The Riddle of the Purple Emperor

He stopped short suddenly and sniffed in the air, much to the open-mouthed astonishment of Constable Roberts, whose grumbling remonstrances died away.

"Good Lord man, sir, I mean," he exclaimed, agitatedly, "but what's in the wind now?"

"Scent and sense, my good fellow," said Cleek. "There is a distinct odour of jasmine in the air and an artificial scent, Huile de jasmin at that. It is a woman's scent, too, and some woman has been here to-night. She's been on these very stone steps."

"Well, what if she has? That don't excuse you a-saying that Miss Cheyne is dead, when she's no more dead than you or me – " retorted the constable, heatedly. "I shall be the laughing-stock of the country, fetched out like a fool – "

Hardly listening to the stream of grumbling expostulation issuing from the mouth of Constable Roberts, Cleek bent down and sniffed again vigorously. He tested each step till he reached the gravelled path. All at once he gave vent to a sharp cry of triumph for there, indented in the path before him and revealed by the light of his torch, was the mark of a slender shoe – a woman's shoe unmistakably.

In a second they had passed the lodge gates and were out in the narrow lane, which was black as a beggar's pocket, and as empty. A placid moon shone over silent fields, and only the soft whirr of the motor broke the silence as they sped along.

Nevertheless Cleek, as ever, was on the look-out. The sixth sense of impending danger which was in him strangely developed hung over him.

Suddenly, with a little cry of surprise and a grinding of brakes, he pulled the car up with such a jerk that Roberts, who had subsided into a somnolent silence, was nearly thrown off the seat at his side.

"A dollar for a ducat but I'm right!" he exclaimed sharply. "There's someone on that side of the hedge."

Without stopping a second he leaped down, cleared the low hedge as lightly as any schoolboy, and pounced on a crouching, running, panting figure.

"One minute, sir," he began. Then his fingers almost lost their hold, as the face of a man in deadly terror gazed up at him, and from him to the majesty of the law as embodied in the person of Constable Roberts. That worthy, having descended from the car, was now looking over the hedge.

"Lawks, sir, if it bain't Sir Edgar himself!" he ejaculated, and the sound of the evidently familiar voice seemed to pull the distraught young man together.

"Hello, Roberts," he said with a brave attempt at the debonair nonchalance which was his usual manner, an attempt that did not blind Cleek to the fact that his lips were trembling and beads of perspiration standing on his pale forehead.

"What are you doing gadding around at this time of night?"

"Me, sir?" replied Roberts, bitterly. "I've bin fetched out to see murdered women and – "

"Not – not Miss Cheyne!" gasped the young man.

A queer little smile looped up one corner of Cleek's mouth.

"Hello, hello!" he said, mentally, "someone else knows of it, eh?" Here was somebody who, to his way of thinking, jumped to right conclusions too quickly. Why should Sir Edgar Brenton, as he knew this man to be, know that it should be Miss Cheyne, unless – and here Cleek's mind raced on wings of doubt again – unless he himself had killed Miss Cheyne? And if so, who was this woman – ?

As if from some distance he could hear Roberts's grumbling bellow:

"Miss Cheyne? Lor', don't you go for to say you've got that bee in your bonnet, too, Sir Edgar. It is quite enough with this gent, Lieutenant Deland, a-coming and fetching me away from my bit of supper. What my missis will say remains to be 'eard, as they says. 'Deed, no, Miss Cheyne's as live as you, and in a thunderin' bad temper – "

"Thank the Lord!" ejaculated the young squire in a low, fervent undertone.

"An' what made you think, if I might be so bold, Sir Edgar, that it was Miss Cheyne?" asked the constable curiously, voicing Cleek's unspoken thought.

That gentleman cleared his throat before answering.

"It was just a chance hit, Roberts," said he, but his voice held an odd little crabbed note in it. "You see, you were coming straight from Cheyne Court, so it couldn't have been any one else."

"No, sir, come to think, it couldn't be," assented Roberts, and Cleek, who had stepped back into the shadow of the hedge, twitched up his eyebrows as he sensed the relief that stole over Sir Edgar's face.

"A nice fright you gave me, too," continued the young man, speaking more easily. "I'm supposed to be at a political dinner-fight in London, you know, Roberts. Only just got back, in fact, and I didn't feel up to it, so when I heard that precious motor of yours I was afraid it might be some dashed good-natured friend, don't you know, and so I cut across the hedge."

"Quite right, too," assented Constable Roberts approvingly, in whose eyes Sir Edgar could do no wrong. Then to Cleek, "Well, sir, I think we'll be moving, if you don't mind."

"Indeed I don't," Cleek replied, and then he addressed Sir Edgar. "Sorry I startled you, sir – took you for a poacher, don't you know. Perhaps you'll let me drive you through the village if you are going this way." He smiled with a well-feigned air of stupidity, put up his eyeglass into his eye, and lurched up against the young man as he spoke.

"Pleased," mumbled Sir Edgar, and got into the limousine.

Another two or three minutes' run brought them into the village, and here Sir Edgar insisted on alighting, and continuing his journey on foot.

Cleek watched him go with brows on which deep furrows were marked.

"Wonder what made the young gentleman lie so futilely?" he said at length as his shadow gradually merged in with the darkness ahead.

"Lie?" echoed the astonished constable, as he fumbled with the latch of his garden gate.

"Yes, lie, my friend," flung back Cleek, his foot on the step of the car. "He was running to the station not from it; his clothes smelt strongly of the scent which pervaded the house this afternoon, namely jasmine; and thirdly, there was a revolver in his pocket. A revolver is a thing no gentleman takes to a dinner with him, even a political one."

And, leaving Mr. Roberts to digest this piece of mental food with his long-delayed supper, the car whizzed away in the moonlight. Cleek's first duty was to Ailsa, and he found her waiting for him pale and expectant at the little gate.

"Oh," she cried, as the motor panted its way into silence. "I thought you were never coming back. Where is she, dear? Where is that helpless child?"

She hurried out, but Cleek flung up an arresting hand.

"I am either going mad, Ailsa, or else there is a greater mystery here than I can fathom," he said quickly. "Miss Cheyne herself was there to receive us and – "

"Miss Cheyne!" echoed Ailsa, her eyes dilating, and apparently she was almost as shocked at this news of her evident existence as she had been a short while back by her demise. "But you said – " her voice trailed away into silence, and Cleek took the words out of her mouth.

"She was dead! Yes, I certainly thought so, and I cannot understand it. Nevertheless, Miss Cheyne is there all right, Constable Roberts will vouch for that; and Lady Margaret is presumably tucked up safe and sound in her bed, but it is incomprehensible to me. Here's the story if you care to hear it."

He gave a rough outline of his various discoveries and at the end of it Ailsa nodded her head gravely.

"I cannot understand it, either," she said. "I suppose nothing can be done, but I will go up to Cheyne Court early in the morning and see the child for myself."

Cleek smiled his approval.

"I wish you would," he said. "I must run up and see Mr. Narkom, and to-morrow perhaps – well, who knows – "

CHAPTER V

THE THREADS OF CHANCE

It had just gone nine o'clock on that same eventful evening when the limousine slowed down before Scotland Yard, and the car was handed over to its natural owners. Superintendent Narkom, Cleek learned to his extreme relief, was engaged on a special case involving his working at the Yard to a late hour. In the fraction of a second Cleek was ascending the stone staircase and traversing the corridor, at the end of which lay the private room of his friend and ally. He still felt that all was not as it should be at Cheyne Court, and even though he was unable to do anything at the moment, yet he felt he must pour the story of his adventure into the trained and sympathetic ears of the man with whom he had worked so long and so faithfully. It could not have been more than a minute, but the time seemed endless till he at length, after a preliminary tap, threw open the door of the room and saw the figure of Mr. Narkom ensconced in his arm-chair, his brows knitted, and his hands clenched over a sheet of paper lying on the desk before him. He looked up irritably at the evidently unwelcome intrusion.

"Now, what the – " he began. Then as he caught sight of the intruder, he leaped from his seat and fairly hurled himself on Cleek.

"Cleek!" he shouted. "Cleek, the very man I was praying for! Come along in and lock the door behind you so we can't be disturbed."

Cleek obeyed, smiling a little. He was always willing and eager to give his help to the Yard, and the very fact that Mr. Maverick Narkom so plainly depended on him lent still further zest to his willingness.

"Hello," he said lightly, "you look fairly dazed, Mr. Narkom. What's in the wind? It's a case, of course. And a jewel case at that," he added.

"Cinnamon! Cleek," stuttered the Superintendent, falling limply into his lately vacated chair. "How the dickens did you know, or are you – "

"In league with the Evil One himself, eh?" finished Cleek, the queer, one-sided smile travelling over his face. "No, it's quite simple, my dear fellow. At your side you have a book, 'Famous Stones and Their History.' In front of you is a lapidary's glass. Clearly you have been examining stones of some kind, real or artificial, see?"

"Yes, I do see," muttered Mr. Narkom. "And you're right Cleek, devilish right. It is a jewel theft. As a matter of fact, it's a series of thefts, all by the same gang, and Heaven alone knows how or from where they operate."

"Oho!" said Cleek, with a strong rising inflection. "A gang, eh? Now I wonder if I know. There's the French gang, headed by our old friend Margot; the Viennese gang, by Mr. Von Henri, and the Lambeth Walk gang that have called themselves the Pentacle Club – "

"That's the set. But how you knew beats me! Petrie and Hammond will have it they are at the bottom of these cases. There have been one after the other, jewels stolen from travellers at railway stations, jewels from shops, jewels at balls. There is a constant inrush of fresh cases, and I am almost beside myself with anxiety. In two instances, in fact, murder has been done, and the body found marked with a kind of six-pointed star."

Cleek's voice went up, and his brows came down. "Star, you say," he ejaculated rapidly. "Star? As you know, my friend, the Pentacle is a star formed by two equilateral triangles intersecting so as to form a six-pointed star. Properly it should be a five-pointed object, from the Greek pente, five, like a pentagram, or pentagon, but as applied to a magical figure it is probably a corruption of pendre, to hang, and that is a very appropriate sign for our friends to have chosen. This gang, too, if I remember rightly, used to be led by a man known as Snaky Jim, though I believe James Blake was his real name. At any rate, that was the name under which he served time. All this is by the way, so now you give me such facts as you have to hand, and you may be sure you can rely upon my doing my best to help you."

"Well, it will certainly be a hanging matter this time if we catch the culprit, for when it comes to committing murder in broad daylight within an ace of Bond Street Police Station itself, it is a bit too thick. Why any one should have murdered a harmless old theatrical wardrobe keeper in Drury Lane anyway, just beats me."

"What's that?" said Cleek. "Do you mean to tell me that a person attached to the theatre has been killed? Or – no – no, let me see, a seller of second-hand clothes is a wardrobe keeper, is he not?"

"Yes," responded Mr. Narkom, "it was my mistake, though in this case it was a woman. As I said before, what they wanted to kill the old dame for is past comprehension. There wasn't an article worth ten shillings in the place and yet they took the trouble, to say nothing of the risk, of carrying off all the old wigs and gowns that the shop contained. It was a regular clean sweep I'm told."

Cleek sat up suddenly. "What's that? Murdered an old woman for the sake of a few 'old clo'? Why, Mr. Narkom, the thieves must have been mad. When did this peculiar outrage take place; at what time; and when? But perhaps you don't know."

"As it happens, I do," said Mr. Narkom, answering the latter part of his ally's question, "for I happened to be visiting Bond Street when the policeman on point duty brought the case in. The woman, Madame Elise she called herself, though in reality she was as Irish as a Dublin-born woman can be and spoke with a brogue that you could cut with a knife, had lived in this little court in the lane, and carried on business for nearly ten years. She was known, I believe, to be a tough customer as we understand the term, but no crook. No 'Fence' business; just the buying and selling of old clothes, and mostly theatrical ones. Well, according to the old crony who lodged with her, she hadn't a friend or relative in the world, and such money as she made went to keep a cot at St. Thomas's Hospital in memory of her son who died as a baby. Poor old soul.

"Well, according to Mrs. Malone, who goes out for the day, Madame, as they call her, had an appointment with some man who wanted to fit up a small touring company and needed clothes. He particularly mentioned a 'makeup' for an old woman."

Cleek twitched up his eyebrows. "How did Mrs. Malone know that?" he asked.

"She says Mrs. McBride, to give Madame her real name, told her so, and at the same time, said she didn't expect the deal to come off, for she wasn't going to lower her price, not if she died for it – "

"H'm," said Cleek, rubbing his chin softly with his forefinger, "and she did 'die for it,' poor soul. That looks suspicious. Did she already suspect her customer of sinister designs?"

"Goodness knows! All we know is that a man was seen to go in – "

"By whom?" interposed Cleek swiftly.

"Several people, but the one most likely to be certain is the crippled paper-boy who has a stand opposite the shop. He says a man went in, stayed ever so long, and came out finally with a big bag. He then strode off up in the direction of Wellington Street."

"H'm, like looking for a needle in a haystack to find him," threw in Cleek with a little gesture of despair. "And when was the murder discovered, may I ask?"

"Not until a couple of hours later, I believe, when Mrs. Malone returned and came screeching out of the house with the news that Madame was murdered, having been stabbed to the heart with a dagger. That's all I know up to the present. But that's the case in a nutshell, Cleek."

"H'm, and a pretty tough nut to crack," threw in Cleek with a little laugh. "If it is not too late I wouldn't mind viewing the body to-night, if you don't mind. Unless – "

"Only too thankful," responded Mr. Narkom, jumping to his feet with alacrity. "For what with these jewel thefts and now this murder, I am almost beside myself with worry. Going to make any 'alterations' in your appearance?"

"Yes. Give me a moment and I'll be ready."

"Thanks, Cleek. I knew I could rely upon you! I don't believe you need bother about a disguise, though. It's as dark as pitch and there's nobody now to see whether Cleek of Scotland Yard is still in the land of the living or not."

The curious one-sided smile so characteristic of the man looped up the corner of Cleek's mouth; his features seemed to writhe; and a strange, indescribable change came over them as he made use of his peculiar birth-gift. An instant later the only likeness which remained of the dapper Lieutenant who had entered the room was his clothing, for the bovine, stupid face above the Lieutenant's collar was the face of George Headland who stood blinking and grinning into the Superintendent's amazed and delighted countenance.

"I do not think it will matter at all," Cleek said as he smiled into Mr. Narkom's eyes. "But it's as well to be careful. And Mr. George Headland is good enough to take chances on. Come along."

Mr. Narkom "came along" forthwith and it was not until they were safely seated in the limousine and heading swiftly for the purlieus of Drury Lane, that Cleek spoke of his doings.

"I only hope the old-clothes woman has come to life again, like my corpse did this evening," he said with just a tinge of whimsical humour as he remembered the incidents through which he had just passed.

Mr. Narkom stared at him in natural astonishment and Cleek proceeded to relate his adventures of the night, with the utmost detail, from the moment when the shot attracted his attention outside Cheyne Court, down to that when the ghastly discovery was made by him in the dusty ballroom.

"You are absolutely sure the woman was dead?" said Mr. Narkom, mopping his head with a silk handkerchief.

"Quite sure. I have seen death too many times not to recognize its presence immediately, my friend. No, that woman was dead right enough, but as to whether she was in reality Miss Cheyne, or whether it was Miss Cheyne who drove us out of the house an hour later, is quite another matter. The thing is not supernatural, it is simply a trick. Once, in the old days that lie behind, when I was amongst those who are hunted, in the old 'vanishing cracksman' days, I saw Margot play a similar trick. Even in that time of the 'Kid Crawl,' I employed a similar method to achieve a coup which would otherwise have ended badly enough."

"Margot," repeated Narkom. "Yes, I wonder if it was she and what her object was, but even if we knew it would not help us. Besides, she would have recognized you."

"Oh, no, my friend," replied Cleek, with one of his curious smiles. "I do not think any living being would recognize me, unless I wished them to. I can assure you, and I think I should know, that it was not Margot. As to an object, that is another matter. Do not forget the fact that the jewels belonging to the house of Cheyne are historic, and worth untold wealth. All are or will be shortly in the power of the poor little girl I drove home and who stands a very good chance of being the target of every jewel thief in Europe. Still, I don't suppose any one would be allowed to remove them without there being first-class evidence as to their identity. That is where the mystery lies. It is a pity we do not know the family lawyers, or we could put them on their guard."

Mr. Narkom looked up with a little start. "That's strange, now you come to think of it, for as it happens I do know them – they are Shallcott, Woodward & Company of Lincoln's Inn, and I came up to town this morning with old Mr. Shallcott. He's a precise old soul, and I don't fancy there's any chance of their playing any tricks on him. He was telling me about a young client of his who comes into her kingdom of jewels in a week or so's time. He did not mention any names, but in the light of what you say, it must be this very same lady. Perhaps you would like to see him for yourself, old chap, and if I can get off I will see into the matter of that dead body without fail. I will issue a search warrant if you like. That is, if it'll be any good to you, with your amazing methods!"

"You never can tell, as the old woman said when she married for the fifth time, and a search warrant is a search warrant when necessity arises. I'll have it, my friend."

Mr. Narkom nodded. Then he looked out of the window of the limousine and beckoned to Lennard to stop.

"Here we are," said he, "and I promise you poor Madame will be dead enough!"

Dead she certainly was, and the cause of death was only too plain. The poor soul had been stabbed straight to the heart as she had stood bargaining over her own counter. Cleek gave a little sigh as he turned away from the gruesome sight. Except for the fact that every wig and article of woman's clothing had been removed, there was no evidence of any robbery in the shop. It looked likely to prove one of those plain, straightforward cases that end simply in the verdict of murder against some person or persons unknown.

He was about to follow Mr. Narkom when his eye caught sight of an old, faded daguerreotype photo standing on the mantelshelf. It was no less than a photo of the Honourable Miss Cheyne, in a red dress and her unique rings and at the bottom of it was inscribed, "Elsie McBride from her mistress, Marion Cheyne."

CHAPTER VI

THE CRY IN THE NIGHT

Lady Margaret Cheyne awoke suddenly.

As Cleek had surmised, left to herself, she would have slept on undisturbed for hours, but the sharp sound of opening and closing doors, the buzz of voices, and blaze of light, caused the forget-me-not blue eyes to open and stare dazedly round her. For the moment she thought she was back in the seclusion of the convent.

"Am I late, sister?" she murmured drowsily. Then as she grew wider awake, the recollection of the events of the last hours swept over her, and with this came the memory of her journey, and all the misery that it had entailed. With a little cry, half mental pain, half physical tiredness, she started up, and her eyes fell on the figure of the Honourable Miss Cheyne, who stood at the side of the chair, a lamp in hand, looking anxiously down at her.

"Auntie," cried the girl joyfully, and grasping at the hand put out to her, she remembered only just in time not to kiss her aunt, for Miss Cheyne had invariably hated caresses.

"Oh, you are back at last. I missed you at the station – "

"So I should think, my dear," said Miss Cheyne, grimly. "I've had the servants looking for you, such lazy devils as they are, gobblers all of them. I've been looking for you, and I find you here all the time. I want to know who the person was who brought you." She finished as she turned to put the lamp down on a table.

"I don't know who he is, except that his name is Lieutenant Deland," cried Lady Margaret, "and that he is a friend of a lady who was on the boat, Miss Ailsa Lorne, who was so good to me. Oh, Auntie, I was so sick. I shall never go back again. I simple couldn't go through it."

"No, no, you shan't, my dear," said Miss Cheyne, almost amiably for her, "you shall have a good time over here, but now you are tired out, and must get to bed. I don't keep any servants, so you'll have to set to, and do for yourself – the lazy good-for-noughts, they eat you out of house and home! John shall get you something to eat and drink, my dear, and then to-morrow we'll have the house to ourselves."

Lady Margaret was too tired to argue, even if she had thought of so doing, and she knew of her aunt's parsimonious habits.

She certainly did not like the look of John, who leered into her face as he brought a glass of what was presumably lemonade and a plate of thickly cut bread and butter, which she could not touch. She was thirsty, however, and carried the glass quickly to her lips, only to be put down with a shudder as she detected the flavour of strong spirit.

"I don't think I want anything, Auntie, after all, only just to go to bed."

"Nonsense, my girl, you drink it up sharp," was the response. "You'll catch your death of cold driving about with strange men at night. Come, down with it."

"Better hurry up," said John, significantly, and even Lady Margaret's tired mind took in the strangeness of the remark coming as it did from her aunt's butler.

With a little puzzled frown, the girl took a long gulp of the liquid, then fled up the staircase, pausing at the first landing only long enough to pick up a candle.

"Good-night, Auntie," she called down to the bejewelled and rouged figure standing at the bottom. "I'll be better to-morrow."

With a little nod she vanished, and the listeners heard her light footfall on the bare staircase of the second flight. A moment later there came the click of a door shut to. Lady Margaret had retired for the night.