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THE RIDDLE OF THE FROZEN FLAME
By MARY E. & THOMAS W. HANSHEW
<sc>Author of</sc> "Cleek, the Man of Forty Faces," "Cleek of Scotland
Yard," "Cleek's Government Cases," "The Riddle of the Night," "The Riddle
of the Purple Emperor."
1929
A.L. BURT COMPANY
New York
Published by arrangement with Doubleday, Page & Company
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. The Law
II. The Frozen Flames
III. Sunshine and Shadow
IV. An Evil Genius
V. The Spectre at the Feast
VI. A Shot in the Dark
VII. The Watcher in the Shadow
VIII. The Victim
IX. The Second Victim
X. --And the Lady
XI. The Secret of the Flames
XII. "As a Thief in the Night--"
XIII. A Gruesome Discovery
XIV. The Spin of the Wheel
XV. A Startling Disclosure
XVI. Trapped!
XVII. In the Cell
XVIII. Possible Excitement
XIX. What Took Place at "The Pig and Whistle"
XX. At the Inquest
XXI. Questions--and Answers
XXII. A New Departure
XXIII. Prisoners
XXIV. In the Dark
XXV. The Web of Circumstance
XXVI. Justice--and Justification
XXVII. The Solving of the Riddle
XXVIII. "Toward Morning ..."
The Riddle of the Frozen Flame
CHAPTER I
THE LAW
Mr. Maverick Narkom, Superintendent of Scotland Yard, sat before the
litter of papers upon his desk. His brow was puckered, his fat face red
with anxiety, and there was about him the air of one who has reached the
end of his tether.
He faced the man opposite, and fairly ground his teeth upon his lower
lip.
"Dash it, Cleek!" he said for the thirty-third time, "I don't know what
to make of it, I don't, indeed! The thing's at a deadlock. Hammond
reports to me this morning that another bank in Hendon--a little
one-horse affair--has been broken into. That makes the third this week,
and as usual every piece of gold is gone. Not a bank note touched, not
a bond even fingered. And the thief--or thieves--made as clean a get-away
as you ever laid your eyes on! I tell you, man, it's enough to send an
average person daft! The whole of Scotland Yard's been on the thing, and
we haven't traced 'em yet! What do you make of it, old chap?"
"As pretty a kettle of fish as I ever came across," responded Cleek, with
an enigmatic smile. "And I can't help having a sneaking admiration for
the person who's engineering the whole thing. How he must laugh at the
state of the old Yard, with never a clue to settle down upon, never a
thread to pick up and unravel! All of which is unbusinesslike of me, I've
no doubt. But, cheer up, man, I've a piece of news which ought to help
matters on a bit. Just came from the War Office, you know."
Mr. Narkom mopped his forehead eagerly. The action was one which Cleek
knew showed that every nerve was tense.
"Well, out with it, old chap! Anything to cast some light on the
inexplicable thing. What did you learn at the War Office?"
"A good many things--after I had unravelled several hundred yards of red
tape to get at 'em," said Cleek, still smiling. "Chief among them was
this: Much English gold has been discovered in Belgium, Mr. Narkom, in
connection with several big electrical firms engaged upon work out there.
The Secret Service wired over that fact, and I got it first hand. Now it
strikes me there must be some connection between the two things. These
bank robberies point in one direction, and that is, that the gold is not
for use in this country. Now let's hear the full account of this latest
outrage. I'm all ears, as the donkey said to the ostrich. Fire away."
Mr. Narkom "fired away" forthwith. He was a bland, round little man,
rather too fat for one's conceptions of what a policeman ought to be, yet
with that lightness of foot that so many stout people seem to possess.
Cleek presented a keen contrast to him. His broad-shouldered,
well-groomed person would have adorned any company. His head was well-set
upon his neck, and his features at this moment were small and inclined to
be aquiline. He had closely set ears that lay well back against his head,
and his hands were slim and exceedingly well-kept. Of his age--well that,
like himself, was an enigma. To-day he might have been anything between
thirty-five and forty--to-morrow probably he would be looking nineteen.
That was part of the peculiar birthright of the man, that and a mobility
of feature which enabled him to alter his face completely in the passing
of a second, a gift which at least one notorious criminal of history also
possessed.
He sat now, playing with the silver-topped cane between his knees, his
head slightly to one side, his whole manner one of polite and tolerant
interest. But Mr. Narkom knew that this same manner marked an intensity
of concentration which was positively unique. Without more ado he plunged
into the details of his story.
"It happened in this wise, Cleek," he said, tapping his fountain-pen
against his blotter until little spouts of ink fell out like jet beads.
"This is at least the ninth case of the kind we've had reported to us
within the space of the last fortnight. The first robbery was at a tiny
branch bank in Purley, and the bag amounted to a matter of a couple of
hundred or so sovereigns; the second was at Peckham--on the outskirts,
you understand; the third at Harrow; the fourth somewhere near Forest
Hill, and the fifth in Croydon. Other places on the South East side of
London have come in for their share, too, as for instance Anerley and
Sutton. This last affair took place at Hendon, during the evening of
Saturday last--the sixteenth, wasn't it? No one observed anything
untoward in the least, that is except one witness who relates how he saw
a motor car standing outside the bank's premises at half past nine at
night. He gave no thought to this, as he probably imagined, if he thought
of the coincidence at all, that the manager had called there for
something he had forgotten in his office."
"And where, then, does the manager live, if not over the bank itself?"
put in Cleek at this juncture.
"With his wife and family, in a house some distance away. A couple of old
bank people--a porter and his wife who are both thoroughly trustworthy in
every way, so Mr. Barker tells me--act as caretakers. But they positively
assert that they heard no one in the place that night, and no untoward
happening occurred to their knowledge."
"And yet the bank was broken into, and the gold taken," supplemented
Cleek quietly. "And what then, Mr. Narkom? How was the deed done?"
"Oh, the usual methods. The skeleton keys of a master crook obviously
opened the door to the premises themselves, and soup was used to crack
the safe. Everything was left perfectly neat and tidy and only the bags
of gold--amounting to seven hundred and fifty pounds--were gone. And not
a trace of a clue to give one a notion of who did the confounded thing,
or where they came from!"
"Hmm. Any finger-prints?"
Mr. Narkom shook his head.
"None. The thief or thieves used rubber gloves to handle the thing. And
that was the only leg given us to stand upon, so to speak. For rubber
gloves, when they are new, particularly, possess a very strong smell,
and this still clung to the door-knob of the safe, and to several
objects near it. That was how we deduced the rubber-glove theory of
no finger-prints at all, Cleek."
"And a very worthy deduction too, my friend," responded that gentleman,
with something of tolerance in his smile. "And so you have absolutely
nothing to go by. Poor Mr. Narkom! The path of Law and Justice is by no
means an easy one to tread, is it? Of course you can count upon me to
help you in every way. That goes without saying. But I can't help
thinking that this news from the War Office with regard to English gold
in Belgium has something to do with these bank robberies, my friend. The
two things seem to hang together in my mind, and a dollar to a ducat that
in the long run they identify themselves thus.... Hello! Who's that?" as
a tap sounded at the door. "I'll be off if you're expecting visitors. I
want to look into this thing a little closer. Some time or other the
thieves are bound to leave a clue behind. Success breeds carelessness,
you know, and if they think that Scotland Yard is giving the business
up as a bad job, they won't be so deuced particular as to clearing up
afterward. We'll unravel the thing between us, never fear."
"I wish I could think so, old chap!" said Mr. Narkom, a trifle gloomily,
as he called "Come in!" The door opened to admit Petrie, very straight
and business-like. "But you're no end of a help. It does me good just to
see you. What is it, Petrie?"
"A gentleman to see you, sir," responded the constable in crisp tones. "A
gentleman by name of Merriton, Sir Nigel Merriton he said his name was.
Bit of a toff I should say by the look of 'im. And wants to see you
partikler. He mentioned Mr. Cleek's name, sir, but I told 'im he wasn't
in at the moment. Shall I show him up?"
"Quite right, Petrie," laughed Cleek, in recognition of this act of one
of the Yard's subordinates; for everyone was to do everything in his
power to shield Cleek's identity. "I'll stay if you don't mind, Mr.
Narkom. I happen to know something of this Merriton. A fine upstanding
young man, who, once upon a time was very great friends with Miss
Lorne. That was in the old Hawksley days. Chap's lately come into his
inheritance, I believe. Uncle disappeared some five or six years ago
and legal time being up, young Merriton has come over to claim his own.
The thing made a newspaper story for a week when it happened, but they
never found any trace of the old man. And now the young one is over
here, bearing the title, and I suppose living as master of the
Towers--spooklike spot that it is! Needn't say who I am, old chap, until
I hear a bit. I'll just shift over there by the window and read the news,
if you don't mind."
"Right you are." Mr. Narkom struggled into his coat--which he generally
disposed of during private office hours. Then he gave the order for the
gentleman to be shown in and Petrie disappeared forthwith.
But during the time which intervened before Merriton's arrival, Cleek did
a little "altering" in face and general get-up, and when he _did_ appear
certainly no one would have recognized the aristocratic looking
individual of a moment or two before, in an ordinary-appearing,
stoop-shouldered, rather racy-looking tout.
"Ready," said Cleek at last, and Mr. Narkom touched the bell upon his
table. Immediately the door opened and Petrie appeared followed closely
by young Sir Nigel Merriton, whose clean-cut face was grim and whose
mouth was set forbiddingly.
And in this fashion was Cleek introduced to the chief character of a case
which was to prove one of the strangest of his whole career. There was
nothing about Sir Nigel, a well-dressed man about town, to indicate that
he was to be the centre of an extraordinary drama, yet such was to be the
case.
He was obviously perturbed, but those who sought Mr. Narkom's counsel
were frequently agitated; for no one can be even remotely connected with
crime in one form or another without showing excitement to a greater or
lesser degree. And so his manner by no means set Sir Nigel apart from
many another visitor to the Superintendent's sanctum.
Mr. Narkom's cordial nod brought from the young man a demand to see "Mr.
Cleek," of whom he had heard such wonderful tales. Mr. Narkom, with one
eye on that very gentleman's back, announced gravely that Cleek was
absent on a government case, and asked what he could do. He waved a hand
in Cleek's direction and said that here was one of his men who would
doubtless be able to help Sir Nigel in any difficulty he might happen
to be in at the moment.
Now, as Sir Nigel's story was a long one, and as the young man was
too agitated to tell it altogether coherently, we will go back for a
certain space of time, and tell the very remarkable story, the details
of which were told to Mr. Narkom and his nameless associate in the
Superintendent's office, and which was to involve Cleek of Scotland Yard
in a case which was later to receive the title of the Riddle of the
Frozen Flame.
Much that he told them of his family history was already known to Cleek,
whose uncanny knowledge of men and affairs was a by-word, but as that
part of the story itself was not without romance, it must be told too,
and to do so takes the reader back to a few months before his present
visit to the precincts of the Law, when Sir Nigel Merriton returned to
England after twelve years of army life in India. A few days he had spent
in London, renewing acquaintances, revisiting places he knew--to find
them wonderfully little changed--and then had journeyed to Merriton
Towers, the place which was to be his, due to the extraordinary
disappearance of his uncle--a disappearance which was yet to be
explained.
Ill luck had often seemed to dog the footsteps of his house and even his
journey home was not without a mishap; nothing serious, as things turned
out, but still something that might have been vastly so. His train was in
a wreck, rather a nasty one, but Nigel himself had come out unscathed,
and much to be congratulated, he thought, since through that wreck he has
become acquainted with what he firmly believed to be the most beautiful
girl in the world. Better yet, he had learned that she was a neighbour of
his at Merriton Towers. That fact helped him through what he felt was
going to be somewhat of an ordeal--his entrance into the gloomy and
ghost-ridden old house of his inheritance.