Cleek of Scotland Yard Part 28

They are full of it. Count Irma and the revolutionists have piled victory on victory. They are now at the very gates of the capital; the royal army is disorganized, its forces going over in hordes to the insurgents; the king is in a very panic and preparing, it is reported, to fly before the city falls."

"A judgment, Alburtus, a judgment!" Cleek cried with such vehemence that it startled her. "Your son drinks of the cup you prepared for Karma's. The same cup, the same result: dethronement, flight, exile in the world's wildernesses, and perhaps--death. Well done, Irma!

A judgment on you, Mauravania. You pay! You pay!"

"How wonderful you are--you seem to know everything!" declared Ailsa.

"But in this at least you appear to be misinformed, dear. I have been reading the reports faithfully and it seems that death was not the end of all who shared in Queen Karma's exile and flight. Count Irma is telling a tale which is calling recruits to the standard of the revolutionists hourly. The eldest son--the Crown Prince Maximilian--is still alive. The count swears to that; swears that he has seen him; that he knows where to find him at any moment. The special correspondent of the _Times_ writes that everywhere the demand is for the Restoration, the battle cry of the insurgents 'Maximilian!' and the whole country ringing with it."

"I can quite believe it," he said, with one of his queer, crooked smiles. "They are an excitable people, the Mauravanians, but, unfortunately, a fickle one as well. It is up to-day and down to-morrow with them. At present the cry is for Maximillian; this time next month it may be for Irma and a republican form of government, and--Maximillian may go hang for all they want of him. Still, if they maintain the present cry--and the House of Alburtus falls--and the followers of Irma win----But what's the use of bothering about it? Let us talk of things that have a personal interest for us, dear. Give me to-morrow, if you can. I shall have a whole day's freedom for the first time in weeks. The water lilies are in bloom in the upper reaches of the Thames and my soul is simply crying for the river's solitudes, the lilies, the silence, and _you_! I want you--all to myself--up there, among G.o.d's things. Give me the day, if you can."

She gave him not one but many, as it turned out; for that one day proved such a magic thing that she was only too willing to repeat it, and as the Yard had no especial need of him, and the plain-clothes man who had been set upon Waldemar's track had as yet nothing to report, it grew to be a regular habit with him to spend the long days up in the river solitudes with Ailsa, picnicking among the swans, and to come home to Dollops at night tired, but very happy.

It went on like this for more than ten days, uninterruptedly; but at length there came a time when an entry in his notebook warned him that there was something he could not put off any longer--something that must certainly be attended to to-morrow, in town, early--and he went to bed that night with the melancholy feeling that the next day could only be a half holiday, not a whole one, and that his hours with her would be few.

But when that to-morrow came he knew that even these were to be denied him; for the long-deferred call of the Yard had come, and Narkom, ringing him up at breakfast time, asked for an immediate meeting.

"In town, dear chap, as near to Liverpool Street and as early as you can possibly make it."

"Well, I can't make it earlier than half-past ten. I've got a little private business of my own to attend to, as it happens, Mr.

Narkom," he replied. "I'd put it off if I could, but I can't.

To-day before noon is the last possible hour. But look here! I can meet you at half-past ten in Bishopsgate Street, between St.

Ethelburga's Church and Bevis Narks, if that will do. Will, eh?

All right. Be on the lookout for me there, then. What? The new blue limousine, eh? Right you are. I'm your man to the tick of the half hour. Good-bye!"

And he was, as it turned out. For the new blue limousine (a glistening, spic-span sixty-horsepower machine, perfect in every detail) had no more than come to a standstill at the kerb in the exact neighbourhood stated at the exact half hour agreed upon, when open whisked the door, and in jumped Cleek with the swiftness and agility of a cat.

CHAPTER XXVI

"Good morning, my friend. I hope I haven't taken you too much by surprise," he said, as the limousine sprang into activity the instant he closed the door, and settled himself down beside the superintendent.

"Not more than usual, dear chap. But I shall never get quite used to some of your little tricks. Gad! You're the most abnormally prompt beggar that ever existed, I do believe. You absolutely break all records."

"Well, I certainly came within a hair's breadth of losing my reputation this morning, then," he answered cheerily, as he fumbled in his pockets for a match. "It was a hard pull to cover the distance and get through the business in time, I can tell you, with the brief margin I had. But fortunately----Here! Take charge of that, will you? And read it over while I'm getting a light."

"That" was a long legal-looking envelope which he had whisked out of his pocket and tossed into Narkom's lap.

"'Royal British Life a.s.surance Society,'" repeated he, reading off the single line printed on the upper left-hand corner of the envelope. "What the d.i.c.kens----I say, is it a policy?"

"Aha!" a.s.sented Cleek, with his mouth full of smoke. "The medico who put me through my paces, some time ago, reported me sound in wind and limb, and warranted not to bite, shy, or kick over the traces, and I was duly ordered to turn up at the London office before noon on a given day to sign up (and pay down) and receive that interesting doc.u.ment, otherwise my application would be void, et cetera. This, as it happens, is the 'given day' in question; and as the office doesn't open for business before ten A. M., and there wasn't the least likelihood of my being able to get back to it before noon, when you were calling for me--'there you have the whole thing in a nutsh.e.l.l,' as the old woman said when she poisoned the filberts."

Meanwhile, Narkom had opened the envelope and glanced over the doc.u.ment it contained. He now sat up with a jerk and voiced a cry of amazement.

"Good Lord, deliver us!" he exclaimed. "In favour of Dollops!"

"Yes," said Cleek. "He's a faithful little monkey and--I've nothing else to leave him. There's always a chance, you know--with Margot's lot and Waldemar's. I shouldn't like to think of the boy being forced back into the streets if--anything should happen to me."

"Well, I'll be----What a man! What a man! Cleek, my dear, dear friend--my comrade--my pal----"

"Chuck it! Scotland Yard with the snuffles is enough to make the G.o.ds shriek, you dear old footler! Why, G.o.d bless your old soul, I----Brakes on! Let's talk about the new limousine. She's a beauty, isn't she? Locker, mirror: just like the old red one, and----h.e.l.lo!

I say, you are taking me into the country, I perceive; we've left the town behind us."

"Yes; we're bound for Darsham."

"Darsham? That's in Suffolk, isn't it? And about ninety-five miles from Liverpool Street Station, as the crow flies. So our little business to-day is to be an out-of-town affair, eh? Well, let's have it. What's the case? Burglary?"

"No--murder. Happened last night. Got the news over the telephone this morning. Nearly bowled me over when I heard it, by James! for I saw the man alive--in town--only the day before yesterday. It's a murder of a peculiarly cunning and cleverly contrived character, Cleek, with no apparent motive, and absolutely no clue as to what means the a.s.sa.s.sin used to kill his victim, nor how he managed to get in and out of the place in which the crime was committed. There isn't the slightest mark on the body. The man was not shot, not stabbed, not poisoned, nor did he die from natural causes. There is no trace of a struggle, yet the victim's face shows that he died in great agony, and was beyond all question the object of a murderous attack."

"Hum-m!" said Cleek, stroking his chin. "Sounds interesting, at all events. Let's have the facts of the case, please. But first, who was the victim? Anybody of importance?"

"Of very great importance--in the financial world," replied Narkom.

"He is--or, rather, was--an American multi-millionaire; inventor, to speak by the card, of numerous electrical devices which brought him wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, and carried his fame all over the civilized world. You will, no doubt, have heard of him. His name is Jefferson P. Drake."

"Oho!" said Cleek, arching his eyebrows. "That man, eh? Oh, yes, I've heard of him often enough--very nearly everybody in England has by this time. Chap who conceived the idea of bettering the conditions of the poor by erecting art galleries that were to be filled and supported out of the rates and, more or less modestly, to be known by the donor's name. That's the man, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's the man."

"Just so. Stop a bit! Let's brush up my memory a trifle. Of English extraction, wasn't he? And, having made his money in his own native country, came to that of his father to spend it? Had social aspirations, too, I believe; and, while rather vulgar in his habits and tastes, was exceedingly warm-hearted--indeed, actually lovable--and made up for his own lack of education by spending barrels of money upon that of his son. Came to England something more than a year ago, if I remember rightly; bought a fine old place down in Suffolk, and proceeded forthwith to modernize it after the most approved American ideas--steam heat, electric lights, a refrigerating plant for the purpose of supplying the ice and the creams and the frozen sweets so necessary to the American palate; all that sort of thing, and set out forthwith to establish himself as a sumptuous entertainer on the very largest possible scale. That's the 'lay of the land,' isn't it?"

"Yes, that's it precisely. The estate he purchased was Heatherington Hall, formerly Lord Fallowfield's place. The entail was broken ages ago, but no Fallowfield ever attempted to part with the place until his present lords.h.i.+p's time. And although he has but one child, a daughter, I don't suppose that he would have been tempted to do so, either, but that he was badly crippled--almost ruined, in fact--last year by unlucky speculations in the stock market, with the result that it was either sell out to Jefferson P. Drake or be sold out by his creditors. Naturally, he chose the former course.

That it turned out to be a most excellent thing for him you will understand when I tell you that Drake conceived an almost violent liking for him and his daughter, Lady Marjorie Wynde, and not only insisted upon their remaining at Heatherington Hall as his guests in perpetuity, but designed eventually to bring the property back into the possession of the original 'line' by a marriage between Lady Marjorie and his son."

"Effective if not very original," commented Cleek, with one of his curious one-sided smiles. "And how did the parties most concerned view this promising little plan? Were they agreeable to the arrangement?"

"Not they. As a matter of fact, both have what you may call a 'heart interest' elsewhere. Lady Marjorie, who, although she is somewhat of a 'Yes, papa,' and 'Please, papa,' young lady, and could, no doubt, be induced to sacrifice herself for the family good, is, it appears, engaged to a young lieutenant who will one day come in for money, but hasn't more than enough to pay his mess bills at present, I believe. As for young Jim Drake--why, matters were even worse with _him_. It turns out that he'd found the girl _he_ wanted before he left the States, and it took him just about twenty seconds to make his father understand that he'd be shot, hanged, drawn, quartered, or even reduced to mincemeat, before he'd give up that girl or marry any other, at any time or at any cost, from now to the Judgment Day."

"Bravo!" said Cleek, slapping his palms together. "That's the spirit.

That's the boy for my money, Mr. Narkom! Get a good woman and stick to her, through thick and thin, at all hazards and at any cost. The jockey who 'swaps horses' in the middle of a race never yet came first under the wire nor won a thing worth having. Well, what was the result of this plain speaking on the young man's part? Pleasant or unpleasant?"

"Oh, decidedly unpleasant. The father flew into a rage, swore by all that was holy, and by a great deal that wasn't, that he'd cut him off 'without one red cent,' whatever that may mean, if he ever married that particular girl; and as that particular girl--who is as poor as Job's turkey, by the way--happened by sheer perversity of fortune to have landed in England that very day, in company with an eminent literary person whose secretary she had been for some two or three years past, away marched the son, took out a special license, and married her on the spot."

"Well done, independence! I like that boy more than ever, Mr. Narkom.

What followed? Did the father relent, or did he invite the pair of them to clear out and hoe their own row in future?"

"He did neither; he simply ignored their existence. Young Drake brought his wife down to Suffolk and took rooms at a village inn, and then set out to interview his father. When he arrived at the Hall he was told by the lodgekeeper that strangers weren't admitted, and, on his asking to have his name sent in, was informed that the lodgekeeper had 'never heard of no sich person as Mr. James Drake--that there wasn't none, and that the master said there never had been, neither'--and promptly double-locked the gates. What young James Drake did after that it appears that n.o.body knows, for n.o.body saw him again until this morning; and it was only yesterday, I must tell you, that he made that unsuccessful attempt to get into the place to see his father. _He_ says, however, that he spent the time in going over to Ipswich and back in the hope of seeing a friend there to whom he might apply for work. He says, too, that when he got there he found that that friend--an American acquaintance--had given up his rooms the day before, and rushed off to Italy in answer to a cable from his sister; or so, at least, the landlady told him."

"Which, of course, the landlady can be relied upon to corroborate if there is any question regarding the matter? Is there?"

"Well, he seems to think that there may be. He's the client, you must know. It was he that gave me the details over the telephone, and asked me to put you on the case. As he says himself, it's easy enough to prove about his having gone to Ipswich to see his friend, but it isn't so easy to prove about his coming back in the manner he did. It seems he was too late for any return train, that he hadn't money enough left in the world to waste any by taking a private conveyance, so he walked back; and that, as it's a goodish stretch of country, and he didn't know the way, and couldn't at night find anybody to ask, he lost himself more than once, with the consequence that it was daylight when he got back to the inn, where his frightened wife sat awaiting him, never having gone to bed nor closed an eye all night, poor girl, fearing that some accident had befallen him. But, be that as it may, Cleek, during those hours he was absent his father was mysteriously murdered in a round box of a room in which he had locked himself, and to which, owing to structural arrangements, it would seem impossible for anything to have entered; and, as young Drake rightly says, the worst of it is that the murder followed so close upon the heels of his quarrel and promised disinheritance, that his father had no time to alter the will which left him sole heir to everything; so that possibly people will talk."

"Undoubtedly," agreed Cleek. "And yet you said there was no motive and absolutely no clue. M' yes! I wonder if I shall like this independent young gentleman quite so well after I have seen him."

"Oh, my dear fellow! Good heavens, man, you can't possibly think of suspecting him. Remember, it is he himself who brings the case--that the Yard would never have had anything to do with it but for him."

"Quite so. But the local constabulary would; and the simplest way to blind a jacka.s.s is to throw dust in his eyes. They are natural born actors, the Americans; they are good schemers and fine planners.

Their native game is 'bluff,' and they are very, very careful in the matter of detail."