The Riddle of the Purple Emperor

As the stiff-ringed fingers were bent back, a little glittering fragment was displayed.

Cleek grasped it, and twitching back his head sniffed violently two or three times.

The doctor started in amazement.

"Good Lord, man," said he testily, "you can't tell who it belongs to by smelling it."

"I'm not so sure of that," responded Cleek smiling. "At any rate, find me the person who scents himself or herself with Huile de Jasmin, and you will be on the right road."

"Huile de Jasmin!" interjected the doctor suddenly. "Huile de Jas– no, no, it is not possible. I will not believe that." He had risen to his feet and was gazing across at Cleek, his face drawn and white.

"You know some one who uses that scent?" said Cleek quietly. "Come, Doctor, in her interests, clear the ground first of all; do not delay matters. There may be nothing in it, but – " His tones were fraught with significance, and the other man realized their value.

"I have known Miss Jennifer Wynne to use it. She is very fond of the scent," he said, grudgingly. "But that does not mean she had anything to do with this," he pointed to the floor. "It is rarely that a woman fires a revolver, and as this wound has clearly been caused by this weapon here the first thing we have to do is to find the owner of it."

"True," said Cleek, quietly, bending as he spoke and pulling the dead man's lips down.

"Unfortunately for that theory, my dear Doctor, though the man has undoubtedly been shot, he was dead before ever that bullet reached him: killed with prussic acid. See. Here are the remnants of a little pellet, and I rather fancy if you have it analyzed, you will find it consists of nearly pure solidified prussic acid. Then again, look at the neck, there are the marks of long, slender fingers, showing that someone must have grasped the man by the neck, and forced the pellet into his mouth. Do you see?"

The doctor did see, and stood frowning heavily at these signs so easily read by this stranger.

Bending down again, he picked up the revolver which lay at the side. It bore an initial, that of the letter B.

"Brenton," muttered Mr. Narkom almost involuntarily, seeing one more link in the chain of fatal evidence against Sir Edgar. "Good lud, Brenton!"

Cleek apparently took no heed either of the remark or the revolver.

"Come," he said suddenly. "We have had enough of this gruesome spot, and there is nothing to be learned from it. Let us lock it up and have a look at some of those interesting footprints outside."

They had almost reached the outer gate when the silence was broken by a babble of angry voices, mingled with the sound of a scuffle, and there rang out the shrill tones of Dollops.

"No, you don't, my beauty! I've copped yer, and I'm going to keep you till my guv'nor's seen you. None of your larks, now! None of your larks!"

CHAPTER XII

THE WOMAN IN THE CASE

The distance between the door of Cheyne Court and the end of the lane, whence the sounds appeared to issue, was by no means a short one, but at the first sound of Dollops's voice the four men sped down the centre of the dark drive and round the corner, the bull's-eye lantern of Constable Roberts sending a brilliant path of light before them.

Close to the identical spot, where earlier in the evening Constable Roberts had had his helmet pushed down over his eyes by an unseen assailant, two figures struggled together. One was vainly endeavouring to free herself from the clutches of her captor, the other was intent on bringing her to the ground. Scattered all about were the drawings and paraphernalia with which Dollops had evidently been carrying out his usual proceedings. The light of the lantern and Cleek's electric torch revealed his prisoner to be a slim, fair-haired girl of about three and twenty, clad in a soft white gown now sadly soiled and torn by the rough usage she had undergone, while over her shoulders was hanging a crumpled but unmistakable gold scarf.

It hardly needed the doctor's startled exclamation, "Jennifer!" to tell the detective that this was indeed the girl of whom he had spoken, for even from that distance there emanated the sweet fragrance of jasmine. There before him was the girl the host at the Hampton Arms had gossiped about, and who was a bitter rival of Lady Margaret Cheyne for the love of Sir Edgar Brenton.

"Why, Doctor!" she said bravely. "This is a lucky meeting. Who and what is this disgusting individual? I was just taking a little stroll, when I was seized hold of and dragged along like a sack of coals, or a criminal on the way to the police-station."

Cleek noted her voice and tone, and stood watching her. He said nothing, however, merely removed the pressure of his thumb from the controlling button of his torch, slipped that useful article into his pocket, and busied himself with picking up Dollops' papers on which he had obviously been taking measurements of footprints.

"Here you, whoever you are, just keep your 'ands off my papers," snapped Dollops with a wink at the Superintendent which passed unnoticed by that irate individual. "I say, Mr. Narkom sir, don't let that new man take off my papers, and don't you be took in neither, sir," he added, earnestly. "I didn't do the young person no 'arm, but she wasn't up to no good a creeping and watching in the dark."

"Well, you can take it from me, sir," interposed Dr. Verrall, heatedly, "this lady is a personal friend of mine, and had a perfect right to be strolling down the lane. She was probably on her way home from Lady Brenton's; were you not, Miss Wynne?"

"Yes, yes, that's just where I had been," the girl answered, her dark eyes flashing gratefully at the doctor, "but I refuse to say another word till you send away this enterprising youth who has bruised my arms nearly black and blue."

"Certainly, Miss Wynne," said Mr. Narkom. "Dollops, get along back to the station."

"But, sir, Mr. Narkom – "

"Not another word: do as I say."

Dollops gave a swift glance at Cleek's impassive face, then sullenly picked up his papers, the bundle of famous "tickle-tootsies" without which he never budged when on a case, and lounged away into the shadows of the trees.

"We are anxious to get on with a very important task, Miss Jennifer," said the Superintendent. "A very horrible deed has been committed within the last few hours, and I and my friend and ally – "

"Mr. George Headland," interjected that gentleman, blandly. While appearing to have been absorbed in dispatching Dollops, Cleek had been quietly taking in every detail relative to the girl's appearance, and had decided off-hand that he liked the look of her, despite her suspicious behaviour. She was just the type of womanhood that to connect with such a thing as murder was simply impossible. "Surely, Mr. Narkom, it is hardly necessary to explain if the details are already known. Perhaps Miss Jennifer had come down to learn any fresh news?"

"That is just what I have done," she said, gratefully, a note of agitation sounding in her rich voice, despite an effort to keep it calm. "I was just going for a stroll. I had a splitting headache, and only a good walk in the open air ever does it any good. All at once I met Constable Roberts. I stopped him and he told me dear Miss Cheyne had been murdered. Of course I did not want to be caught, and I was just trying to get back home when that young beggar set on me, mistaking me, I suppose, for an accomplice."

"Well, it's very deplorable," put in Cleek, mildly, "but you see, miss, he'd been told to arrest anybody who came along, and under the circumstances – " His voice trailed off into silence and the rest of the sentence went by default.

Miss Wynne nodded her head vigorously.

"Yes, yes, I suppose so; still, it has all been a mistake and now I think I had better be going home. You will be suspecting me of the actual murder next.

"Nonsense, Miss Jennifer, we might as well suspect Lady Brenton, or Sir Edgar, for that matter."

"Why, yes, indeed," said the girl, quickly. "But as Lady Brenton was confined to her room, also with a headache, and Sir Edgar is not expected back till the morning, I think we are all quite safe."

The curious one-sided smile moved up Cleek's left cheek, then vanished as quickly as it had come.

"Quite so, Miss Jennifer," he said, blandly. "Besides, it is not with women we are concerned but the owner of this revolver that we found on the spot – "

She saw the revolver and whirled upon him like a mad woman.

"My God! He did lea – Edgar – he said it had been stolen!"

Realizing the effect of her words, she then turned fiercely on them. "If you dare to suspect Edgar, you are wrong. He was never within miles of the place! You shan't drag him into this wretched mess, you shan't, I say, you shan't – "

"Calm yourself, my dear young lady; there is every proof of its being a woman as much as a man," put in Cleek gently.

"You are absolutely sure you have no knowledge of the murder, no suspicion?"

For the briefest second she seemed to hesitate. Then she spoke hysterically:

"Why should I? I shouldn't have come if Roberts had not told me it was Miss Cheyne."

"There is no more to be said, then," returned Cleek. "We will all say good-night, and perhaps you will let one of us see you home."

"I will take Miss Jennifer back, myself," responded the doctor with a pathetic alacrity which Cleek noted, and with a last good-night the two turned and set off down the lane.

"H'm!" said Cleek, rubbing his chin, "and so a fresh element of mystery enters. She knew all that had been done this night, I'll swear. There was no surprise, was there, Roberts, when you told her?"

"Come to think of it, sir, she never turned a hair, might have been a dead cat I was talking about."

"What do you make of it, Cleek?" Mr. Narkom asked, in a mystified manner.

"Nothing as yet. Roberts, get a guard round the house, and then turn in. We'll wait here till relief comes. Good-night."

But after the burly policeman had tramped thankfully away, Cleek turned to his companion.

"For a liar, commend me to a woman every time," he said. "Miss Jennifer does know who it was. She knew that it had already been committed, and every blessed thing of hers smelt of Huile de jasmin strong! Did you notice the gold lace scarf also?"

"Good Lord! Surely you do not believe – ?" Mr. Narkom's voice was full of anxiety.

"I never 'believe' anything till I get proof. I may have my doubts and I do think at the moment that the young lady is either in the possession of dangerous knowledge, or else she is bent on throwing the blame on to Sir Edgar – "

"Good heavens, Cleek, how, why, what makes you think that?"

"First, because she was so evidently on the spot to be caught; secondly, her remark about the revolver was not so unstudied as it looked. No, my friend, you will find that Miss Jennifer knows a little more than you imagine, and means to turn that little to account in winning the man she has set her heart upon, much to our good doctor's dismay. I wonder, now, what poor young Dollops has got to say?"

A shrill whistle speedily brought the boy along, and his face when he saw that they were alone was a veritable picture of disgust.

"Lor' lumme, sir!" he exclaimed, "you never went and let yerself be taken in by that young woman's soft soap! Taking a stroll, indeed! Not she! Why, she climbed right out of one of those winders there, and dropped to earth like a first-class burglar born."

"In the house itself, did you say?"

"Yes, I did, Mr. Narkom, and I would 'ave told yer if yer 'adn't pitched into me! In the room over the porch she was, and she slid down the ivy, right in front of my blessed eyes, and then made out wot it was me that 'ad torn all 'er fings. I was running full tilt after another female, when I sees 'er, so there!"

"Another woman!" Narkom looked at Cleek, significantly.

"Are you sure it wasn't the same woman in the dark, Dollops?" asked Cleek, suddenly, "you might have made a mistake, you know."

Dollops gave vent to a little snort of disgust.

"Certain sure, sir, but the other lady wasn't near the house she wasn't. Sort of floating about under the trees in a kind of red dressing gown – "

"What's that – red – do you mean scarlet? Was it scarlet satin, Dollops? Do you think you know?"

"That I do, sir. Shining stuff it were and when I got near, she smelt something hevingly, like a garden full o' flowers."

"What's that?" rapped out Cleek, suddenly. "Huile de jasmin, of course. It must be the same woman I myself saw a month ago; and yet how does Miss Jennifer come to be there? If she is innocent, what was she doing in that room? And she was wearing a gold scarf, a piece of which I have here and which was clenched in the dead man's hand!"

"Heavens above, man!" snapped Narkom. "It's as clear as crystal. I should apply for a warrant for her arrest immediately."

"And yet, it was a revolver that had also been used, and one belonging to Sir Edgar. Miss Jennifer would hardly go so far as to murder the only obstacle that stood between the man she loved and his marriage to her rival. What, too, has become of that poor girl?"

"Don't ask me, Cleek," returned the puzzled Superintendent, dolefully. "It's the most infernal riddle I ever came across, and my head's aching with it. I'm off to get additional help, if you don't mind, or else we shall have crowds surging into that room before we know where we are."

"Right, Mr. Narkom, and as I still have a few threads to collect, Dollops and I will be off, too. We'll meet at the Hampton Arms. Come on, Dollops, we'll take a few impressions of those footprints before they're trodden out of existence to-morrow."

"Righto, Guv'nor."

Cleek took out his electric torch and the two set forth on their appointed task, leaving Mr. Narkom to set a sufficient guard over the silent figure of a dead man on whose face there rested an inscrutable smile. It was as if he were smiling over the secret he held and which was to puzzle many minds, and was one of the greatest riddles Cleek had ever attempted to solve.

Meanwhile that gentleman and his zealous assistant worked silently and surely. Not a depressed blade of grass was left before it was subjected to the keenest scrutiny, while exact outlines were taken of the clearly defined footprints, with which the lawn was fairly alive. To recognize the unmistakable imprint of the Government Regulation boot worn by Mr. Narkom and Constable Roberts was a simple matter. The footprints of Cleek and Dollops were also distinguishable, for both had early in their companionship decided to wear boots which would always enable them to tell their own footprints from any they might be tracking, a precaution that had stood them in good stead on more than one occasion.

It did so now, but even after having eliminated all the known ones there yet remained a bewildering number of marks, and a disgusted grunt broke from Dollops.

"Lor' lumme, the place is alive with them, sir, and they're all about the same size. They're that young woman's or I'll eat my 'at!"

But Cleek was silent, and as Dollops cautiously flashed his torch so that the light fell full upon his master's face, he gave a little start. Cleek was staring fixedly at the imprint of a newcomer, a man who had evidently come right up to a certain point, then stood still, as if waiting for something or someone to join him.

"Lor', sir," said Dollops, looking down now in the same direction, "there's that girl's footmarks, too. They go down the lane side by side."

An odd look flashed across Cleek's face, an odd smile dwelt for a moment about his mouth, for it looked as if the lad were right: the girl had been joined by a companion who had waited while she committed the deed. Once more Cleek's mind went back to the principals in the grim drama. Which was it? Jennifer Wynne, whose deception was so obvious; Sir Edgar Brenton, supposed to be in town; or the unknown stranger whose footprint they had found? It was a difficult problem, more difficult than he had at first imagined.

Finally he threw up his chin and faced the earnest young Cockney who was staring at him.

"Come, Dollops," he said with a little sigh, "there's no more to be done here. But if we'd only had a crop of your 'tickle-tootsies' we'd have caught those fine birds by their tail feathers and caged them. However, we haven't, so let's be off. There's plenty to do and not much time to do it in, and a walk back to the inn on this beautiful night will do us both a power of good."

CHAPTER XIII

TIGHTENING THE STRANDS

It is not often that it falls to the lot of any village to revel in such abysmal depths of excitement as did the village of Hampton when the news leaked out, and once the affair was known to the local police and their respective wives, the news of the tragedy spread with the velocity of a hurricane. By nine o'clock the next morning there wasn't an inhabitant within a radius of ten miles that had not heard of the murder of Miss Cheyne, and the mysterious disappearance of Lady Margaret. An hour later, the lanes and fields were thronged to overflowing with the chattering mob of sightseers, which the police, strongly reinforced by the reserves of several neighbouring hamlets, found more than a difficult task to keep in order. The story grew with every telling.

Miss Cheyne had been killed – oh, yes, months ago – and this man who had taken her place had murdered Lady Margaret, though it was not to be allowed to leak out. "Oh, no" – with many a wise shake of the head, and knowing wink – "the police knew their business." But what had they done with the girl's body? Ah! that remained to be seen. Meanwhile, if human ingenuity and absolute disregard of time stood for anything, they meant to see the body of the impostor for themselves.

Tongues wagged and heads nodded, but nevertheless, none but the police themselves, and such representatives of the press as were absolutely necessary, had been permitted to cross the threshold of Cheyne Court, or even obtain the merest glimpse of the dead man. Notwithstanding Cleek's reserve, and Mr. Narkom's own restrictions, news had managed to leak out of the mysterious sign of the Pentacle upon the murderer's arm, and as Scotland Yard – as represented by Cleek and the Superintendent – refused to give forth any further knowledge that they might well be supposed to possess, imagination ran riot.

The correspondent of the Party Lantern therefore "discovered" that the murdered man was a famous member of a Royal house, condemned by his seniors to become dead to the world, owing to his having offended the masonic societies of his country. Further details the Lantern refused to give, though hinting darkly at deeds of misconduct that would have made Don Giovanni turn green with envy. As to the whereabouts of Lady Margaret, they again contented themselves with wild hints as to what they might have told, had it not been for their "honour."

On the other hand, the Evening Tatler "discovered" and declared the man to be nothing more exciting than a low-down anarchist, who had tried to do his boon companions out of their share of the loot of the Cheyne jewels. That they were any nearer to the truth, however, than their contemporary, was equally open to query; though when Mr. Narkom pointed out the arguments of the reporter to his ally Cleek gave a little approving nod.

"Best thing we can do is to shut that young man up," he said, tersely. "Get on to the Evening Tatler, Mr. Narkom, and tell the news editor that we only want vague eventualities given to the public just now – no facts at all. Otherwise, you know, we shall put the Pentacle Club on guard, and if this is one of its crimes, we want to scotch the whole gang once and for all. That this man was a member of the Club is certain, for the markings of that Pentacle were not branded on, as in former cases where people were murdered from motives of revenge, but finely tattooed, showing that our friend is decidedly an old hand at the game. Personally, I want to find out what Blake is doing."

Mr. Narkom mopped his face with a silk handkerchief, a sure sign of emotion upon his part.

"I don't think this can be James Blake," said he, reflectively, "for I looked up his record after what you said a little while back about his being the head of the gang and learned that he left England a year or more ago, and nothing had been heard of him in his old haunts, or by his boon companions since."

"Hmn," said Cleek with a grim little laugh, "lying low, evidently, after, or in view of some big coup, but that doesn't prove anything about our murdered friend here. It's finger-prints we want."

"And we shall have them, too," threw in the Superintendent triumphantly, fumbling in his pocketbook with fingers that themselves shook with excitement. "I had a copy made of Blake's."

"Good man," ejaculated Cleek, as he took the precious scrap of paper, and went up to the room wherein had been placed the victim of a vengeance, possibly as just as that of the law itself. By the time Mr. Narkom had made his way more slowly and ponderously up to the same spot, he found Cleek looking down with considerable disappointment.

"Barked up a wrong tree this time," he said, but the light of a great discovery shone in his eyes and his voice had an undercurrent of strong excitement. "This is not James Blake, but I can tell you who it is. Justice has simply been forestalled – "

His face was grim and Mr. Narkom looked up into it almost breathless.

"What is it, old chap; tell me?" he gasped. "What have you discovered?"

Cleek smiled.

"This man is the murderer of Elsie McBride, the old wardrobe seller of Crown Court, so her murder will not have gone long unavenged!"

"But – how – are you sure?" said the startled Superintendent.

"Quite sure, my friend," was the reply. "Whatever other disguises a man may assume, as we know, there is no escape from the irrefutable proof of finger-prints. Here – "

He lifted up the dead hand, and with a magnifying glass in his own, brought the thumb before Mr. Narkom's gaze.

"Now compare these thumb and finger marks with these which are a copy of those found on that dagger with which the poor woman was killed. You will see that they are identical. I'll nip off to town now and see whether I can get the other old woman down here to identify this man. I think, too, when we have discovered the motive for this murder we shall have gone far to have found out the reason why Lady Margaret was abducted. But that remains to be seen."

And afterward, when the turn of events had crowded even more important matters from his mind, Mr. Maverick Narkom remembered these words.

Meanwhile a search of the house had not revealed the hiding place of the famous jewels, and Mr. Shallcott, who was the first to come down and investigate after he had read the surprising facts in his morning paper, was full of remorse that they should have been lost.

"I shall never forgive myself, Mr. Headland," he said, peering short-sightedly at that gentleman. "I might have known there was something wrong in the jewels being taken out like that, and if only I had persisted in seeing the poor child alone, all would have been well."

Cleek laid a hand upon his arm and gave it a gentle pressure.

"You could not help yourself, Mr. Shallcott," replied he, sympathetically, "and neither legally nor morally can you be held responsible. She was the victim of a deep-laid plot to effect their theft. As to the murder, I cannot say yet. We can only await the turn of events."

Cleek himself felt a natural if morbid remorse for having so innocently placed Lady Margaret in the hands of the Pentacle Club. Accordingly, on the following day, when he was immersed in collecting his facts at the Hampton Arms, preparatory to going down to meet Mr. Narkom at the police station, he was greeted by the voice of Sir Edgar Brenton himself; he jumped up with pleasure and excitement in his voice.

"Ah, Sir Edgar, the very man I want," he said, looking into the lined, drawn face, no longer that of a boy, but of a man, and one in deepest trouble at that. "What have you been doing with yourself since last night? I expected you to have joined us in watching Cheyne Court. As it is, you know what has happened, I have no doubt."