The white circle 1926

Contents

THE STRANGER IN THE NIGHT .

. MoNEY IN THE BANK .

An ATTACK IN THE DARK

Chapter I The Stranger In The Night

I went to sleep broke—as free from money as a bluefish is from wings. And I went to sleep sober, without a care or a worry. It wasn’t in me to drown my sorrow. I felt none—when a man comes back, he fights his way—not slops it. My life had been chuck full of adventure : South America, the gay boulevards of Paris, the shining steel in the hands of a vicious Arab in that romantic, forbidden section of the old hillside city of Algiers. Even the deadly, biting stillness of the jungle night in the sweating tropical climate of darkest Africa was not unfamiliar to me.

In New York I turned a little bank account into a fortune; the instinct to take chances made me in Wall Street, and that same instinct wiped me out. There was no kick. For two years I had lived, but there was nothing of romance in the city—the uncertainty of lurking foes, that living, breathing closeness to death that had ever been in my nostrils. 9

There was a certain pride, of course. I hated to give it all up—my club, my valet-secretary, the two cars and the stately brown stone house in the upper Eighties. I was getting to be a popular, dignified man about town, who had already gained entrance to exclusive society—if not ultra-exclusive, at least, ultrarich. My sense of humor helped me with these people.

Puppets, most of them, and at that the wires didn’t work so well, a jealous, planning, scheming, friendless people. Shrewd business, mad pleasure, hurrying youth. Yet, behind it all, some place was the thoughtless innocence of children. And—yes—I liked it. I was young and this was life.

Not a dollar in the bank, not a servant in the house, not a care in the world and—lI slept like a child.

Far below me in that darkened hall the great clock struck two. Yet it wasn’t that which woke me. I didn’t start—came bolt upright in bed. I lay quiet, listening intently, every nerve tense, every sense strained to pierce the blackness. Some one had walked across the room and sat down in a chair by the bed. How did I know?

Impossible perhaps to explain that—but spend your life close to death and you do know. I was absolutely certain that another was in my room. Nerves? There’s a laugh there—I haven’t any. The past was sweeping back on me as I lay quietly listening. Not another sound—not an outline as my eyes tried to penetrate the darkness.

THE STRANGER IN THE NIGHT 11

Two, three minutes passed, and we both played at this game of silence. A burglar? = Perhaps! Something amusing in that. An enemy of the past? Hardly—I had shaken that life completely. Was there a gun beneath my pillow? Not in over a year now. The temptation to go back to the old life was too strong. I had discarded that when I put on the clothes of respectability.

Then I caught it—the faintest intake of breath— close—there on my right, by the side of the bed. Slowly, carefully, I drew myself to a sitting position. I had located my man. I smiled grimly. My lips set tightly as I slipped a foot from beneath the covers. It wouldn’t be the first time that I had marked my man in the dark. Yes, and thrown myself upon him, too.

Was he armed? Perhaps — probably — but it’s all in the game and there was a thrill in the feel of tightening muscles—the echoing voice of the past. Two years now since I had gone into action, and the sense of danger was not an unpleasant one.

Came a sharp click—the suddenness of blinding light, and I was caught—one foot on the floor, one still under the bedclothes. The lamp by the side of the bed had been switched on. There was nothing to do but slip my bare foot back beneath the warm covers. I was looking full into the mouth of a heavy black automatic.

The face behind that gun was compelling—steady, gray eyes regarded me without a flicker and the knotted, skinny hand that held the gun was braced over the back of the chair upon which the man sat—one leg on either side of it—arms and elbows resting on the low back, and all the time the pistol pointed with a deadly accuracy straight between my eyes.

“Mr. Stacey Lee,’ his voice was steady and free from the slightest tremor, “I am sorry to come to you with a gun like a thief in the night, but it was the only way.” The thick, lifeless lips smacked with a dull sound as his tongue moistened them. Indeed, he was a very little and a very old man. “You have nothing to fear,’ he added, as if it were an afterthought.

“You have a steady finger, I hope.”” My voice was not entirely free from sarcasm. “Those things will go off, you know. And you're wasting your time— though you may help yourself without interference from me. I need my sleep. To-morrow is a big day.” I half threw myself back upon the pillows.

If he left my newly pressed suit and the two grips undisturbed, he was welcome to anything. To-morrow would see a parade of vulture-eyed creditors—to-morrow would see it, but not me.

He nodded, his wrinkled face cracking like dried parchment.

“Just so—a big day.” He repeated my words very slowly. ‘You are leaving the country then—to-morrow?”

THE STRANGER IN THE NIGHT 13

I swung half about, pulled myself up on the pillows again and gave this queer looking old man more attention. This was no haphazard visit then.

“You seem to know much of my business.” I eyed him carefully. “Perhaps you have a purpose in coming here—perhaps you are—” I stopped dead. ‘‘Creditor,” was the word I was thinking. Had the news of my sudden financial nose-dive slipped out?

“Much about your business—yes.’”’ And though his lips were hard and cold I was almost certain there was a twinkle in those deep gray eyes, a lowering of his yellow forehead beneath the thin, white strips of hair. “Your business is gone—your money is gone—all is gone, but your spirit perhaps. You have nothing to sell but that then—and that I am here to buy.”

“Ah—the devil himself.” I could not repress the smile. Yet there was nothing of looseness in those eyes. No drooping, inane expression about that determined mouth. No weakness of the chin. I was not dealing with a maniac—rather, a keen, scrutinizing, clear-eyed old man. What then was on his chest? So I played the game as I had so often played it before. The cards were in the hands of the man with the gun —let him play them. I waited.

Chapter II The White Circle

“WELL,” his left hand stroked his chin—his eyes narrowed as a man who carefully chooses his words, “frankly—I am here to offer you a business proposition—one that is filled with danger, adventure, even romance, and at times a sordid reality—which is life, as we see it. I want to help our people—I want to save some—I want to punish others—I want to make society a decent place for the young to live in—and I want you to help me.”

“A large order.” I whistled softly. Would it come to a case of humoring this old bird—then leading him home by the hand? No—honestly, I did not think so. There was a certain sincerity in his voice, a real determination behind, oh, behind that gun, if you’ll have it that way.

“Yes.” He fairly snapped out the word. “A large order—yet with the proper assistance, the inroads to success are already chalked out. This morning’s news! A young wife a suicide. Position—money—children —a happy home—a loving husband. Why? Melancholia—a morbid mind—a hidden brain disease. All 14 are discussed as possible causes, and yet it was murder —the same as if the man had driven the knife.

“Still, that murderer walks the streets a free man, rubs elbows with innocent children, respectable wives, good mothers. Blackmail, my friend—these vultures who prey upon the follies of youth—simple indiscretions. But enough—’” He waved his free hand, brushed his forehead, and I saw the sudden light die from his eyes—the color recede from his pasty, sunken cheeks.

“Come,” he leaned so far forward that I thought the chair would topple over, “I offer you a freedom from all debts, a salary that may suit your fancy, a banker who knows no limit, and the romance and adventure you have left—and now would seek again. I have watched you, known of you for five years. I want a man with a fast-thinking brain, a clear eye and a quick trigger finger.”

I stretched out a hand and lifted a cigarette from the little smoking table by my bed—slowly I lit it. The old man interested me—all nonsense, of course— a fanciful idea, and yet—

“You figure on killing all these—these vultures, as you call them?” I watched him closely now—the gun, too—would the moment come when I might have to make a quick lurch for it?

“What is this talk of killing?” And for the first time there was an irritable ring to his voice. ‘You think me a fool or a madman? I have money. I have brains. But I lack youth. I want a man who can protect himself as well as protect others. Come!’ he half stretched a hand toward me. ‘Much money—real life—and for a great good.” He rose, paced once across the room, then stood in the doorway.

“T know how you must take this visit, how you must feel toward the supposed fancy of an old man. But—’ a long, bony finger shot toward me, “if all that I say is true, if in the morning you find your bills met, your man returned and a balance at the bank—then what do you say? Will you do my bidding in all that an honorable man can?”

I stroked my chin.

“Your idea is that I should simply play the part of a —a modern Don Quixote?” Not that I took any stock—or at least much stock—in what he proposed. But the idea struck my fancy. I hesitated, looked long and earnestly at the little wrinkled stranger.’

“My idea is simply as you put it. A modern Don Quixote. We must protect those who cannot appeal to the law. The poor and the helpless; the unfortunate and the wronged. We must ever extend a helping hand to those who have fallen and would come back. That is my idea—already practiced with some success. And my reason—” his voice grew very low. “T once had a son.” He finished simply, but his lips came together with a dull, hollow click.

Did I believe him? No—the thing seemed too far-fetched for that. Was it sympathy, the lure of the whole fanciful idea? I don’t know. What did it matter? Perhaps I did not wish to hurt the old man’s feelings. Perhaps I simply wanted my sleep. But—

“Yes,” I said. “If what you tell me is true, I'll play your game.” Then, as an afterthought, “What do they call you?”

His sigh of relief was clearly audible. Quickly he changed the gun from the right hand to the left, stepped across the room and shook my hand.

“They call me,’ he spoke very slowly and his lips were one straight line, ‘“The White Circle.” He turned and with a short, sharp gesture of farewell passed out of the room.

His feet creaked upon the stairs as he slowly descended. It struck me forcibly as his unsteady footsteps passed away—what an effort, how cautiously and patiently he must have mounted those stairs! There was a slight jar from below, the dull thud of a closing door, and silence.

The little old stranger had passed into the night. How had he entered? But I shrugged my shoulders, pressed out my cigarette in the glass tray and switched off the light. It would take a dozen little old men with weird, fanciful tales to make me lose my sleep on such a night. No dull, sluggish brain would serve my purpose of the morning.

A modern Don Quixote—silly perhaps, yet there was something alluring to it. To help others and be paid for it; to feel the thrill of real life in the dull monotony of the great city; to— Bosh—impossible. I put it all out of my mind and passed quickly into a deep and untroubled slumber. Not to worry is the secret of youth.

Chapter III Money In The Bank

THE sun beating on my face from a suddenly drawn shade opened my eyes. Again it was the even keel of my luxurious living. I stretched, slowly knuckled the sleep from my eyes, and came bolt upright. My man had been dismissed a week before, and there he stood now. Oscar, I always called him, though that wasn’t his name—my secretary—my valet—my book of etiquette.

“Oscar.” I spoke somewhat sharply as he turned from the window, his face as expressionless as a London fog. ‘This good and faithful servant business is O. K., but as they say in the movies—the game’s up. Besides, when things get rolling this morning there may even be a demand for that hundred I gave you at parting.”

“The game’s up, monsieur?” He always said “monsieur” though Oscar was anything but French. “But I thought that the game was just beginning.”

Was there a touch of secret understanding in his voice? I regarded him closely.

“Oscar,” I never took my eyes from him, “why 19 did you come back?” The little old man, the talk of money, the bony fingers that had wrung my hand, the whole fanciful scene of the early morning was flashing before me.

“Your telegram, monsieur.” His eyes widened slightly. “Your change of plans, your inheritance, some discovered money, you were very careless about money.”’

“So I was, Oscar,” I nodded. “My telegram—certainly—I had forgotten. The time, now?’ I must think—consult my bank.

“Ten o’clock, sir.”” Oscar’s voice seemed to come from a long way off.

I sprang from bed, stepped into my little dressing room and telephoned my bank. There was nothing of surprise in my voice, just the simple question I had so often put to them of late.

“Stacey Lee—balance, please.’ And the voice that finally replied was the most pleasant and gracious I had yet heard from that institution. Even those who are used to having thousands pass through their hands unconsciously soften the voice when speaking to the individual possessor of a bank account above the average.

I breathed easier. The little old man may have had his fancies, but certainly he was willing to pay a stiff price to satisfy them. Also—in some way I was expected to earn the money. Good! I had no qualms on that score. Money, and an interest in life—could man

MONEY IN THE BANK 21 ask for more, if you’re inclined to be at all sentimental?

“You will have your coffee upstairs—until later you will read the paper and rest? And I must trouble you, monsieur.” With a deft twist he produced a check book and fountain pen from beneath his coat, much as a magician produces rabbits from a hat. “It is early, but already three nervous gentlemen await below. I am afraid, monsieur, that when you talked to them last week they misunderstood. Your tailor is the most offensive.” And Oscar’s nostrils contracted slightly.

Without a word I took the check book and sat down before the little flat desk. The checks seemed endless, the amounts stupendous. Half of them I signed— hesitated and looked up.

“You are sure, Oscar?” I asked.

“Absolutely, monsieur. This morning I went over the accounts again. Your telegram spoke of a deposit of ten thousand. And the cars,’ he continued as I wrote, “the touring. It might be as well to let it go. It has never done you justice—a sore eye to the establishment, if I may say so. Later perhaps we shall buy—”

“Just so, Oscar.” I blotted the last three checks, snapped the book closed and thrust it into his hand. “You will see these nervous gentlemen. And later, perhaps—if finances warrant it we shall buy the new touring.”

He half bowed as he closed the door behind him and passed softly down the stairs. Then in the hall below I heard him mildly censuring the hornlike notes of my former tailor.

A good servant, Oscar. Though angry voices barked below, they waited upon my coffee. From the window above I watched the scowling, determined men who marched boldly up my front steps. Each came in, a fearless, upright citizen demanding justice, and each went out, the humble, smiling tradesman. A new touch of life, that. What a difference, indeed, a few dollars will make.

For a week things went smoothly. I slipped easily back into my old life—and waited. And then one night, just after dinner, the expected visit came. Oscar, the placid, expressionless Oscar, ushered into my library the little old gentleman.

“We meet again, Stacey Lee,” he said with a smile. “That you have not tried to discover my identity is to your credit. I trust that you know why I have come.” He slipped easily into the chair which I pushed forward. “I trust further that you are of the same mind.” Once again those shrewd gray eyes snapped up at me.

I smiled easily.

“Not only have I not changed my mind,” I assured him, “but I am anxious to—to begin.”

He nodded and smiled, his head taking on that queer effect of being strung upon wire.

“We play at a desperate game—you and I.” The

MONEY IN THE BANK 23 slender cane that he carried shot out and tapped me on the knee. ‘‘You have heard of the Black Circle.”

“No.” I shook my head, then half humorously, “T have heard though of the White Circle.”

“The Black Circle,” he began, taking no note of my reference to the name which he had given a week before, “is a superior organization that preys upon the weak. Its leader is, I suspect, a man above suspicion.”’

“You do not know him then?” I had thought that my benefactor was working along more definite lines.

“No—I do not know him. His close associates do not know him. This man is the guiding hand of an unscrupulous gang of scoundrels. The meanest breed of criminals—blackmailers. Their resources seem unlimited and their activities enter even into the homes of our most respected citizens. You see, a victim who cannot pay is often the means of entrapping another— so this gang grows larger and more terrible as time goes on.

“If we could lay a hand on the leader—’ and his little body straightened and his thin, lifeless lips formed one straight line, “then—to expose him—to denounce him—would send the years of his plotting and scheming tumbling in ruin. When you can show his face to me I shall gladly put one hundred thousand dollars in your hands.

“Until then—we must protect the weak, punish those whose decadence makes them work for gain, free those whose fear makes them as putty in his hands.”

“His—business is good then?’ I had heard such stories of criminal organizations, but had always thought they practiced in the underworld—just on the seamy side of life.

“Good!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “If the truth were told there are not five families in ten who do not— perhaps only faintly—hear the rattling of bones in the closet. And the younger generation—” his wrinkled hands went far apart, “their eagerness for folly makes them an easy prey to these vultures of society.”

“But the law,” I started.

“Law!” he slid to the edge of the chair and leaned far forward, ‘There is no law to protect or punish in such cases. One has a letter, a secret, perhaps the knowledge of a crime. Money alone can buy silence. If the law steps in, notoriety comes out. Here is the vilest of criminal practices and one that fears no law. But they go too far—greed on occasions carries them beyond safety.

“T caught one—traced him through the pawning of a victim’s jewelry. Gad!” he smacked his lips, “that man knew the leader—he was killed the night I expected his confession. I had him, too—his victim had stolen the— But enough—there is an unfortunate lady whom we must protect at once.”

“And you have fought against these people—alone ?””

MONEY IN THE BANK 25

His frail body, his bent shoulders and his knotted, yellow hands were strangely at variance with his talk.

“Alone—” he rubbed the head of his cane across his chin. “For our purpose—yes—alone. With trick after trick I have met them—until the White Circle brought with it the chill of fear. But strength must be met with strength, and violence with violence. I have chosen you as a man without fear—and to-night —’ he came suddenly to his feet and taking a leather case from his coat pocket, placed it upon the table. “Come—listen. To-night your mettle is to be tested.”

His yellow fingers opened the case. The flap fell back. I leaned eagerly forward—then half drew back in surprise. A number of circular white seals, a white mask and a heavy service revolver lay beneath the table lamp.

The little old man talked—ran his fingers across my table, moving objects here and there, much as a general lays out his campaign of battle. And the things that he told me were made vivid and real by the intense interest of his voice. Of a certainty I had entered into a compact where the life of a man was of little consequence, and my opponents selected from the scum of the world.

“Some day we will find the leader,’ the old man finished. “Or perhaps he will find me. But to-night, failure means the death of an innocent but silly woman. In the background you must always picture the little child whose unsoiled hands stretch out for a mother’s caress. It is for you to fulfill the wish of that child. For the battle of this woman, alone, is hopeless. She cannot pay and she cannot prey on the blood of her friends. She hopes in the White Circle.”

“T’ll do my best.” I tried to show no emotion, but of a certainty this little stranger had already stirred up a hatred against my new enemies.

“Behind you, remember, is the wealth and knowledge of the White Circle. Think not of me—think of it. Serve it well and in serving it, serve humanity. Your pay—each success shall pay you handsomely. More I cannot tell you. Follow my instructions and when they will not serve you, act for yourself.

“But these letters must be laid in the hands of Mrs. Clayburn—” He leaned forward and whispered the name very low. “I will know at once if you have succeeded—and—your invitation is there—good night.”

I watched him out without a word. Then I turned to the little engraved card upon the table. Stacey Lee stood out in bold type. Mrs. Robert T. Townsend was a name not unknown to me—but she was in the realms of social height that I had not reached. Still —the dance was to-night and the invitation was mine. I mounted the stairs, turned into my bedroom and drew back, slightly surprised. My evening clothes already lay upon the bed. But I shrugged my shoulders. Oscar was ever a thoughtful servant.

Chapter IV The Figure On The Balcony

Mrs. Rosert T. TowNnsenp’s affairs were well known and much sought after. To receive an invitation to her dance stamped one as approved, and here was a well organized criminal society seeking its victims from among the chosen of the gods. In my year or more of useless living I had never climbed that last rung of the ladder, which would put me on the visiting list of this supposedly higher plane.

Not that either represented the aristocracy of the great city, but the Townsend circle caught the best of those just below and the slipping aristocrats just above. Smug respectability was at least being played at. The newly initiated had money; the old timers, a long line of dancing, useless ancestors. It was just a more careful dealing of the cards of life.

Oscar drove the car—his placid, quiet, confident carriage always gave me assurance. One could look out the car window and see dreams—paint a picture of the strange, fanciful life. Then a glance back at those narrow, slightly stooped shoulders of Oscar brought reality. Thoughts of a quiet season along the placid

Shores of the Mediterranean, or a gay life on the 27

Boulevards of Paris could be dissipated in an instant by the merest word to Oscar. There would be no enthusiasm as he quietly gave you your balance at the bank. Oscar was a practical man; nothing disturbed him.

Mrs. Robert T. Townsend’s dance was too large for her own home and therefore the ball room covering the entire sixth floor of the Marston Hotel was taken over. I was evidently a late arrival, for there was no delay in swinging up to the hotel entrance. Oscar had his orders. The car was to be around the corner —Oscar ready at the wheel. The old man’s instructions had gone just so far. My game was a desperate one.

But I shrugged my shoulders as I stepped from the car and entered the hotel. The pay was big and the purpose was good. If these crooks lived hard, the day was not far off when I had lived harder. Anda hundred thousand dollars for a look at one man’s face!

Mrs. Townsend smiled down upon me, puzzled, but my invitation was already in the hands of the liveried servant by the door. Robert Townsend, a great smiling, broad shouldered giant of a man, greeted me cordially enough—his little eyes opening and closing behind his thick glasses. There was no announcement from the liveried attendant. I turned and entered the gentlemen’s dressing room.

A half glance over my shoulder caught the genial host carefully squinting over my invitation. A moment later another had entered and I was forgotten. Good! The last thing I wanted to-night was attention.

My first duty as I entered the crowded ball room and made my way carefully along the rows of chairs, dodging the swinging couples who jerked about to the dizzy strains of the jazz, was to find Mrs. Clayburn. No description would fit her that would not also fit a dozen or more gayly dressed—or undressed—women. And yet I didn’t wish to appear to seek information. The very one I might ask might be the last I should wish to know of my interest.

So I trotted around the different anterooms, catching bits of conversation here and there. Although the name of Florence Clayburn was mentioned several times, not once did I see her or gather enough to recognize the charming, but distracted wife and mother.

I snapped open my watch—just after ten, and my appointment with her was for eleven o’clock. My employer had arranged that—the third balcony at the end of those dimly lighted rooms in the rear. I passed through the tiny rooms, disturbing several couples, who suddenly talked loud and laughed boisterously. A darkened hall beyond and the curtained glass doors —four of them, not over ten feet apart.

I partly opened a door and stepped on to the third balcony. I like to be familiar with my ground. Fifteen feet long—three feet wide—and below, the glare of the city; the long, winding thoroughfare with its myriads of lights, the flickering flashes of motors, and once, distantly and faintly, the echoing bell of a fire engine.

Came the crash of a door as if blown by a sudden draft. I swung about. Was it fancy or had I seen a figure there on the next balcony—the white bosom of a dress shirt in the darkness? And now the growing impression that eyes were on me, that a figure crouched in the blackness of the second balcony, and that that figure watched me. Not sure, of course, just a hunch and that flash of white.

Turning my head, I lighted a cigarette and gazed out over the city. There would be nothing strange in a bored business man seeking the seclusion of the balconies, nothing strange in the other being upon the second, for that matter. But why the slamming of the door—the sudden turn of my head made the figure slink into the darkness. One reason only—the lurking shadow sought secrecy.

Had I anything to do with his presence? Could my purpose possibly be suspected? Was it just that the man awaited a lady? That was possible, more so than that he was there to watch me. Yet I am a careful man. The figure on the balcony disturbed me.

I stroked my chin as I turned back through the glass doors and passing through the darkened hallway sought the ball room. One thing was certain—that man would not be on the second balcony at eleven o'clock. If he was innocent of evil intent toward me and Mrs. Clayburn, he would be a much surprised

, aa and mystified man; if his purpose was evil, so much the better.

For the first time the Black Circle would feel the hand of Stacey Lee. But I stepped quickly into the ball room and mingled with the people who were crowding from the floor.

My name rang suddenly in my ears.

“Stacey Lee.” I swung about—then, “‘Mr. Lee, I mean—but it is rather good to see one from—from the old bunch.”