It had but just gone five when Narkom walked into the little bar parlour
and found him standing there, looking out on the quaint, old-fashioned
bowling green that lay all steeped in sunshine and zoned with the froth
of pear and apple blossoms thick piled above the time-stained bricks of
an enclosing wall.
"What a model of punctuality you are, old chap," the superintendent
said, nodding approvingly. "Wait a moment while I go and order tea, and
then we will get down to business in real earnest. Shan't be long."
"Pray, don't hurry yourself on my account, Mr. Narkom," returned Cleek,
"coming down to earth" out of a mental airship. "I could do with another
hour of that"--nodding toward the view--"and still wonder where the time
had gone. These quaint old inns, which the march of what we are pleased
to call 'Progress' is steadily crowding off the face of the land, are
always deeply interesting to me; I love them. What a day! What a
picture! What a sky! As blue as what Dollops calls the 'Merry Geranium
Sea.' I'd give a Jew's eye for a handful of those apple blossoms--they
are divine!"
Narkom hastened from the room without replying. The strain of poetry
underlying the character of this strange, inscrutable man, his amazing
love of Nature, his moments of almost womanish weakness and sentiment,
astonished and mystified him. It was as if a hawk had acquired the
utterly useless trick of fluting like a nightingale, and being himself
wholly without imagination, he could not comprehend it in the smallest
degree.
When he returned a few minutes later, however, the idealist seemed to
have simmered down into the materialist, the extraordinary to have
become merged in the ordinary, for he found his famous ally no longer
studying the beauties of Nature, but giving his whole attention to the
sordid commonplaces of man, for he was standing before a glaringly
printed bill one of many that were tacked upon the walls, which set
forth in amazing pictures and double-leaded type the wonders that were
to be seen daily and nightly at Olympia, where, for a month past, "Van
Zant's Royal Belgian Circus and World-famed Menagerie" had been holding
forth to "Crowded and delighted audiences." Much was made of two "star
turns" upon this lurid bill: "Mademoiselle Marie de Zanoni, the
beautiful and peerless bare-back equestrienne, the most daring lady
rider in the universe," for the one; and for the other, "Chevalier
Adrian di Roma, king of the animal world, with his great aggregation of
savage and ferocious wild beasts, including the famous man-eating
African lion, Nero, the largest and most ferocious animal of its species
in captivity." And under this latter announcement there was a picture of
a young and handsome man, literally smothered with medals, lying at full
length, with his arms crossed and his head in the wide-open jaws of a
snarling, wild-eyed lion.
"My dear chap, you really do make me believe that there actually is such
a thing as instinct," said Narkom, as he came in. "Fancy your selecting
that particular bill out of all the others in the room! What an abnormal
individual you are!"
"Why? Has it anything to do with the case you have in hand?"
"Anything to do with it? My dear fellow, it _is_ 'the case.' I can't
imagine what drew your attention to it."
"Can't you?" said Cleek, with a half-smile. Then he stretched forth his
hand and touched the word "Nero" with the tip of his forefinger. "That
did. Things awaken a man's memory occasionally, Mr. Narkom, and--Tell
me, isn't that the beast there was such a stir about in the newspapers a
fortnight or so ago--the lion that crushed the head of a man in full
view of the audience?"
"Yes," replied Narkom, with a slight shudder. "Awful thing, wasn't it?
Gave me the creeps to read about it. The chap who was killed, poor
beggar, was a mere boy, not twenty, son of the Chevalier di Roma
himself. There was a great stir about it. Talk of the authorities
forbidding the performance, and all that sort of thing. They never did,
however, for on investigation--Ah, the tea at last, thank fortune. Come,
sit down, my dear fellow, and we'll talk whilst we refresh ourselves.
Landlady, see that we are not disturbed, will you, and that nobody is
admitted but the parties I mentioned?"
"Clients?" queried Cleek, as the door closed and they were alone
together.
"Yes. One, Mlle. Zelie, the 'chevalier's' only daughter, a slack-wire
artist; the other, Signor Scarmelli, a trapeze performer, who is the
lady's fiancé."
"Ah, then our friend the chevalier is not so young as the picture on the
bill would have us believe he is."
"No, he is not. As a matter of fact, he is considerably past forty, and
is--or, rather, was, up to six months ago, a widower with three
children, two sons and a daughter."
"I suppose," said Cleek, helping himself to a buttered scone, "I am to
infer from what you say that at the period you mentioned, six months
ago, the intrepid gentleman showed his courage yet more forcibly by
taking a second wife? Young or old?"
"Young," said Narkom in reply. "Very young, not yet four-and-twenty, in
fact, and very, very beautiful. That is she who is 'featured' on the
bill as the star of the equestrian part of the programme: 'Mlle. Marie
de Zanoni.' So far as I have been able to gather, the affair was a love
match. The lady, it appears, had no end of suitors, both in and out of
the profession; it has even been hinted that she could, had she been so
minded, have married an impressionable young Austrian nobleman of
independent means who was madly in love with her; but she appears to
have considered it preferable to become 'an old man's darling,' so to
speak, and to have selected the middle-aged chevalier rather than
someone whose age is nearer her own."
"Nothing new in that, Mr. Narkom. Young women before Mlle. Marie de
Zanoni's day have been known to love elderly men sincerely: young Mrs.
Bawdrey, in the case of 'The Nine-fingered Skeleton,' is an example of
that. Still, such marriages are not common, I admit, so when they occur
one naturally looks to see if there may not be 'other considerations' at
the bottom of the attachment. Is the chevalier well-to-do? Has he
expectations of any kind?"
"To the contrary; he has nothing but the salary he earns--which is by no
means so large as the public imagines; and as he comes of a long line of
circus performers, all of whom died early and poor, 'expectations,' as
you put it, do not enter into the affair at all. Apparently the lady did
marry him for love of him, as she professes and as he imagines;
although, if what I hear is true, it would appear that she has lately
outgrown that love; in short, that a Romeo more suitable to her age has
recently joined the show in the person of a rider called Signor Antonio
Martinelli; that he has fallen desperately in love with her, and that--"
He bit off his words short and rose to his feet. The door had opened
suddenly to admit a young man and a young woman, who entered in a state
of nervous excitement. "Ah, my dear Mr. Scarmelli, you and Miss Zelie
are most welcome," continued the superintendent. "My friend and I were
this moment talking about you."
Cleek glanced across the room, and, as was customary with him, made up
his mind instantly. The girl, despite her association with the arena,
was a modest, unaffected little thing of about eighteen; the man was a
straight-looking, clear-eyed, boyish-faced young fellow of about
eight-and-twenty; well, but by no means flashily, dressed, and carrying
himself with the air of one who respects himself and demands the respect
of others. He was evidently an Englishman, despite his Italian _nom de
théâtre_, and Cleek decided out of hand that he liked him.
"We can shelve 'George Headland' in this instance, Mr. Narkom," he said,
as the superintendent led forward the pair for the purpose of
introducing them, and suffered himself to be presented in the name of
Cleek.
The effect of this was electrical; would, in fact, had he been a vain
man, have been sufficient to gratify him to the fullest, for the girl,
with a little "Oh!" of amazement, drew back and stood looking at him
with a sort of awe that rounded her eyes and parted her lips, while the
man leaned heavily upon the back of a convenient chair and looked and
acted as one utterly overcome.
"Cleek!" he repeated, after a moment's despairful silence. "You, sir,
are that great man? This is a misfortune, indeed."
"A misfortune, my friend? Why a 'misfortune,' pray? Do you think the
riddle you have brought is beyond my powers?"
"Oh, no; not that--never that!" he made reply. "If there is any one man
in the world who could get at the bottom of it, could solve the mystery
of the lion's change, the lion's smile, you are that man, sir, you. That
is the misfortune: that you could do it, and yet--I cannot expect it,
cannot avail myself of this great opportunity. Look! I am doing it all
on my own initiative, sir--all for the sake of Zelie and that dear,
lovable old chap, her father. I have saved fifty-eight pounds, Mr.
Cleek. I had hoped that that might tempt a clever detective to take up
the case; but what is such a sum to such a man as you?"
"If that is all that stands in the way, don't let it worry you, my good
fellow," said Cleek, with a smile. "Put your fifty-eight pounds in your
pocket against your wedding-day, and--good luck to you. I'll take the
case for nothing. Now then, what is it? What the dickens did you mean
just now when you spoke about 'the lion's change' and 'the lion's
smile'? What lion--Nero? Here, sit down and tell me all about it."
"There is little enough to tell, Heaven knows," said young Scarmelli,
with a sigh, accepting the invitation after he had gratefully wrung
Cleek's hand, and his fiancée, with a burst of happy tears, had caught
it up as it slipped from his and had covered it with thankful kisses.
"That, Mr. Cleek, is where the greatest difficulty lies--there is so
little to explain that has any bearing upon the matter at all. It is
only that the lion--Nero, that is, the chevalier's special pride and
special pet--seems to have undergone some great and inexplicable change,
as though he is at times under some evil spell, which lasts but a moment
and yet makes that moment a tragical one. It began, no one knows why nor
how, two weeks ago, when, without hint or warning, he killed the person
he loved best in all the world--the chevalier's eldest son. Doubtless
you have heard of that?"
"Yes," said Cleek. "But what you are now telling me sheds a new light
upon the matter. Am I to understand, then, that all that talk, on the
bills and in the newspapers, about the lion being a savage and a
dangerous one is not true, and that he really is attached to his owner,
and his owner's family?"
"That is the truth," replied Scarmelli; "Nero is, in fact, the gentlest,
most docile, most intelligent beast of his kind living. In short, sir,
there's not a 'bite' in him; and, added to that, he is over thirty years
old. Zelie--Miss di Roma--will tell you that he was born in captivity;
that from his earliest moment he has been the pet of her family; that he
was, so to speak, raised with her and her brothers; that, as children,
they often slept with him; that he will follow those he loves like any
dog, fight for them, protect them, let them tweak his ears and pull his
tail without showing the slightest resentment, even though they may
actually hurt him. Indeed, he is so general a favourite, Mr. Cleek, that
there isn't an attendant connected with the show who would not, and,
indeed, has not at some time, put his head in the beast's mouth, just as
the chevalier does in public, certain that no harm could possibly come
of the act.
"You may judge, then, sir, what a shock, what a horrible surprise it was
when the tragedy of two weeks ago occurred. Often, to add zest to the
performance, the chevalier varies it by allowing his children to put
their heads into Nero's mouth instead of doing so himself, merely making
a fake of it that he has the lion under such control that he will
respect any command given by him. That is what happened on that night.
Young Henri was chosen to put his head into Nero's mouth, and did so
without fear or hesitation. He took the beast's jaws and pulled them
apart, and laid his head within them, as he had done a hundred times
before; but of a sudden an appalling, an uncanny, thing happened. It was
as though some supernatural power laid hold of the beast and made a
thing of horror of what a moment before had been a noble-looking animal;
for suddenly a strange hissing noise issued from its jaws, its lips
curled upward until it smiled--smiled, Mr. Cleek!--oh, the ghastliest,
most awful, most blood-curdling smile imaginable--and then, with a sort
of mingled snarl and bark, it clamped its jaws together and crushed the
boy's head as though it were an egg-shell!"
He put up his hands and covered his eyes as if to shut out some
appalling vision, and for a moment or two nothing was heard but the low
sobbing of the victim's sister.
"As suddenly as that change had come over the beast, Mr. Cleek,"
Scarmelli went on presently, "just so suddenly it passed, and it was the
docile, affectionate animal it had been for years. It seemed to
understand that some harm had befallen its favourite--for Henri was its
favourite--and, curling itself up beside his body, it licked his hands
and moaned disconsolately in a manner almost human. That's all there is
to tell, sir, save that at times the horrid change, the appalling smile,
repeat themselves when either the chevalier or his son bend to put a
head within its jaws, and but for their watchfulness and quickness the
tragedy of that other awful night would surely be repeated. Sir, it is
not natural; I know now, as surely as if the lion itself had spoken,
that someone is at the bottom of this ghastly thing, that some human
agency is at work, some unknown enemy of the chevalier's is doing
something, God alone knows what or why, to bring about his death as his
son's was brought about."
And here, for the first time, the chevalier's daughter spoke.
"Ah, tell him all, Jim, tell him all," she said, in her pretty broken
English. "Monsieur, may the good God in heaven forgive me, if I wrong
her; but--but--Ah, Monsieur Cleek, sometimes I feel that she, my
stepmother, and that man, that 'rider' who knows not how to ride as the
artist should--monsieur, I cannot help it, but I feel that they are at
the bottom of it."
"Yes, but why?" queried Cleek. "I have heard of your father's second
marriage, mademoiselle, and of this Signor Antonio Martinelli, to whom
you allude. Mr. Narkom has told me. But why should you connect these two
persons with this inexplicable thing? Does your father do so, too?"
"Oh, no! Oh, no!" she answered excitedly. "He does not even know that we
suspect, Jim and I. He loves her, monsieur. It would kill him to doubt
her."
"Then why should you?"
"Because I cannot help it, monsieur. God knows, I would if I could, for
I care for her dearly--I am grateful to her for making my father happy.
My brothers, too, cared for her. We believed she loved him; we believed
it was because of that she married him. And yet--and yet--Ah, monsieur,
how can I fail to feel as I do when this change in the lion came with
that man's coming? And she--ah, monsieur, she is always with him. Why
does she curry favour of him and his rich friend?"
"He has a rich friend, then?"
"Yes, monsieur. The company was in difficulties; Monsieur van Zant, the
proprietor, could not make it pay, and it was upon the point of
disbanding. But, suddenly, this indifferent performer, this rider who
is, after all, but a poor amateur and not fit to appear with a company
of trained artists, suddenly this Signor Martinelli comes to Monsieur
van Zant to say that, if he will engage him, he has a rich friend--one
Señor Sperati, a Brazilian coffee planter--who will 'back' the show with
his money and buy a partnership in it. Of course, M. van Zant accepted;
and since then this Señor Sperati has travelled everywhere with us, has
had the entrée like one of us, and his friend, the bad rider, has fairly
bewitched my stepmother, for she is ever with him, ever with them both,
and--and--Ah, mon Dieu! the lion smiles, and my people die! Why does it
'smile' for no others? Why is it only they--my father, my brother--they
alone?"
"Is that a fact?" said Cleek, turning to young Scarmelli. "You say that
all connected with the circus have so little fear of the beast that even
attendants sometimes do this foolhardy trick. Does the lion never
'smile' for any of those?"
"Never, Mr. Cleek--never under any circumstances. Nor does it always
smile for the chevalier and his son. That is the mystery of it. One
never knows when it is going to happen--one never knows why it does
happen. But if you could see that uncanny smile--"
"I should like to," interposed Cleek. "That is, if it might happen
without any tragical result. Hum-m-m! Nobody but the chevalier and the
chevalier's son! And when does it happen in their case--during the
course of the show, or when there is nobody about but those connected
with it?"
"Oh, always during the course of the entertainment, sir. Indeed, it has
never happened at any other time--never at all."
"Oho!" said Cleek. "Then it is only when they are dressed and made up
for the performance, eh? Hum-m-m! I see." Then he relapsed into silence
for a moment, and sat tracing circles on the floor with the toe of his
boot. But, of a sudden: "You came here directly after the matinee, I
suppose?" he queried, glancing up at young Scarmelli.
"Yes; in fact, before it was wholly over."
"I see. Then it is just possible that all the performers have not yet
got into their civilian clothes. Couldn't manage to take me round behind
the scenes, so to speak, if Mr. Narkom will lend us his motor to hurry
us there? Could, eh? That's good. I think I'd like to have a look at
that lion and, if you don't mind, an introduction to the parties
concerned. No! don't fear; we won't startle anybody by revealing my
identity or the cause of the visit. Let us say that I'm a vet, to whom
you have appealed for an opinion, regarding Nero's queer conduct. All
ready, Mr. Narkom? Thanks--then let's be off."
Two minutes later the red limousine was at the door, and, stepping into
it with his two companions, he was whizzed away to Olympia and the first
step towards the solution of the riddle.