Читать книгу The Crimson Circle - Edgar Wallace - Страница 5

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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 criminal'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 aesthetic 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.