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That's greenchef.com slash sleepyfree and use code sleepyfree for two months of free salads and half off your first box. I'll have a link for this in the description of the show. Eat well, sleep well. Hey, my name's Otis Gray and you're listening to Sleepy, a podcast where I read old books to help you get to sleep. And this is a midweek short story for you. Part two of a two-part series I started last week. Tonight's, um...
Yeah, I'm going to be finishing a short story I started one week ago this past Wednesday. It's an Arthur Conan Doyle Sherlock Holmes story, and it is as wonderfully gripping as all Sherlock Holmes stories are. And before we get to the bedtime reading, I just want to profoundly thank all of our patrons on patreon.com, which is a website where you can go and pledge a couple bucks for an ad-free version of Sleepy. If you're a patron...
Thank you so, so much. I so deeply appreciate it. Thank you. And if you don't know what I'm talking about, Patreon, it allows you to directly support the people who make the stuff that you like. So if you like Sleepy, maybe it's become part of your nightly routine, then consider going to patreon.com slash Sleepy Radio. Donating $1 a month goes a really long way and
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And as always, the music you're hearing is by my good friend James Lutkowski. And the cover art for Sleepy is by Gracie Kanan. At this point, I've read quite a bit of Arthur Conan Doyle on the Sleepy podcast over the years. But never have I divided a story over two different episodes start to finish. And this just happens to be one of his short stories. And it is a two-parter. The Adventure of the Red Circle.
I started this last week and I really like this format for Arthur Conan Doyle. These short stories with two parters. Really, yeah, I think it's a perfect length to tell a gripping story, but not too short where you don't really dive deep into it. So obviously you can just listen to this and go to sleep to it. But if you'd like to hear the whole story and you haven't yet, then...
you can go to last week's show, which was released on the 3rd, I believe, last Wednesday, The Adventure of the Red Circle Part 1. You can listen to that, and then if you somehow stayed up and listened to the whole thing, then you can continue with Part 2 here. So, without further ado, this is Part 2 of The Adventure of the Red Circle, a Sherlock Holmes short story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
and now is the time for you to fluff up your pillow just how you like it. Feel yourself melt into your bed, get real comfortable, close your eyes, and let me read to you. The Adventure of the Red Circle, Part 2 As we walked rapidly down Howe Street, I glanced back at the building which we had left. There, dimly outlined at the top window, I could see the shadow of a head, a woman's head, gazing tensely, rigidly out into the night.
waiting with breathless suspense for the renewal of that interrupted message. At the doorway of the Howe Street flats, a man, muffled in a cravat and greatcoat, was leaning against the railing. He started as the hall light fell upon our faces. Holmes, he cried. Why, Gregson, said my companion, as he shook hands with the Scotland Yard detective. Journeys end with lovers' meetings. What brings you here? The same reasons that bring you, I expect, said Gregson.
How you got onto it I can't imagine. Different threads. But leading up to the same tangle, I've been taking the signals. Signals? Yes, from that window. It broke off in the middle. We came over to see the reason, but since it is safe in your hands I see no object in continuing this business. Wait a bit, cried Gregson eagerly. I'll do you this justice, Mr. Holmes, that I was never in a case yet that I didn't feel stronger for having you on my side.
There's only the one exit to these flats, so we can have him safe. Who is he? Well, we score over you for once, Mr. Holmes. You must give us best this time. He struck his stick sharply upon the ground, on which a cabman, his whip in hand, sauntered over from a four-wheeler, which stood on the far side of the street. May I introduce you to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, he said to the cabman. This is Mr. Leverton, of Pinkerton's American Agency.
The hero of the Long Island cave mystery, said Holmes. Sir, I am pleased to meet you. The American, a quiet business-like young man, with a clean-shaven hatchet face, flushed up at the words of commendation. I am on the trail of my life now, Mr. Holmes, said he, if I can get Giorgiano. What? Giorgiano of the Red Circle? Oh, he has a European fame, has he? Well, we've learned all about him in America. We know he is at the bottom of fifty murders.
and yet we have nothing positive we can take him on. I tracked him over from New York, and I've been close to him for a week in London, waiting some excuse to get my hand on his collar. Mr. Gregson and I ran him to the ground in that big tenement house, and there's only one door, so he can't slip us. There's three folk come out since he went in, but I'll swear he wasn't one of them. Mr. Holmes talks of signals, said Gregson. I expect, as usual, he knows a good deal that we don't.
In a few clear words, Holmes explained the situation as it had appeared to us. The American struck his hands together with vexation. He's on to us, he cried. Why do you think so? Well, it figures out that way, does it not? Here he is sending out messages to an accomplice. There are several of his gang in London. Then suddenly, just as by your own account, he was telling them that there was danger. He broke short off.
What could it mean, except that from the window he had suddenly either caught sight of us in the street, or in some way come to understand how close the danger was, and that he must act right away, if he was to avoid it? What do you suggest, Mr. Holmes? That we go up at once, and see for ourselves, but we have no warrant for his arrest. He is in unoccupied premises, under suspicious circumstances, said Gregson. That is good enough for the moment.
When we have him by the heels, we can see if New York can't help us to keep him. I'll take the responsibility of arresting him now. Our official detectives may blunder in the matter of intelligence, but never in that of courage. Gregson climbed the stair to arrest this desperate murderer with the same absolutely quiet and businesslike bearing with which he would have ascended the official staircase of Scotland Yard. The Pinkerton man had tried to push past him, but Gregson had firmly elbowed him back.
London dangers were the privilege of the London forest. The door of the left-hand flat upon the third landing was standing ajar. Gregson pushed it open. Within all this was absolute silence and darkness. I struck a match and lit the detective's lantern. As I did so, and as the flicker steadied into a flame, we all gave a gasp of surprise. On the deal boards of the carpetless floor, there was outlined a fresh track of blood.
The red steps pointed toward us and led away from an inner room, the door of which was closed. Gregson flung it open and held his light full blaze in front of him, while we all peered eagerly over his shoulders. In the middle of the floor of the empty room was huddled the figure of an enormous man, his clean-shaven, swarthy face, grotesquely horrible in its contortion, and his head encircled by a ghastly crimson halo of blood, lying in a broad, wet circle upon his white woodwork.
His knees were drawn up, his hands thrown out in agony, and from the center of his broad, brown, upturned throat were projected the white haft of a knife, driven blade-deep into his body. Giant as he was, the man must have gone down like a pole-axed ox before that terrible blow. Beside his right hand, a most formidable horn-handled, two-edged dagger lay upon the floor, and near him, a black kid glove.
"'By George. It's Black Georgiano himself,' cried the American detective. "'Someone has got ahead of us this time. Here's the candle in the window, Mr. Holmes,' said Gregson. "'Why, whatever are you doing?' Holmes had stepped across and lit the candle and was passing it backward and forward against the window panes. Then he peered into the darkness, blew the candle out, and threw it on the floor. "'I rather think that will be helpful,' said he.'
He came over and stood in deep thought while the two professionals were examining the body. You say that three people came out from the flap while you were waiting downstairs, said he at last. Did you observe them closely? Yes, I did. Was there a fellow about thirty, of middle size? Yes, he was the last to pass me. That is your man, I fancy. I can give you his description, and we have a very excellent outline of his footmark. That should be enough for you.
Not much, Mr. Holmes, among the millions of London. Perhaps not. That is why I thought it best to summon this lady to your aid. We all turned round at the words. There, framed in the doorway, was a tall and beautiful woman, the mysterious lodger of Bloomsbury. Slowly she advanced, her face pale and drawn with a frightful apprehension, her eyes fixed and staring, her terrified gaze riveted upon the dark figure on the floor. You have killed him, she muttered.
Oh, Dio mio, you've killed him. Then I heard a sudden, sharp intake of her breath, and she sprang into the air with a cry of joy. Round and round the room she danced, her hands clapping, her dark eyes gleaming with delighted wonder, and a thousand pretty Italian exclamations pouring from her lips. It was terrible and amazing to see such a woman so convulsed with joy at such a sight. Suddenly she stopped and gazed at us all with a questioning stare.
"'But you, you are police, are you not? "'You have killed Giuseppe Gorgiano. "'Is it not so?' "'We are police, madam.' "'She looked round into the shadows of the room. "'But where, then, is Gennaro?' she asked. "'He is my husband, Gennaro Luca. "'I am Emilia Luca. "'We are both from New York. "'Where is Gennaro?' "'He called me this moment from this window, "'and I ran with all my speed. "'It was I who called,' said Holmes. "'You, how could he call? "'Your cipher was not difficult, madam.'
Your presence here was desirable. I knew that I had only to flash, Vieni, and you surely would come. The beautiful Italian looked with awe at my companion. I do not understand how you know these things, she said. Giuseppe Giorgiano. How did he? She paused, and then suddenly her face lit up with pride and delight. Now I see you. My Gennaro, my splendid, beautiful Gennaro, who has guarded me safe from all harm.
"'He did it. "'With his own strong hand he killed the monster. "'Oh, Gennaro, how wonderful you are! "'What woman could ever be worthy of such a man?' "'Well, Mrs. Luca,' said the prosaic Gregson, "'laying his hand upon the lady's sleeve, "'with as little sentiment "'as if she were a nodding hill hooligan. "'I am not very clear yet who you are, "'or what you are, "'but you've said enough to make it very clear "'that we shall want you at the yard.' "'One moment, Gregson,' said Holmes.'
"'I rather fancy that this lady may be as anxious "'to give us information as we can be together. "'You understand, madame, "'that your husband will be arrested and tried "'for the death of the man who lies before us. "'What you say may be used in evidence, "'but if you think that he has acted for motives "'which are not criminal, "'and which he would wish to have known, "'then you cannot serve him better "'than by telling us the whole story. "'Now that Gorgiano is dead, "'we fear nothing,' said the lady."
he was a devil and a monster and there could be no judge in the world who would punish my husband for having killed him in that case said holmes my suggestion is that we lock this door leave things as we found them go with this lady to her room and form our own opinion after we have heard what it is she has to say to us half an hour later we were seated all four in the small sitting-room of signora luca listening to her remarkable narrative of those sinister events
the ending of which we had chanced to witness she spoke in rapid and fluent but very unconventional english which for the sake of clearness i will make grammatical i was born in posilipo near naples said she and was the daughter of augusto borelli who was the chief lawyer and once the deputy of that part gennaro was in my father's employment and i came to love him as any woman must he had neither money nor position
Nothing but his beauty and strength and energy. So my father forbade the match. We fled together, were married at Bari, and sold my jewels to gain the money, which would take us to America. This was four years ago, and we have been in New York ever since. Fortune was very good to us at first. Gennaro was able to do a service to an Italian gentleman. He saved him from some ruffians in the place called the Bowery, and so made a powerful friend. His name was Tito Castellotti.
and he was the senior partner of the great firm of Castellotti and Zambo, who were the chief fruit importers of New York. Signor Zambo is an invalid, and our new friend Castellotti has all the power within the firm, which employs more than 300 men. He took my husband into his employment, made him head of a department, and showed his goodwill towards him in every way. Signor Castellotti was a bachelor, and I believe that he felt as if Gennaro was his son,
and both my husband and I loved him as if he were our father. We had taken and furnished a little house in Brooklyn, and our whole future seemed assured when that black cloud appeared, which was soon to overspread our sky. One night, when Gennaro returned from his work, he brought a fellow countryman back with him. His name was Giorgiano, and he had come also from Pozzolipo. He was a huge man, as you can testify, for you have looked upon his corpse.
Not only was his body that of a giant, but everything about him was grotesque, gigantic and terrifying. His voice was like thunder in our little house. There was scarce room for the whirl of his great arms as he talked. His thoughts, his emotions, his passions, all were exaggerated and monstrous. He talked, or rather roared, with such energy that others could but sit and listen, cowed with the mighty stream of words.
his eyes blazed at you and held you at his mercy he was a terrible and wonderful man i thank god that he is dead he came again and again yet i was aware that genaro was no more happy than i was in his presence my poor husband would sit pale and listless listening to the endless raving upon politics and upon social questions which made up or visitors conversation genaro said nothing
But I, who knew him so well, could read in his face some emotion which I had never seen there before. At first, I thought that it was dislike. And then gradually, I understood that it was more than dislike. It was fear. A deep, secret, shrinking fear. That night, the night I read his terror, I put my arms round him, and I implored him by his love for me and by all that he held dear, to hold nothing from me.
and to tell me why this huge man overshadowed him so. He told me, and my own heart grew cold as ice as I listened. My poor Gennaro, in his wild and fiery days, when all the world seemed against him and his mind was driven half-mad by the injustices of life, had joined a Neapolitan society, the Red Circle, which was allied to the old Carbonari. The oaths and secrets of this brotherhood were frightful, but once within its rule, no escape was possible.
When we had fled to America, Gennaro thought that he had cast it all off forever. What was his horror one evening? To meet in the streets the very man who had initiated him from Naples, the giant Giorgiano, a man who had earned the name of death in the south of Italy, for he was so red to the elbow in murder. He had come to New York to avoid the Italian police, and he had already planted a branch of this dreadful society in his new home.
All this Gennaro told me, and showed me a summons which he had received that very day, a red circle drawn upon the head of it, telling him that a lodge would be held upon a certain date, and that his presence at it is required and ordered. That was bad enough, but worse was to come. I had noticed for some time that when Giorgiano came to us, as he constantly did in the evening, he spoke much to me.
And even when his words were to my husband, those terrible, glaring, wild beast eyes of his were always turned upon me. One night, his secret came out. I had awakened what he had called love within him, the love of a brute, a savage. Gennaro had not yet returned when he came. He pushed his way in, seized me in his mighty arms, hugged me in his bear's embrace, covered me with kisses, and implored me to come away with him.
I was struggling and screaming when Gennaro entered and attacked him. He struck Gennaro senseless and fled from the house which he was never more to enter. It was a deadly enemy that we made that night. A few days later came the meeting. Gennaro returned to with a face which told me something dreadful had occurred. It was worse than we could have imagined possible. The funds of the society were raised by blackmailing rich Italians and threatening them with violence should they refuse the money.
It seems that Castellote, our dear friend and benefactor, had been approached. He had refused to yield to threats, and he had handed the notices to the police. It was resolved now that such an example should be made of them as would prevent any other victim from rebelling. At the meeting, it was arranged that he and his house should be blown up with dynamite. There was a drawing of lots as to who should carry out the deed.
Gennaro saw our enemy's cruel face, smiling at him as he dipped his hand in the bag. No doubt it had been prearranged in some fashion, for it was the fatal disc with the red circle upon it, the mandate for murder which lay upon his palm. He was to kill his best friend, or he was to expose himself and me to the vengeance of his comrades. It was part of their fiendish system to punish those whom they feared or hated by not only injuring their own persons, but those whom they loved.
and it was the knowledge of this which hung as a tear over my poor Gennaro's head, and drove him nearly crazy with apprehension. All that night we sat together, our arms round each other, each strengthening each for the troubles that lay before us. The very next evening had been fixed for the attempt. By midday my husband and I were on our way to London, but not before he had given our benefactor full warning of this danger.
and had also left such information for the police as would safeguard his life for the future. The rest, gentlemen, you know for yourselves. We were sure that our enemies would be behind us, like our own shadows. Giorgiano had his private reasons for vengeance, but in any case, we knew how ruthless, cunning, and untiring he could be. Both Italy and America are full of stories of his dreadful powers. If ever they were exerted, they would be now.
My darling made use of a few clear days which our star had given us in arranging for a refuge for me, in such a fashion that no possible danger could reach me. For his own part, he wished to be free, that he might communicate both with the American and with the Italian police. I do not myself know where he lived or how. All that I learned was through the columns of a newspaper. But once as I looked through my window, I saw two Italians watching the house.
and I understood that in some way, Giorgiano had found our retreat. Finally, Gennaro told me, through the paper, that he would signal to me from a certain window, and when the signals came, there were nothing but warnings, which were suddenly interrupted. It is very clear to me now that he knew Giorgiano to be close upon him, and that, thank God, he was ready for him when he came. And now, gentlemen, I would ask you whether we have anything to fear from the law,
or whether any judge upon earth would condemn my Gennaro for what he has done. Well, Mr. Gregson, said the American, looking across at the official, I don't know what your British point of view may be, but I guess that in New York this lady's husband will receive a pretty general vote of thanks. She'll have to come with me and see the chief, Gregson answered. If what she says is corroborated, I do not think she or her husband has much to fear. But what I can make heads or tails of, Mr. Holmes,
is how on earth you got yourself mixed up in the matter. Education, Gregson. Education. Still seeking knowledge at the old university. Well, Watson, you have one more specimen of the tragic and grotesque to add to your collection. By the way, it is night eight o'clock and a Wagner night at Covent Garden. If we hurry, we might be in time for the second act. Thank you for listening to Sleepy. Good night.