed when Yale cut the string and stripped away the paper wrapping.
“This glove is a fellow to that which was found in Froyant’s study. The knife is an exact pair to the other.”
Parr took up the gauntlet and examined it.
“Yes, this is the left hand, and the one on Froyant’s desk was the right,” he agreed. “It is a worn motor-glove. Who was the owner? Try your psychometric powers, Yale.”
“I’ve already tried,” said the other, shaking his head, “but the glove has passed through so many hands that the impressions I receive are very confused. At any rate, this discovery confirms the theory that Thalia Drummond is in the business up to her neck. As to the other matter you were speaking about,” he said, as he wrapped the knife and glove carefully in the paper, “I shall be most happy to assist you.”
“What I want from you,” said Parr, “is that you shall fill in the spaces which I cannot fill,” he shook his head. “I only wish mother could be there,” he said regretfully.
“Mother?” said the astonished Yale.
“My grandmother,” said Mr. Parr soberly. “The only detective in England—bar you and I.”
It was the first time that Derrick Yale ever had reason to suspect that Mr. Parr possessed a sense of humour.
* * * * *
It was typical of that period of excitement, when the name of the Crimson Circle was on every tongue, that sensation should follow sensation. But probably no incident created so much excitement as that which, in scrawling headlines, greeted Derrick Yale as, sitting in bed sipping his tea, he read the newspaper the following morning!
Thalia Drummond had escaped!
People escape from prison in works of fiction; they have been known to make a temporary get-away from dread Dartmoor, but never before in the history of the prison service had a woman escaped from Holloway. And yet the wardress unlocking the door of Thalia Drummond’s cell in the morning found it empty.
It took a great deal to shock Derrick Yale, but the news temporarily paralysed him. He read the account of the escape word by word, and in the end he was as mystified as ever.
But there it was in cold print, officially admitted, and communicated to the early morning press by the Government with unnatural haste.
“Owing to the unusual importance of the prisoner, and the character of the offence alleged against her, extraordinary precautions were taken to guard her. The patrol which usually visits the ward in which her cell was situated, was doubled, and instead of hourly, half-hourly visits were paid by the officers on duty. It is not customary to look into every cell on these occasions, but at three o’clock this morning the wardress—Mrs. Hardy—looked through the observation hole and saw the prisoner was there. At six o’clock when the cell door was opened, Drummond was missing. The bars of the window were intact, and the door had not been tampered with.
“A search of the prison grounds showed no trace of her footsteps, and it is almost impossible that she could have escaped over the wall. It is equally impossible that she could have left by the ordinary means, since it would have necessitated her passing through six separate doors, none of which had been forced, or through the gate-keeper’s lodge, which is occupied throughout the night.
“This new proof of the Crimson Circle’s omnipotence and extraordinary powers is very disconcerting, coming, as it does, at a moment when the lives of Cabinet Ministers are threatened by this mysterious gang.”
Yale glanced at the clock. It was half-past eleven. And then he looked at the newspaper and saw that his servant had brought him an early edition of one of the evening papers. He was out of bed in a second and, not waiting for breakfast, rushed off to head-quarters, to find Inspector Parr in a very good humour, considering all the circumstances.
“But this is incredible, Parr, it is impossible! She must have friends in the prison!”
“That is my idea entirely,” said Parr. “I told the Commissioner in the identical words that she must have friends in the prison. Otherwise,” he said after a pause, “how did she get out?”
Yale looked at him suspiciously. It did not seem the moment or the occasion for flippant talk, and Inspector Parr’s tone was undoubtedly flippant.