The Crimson Circle

Prologue The Nail

It is a ponderable fact that had not the 29th of a certain September been the anniversary of Monsieur Victor Pallion’s birth, there would have been no Crimson Circle mystery; a dozen men, now dead, would in all probability be alive, and Thalia Drummond would certainly never have been described by a dispassionate inspector of police as “a thief and the associate of thieves.”

M. Pallion entertained his three assistants to dinner at the Coq d’Or in the city of Toulouse, and the proceedings were both joyous and amiable. At three o’clock in the morning it dawned upon M. Pallion that the occasion of his visit to Toulouse was the execution of an English malefactor named Lightman.

“My children,” he said gravely but unsteadily, “it is three hours and the ‘red lady’ has yet to be assembled!”

So they adjourned to the place before the prison where a trolley containing the essential parts of the guillotine had been waiting since midnight, and with a skill born of practice they erected the grisly thing, and fitted the knife into its proper slots.

But even mechanical skill is not proof against the heady wines of southern France, and when they tried the knife it did not fall truly.

“I will arrange this,” said M. Pallion, and drove a nail into the frame at exactly the place where a nail should not have been driven.

But he was getting flurried, for the soldiers had marched on to the ground.⁠ ⁠…

He heard the man behind him gasp, and laughed softly.

“Now, sir,” said the driver, “are you prepared for a consideration to act for me?”

“What do you want me to do?” demanded the man behind him shakily.

“I ask no more than that you should carry out my instructions. I will take care that you run no risks and that you are well paid. I am prepared at this moment to place in your hands a very large sum of money, which will enable you to meet your more pressing obligations. In return for this I shall want you to put into circulation all the money I send you, to make the necessary exchanges, to cover up the trail of bills and banknotes, the numbers of which are known to the police; to dispose of bonds, which I cannot dispose of, and generally to act as my agent⁠—” he paused, adding significantly, “and to pay on demand what I ask.”

The man behind him did not reply for some time, and then he asked with a hint of petulance:

“What is the Crimson Circle?”

“You,” was the startling reply.

“I?” gasped the man.

“You are of the Crimson Circle,” said the other carefully. “You have a hundred comrades, none of whom will ever be known to you, none of whom will ever know you.”

“And you?”

“I know them all,” said the driver. “You agree?”

“I agree,” said the other after a pause.

The driver half-turned in his seat and held out his hand.

“Why are you always so stiff and formal with me?” he grumbled.

For a second a ghost of a smile showed at the corner of her mouth.

“Because I’ve read books,” she said solemnly, “and poor girl secretaries who aren’t stiff and formal with millionaire’s sons usually come to a bad end!”

She had a trick of directness which was very disconcerting.

“Besides,” she said, “there is no reason why I shouldn’t be stiff and formal. It is the conventional attitude which people adopt toward their fellow creatures, unless they are very fond of them, and I’m not very fond of you.”

She said this calmly and deliberately, and the young man’s face went red. He felt a fool, and cursed himself for provoking this act of cruelty.

“I will tell you something, Mr. Beardmore,” she went on in her even tone. “Something which you haven’t realised. When a boy and girl are thrown together on a desert island, it is only natural that the boy gets the idea that the girl is the only girl in the world. All his wayward fancies are concentrated on one woman and as the days pass she grows more and more wonderful in his eyes. I’ve read a lot of these desert island stories, and I’ve seen a lot of pictures that deal with that interesting situation, and that is how it strikes me. You are on a desert island here⁠—you spend too much time on your estate, and the only things you see are rabbits and birds and Thalia Drummond. You should go into the city and into the society of people of your own station.”

“Let me go,” said Thalia steadily. She did not lose her nerve nor show the least sign of fear.

Suddenly he felt her tense muscles relax. He had conquered.

With a quick intake of breath he released his hold of the sullen girl.

“Let me have some supper,” she said, and he beamed.

“Now, my dear, you are being the little girl I⁠—what’s that?”

The last was a squeak of terror.

She had strolled slowly to the table and had taken up the brocade bag. He had watched her and thought she was seeking a handkerchief. Instead she had produced a small, black, egg-shaped thing, and with a flick of her left hand had pulled out a small pin and dropped the pin on to the table. He knew what it was⁠—he had dabbled in army supplies and had seen many Mills bombs.

“Put it down⁠—no, no, put the pin in, you young fool!” he whimpered.

“Don’t worry,” she said coolly. “I have a spare pin in my bag⁠—open that door!”

His hand shook like a man with palsy as he fumbled at the keyhole. Then he turned and blinked at her.

“A Mills bomb!” he mumbled, and fell back an obese mass of quivering flesh against the delicate panelling.

Slowly she nodded.

“A Mills bomb,” she said softly, and went out, still gripping the lever of the deadly egg-like thing. He followed her to the door and slammed it after her, then went shakily up the stairs to his bedroom.

She came into the alleyway 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 percent 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