XXX
The Silencing of Froyant
Harvey Froyant’s visit to France had not escaped attention, and both Derrick Yale and Inspector Parr knew that he had gone; so also did the Crimson Circle, if Thalia Drummond’s telegram reached its destination.
Curiously enough these telegrams and messages which Thalia was sending was the excuse for Derrick Yale’s call at police headquarters, on the very evening that Mr. Froyant was returning triumphantly from France.
Parr, returning to his office, found Yale sitting at the inspector’s table, delighting a small but select audience of police officials with an exhibition of his curious power.
His ability in this direction was amazing. From a ring which a police inspector handed him he told the mystified hearer not only his known history but, to his confusion, a little secret history of the man’s life.
As Parr came in his assistant gave him a sealed envelope. He glanced at the typewritten address, and then laid it on Yale’s outstretched hand.
“Tell me who sent that?” he said, and Yale laughed.
“A very small man with an absurd yellow beard; he talks through his nose and keeps a shop.”
A slow smile dawned on Parr’s face.
Yale added:
“And that isn’t psychometry, because I happen to know it is from Mr. Johnson of Mildred Street.”
He chuckled at the inspector’s blank expression, and when they were alone, explained.
“I happen to know that you discovered the place to which all the Crimson Circle messages were sent. I, on the contrary, have known of its existence for a long time, and every message which has been sent to the Crimson Circle has been read by me. Mr. Johnson told me you were making inquiries, and I asked him to give you a very full explanation in the addressed envelope which you sent to him.”
“So you knew it all the time?” asked Parr slowly.
Derrick Yale nodded.
“I know that messages intended for the Crimson Circle have been addressed to this little newsagent, and that every afternoon and evening a small boy calls to collect them. It is a humiliating confession to make, but I have never been able to trace the person who picks the boy’s pocket.”
“Picks his pocket?” repeated Parr, and Yale enjoyed the mystery.
“The boy’s instructions are to put the letters in his pocket, and to walk into the crowded High Street. Whilst he is there somebody takes them from his pocket without his being any the wiser.”
Inspector Parr sat down on the chair which Yale had vacated, and rubbed his chin.
“You’re an amazing fellow,” he said. “And what else have you discovered?”
“What I have all along suspected,” said Yale, “that Thalia Drummond is in communication with the Crimson Circle and has given him every scrap of information which she has been able to gather.”
Parr shook his head.
“What are you going to do about that?”
“I told you all along that she would lead us to the Crimson Circle,” said Yale quietly, “and sooner or later I am sure my predictions will be justified. It is nearly two months since I induced our friend who keeps a small newsagent’s shop to which letters may be addressed, to give me the first look over all letters addressed to Johnson. He wanted a little inducing, because our newsagent is a very honest, straightforward man, but it is my experience, and probably yours, that the mere suggestion that a man is assisting the cause of justice will induce him to commit the most outrageous acts of disloyalty. I took the liberty of suggesting, without stating, that I was a regular police officer; I hope you don’t mind.”
“There are times when I think you should be a regular police officer,” said Parr. “So Thalia Drummond is in communication with the Crimson Circle?”
“I shall continue to employ her, of course,” said Yale. “The closer she is to me, the less dangerous she will be.”
“Why did Froyant go abroad?” asked Parr.
The other shrugged his shoulders.
“He has many business connections abroad, and probably is engaged in a deal. He owns about a third of the vineyards in the Champagne. I suppose you know that?”
The inspector nodded. Then, for some reason or other, a silence fell upon them. Each man was busy with his own thoughts, and Mr. Parr particularly was thinking of Froyant, and wondering why he had gone to Toulouse.
“How did you know he had gone to Toulouse?” asked Derrick Yale.
The question was so unexpected, such a startling continuation of his own thoughts, that Parr jumped.
“Good heavens!” he said, “can you read a man’s mind?”
“Sometimes,” said Yale, unsmilingly. “I thought he had gone to Paris.”
“He went to Toulouse,” said the inspector shortly, and did not explain how he came to know.
Possibly nothing Derrick Yale had ever done, no demonstration he had given of his gifts, had so disconcerted this placid inspector of police as that experiment in thought transference. It alarmed, indeed, frightened him, and he was still shaken in his mind when Harvey Froyant’s telephone call came through.
“Is that you, Parr? I want you to come to my house. Bring Yale with you. I have a very important communication to make.”
Inspector Parr hung up the receiver deliberately.
“Now, what the devil does he know?” he said, speaking to himself, and Derrick Yale’s keen eyes, which had not left the inspector’s face all the time he was speaking, shone for a moment with a strange light.
Thalia Drummond had finished her simple dinner and was engaged in the domestic task of darning a stocking. Her undomestic task, which was of greater urgency, was to prevent herself thinking of Jack Beardmore. There were times when the thought of him was an acute agony, and since such moments of quietness and solitude as these were favourable for such meditation, she had just put down her work and turned to something new for distraction, when the door bell rang.
It was a district messenger, and he carried in his hand a square parcel that looked like a boot box.
It was addressed to her in pen-printed characters, and she had a little flutter at her heart as she realised from whom it had come.
Back in her room she cut the string and opened the box. On the top lay a letter which she read. It was from the Crimson Circle, and ran:
You know the way into Froyant’s house. There is an entrance from the garden into the bombproof shelter beneath his study. Gain admission, taking with you the contents of this box. Wait in the underground room until I give you further instructions.
She lifted out the contents of the box. The first article was a large gauntlet glove that reached almost to her elbow. It was a man’s glove, and left-handed. The only other thing in the box was a long, sharp-pointed knife with a cup-like guard. She handled it carefully, feeling the edge; it was as sharp as a razor. For a long time she sat looking at the weapon and the glove, and then she got up and went to the telephone and gave a number. She waited for a long time, until the operator told her there was no answer.
At nine o’clock.
She looked at her watch. It was past eight already, and she had no time to lose. She put the glove and the knife in a big leather handbag, wrapped herself in her cloak, and went out.
Half an hour later, Derrick Yale and Mr. Parr ascended the steps of Froyant’s residence and were admitted by a servant. The first thing Derrick Yale noticed was that the passage was brilliantly illuminated; all the lights in the hall were on, and even the lamps on the landing above were in full blaze, a curious circumstance, remembering Mr. Harvey Froyant’s parsimony. Usually he contented himself with one feeble light in the hall, and any room in the house that was not in use was in darkness.
The library was a room opening from the main hall; the door was wide open, and the visitors saw that the room was as brilliantly lighted as the hall.
Harvey Froyant was sitting at his desk, a smile on his tired face, but for all his weariness there was self-satisfaction in every gesture, every note in his voice.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said almost jovially, “I’m going to give you a little information which I think will startle and amuse you.” He chuckled and rubbed his hands. “I have just called up the Chief Commissioner, Parr,” he said, peering up at the stout detective. “In a case like this one wants to be on the safe side. Anything may happen to you two gentlemen after you leave this house, and we cannot have too many people in our secret. Will you take your overcoats off? I am going to tell you a story which may take some time.”
At that moment the telephone bell trilled, and they stood watching him as he took down the receiver.
“Yes, yes, colonel,” he said. “I have a very important communication to make; may I call you up in a second or two? You will be there? Good.” He replaced the instrument. They saw him frown undecidedly, and then:
“I think I’ll talk to the colonel now, if you don’t mind stepping into another room and closing the door. I don’t want to anticipate the little sensation which I am creating.”
“Certainly,” said Parr, and walked from the room.
Derrick Yale hesitated.
“Is this communication about the Crimson Circle?”
“I will tell you,” said Mr. Froyant. “Just give me five minutes and then you shall have your thrill of sensation.”
Derrick Yale laughed, and Parr, who had reached the hall, smiled in sympathy.
“It takes a lot to thrill me,” said Derrick.
He came out of the room, stood for a moment with the door edge in his hand.
“And afterwards I think I shall be able to tell you something about our young friend Drummond,” he said. “Oh, I know you’re not interested, but this little fact will interest you perhaps as much as the story you are going to tell us.”
Parr saw him smile, and guessed that Froyant had growled something uncomplimentary about Thalia Drummond.
Derrick Yale closed the door softly.
“I wonder what his sensation is, Parr,” he mused thoughtfully. “And what the dickens has he to tell your colonel?”
They walked into the front drawing-room, which was equally well lighted.
“This is unusual, isn’t it, Steere?” said Derrick Yale, who knew the butler.
“Yes, sir,” said the stately man. “Mr. Froyant is not as a rule extravagant in the matter of current. But he told me that he’d want all the lights tonight, and that he was not taking any risks, whatever that might mean. I’ve never known him to do such a thing. He’s got two loaded revolvers in his pocket—that is what strikes me as queer. He hates firearms, does Mr. Froyant, as a rule.”
“How do you know he has revolvers?” asked Parr sharply.
“Because I loaded them for him,” replied the butler. “I used to be in the Yeomanry, and I understand the use of weapons. One of them is mine.”
Derrick Yale whistled and looked at the inspector.
“It looks as if he not only knows the Crimson Circle, but he expects a visit,” he said. “By the way, have you any men on hand?”
Parr nodded.
“There are a couple of detectives in the street; I told them to hang around in case they were wanted,” he said.
They could not hear Froyant’s voice at the telephone, for the house was solidly built, and the walls were thick.
Half an hour passed, and Yale grew impatient.
“Will you ask him if he wants us, Steere?” he said, but the butler shook his head.
“I can’t interrupt him, sir. Perhaps one of you gentlemen would go in. We never go in unless we are rung for.”
Parr was halfway out of the room, and in an instant had flung open the door of Harvey Froyant’s study. The lights were blazing, and he had no doubt of what had happened from the second his eyes fell upon the figure huddled back in his chair. Harvey Froyant was dead. The handle of a knife projected from his left breast, a knife with a steel cup-like guard. On the narrow desk was a bloodstained leather gauntlet.
It was the startled cry of Parr that brought Derrick Yale rushing into the room. Parr’s face was as white as death as he stared at the tragic figure in the chair, and neither man spoke a word.
Then Parr spoke.
“Call my men in,” he said. “Nobody is to leave this house. Tell the butler to assemble the servants in the kitchen and to keep them there.”
He took in every detail of the room. Across the big windows which looked on to a square of green at the back of the house, heavy velvet curtains were drawn. He pulled them aside. Behind these were shutters and they were securely fastened.
How had Harvey Froyant been killed?
His desk was opposite the fireplace, and the desk was a narrow Jacobean affair which would have distracted any ordinary man by its lack of width, but it was a favourite of the dead financier.
From which way had the murderer approached him? From behind? The knife was thrust in a downward direction, and the theory that his assailant came upon him unawares was at least plausible. But why the glove? Inspector Parr handled it gingerly. It was a leather gauntlet, such as a chauffeur uses, and had been well worn.
His next move was to call the Police Commissioner and, as he had suspected, the colonel was waiting for a communication from Harvey Froyant.
“Then he did not telephone to you?”
“No. What has happened?”
Parr told him briefly, and listened unmoved to the almost incoherent fury of his chief at the other end of the wire. Presently he hung up the receiver and went back to the hall, to find his men already posted.
“I am searching every room in the house,” he said.
He was gone half an hour, and returned to Derrick Yale.
“Well?” asked Yale eagerly.
Parr shook his head.
“Nothing,” he said. “There is nobody here who has no right to be here.”
“How did they get into the room? The hallway was never empty except when Steere came into the drawing-room.”
“There may be a trap in the floor,” suggested Yale.
“There are no traps in drawing-room floors in the West End of London,” snapped Parr, but a further search had a surprising result.
Turning up one corner of the carpet, a small trapdoor was discovered, and the butler explained that in the days of the war, when air raids were a nightly occurrence, Mr. Froyant had had a bombproof shelter constructed of concrete in a lower wine cellar, ingress to which was gained by means of a flight of stairs leading from his study.
Parr went down the stairs with a lighted candle and discovered himself in a small, square, cell-like room. There was a door, which was locked, but, searching the body of Harvey Froyant, they found a master key. Beyond the first door was a second of steel and this brought them into the open.
The houses in the street shared a common strip of lawn and shrubbery.
“It is quite possible to get into here through the gate at the end of the garden,” said Yale, “and I should say that the murderer came this way.”
He was flashing his electric lamp along the ground. Suddenly he went down on to the ground and peered.
“Here is a recent footprint,” he said, “and a woman’s!”
Parr looked over his shoulder.
“I don’t think there is any doubt about that,” he said. “It is recent.”
And then suddenly he stepped back.
“My God!” he gasped in awestricken tones. “What a devilish plot!”
For it came upon him with a rush that this was the footprint of Thalia Drummond.