                    CLEEK: The Man of the Forty Faces

                          By THOMAS W. HANSHEW

  AUTHOR OF "Cleek of Scotland Yard," "The Riddle of the Night," Etc.

                                  1912




CLEEK: THE MAN OF THE FORTY FACES




PROLOGUE

THE AFFAIR OF THE MAN WHO CALLED HIMSELF HAMILTON CLEEK


The thing wouldn't have happened if any other constable than Collins had
been put on point duty at Blackfriars Bridge that morning. For Collins
was young, good-looking, and--knew it. Nature had gifted him with a
susceptible heart and a fond eye for the beauties of femininity. So when
he looked round and saw the woman threading her way through the maze of
vehicles at "Dead Man's Corner," with her skirt held up just enough to
show two twinkling little feet in French shoes, and over them a
graceful, willowy figure, and over that an enchanting, if rather too
highly tinted face, with almond eyes and a fluff of shining hair under
the screen of a big Parisian hat--that did for him on the spot.

He saw at a glance that she was French--exceedingly French--and he
preferred English beauty, as a rule. But, French or English, beauty is
beauty, and here undeniably was a perfect type, so he unhesitatingly
sprang to her assistance and piloted her safely to the kerb, revelling
in her voluble thanks, and tingling as she clung timidly but rather
firmly to him.

"Sair, I have to give you much gratitude," she said in a pretty, wistful
sort of way, as they stepped on to the pavement. Then she dropped her
hand from his sleeve, looked up at him, and shyly drooped her head, as
if overcome with confusion and surprise at the youth and good looks of
him. "Ah, it is nowhere in the world but Londres one finds these
delicate attentions, these splendid sergeants de ville," she added, with
a sort of sigh. "You are wonnerful--you are mos' wonnerful, you Anglais
poliss. Sair, I am a stranger; I know not ze ways of this city of
amazement, and if monsieur would so kindly direct me where to find the
Abbey of the Ves'minster--"

Before P.C. Collins could tell her that if that were her destination,
she was a good deal out of her latitude; indeed, even before she
concluded what she was saying, over the rumble of the traffic there rose
a thin, shrill piping sound, which to ears trained to the call of it
possessed a startling significance.

It was the shrilling of a police whistle, far off down the Embankment.

"Hullo! That's a call to the man on point!" exclaimed Collins, all alert
at once. "Excuse me, mum. See you presently. Something's up. One of my
mates is a-signalling me."

"Mates, monsieur? Mates? Signalling? I shall not understand the vords.
But yes, vat shall that mean--eh?"

"Good Lord, don't bother me now! I--I mean, wait a bit. That's the call
to 'head off' someone, and--By George! There he is now, coming head on,
the hound, and running like the wind!"

For of a sudden, through a break in the traffic, a scudding figure had
sprung into sight--the figure of a man in a grey frock-coat and a shining
"topper," a well-groomed, well-set-up man, with a small, turned-up
moustache and hair of that peculiar purplish-red one sees only on the
shell of a roasted chestnut. As he swung into sight, the distant whistle
shrilled again; far off in the distance voices sent up cries of "Head
him off!" "Stop that man!" _et cetera_; then those on the pavement near
to the fugitive took up the cry, joined in pursuit, and in a twinkling,
what with cabmen, tram-men, draymen, and pedestrians shouting, there was
hubbub enough for Hades.

"A swell pickpocket, I'll lay my life," commented Collins, as he squared
himself for an encounter and made ready to leap on the man when he
came within gripping distance. "Here! get out of the way, madmazelly.
Business before pleasure. And, besides, you're like to get bowled over
in the rush. Here, chauffeur!"--this to the driver of a big, black
motor-car which swept round the angle of the bridge at that moment,
and made as though to scud down the Embankment into the thick of the
chase--"pull that thing up sharp! Stop where you are! Dead still. At
once, at once, do you hear? We don't want you getting in the way. Now,
then"--nodding his head in the direction of the running man--"come on
you bounder; I'm ready for you!"

And, as if he really heard that invitation, and really was eager to
accept it, the red-headed man did "come on" with a vengeance. And all
the time, "madmazelly," unheeding Collins's advice, stood calmly and
silently waiting.

Onward came the runner, with the whole roaring pack in his wake,
dodging in and out among the vehicles, "flooring" people who got in
his way, scudding, dodging, leaping, like a fox hard pressed by the
hounds--until, all of a moment he spied a break in the traffic, leapt
through it, and--then there was mischief. For Collins sprang at him like
a cat, gripped two big, strong-as-iron hands on his shoulders, and had
him tight and fast.

"Got you, you ass!" snapped he, with a short, crisp, self-satisfied
laugh. "None of your blessed squirming now. Keep still. You'll get out
of your coffin, you bounder, as soon as out of my grip. Got you--got
you! Do you understand?"

The response to this fairly took the wind out of him.

"Of course I do," said the captive, gaily; "it's part of the programme
that you should get me. Only, for Heaven's sake, don't spoil the film by
remaining inactive, you goat! Struggle with me--handle me roughly--throw
me about. Make it look real; make it look as though I actually did get
away from you, not as though you let me. You chaps behind there, don't
get in the way of the camera--it's in one of those cabs. Now, then,
Bobby, don't be wooden! Struggle--struggle, you goat, and save the
film!"

"Save the what?" gasped Collins. "Here! Good Lord! Do you mean to
say--?"

"Struggle--struggle--struggle!" cut in the man impatiently. "Can't you
grasp the situation? It's a put-up thing: the taking of a kinematograph
film--a living picture--for the Alhambra to-night! Heavens above,
Marguerite, didn't you tell him?"

"Non, non! There was not ze time. You come so quick, I could not. And
he--ah, le bon Dieu!--he gif me no chance. Officair, I beg, I entreat of
you, make it real! Struggle, fight, keep on ze constant move.
Zere!"--something tinkled on the pavement with the unmistakable sound of
gold--"zere, monsieur, zere is the half-sovereign to pay you for ze
trouble, only, for ze lof of goodness, do not pick it up while the
instrument--ze camera--he is going. It is ze kinematograph, and you
would spoil everything!"

The chop-fallen cry that Collins gave was lost in a roar of laughter
from the pursuing crowd.

"Struggle--struggle! Don't you hear, you idiot?" broke in the red-headed
man irritably. "You are being devilishly well paid for it, so for
goodness' sake make it look real. That's it! Bully boy! Now, once more
to the right, then loosen your grip so that I can push you away and make
a feint of punching you off. All ready there, Marguerite? Keep a clear
space about her, gentlemen. Ready with the motor, chauffeur? All right.
Now, then, Bobby, fall back, and mind your eye when I hit out, old chap.
One, two, three--here goes!"

With that he pushed the chop-fallen Collins from him, made a feint of
punching his head as he reeled back, then sprang toward the spot where
the Frenchwoman stood, and gave a finish to the adventure that was
highly dramatic and decidedly theatrical. For "mademoiselle," seeing him
approach her, struck a pose, threw out her arms, gathered him into
them--to the exceeding enjoyment of the laughing throng--then both
looked back and behaved as people do on the stage when "pursued,"
gesticulated extravagantly, and, rushing to the waiting motor, jumped
into it.

"Many thanks, Bobby; many thanks, everybody!" sang out the red-headed
man. "Let her go, chauffeur. The camera men will pick us up again at
Whitehall, in a few minutes' time."

"Right you are, sir," responded the chauffeur gaily. Then "toot-toot"
went the motor-horn as the gentleman in grey closed the door upon
himself and his companion, and the vehicle, darting forward, sped down
the Embankment in the exact direction whence the man himself had
originally come, and, passing directly through that belated portion of
the hurrying crowd to whom the end of the adventure was not yet known,
flew on and--vanished.

And Collins, stooping to pick up the half-sovereign that had been thrown
him, felt that after all it was a poor price to receive for all the
jeers and gibes of the assembled onlookers.

"Smart capture, Bobby, wasn't it?" sang out a deriding voice that set
the crowd jeering anew. "You'll git promoted, you will! See it in all
the evenin' papers--oh, yus! ''Orrible hand-to-hand struggle with a
desperado. Brave constable has 'arf a quid's worth out of an infuriated
ruffin!' My hat! won't your missis be proud when you take her to see
that bloomin' film?"

"Move on, now, move on!" said Collins, recovering his dignity, and
asserting it with a vim. "Look here, cabby, I don't take it kind of you
to laugh like that; they had you just as bad as they had me. Blow that
Frenchy! She might have tipped me off before I made such an ass of
myself. I don't say that I'd have done it so natural if I had known,
but--Hullo! What's that? Blowed if it ain't that blessed whistle again,
and another crowd a-pelting this way; and--no!--yes, by Jupiter!--a
couple of Scotland Yard chaps with 'em. My hat! what do you suppose that
means?"

He knew in the next moment. Panting and puffing, a crowd at their heels,
and people from all sides stringing out from the pavement and trooping
after them, the two "plain-clothes" men came racing through the grinning
gathering and bore down on P.C. Collins.

"Hullo, Smathers, you in this, too?" began he, his feelings softened by
the knowledge that other arms of the law would figure on that film with
him at the Alhambra to-night. "Now, what are you after, you goat? That
French lady, or the red-headed party in the grey suit?"

"Yes, yes, of course I am. You heard me signal you to head him off,
didn't you?" replied Smathers, looking round and growing suddenly
excited when he realized that Collins was empty-handed, and that the
red-headed man was not there. "Heavens! you never let him get away, did
you? You grabbed him, didn't you--eh?"

"Of course I grabbed him. Come out of it. What are you giving me, you
josser?" said Collins with a wink and a grin. "Ain't you found out even
yet, you silly? Why, it was only a faked-up thing--the taking of a
kinematograph picture for the Alhambra. You and Petrie ought to have
been here sooner and got your wages, you goats. I got half a quid for my
share when I let him go."

Smathers and Petrie lifted up their voices in one despairing howl.

"When you what?" fairly yelled Smathers. "You fool! You don't mean to
tell me that you let them take you in like that--those two? You don't
mean to tell me that you had him--had him in your hands--and then let
him go? You did? Oh! you seventy-seven kinds of a double-barrelled ass!
Had him--think of it!--had him, and let him go! Did yourself out of a
share in a reward of two hundred quid when you'd only to shut your hands
and hold on to it!"

"Two hundred quid? Two hun--W-what are you talking about? Wasn't it
true? Wasn't it a kinematograph picture, after all?"

"No, you fool, no!" howled Smathers, fairly dancing with despair. "Oh,
you blithering idiot! You ninety-seven varieties of a fool! Do you know
who you had in your hands? Do you know who you let go? It was that devil
'Forty Faces'--'The Vanishing Cracksman'--the man who calls himself
'Hamilton Cleek'; and the woman was his pal, his confederate, his
blessed stool-pigeon--'Margot, the Queen of the Apache'; and she came
over from Paris to help him in that clean scoop of Lady Dresmer's jewels
last week!"

"Heavens!" gulped Collins, too far gone to say anything else, too deeply
dejected to think of anything but that he had had the man for whom
Scotland Yard had been groping for a year--the man over whom all
England, all France, all Germany wondered--close shut in the grip of his
hands and then had let him go. The biggest and boldest criminal the
police had ever had to cope with, the almost supernatural genius of
crime, who defied all systems, laughed at all laws, mocked at all the
Vidocqs, and Dupins, and Sherlock Holmeses, whether amateur or
professional, French or English, German or American, that ever had been
or ever could be pitted against him, and who, for sheer devilry, for
diabolical ingenuity and for colossal impudence, as well as for a
nature-bestowed power that was simply amazing, had not his match in all
the universe.

Who or what he really was, whence he came, whether he was English,
Irish, French, German, Yankee, Canadian, Italian or Dutchman, no man
knew and no man might ever hope to know unless he himself chose to
reveal it. In his many encounters with the police he had assumed the
speech, the characteristics, and, indeed, the facial attributes of each
in turn, and assumed them with an ease and a perfection that were simply
marvellous, and had gained for him the sobriquet of "Forty Faces" among
the police, and of "The Vanishing Cracksman" among the scribes and
reporters of newspaperdom. That he came, in time, to possess another
name than these was due to his own whim and caprice, his own bald,
unblushing impudence; for, of a sudden, whilst London was in a fever of
excitement and all the newspapers up in arms over one of the most daring
and successful coups, he chose to write boldly to both editors and
police complaining that the title given him by each was both vulgar and
cheap.

"You would not think of calling Paganini a 'fiddler,'" he wrote; "why,
then, should you degrade me with the coarse term of 'cracksman'? I claim
to be as much an artist in my profession as Paganini was in his, and I
claim also a like courtesy from you. So, then, if in the future it
becomes necessary to allude to me--and I fear it often will--I shall be
obliged if you do so as 'The Man Who Calls Himself Hamilton Cleek.' In
return for that courtesy, gentlemen, I promise to alter my mode of
procedure, to turn over a new leaf, as it were, to give you at all times
hereafter distinct information, in advance, of such places as I elect
for the field of my operations, and of the time when I shall pay my
respects to them, and, on the morning after each such visit, to bestow
some small portion of the loot upon Scotland Yard as a souvenir of the
event."

And to that remarkable programme he rigidly adhered from that time
forth--always giving the police twelve hours' notice, always evading
their traps and snares, always carrying out his plans in spite of them,
and always, on the morning after, sending some trinket or trifle to
Superintendent Narkom at Scotland Yard, in a little pink cardboard box,
tied up with rose-coloured ribbon, and marked "With the compliments of
The Man Who Calls Himself Hamilton Cleek."

The detectives of the United Kingdom, the detectives of the Continent,
the detectives of America--each and all had measured swords with him,
tried wits with him, spread snares and laid traps for him, and each and
all had retired from the field vanquished.

And this was the man that he--Police Constable Samuel James Collins--had
actually had in his hands; nay, in his very arms, and then had given up
for half a sovereign and let go!

"Oh, so help me! You make my head swim, Smathers, that you do!" he
managed to say at last. "I had him--I had the Vanishing Cracksman--in my
blessed paws--and then went and let that French hussy--But look here; I
say, now, how do you know it was him? Nobody can go by his looks; so how
do you know?"

"Know, you footler!" growled Smathers, disgustedly. "Why shouldn't I
know when I've been after him ever since he left Scotland Yard half an
hour ago?"

"Left what? My hat! You ain't a-going to tell me that he's been there?
When? Why? What for?"

"To leave one of his blessed notices, the dare-devil. What a detective
he'd a made, wouldn't he, if he'd only a-turned his attention that way,
and been on the side of the law instead of against it? He walked in bold
as brass, sat down, and talked with the superintendent over some
cock-and-bull yarn about a 'Black Hand' letter that he said had been
sent to him, and asked if he couldn't have police protection whilst he
was in town. It wasn't until after he'd left that the super he sees a
note on the chair where the blighter had been sitting, and when he
opened it, there it was in black and white, something like this:

"'The list of presents that have been sent for the wedding to-morrow
of Sir Horace Wyvern's eldest daughter make interesting reading,
particularly that part which describes the jewels sent--no doubt as a
tribute to her father's position as the greatest brain specialist in the
world--from the Austrian Court and the Continental principalities. The
care of such gems is too great a responsibility for the bride. I
propose, therefore, to relieve her of it to-night, and to send you the
customary souvenir of the event to-morrow morning. Yours faithfully,

"'The Man Who Calls Himself Hamilton Cleek.

"That's how I know, dash you! Superintendent sent me out after him, hot
foot; and after a bit I picked him up in the Strand, toddling along with
that French hussy as cool as you please. But, blow him! he must have
eyes all round his head, for he saw me just as soon as I saw him, and he
and Frenchy separated like a shot. She hopped into a taxi and flew off
in one direction; he dived into a crowd and bolted in another, and
before you could say Jack Robinson he was doubling and twisting, jumping
into cabs and jumping out again--all to gain time, of course, for the
woman to do what he'd put her up to doing--and leading me the devil's
own chase through the devil's own tangle till he was ready to bunk for
the Embankment. And you let him go, you blooming footler! Had him and
let him go, and chucked away a third of £200 for the price of half a
quid!"

And long after Smathers and Petrie had left him, and the wondering crowd
had dispersed, and point duty at "Dead Man's Corner" was just point duty
again and nothing more, P.C. Collins stood there, chewing the cud of
bitter reflection over those words, and trying to reckon up just how
many pounds and how much glory had been lost to him.




II


"But, damme, sir, the thing's an outrage! I don't mince my words, Mr.
Narkom--I say plump and plain the thing's an outrage, a disgrace to the
police, an indignity upon the community at large; and for Scotland Yard
to permit itself to be defied, bamboozled, mocked at in this appalling
fashion by a paltry burglar--"

"Uncle, dear, pray don't excite yourself in this manner. I am quite sure
that if Mr. Narkom could prevent the things--"

"Hold your tongue, Ailsa--I will not be interfered with! It's time that
somebody spoke out plainly and let this establishment know what the
public has a right to expect of it. What do I pay my rates and taxes
for--and devilish high ones they are, too, b'gad--if it's not to
maintain law and order and the proper protection of property? And to
have the whole blessed country terrorised, the police defied, and
people's houses invaded with impunity by a gutter-bred brute of a
cracksman is nothing short of a scandal and a shame! Call this sort of
tomfoolery being protected by the police? God bless my soul! one might
as well be in charge of a parcel of doddering old women and be done with
it!"

It was an hour and a half after that exciting affair at "Dead Man's
Corner." The scene was Superintendent Narkom's private room at
headquarters, the dramatis personae, Mr. Maverick Narkom himself, Sir
Horace Wyvern, and Miss Ailsa Lome, his niece, a slight, fair-haired,
extremely attractive girl of twenty, the only and orphaned daughter of a
much-loved sister, who, up till a year ago, had known nothing more
exciting in the way of "life" than that which is to be found in a small
village in Suffolk, and falls to the lot of an underpaid vicar's only
child. A railway accident had suddenly deprived her of both parents,
throwing her wholly upon her own resources, without a penny in the
world. Sir Horace had gracefully come to the rescue and given her a home
and a refuge, being doubly repaid for it by the affection and care she
gave him and the manner in which she assumed control of a household
which hitherto had been left wholly to the attention of servants, Lady
Wyvern having long been dead, and her two daughters of that type which
devotes itself entirely to the pleasures of society and the demands of
the world. A regular pepper-box of a man--testy, short-tempered,
exacting--Sir Horace had flown headlong to Superintendent Narkom's
office as soon as that gentleman's note, telling him of the Vanishing
Cracksman's latest threat, had been delivered, and, on Miss Lorne's
advice, had withheld all news of it from the members of his household
and brought her with him.

"I tell you that Scotland Yard must do something--must! must! must!"
stormed he as Narkom, resenting that stigma upon the institution,
puckered up his lips and looked savage. "That fellow has always kept his
word--always, in spite of your precious band of muffs--and if you let
him keep it this time, when there's upwards of £40,000 worth of jewels
in the house, it will be nothing less than a national disgrace, and you
and your wretched collection of bunglers will be covered with deserved
ridicule."

Narkom swung round, smarting under these continued taunts, these
"flings" at the efficiency of his prided department, his nostrils
dilated, his temper strained to the breaking-point.

"Well, he won't keep it this time--I promise you that!" he rapped out
sharply. "Sooner or later every criminal, no matter how clever, meets
his Waterloo--and this shall be his! I'll take this affair in hand
myself, Sir Horace. I'll not only send the pick of my men to guard the
jewels, but I'll go with them; and if that fellow crosses the threshold
of Wyvern House to-night, by the Lord, I'll have him. He will have to be
the devil himself to get away from me! Miss Lorne"--recollecting himself
and bowing apologetically--"I ask your pardon for this strong
language--my temper got the better of my manners."

"It does not matter, Mr. Narkom, so that you preserve my cousin's
wedding-gifts from that appalling man," she answered with a gentle
inclination of the head and with a smile that made the superintendent
think she must certainly be the most beautiful creature in all the
world, it so irradiated her face and added to the magic of her glorious
eyes. "It does not matter what you say, what you do, so long as you
accomplish that."

"And I will accomplish it--as I'm a living man, I will! You may go home
feeling assured of that. Look for my men some time before dusk, Sir
Horace--I will arrive later. They will come in one at a time. See that
they are admitted by the area door, and that, once in, not one of them
leaves the house again before I put in an appearance. I'll look them
over when I arrive to be sure that there's no wolf in sheep's clothing
amongst them. With a fellow like that--a diabolical rascal with a
diabolical gift for impersonation--one can't be too careful. Meantime,
it is just as well not to have confided this news to your daughters,
who, naturally, would be nervous and upset; but I assume that you have
taken some one of the servants into your confidence in order that nobody
may pass them and enter the house under any pretext whatsoever?"

"No, I have not. Miss Lorne advised against it, and, as I am always
guided by her, I said nothing of the matter to anybody."

"Was that wrong, do you think, Mr. Narkom?" queried Ailsa anxiously. "I
feared that if they knew they might lose their heads, and that my
cousins, who are intensely nervous and highly emotional, might hear of
it, and add to our difficulties by becoming hysterical and demanding our
attention at a time when we ought to be giving every moment to watching
for the possible arrival of that man. And as he has always lived up to
the strict letter of his dreadful promises heretofore, I knew that he
was not to be expected before nightfall. Besides, the jewels are locked
up in the safe in Sir Horace's consulting-room, and his assistant, Mr.
Merfroy, has promised not to leave it for one instant before we return."

"Oh, well, that's all right, then. I dare say there is very little
likelihood of our man getting in whilst you and Sir Horace are here, and
taking such a risk as stopping in the house until nightfall to begin his
operations. Still, it was hardly wise, and I should advise hurrying back
as fast as possible and taking at least one servant--the one you feel
least likely to lose his head--into your confidence, Sir Horace, and
putting him on the watch for my men. Otherwise, keep the matter as quiet
as you have done, and look for me about nine o'clock. And rely upon this
as a certainty: the Vanishing Cracksman will never get away with even
one of those jewels if he enters that house to-night, and never get out
of it unshackled!"

With that, he suavely bowed his visitors out and rang up the pick of his
men without an instant's delay.

Promptly at nine o'clock he arrived, as he had promised, at Wyvern
House, and was shown into Sir Horace's consulting-room, where Sir Horace
himself and Miss Lorne were awaiting him, and keeping close watch before
the locked door of a communicating apartment in which sat the six men
who had preceded him. He went in and put them all and severally through
a rigid examination--pulling their hair and beards, rubbing their faces
with a clean handkerchief in quest of any trace of "make-up" or disguise
of any sort, examining their badges and the marks on the handcuffs they
carried with them to make sure that they bore the sign which he himself
had scratched upon them in the privacy of his own room a couple of hours
ago.

"No mistake about this lot," he announced, with a smile. "Has anybody
else entered or attempted to enter the house?"

"Not a soul," replied Miss Lorne. "I didn't trust anybody to do the
watching, Mr. Narkom--I watched myself."

"Good. Where are the jewels? In that safe?"

"No," replied Sir Horace. "They are to be exhibited in the
picture-gallery for the benefit of the guests at the wedding breakfast
to-morrow, and as Miss Wyvern wished to superintend the arrangement of
them herself, and there would be no time for that in the morning, she
