Book: Cleek: the Man of the Forty Faces

T >> Thomas W. Hanshew >> Cleek: the Man of the Forty Faces




Rich stuffs, bits of tapestry, Persian draperies, Arabian
prayer-mats--relics of his other and better days and of his Oriental
wanderings--hung on the walls and ornamented the floor; his rejected
pictures and his unsold statues, many of them life-sized and all of
clay, coated with a lustreless paint to make them look like marble, were
disposed about the place with an eye to artistic effect, and near to an
angle, where stood (on a pedestal, half concealed, half revealed by
artistically arranged draperies) the life-size figure of a Roman
senator, in toga and sandals, there was the one untidy spot, the one
utterly inartistic thing the room contained.

It was the crude, half-finished shape of a recumbent female figure, of
large proportions and abominable modelling, stretched out at full length
upon a long, low, trestle-supported "sculptor's staging," on which also
lay Van Nant's modelling tools and his clay-stained working blouse.
Cleek looked at the huge unnatural thing--out of drawing, anatomically
wrong in many particulars--and felt like quoting Angelo's famous remark
anent his master Lorenzo's faun: "What a pity to have spoilt so much
expensive material," and Van Nant, observing, waved his hand toward it.

"A slumbering nymph," he explained. "Only the head and shoulders
finished as yet, you see. I began it the day before, yesterday, but my
hand seems somehow to have lost its cunning. Here are the keys of all
the rooms, Mr. Headland. Carboys' was the one directly at the head of
the stairs, in the front. Won't you and Mr. Narkom go up and search
without me? I couldn't bear to look into the place and see the things
that belonged to him and he not there. It would cut me to the heart if I
did. Or, maybe, you would sooner go alone, and leave Mr. Narkom to
search round this room. We used to make a general sitting-room of it at
nights when we were alone together, and some clue may have been
dropped."

"A good suggestion, Mr. Narkom," commented Cleek, as he took the keys.
"Look round and see what you can find whilst I poke about upstairs."
Then he walked out of the studio and searching every nook and corner,
whilst Van Nant, for the want of something to occupy his mind and his
hands, worked on the nymph, and could hear him moving about overhead in
quest of possible clues.

For perhaps twenty minutes Cleek was away; then he came down and walked
into the room looking the very picture of hopeless bewilderment.

"Mr. Narkom," he said, "this case stumps me. I believe there's magic in
it, if you ask me; and as the only way to find magic is with magic, I am
going to consult a clairvoyante, and if one of those parties can't give
me a clue, I don't believe the mystery will ever be solved. I know of a
ripping one, but she is over in Ireland, and as it's a dickens of a way
to go, I shan't be able to get back before the day after to-morrow at
the earliest. But--look here, sir, I'll tell you what! This is Tuesday
evening, isn't it? Now if you and Mr. Van Nant will be at Captain
Morrison's house on Thursday evening at seven o'clock, and will wait
there until I come, I'll tell you what that clairvoyante says, and
whether there's any chance of this thing being solved or not. Is that
agreeable, Mr. Van Nant?"

"Quite, Mr. Headland. I'll be there promptly."

"And stop until you hear from me?"

"And stop until I hear from you--yes."

"Right you are, sir. Now then, Mr. Narkom, if you'll let the chauffeur
whisk me over to the station, I'll get back to London and on to the
earliest possible train for Holyhead so as to be on hand for the first
Irish packet to-morrow. And while you're looking for your hat, sir--good
evening, Mr. Van Nant--I'll step outside and tell Lennard to start up."

With that, he passed out of the studio, walked down the hall, and went
out of the house. And half a minute later, when the superintendent
joined him, he found him sitting in the limousine and staring at his
toes.

"My dear Cleek, did you find anything?" he queried, as he took a seat
beside him, and the motor swung out into the road and whizzed away. "Of
course, I know you've no more idea of going to Ireland than you have of
taking a pot-shot at the moon: but there's something on your mind. I
know the signs, Cleek. What is it?"

The response to this was rather startling.

"Mr. Narkom," said Cleek, answering one question with another, "what's
the best thing to make powdered bismuth stick--lard, cold cream, or
cocoa butter?"




CHAPTER XXVI


If punctuality is a virtue, then Mr. Maurice Van Nant deserved to go on
record as one of the most virtuous men in existence. For the little
Dutch clock in Captain Morrison's drawing-room had barely begun to
strike seven on the following Thursday evening when he put in an
appearance there, and found the Captain and his daughter anxiously
awaiting him. But, as virtue is, on most excellent authority, its own
reward, he had to be satisfied with the possession of it, since neither
Narkom nor Cleek was there to meet him.

But the reason for this defection was made manifest when Miss Morrison
placed before him a telegram which had arrived some ten minutes earlier
and read as follows: "Unavoidably delayed. Be with you at nine-thirty.
Ask Mr. Van Nant to wait. Great and welcome piece of news for
him.--NARKOM."

Van Nant smiled.

"Great and welcome news," he repeated. "Then Mr. Headland must have
found something in the nature of a clue in Ireland, captain, though what
he could find there I can't imagine. Frankly, I thought him a stupid
sort of fellow, but if he has managed to find a clue to poor George's
whereabouts over in Ireland, he must be sharper than I believed. Well,
we shall know about that at half-past nine, when Mr. Narkom comes. I
hope nothing will happen to make him disappoint us again."

Nothing did. Promptly at the hour appointed, the red limousine whizzed
up to the door, and Mr. Narkom made his appearance. But, contrary to the
expectations of the three occupants of the little drawing-room, he was
quite alone.

"So sorry I couldn't come earlier," he said, as he came in, looking and
acting like the bearer of great good news; "but you will appreciate the
delay when I tell you what caused it. What's that, Mr. Van Nant?
Headland? No, he's not with me. As a matter of fact, I've dispensed with
his services in this particular case. Fancy, Miss Morrison, the muff
came back from Ireland this evening, said the clairvoyante he consulted
went into a trance, and told him that the key to the mystery could only
be discovered in Germany, and he wanted me to sanction his going over
there on no better evidence than that. Of course, I wouldn't; so I took
him off the case forthwith, and set out to get another and a better man
to handle it. That's what delayed me. And now, Mr. Van Nant"--fairly
beaming, and rubbing his palms together delightedly--"here's where the
great and welcome news I spoke of comes in. I remembered what you said
the other day--I remembered how your heart is wrapped up in the solving
of this great puzzle--what you said about it being a question of money
alone; and so, what do you think I did? I went to that great man, Cleek.
I laid the matter before him, told him there was no reward, that it was
just a matter of sheer humanity--the consciousness of doing his duty and
helping another fellow in distress--and, throw up your hat and cheer, my
dear fellow, for you've got your heart's desire: Cleek's consented to
take the case!"

A little flurry of excitement greeted this announcement. Miss Morrison
grabbed his hand and burst into tears of gratitude; the Captain,
forgetting in his delight the state of his injured foot, rose from his
chair, only to remember suddenly and sit down again, his half-uttered
cheer dying on his lips; and Van Nant, as if overcome by this unexpected
boon, this granting of a wish he had never dared to hope would be
fulfilled, could only clap both hands over his face and sob
hysterically.

"Cleek!" he said, in a voice that shook with nervous catches and the
emotion of a soul deeply stirred, "Cleek to take the case? The great,
the amazing, the undeceivable Cleek! Oh, Mr. Narkom, can this be true?"

"As true as that you are standing here this minute, my dear sir. Not so
much of a money grabber as that muff Headland? wanted you to believe, is
he--eh? Waived every hope of a reward, and took the case on the spot.
He'll get at the root of it--Lord, yes! Lay you a sovereign to a
sixpence, Mr. Van Nant, he gets to the bottom of it and finds out what
became of George Carboys in forty-eight hours after he begins on the
case."

"And when will he begin, Mr. Narkom? To-morrow? The next day? Or not
this week at all? When, sir--when?"

"When? Why, bless your heart, man, he's begun already--or, at least,
will do so in another hour and a half. He's promised to meet us at your
house at eleven o'clock to-night. Chose that place because he lives at
Putney, and it's nearer. Eleven was the hour he set, though, of course,
he may arrive sooner; there's no counting on an erratic fellow like that
chap. So we'll make it eleven, and possess our souls in patience until
it's time to start."

"But, my dear Mr. Narkom, wouldn't it be better, or, at least, more
hospitable if I went over to meet him, in case he does come earlier?
There's no one in the house, remember, and it's locked up."

"Lord bless you, that won't bother him! Never travels without his tools,
you know--skeleton keys, and all that--and he'll be in the house before
you can wink an eye. Still, of course, if you'd rather be there to admit
him in the regulation way--"

"It would at least be more courteous, Mr. Narkom," Miss Morrison
interposed. "So great a man doing so great a favour--Oh, yes, I really
think that Mr. Van Nant should."

"Oh, well, let him then, by all means," said Narkom. "Go, if you choose,
Mr. Van Nant. I'd let you have my motor, only I must get over to the
station and 'phone up headquarters on another affair in five minutes."

"It doesn't matter, thank you all the same. I can get a taxi at the top
of the road," said Van Nant; and then, making his excuses to Miss
Morrison and her father, he took up his hat and left the house. As a
matter of fact, it was only courtesy that made him say that about the
taxi, for there is rarely one to be found waiting about in the
neighbourhood of Wandsworth Common after half-past nine o'clock at
night, and nobody could have been more surprised than he when he
actually did come across one, loitering about aimlessly and quite empty,
before he had gone two dozen yards.

He engaged it on the spot, jumped into it, gave the chauffeur his
directions, and a minute later was whizzing away to the isolated house.
It was eight minutes past ten when he reached it, standing as black and
lightless as when he left it four hours ago, and, after paying off the
chauffeur and dismissing the vehicle, he fumbled nervously for his
latchkey, found it, unlocked the door, and went hurriedly in.

"Have you come yet, Mr. Cleek?" he called out, as he shut the door and
stood in the pitch-black hall. "Mr. Cleek! Mr. Cleek, are you here? It
is I--Maurice Van Nant. Mr. Narkom has sent me on ahead."

Not a sound answered him, not even an echo. He sucked in his breath with
a sort of wheezing sound, then groped round the hall table till he found
his bedroom candle, and, striking a match, lit it. The staircase leading
to the upper floors gaped at him out of the partial gloom, and he fairly
sprang at it--indeed, was halfway up it when some other idea possessed
him, brought him to a sudden standstill, and, facing round abruptly, he
went back to the lower hall again, glimmering along it like a shadow,
with the inadequate light held above him, and moving fleetly to the
studio in the rear.

The door stood partly open, just as he had left it. He pushed it inward
and stepped over the threshold.

"Mr. Cleek!" he called again. "Mr. Cleek! Are you here?"

And again the silence alone answered him. The studio was as he had seen
it last, save for those fantastic shadows which the candle's wavering
flame wreathed in the dim corners and along the pictured walls. There,
on its half-draped pedestal, the Roman senator stood--dead white against
the purple background--and there, close to the foot of it, the great
bulk of the disproportionate nymph still sprawled, finished and
whitewashed now, and looking even more of a monstrosity than ever in
that waving light.

He gave one deep gulping sigh of relief, flashed across the room on
tiptoe, and went down on his knees beside the monstrous thing, moving
the candle this way and that along the length of it, as if searching for
something, and laughing in little jerky gasps of relief when he found
nothing that was not as it had been--as it should be--as he wanted it to
be. And then, as he rose and patted the clay, and laughed aloud as he
realised how hard it had set, then, at that instant, a white shape
lurched forward and swooped downward, carrying him down with it. The
candle slipped from his fingers and clattered on the floor, a pair of
steel handcuffs clicked as they closed round his wrists, a voice above
him said sharply: "You wanted Cleek I believe? Well, Cleek's got you,
you sneaking murderer. Gentlemen, come in! Allow me to turn over to you
the murderer of George Carboys! You'll find the body inside that
slumbering nymph!"

And the last thing that Mr. Maurice Van Nant saw, as he shrieked and
fainted, the last thing he realised, was that lights were flashing up
and men tumbling in through the opening windows; that the Roman
senator's pedestal was empty, and the figure which once had stood upon
it was bending over him--alive!

And just at that moment the red limousine flashed up out of the
darkness, the outer door whirled open and Narkom came pelting up.

"He took the bait, then, Cleek?" he cried, as he saw the manacled figure
on the floor, with the "Roman senator" bending over and the policemen
crowding in about it. "I guessed it when I saw the lights flash up. I've
been on his heels ever since he snapped at that conveniently placed taxi
after he left Miss Morrison and her father."

"You haven't brought them with you, I hope, Mr. Narkom? I wouldn't have
that poor girl face the ordeal of what's to be revealed here to-night
for worlds."

"No, I've not. I made a pretext of having to 'phone through to
headquarters, and slipped out a moment after him. But, I say, my dear
chap"--as Cleek's hands made a rapid search of the pockets of the
unconscious man, and finally brought to light a folded paper--"what's
that thing? What are you doing?"

"Compounding a felony in the interest of humanity," he made reply as he
put the end of the paper into the flame of the candle and held it there
until it was consumed. "We all do foolish things sometimes when we are
young, Mr. Narkom, and--well, George Carboys was no exception when he
wrote the little thing I have just burned. Let us forget all about
it--Captain Morrison is heir-at-law, and that poor girl will benefit."

"There was an estate, then?"

"Yes. My cable yesterday to the head of the Persian police set all doubt
upon that point at rest. Abdul ben Meerza, parting with nothing while he
lived, after the manner of misers in general, left a will bequeathing
something like L12,000 to George Carboys, and his executor communicated
that fact to the supposed friend of both parties--Mr. Maurice Van Nant;
and exactly ten days ago, so his former solicitor informed me, Mr.
Maurice Van Nant visited him unexpectedly, and withdrew from his keeping
a sealed packet which had been in the firm's custody for eight years. If
you want to know why he withdrew it--Dollops!"

"Right you are, Gov'nor."

"Give me the sledge-hammer. Thanks! Now, Mr. Narkom, look!" And,
swinging the hammer, he struck at the nymph with a force that shattered
the monstrous thing to atoms; and Narkom, coming forward to look when
Cleek bent over the ruin he had wrought, saw in the midst of the dust
and rubbish the body of a dead man, fully clothed, and with the gap of a
bullet-hole in the left temple.

Again Cleek's hands began a rapid search, and again, as before, they
brought to light a paper, a little crumpled ball of paper that had been
thrust into the right-hand pocket of the dead man's waistcoat, as though
jammed there under the stress of strong excitement and the pressure of
great haste. He smoothed it out and read it carefully, then passed it
over to Mr. Narkom.

"There!" he said, "that's how he lured him over to his death. That's the
message the pigeon brought. Would any man have failed to fly to face the
author of a foul lie like that?"

"Beloved Mary," the message ran, "come to me again to-night. How sweet of
you to think of such a thing as the belt to get him over and to make him
stop until morning! Steal out after he goes to bed, darling. I'll leave
the studio window unlocked, as usual. With a thousand kisses.

"Your own devoted,

"MAURICE."

"The dog!" said Narkom fiercely. "And against a pure creature like Mary
Morrison! Here, Smathers, Petrie, Hammond, take him away. Hanging's too
good for a beastly cur like that!"

* * * * *

"How did I know that the body was inside the statue?" said Cleek,
answering Narkom's query, as they drove back in the red limousine toward
London and Clarges Street. "Well, as a matter of fact, I never did know
for certain until he began to examine the thing to-night. From the first
I felt sure he was at the bottom of the affair, that he had lured
Carboys back to the house, and murdered him; but it puzzled me to think
what could possibly have been done with the body. I felt pretty certain,
however, when I saw that monstrous statue."

"Yes, but why?"

"My dear Mr. Narkom, you ought not to ask that question. Did it not
strike you as odd that a man who was torn with grief over the
disappearance of a loved friend should think of modelling any sort of a
statue on that very first day, much less such an inartistic one as that?
Consider: the man has never been a first-class sculptor, it is true, but
he knew the rudiments of his art, he had turned out some fairly
presentable work; and that nymph was as abominably conceived and as
abominably executed as if it had been the work of a raw beginner. Then
there was another suspicious circumstance. Modelling clay is not exactly
as cheap as dirt, Mr. Narkom. Why, then, should this man, who was
confessedly as poor as the proverbial church mouse, plunge into the wild
extravagance of buying half a ton of it--and at such a time? Those are
the things that brought the suspicion into my mind; the certainty,
however, had to be brought about beyond dispute before I could act.

"I knew that George Carboys had returned to that studio by the dry marks
of muddy footprints, that were nothing like the shape of Van Nant's,
which I found on the boards of the verandah and on the carpet under one
of the windows; I knew, too, that it was Van Nant who had sent that
pigeon. You remember when I excused myself and went back on the pretext
of having forgotten my magnifying glass the other day? I did so for the
purpose of looking at that fifth pigeon. I had observed something on its
breast feathers which I thought, at first glance, was dry mud, as though
it had fallen or brushed against something muddy in its flight. As we
descended the stairs I observed that there was a similar mark on Van
Nant's sleeve. I brushed against him and scraped off a fleck with my
finger-nails. It was the dust of dried modelling clay. That on the
pigeon's breast proved to be the same substance. I knew then that the
hands of the person who liberated that pigeon were the hands of someone
who was engaged in modelling something or handling the clay of the
modeller, and--the inference was clear.

"As for the rest; when Van Nant entered that studio to-night, frightened
half out of his wits at the knowledge that he would have to deal with
the one detective he feared, I knew that if he approached that statue
and made any attempts to examine it I should have my man, and that the
hiding-place of his victim's body would be proved beyond question. When
he did go to it, and did examine it--Clarges Street at last, thank
fortune; for I am tired and sleepy. Stop here, Lennard; I'm getting out.
Come along, Dollops. Good-night, Mr. Narkom! 'And so, to bed,' as good
old Pepys says."

And passed on, up the street, with his hand on the boy's shoulder and
the stillness and the darkness enfolding them.




CHAPTER XXVII


For the next five or six weeks life ran on merrily enough for Cleek; so
merrily, in fact, that Dollops came to be quite accustomed to hear him
whistling about the house and to see him go up the stairs two steps at a
time whenever he had occasion to mount them for any purpose whatsoever.

It would not have needed any abnormally acute mind, any process of
subtle reasoning, to get at the secret of all this exuberance, this
perennial flow of high spirits; indeed, one had only to watch the letter
box at Number 204, Clarges Street, to get at the bottom of it instantly;
for twice a week the postman dropped into it a letter addressed in an
undoubtedly feminine "hand" to Captain Horatio Burbage, and invariably
postmarked "Lynhaven, Devon."

Dollops had made that discovery long ago and had put his conclusions
regarding it into the mournfully-uttered sentence: "A skirt's got him!"
But, after one violent pang of fierce and rending jealousy, was grateful
to that "skirt" for bringing happiness to the man he loved above all
other things upon earth and whose welfare was the dearest of his heart's
desires. Indeed, he grew, in time, to watch as eagerly for the coming of
those letters as did his master himself; and he could have shouted with
delight whenever he heard the postman's knock, and saw one of the
regulation blue-grey envelopes drop through the slit into the wire cage
on the door.

Cleek, too, was delighted when he saw them. It was nothing to him that
the notes they contained were of the briefest--mere records of the state
of the weather, the progress of his little lordship, the fact that Lady
Chepstow wished to be remembered and that the writer was well "and hoped
he, too, was." They were written by _her_--that was enough. He gave so
much that very little sufficed him in return; and the knowledge that he
had been in her mind for the five or ten minutes which it had taken to
write the few lines she sent him, made him exceedingly happy.

But she was not his only correspondent in these days--not even his most
frequent one. For a warm, strong friendship--first sown in those
ante-Derby days--had sprung up between Sir Henry Wilding and himself and
had deepened steadily into a warm feeling of comradeship and mutual
esteem. Frequent letters passed between them; and the bond of fellowship
had become so strong a thing that Sir Henry never came to town without
their meeting and dining together.

"Gad! you know, I can't bring myself to think of you as a
police-officer, old chap!" was the way Sir Henry put it on the day when
he first invited him to lunch with him at his club. "I'd about as soon
think of sitting down with one of my grooms as breaking bread with one
of that lot; and I shall never get it out of my head that you're a
gentleman going in for this sort of thing as a hobby--never b'Gad! if I
live to be a hundred."

"I hope you will come nearer to doing that than you have to guessing the
truth about me," replied Cleek, with a smile. "Take my word for it,
won't you?--this thing is my profession. I don't do it as a mere hobby:
I live by it--I have no other means of living _but_ by it. I am--what I
am, and nothing more."

"Oh, gammon! Why not tell me at once that you are a winkle stall-keeper
and be done with it? You can't tell a fish that another fish is a
turnip--at least you can't and expect him to believe it. Own up, old
chap. I know a man of birth when I meet him. Tell me who you are,
Cleek--I'll respect it."

"I don't doubt that--the addition is superfluous."

"Then who are you? What are you, Cleek? Eh?"

"What you have called me--'Cleek.' Cleek the detective, Cleek of the
Forty Faces, if you prefer it; but just 'Cleek' and nothing more. Don't
get to building romances about me merely because I have the _instincts_
of a gentleman, Sir Henry. Just simply remember that Nature _does_ make
mistakes sometimes; that she has been known to put a horse's head on a
sheep's shoulders and to make a navvy's son look more royal than a
prince. I am Cleek, the detective--simply Cleek. Let it go at that."

And as there was no alternative, Sir Henry did.

It made no difference in their friendship, however. Police officer or
not, he liked and he respected the man, and made no visit to town
without meeting and entertaining him.

So matters stood between them when on a certain Thursday in mid
September he came up unexpectedly from Wilding Hall and 'phoned through
to Clarges Street, asking Cleek to dine with him that night at the Club
of the Two Services.

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