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  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 hadbeen put on point duty at Blackfriars Bridge that morning. For Collinswas young, good-looking, and--knew it. Nature had gifted him with asusceptible heart and a fond eye for the beauties of femininity. So whenhe looked round and saw the woman threading her way through the maze ofvehicles at "Dead Man's Corner," with her skirt held up just enough toshow two twinkling little feet in French shoes, and over them agraceful, willowy figure, and over that an enchanting, if rather toohighly tinted face, with almond eyes and a fluff of shining hair underthe 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 hepreferred English beauty, as a rule. But, French or English, beauty isbeauty, and here undeniably was a perfect type, so he unhesitatinglysprang to her assistance and piloted her safely to the kerb, revellingin her voluble thanks, and tingling as she clung timidly but ratherfirmly to him.

  "Sair, I have to give you much gratitude," she said in a pretty, wistfulsort of way, as they stepped on to the pavement. Then she dropped herhand from his sleeve, looked up at him, and shyly drooped her head, asif overcome with confusion and surprise at the youth and good looks ofhim. "Ah, it is nowhere in the world but Londres one finds thesedelicate attentions, these splendid sergeants de ville," she added, witha sort of sigh. "You are wonnerful--you are mos' wonnerful, you Anglaispoliss. Sair, I am a stranger; I know not ze ways of this city ofamazement, and if monsieur would so kindly direct me where to find theAbbey 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 sheconcluded what she was saying, over the rumble of the traffic there rosea thin, shrill piping sound, which to ears trained to the call of itpossessed 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 alertat once. "Excuse me, mum. See you presently. Something's up. One of mymates 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 callto '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 hadsprung into sight--the figure of a man in a grey frock-coat and ashining "topper," a well-groomed, well-set-up man, with a small,turned-up moustache and hair of that peculiar purplish-red one sees onlyon the shell of a roasted chestnut. As he swung into sight, the distantwhistle shrilled again; far off in the distance voices sent up cries of"Head him off!" "Stop that man!" _et cetera_; then those on the pavementnear to the fugitive took up the cry, joined in pursuit, and in atwinkling, what with cabmen, tram-men, draymen, and pedestriansshouting, there was hubbub enough for Hades.

  "A swell pickpocket, I'll lay my life," commented Collins, as he squaredhimself for an encounter and made ready to leap on the man when he camewithin gripping distance. "Here! get out of the way, madmazelly.Business before pleasure. And, besides, you're like to get bowled overin the rush. Here, chauffeur!"--this to the driver of a big, blackmotor-car which swept round the angle of the bridge at that moment, andmade as though to scud down the Embankment into the thick of thechase--"pull that thing up sharp! Stop where you are! Dead still. Atonce, 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 onyou bounder; I'm ready for you!"

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

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

  "Got you, you ass!" snapped he, with a short, crisp, self-satisfiedlaugh. "None of your blessed squirming now. Keep still. You'll get outof your coffin, you bounder, as soon as out of my grip. Got you--gotyou! 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 programmethat you should get me. Only, for Heaven's sake, don't spoil the film byremaining inactive, you goat! Struggle with me--handle me roughly--throwme about. Make it look real; make it look as though I actually did getaway from you, not as though you let me. You chaps behind there, don'tget 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 thefilm!"

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

  "Struggle--struggle--struggle!" cut in the man impatiently. "Can't yougrasp the situation? It's a put-up thing: the taking of a kinematographfilm--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. Andhe--ah, le bon Dieu!--he gif me no chance. Officair, I beg, I entreat ofyou, make it real! Struggle, fight, keep on ze constant move.Zere!"--something tinkled on the pavement with the unmistakable sound ofgold--"zere, monsieur, zere is the half-sovereign to pay you for zetrouble, only, for ze lof of goodness, do not pick it up while theinstrument--ze camera--he is going. It is ze kinematograph, and youwould spoil everything!"

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

  "Struggle--struggle! Don't you hear, you idiot?" broke in the red-headedman irritably. "You are being devilishly well paid for it, so forgoodness' sake make it look real. That's it! Bully boy! Now, once moreto the right, then loosen your grip so that I can push you away and makea feint of punching you off. All ready there, Marguerite? Keep a clearspace 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 ofpunching his head as he reeled back, then sprang toward the spot wherethe Frenchwoman stood, and gave a finish to the adventure that washighly dramatic and decidedly theatrical. For "mademoiselle," seeing himapproach her, struck a pose, threw out her arms, gathered him intothem--to the exceeding enjoyment of the laughing throng--then bothlooked back and behaved as people do on the stage when "pursued,"gesticulated extravagantly, and, rushing to the waiting motor, jumpedinto it.

  "Many thanks, Bobby; many thanks, everybody!" sang out the red-headedman. "Let her go, chauffeur. The camera men will pick us up again atWhitehall, 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 uponhimself and his companion, and the vehicle, darting f
orward, sped downthe Embankment in the exact direction whence the man himself hadoriginally come, and, passing directly through that belated portion ofthe 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 thrownhim, felt that after all it was a poor price to receive for all thejeers and gibes of the assembled onlookers.

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

  "Move on, now, move on!" said Collins, recovering his dignity, andasserting it with a vim. "Look here, cabby, I don't take it kind of youto laugh like that; they had you just as bad as they had me. Blow thatFrenchy! She might have tipped me off before I made such an ass ofmyself. 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!--acouple of Scotland Yard chaps with 'em. My hat! what do you suppose thatmeans?"

  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 troopingafter them, the two "plain-clothes" men came racing through the grinninggathering and bore down on P.C. Collins.

  "Hullo, Smathers, you in this, too?" began he, his feelings softened bythe knowledge that other arms of the law would figure on that film withhim at the Alhambra to-night. "Now, what are you after, you goat? ThatFrench 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 suddenlyexcited when he realized that Collins was empty-handed, and that thered-headed man was not there. "Heavens! you never let him get away, didyou? You grabbed him, didn't you--eh?"

  "Of course I grabbed him. Come out of it. What are you giving me, youjosser?" said Collins with a wink and a grin. "Ain't you found out evenyet, you silly? Why, it was only a faked-up thing--the taking of akinematograph picture for the Alhambra. You and Petrie ought to havebeen here sooner and got your wages, you goats. I got half a quid for myshare 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 totell me that you let them take you in like that--those two? You don'tmean to tell me that you had him--had him in your hands--and then lethim 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 ashare in a reward of two hundred quid when you'd only to shut your handsand hold on to it!"

  "Two hundred quid? Two hun--W-what are you talking about? Wasn't ittrue? 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 knowwho 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, hisblessed stool-pigeon--'Margot, the Queen of the Apache'; and she cameover from Paris to help him in that clean scoop of Lady Dresmer's jewelslast week!"

  "Heavens!" gulped Collins, too far gone to say anything else, too deeplydejected to think of anything but that he had had the man for whomScotland Yard had been groping for a year--the man over whom allEngland, all France, all Germany wondered--close shut in the grip of hishands and then had let him go. The biggest and boldest criminal thepolice had ever had to cope with, the almost supernatural genius ofcrime, who defied all systems, laughed at all laws, mocked at all theVidocqs, and Dupins, and Sherlock Holmeses, whether amateur orprofessional, French or English, German or American, that ever had beenor ever could be pitted against him, and who, for sheer devilry, fordiabolical ingenuity and for colossal impudence, as well as for anature-bestowed power that was simply amazing, had not his match in allthe universe.

  Who or what he really was, whence he came, whether he was English,Irish, French, German, Yankee, Canadian, Italian or Dutchman, no manknew and no man might ever hope to know unless he himself chose toreveal it. In his many encounters with the police he had assumed thespeech, the characteristics, and, indeed, the facial attributes of eachin turn, and assumed them with an ease and a perfection that were simplymarvellous, and had gained for him the sobriquet of "Forty Faces" amongthe police, and of "The Vanishing Cracksman" among the scribes andreporters of newspaperdom. That he came, in time, to possess anothername 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 ofexcitement and all the newspapers up in arms over one of the most daringand successful coups, he chose to write boldly to both editors andpolice complaining that the title given him by each was both vulgar andcheap.

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

  And to that remarkable programme he rigidly adhered from that timeforth--always giving the police twelve hours' notice, always evadingtheir traps and snares, always carrying out his plans in spite of them,and always, on the morning after, sending some trinket or trifle toSuperintendent Narkom at Scotland Yard, in a little pink cardboard box,tied up with rose-coloured ribbon, and marked "With the compliments ofThe 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 andall had retired from the field vanquished.

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

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

  "Know, you footler!" growled Smathers, disgustedly. "Why shouldn't Iknow when I've been after him ever since he left Scotland Yard half anhour 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 detectivehe'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 boldas brass, sat down, and talked with the superintendent over somecock-and-bull yarn about a 'Black Hand' letter that he said had beensent to him, and asked if he couldn't have police protection whilst hewas in town. It wasn't until after he'd left that the super he sees anote on the chair where the blighter had been sitting, and when heopened it, there it was in black and white, something like this:

  "'The list of presents that have been sent for the wedding to-morrow ofSir Horace Wyvern's eldest daughter make interesting reading,particularly that part which describes the jewels sent--no doubt as atribute to her father's pos
ition as the greatest brain specialist in theworld--from the Austrian Court and the Continental principalities. Thecare of such gems is too great a responsibility for the bride. Ipropose, therefore, to relieve her of it to-night, and to send you thecustomary 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, hotfoot; and after a bit I picked him up in the Strand, toddling along withthat French hussy as cool as you please. But, blow him! he must haveeyes all round his head, for he saw me just as soon as I saw him, and heand Frenchy separated like a shot. She hopped into a taxi and flew offin one direction; he dived into a crowd and bolted in another, andbefore you could say Jack Robinson he was doubling and twisting, jumpinginto cabs and jumping out again--all to gain time, of course, for thewoman to do what he'd put her up to doing--and leading me the devil'sown chase through the devil's own tangle till he was ready to bunk forthe Embankment. And you let him go, you blooming footler! Had him andlet him go, and chucked away a third of ?200 for the price of half aquid!"

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