THE THREADS OF CHANCE
It had just gone nine o'clock on that same eventful evening when the
limousine slowed down before Scotland Yard, and the car was handed over
to its natural owners. Superintendent Narkom, Cleek learned to his
extreme relief, was engaged on a special case involving his working at
the Yard to a late hour. In the fraction of a second Cleek was ascending
the stone staircase and traversing the corridor, at the end of which lay
the private room of his friend and ally. He still felt that all was not
as it should be at Cheyne Court, and even though he was unable to do
anything at the moment, yet he felt he must pour the story of his
adventure into the trained and sympathetic ears of the man with whom he
had worked so long and so faithfully. It could not have been more than a
minute, but the time seemed endless till he at length, after a
preliminary tap, threw open the door of the room and saw the figure of
Mr. Narkom ensconced in his arm-chair, his brows knitted, and his hands
clenched over a sheet of paper lying on the desk before him. He looked
up irritably at the evidently unwelcome intrusion.
"Now, what the----" he began. Then as he caught sight of the intruder,
he leaped from his seat and fairly hurled himself on Cleek.
"Cleek!" he shouted. "Cleek, the very man I was praying for! Come along
in and lock the door behind you so we can't be disturbed."
Cleek obeyed, smiling a little. He was always willing and eager to give
his help to the Yard, and the very fact that Mr. Maverick Narkom so
plainly depended on him lent still further zest to his willingness.
"Hello," he said lightly, "you look fairly dazed, Mr. Narkom. What's in
the wind? It's a case, of course. And a jewel case at that," he added.
"Cinnamon! Cleek," stuttered the Superintendent, falling limply into his
lately vacated chair. "How the dickens did you know, or are you----"
"In league with the Evil One himself, eh?" finished Cleek, the queer,
one-sided smile travelling over his face. "No, it's quite simple, my
dear fellow. At your side you have a book, 'Famous Stones and Their
History.' In front of you is a lapidary's glass. Clearly you have been
examining stones of some kind, real or artificial, see?"
"Yes, I do see," muttered Mr. Narkom. "And you're right Cleek, devilish
right. It _is_ a jewel theft. As a matter of fact, it's a series of
thefts, all by the same gang, and Heaven alone knows how or from where
they operate."
"Oho!" said Cleek, with a strong rising inflection. "A gang, eh? Now I
wonder if I know. There's the French gang, headed by our old friend
Margot; the Viennese gang, by Mr. Von Henri, and the Lambeth Walk gang
that have called themselves the Pentacle Club----"
"That's the set. But how you knew beats me! Petrie and Hammond will have
it they are at the bottom of these cases. There have been one after the
other, jewels stolen from travellers at railway stations, jewels from
shops, jewels at balls. There is a constant inrush of fresh cases, and I
am almost beside myself with anxiety. In two instances, in fact, murder
has been done, and the body found marked with a kind of six-pointed
star."
Cleek's voice went up, and his brows came down. "Star, you say," he
ejaculated rapidly. "_Star?_ As you know, my friend, the Pentacle is a
star formed by two equilateral triangles intersecting so as to form a
six-pointed star. Properly it should be a five-pointed object, from the
Greek pente, five, like a pentagram, or pentagon, but as applied to a
magical figure it is probably a corruption of _pendre_, to hang, and
that is a very appropriate sign for our friends to have chosen. This
gang, too, if I remember rightly, used to be led by a man known as Snaky
Jim, though I believe James Blake was his real name. At any rate, that
was the name under which he served time. All this is by the way, so now
you give me such facts as you have to hand, and you may be sure you can
rely upon my doing my best to help you."
"Well, it will certainly be a hanging matter this time if we catch the
culprit, for when it comes to committing murder in broad daylight within
an ace of Bond Street Police Station itself, it is a bit too thick. Why
any one should have murdered a harmless old theatrical wardrobe keeper
in Drury Lane anyway, just beats me."
"What's that?" said Cleek. "Do you mean to tell me that a person
attached to the theatre has been killed? Or--no--no, let me see, a
seller of second-hand clothes is a wardrobe keeper, is he not?"
"Yes," responded Mr. Narkom, "it was my mistake, though in this case it
was a woman. As I said before, what they wanted to kill the old dame for
is past comprehension. There wasn't an article worth ten shillings in
the place and yet they took the trouble, to say nothing of the risk, of
carrying off all the old wigs and gowns that the shop contained. It was
a regular clean sweep I'm told."
Cleek sat up suddenly. "What's that? Murdered an old woman for the sake
of a few 'old clo'? Why, Mr. Narkom, the thieves must have been mad.
When did this peculiar outrage take place; at what time; and when? But
perhaps you don't know."
"As it happens, I do," said Mr. Narkom, answering the latter part of his
ally's question, "for I happened to be visiting Bond Street when the
policeman on point duty brought the case in. The woman, Madame Elise she
called herself, though in reality she was as Irish as a Dublin-born
woman can be and spoke with a brogue that you could cut with a knife,
had lived in this little court in the lane, and carried on business for
nearly ten years. She was known, I believe, to be a tough customer as we
understand the term, but no crook. No 'Fence' business; just the buying
and selling of old clothes, and mostly theatrical ones. Well, according
to the old crony who lodged with her, she hadn't a friend or relative in
the world, and such money as she made went to keep a cot at St. Thomas's
Hospital in memory of her son who died as a baby. Poor old soul.
"Well, according to Mrs. Malone, who goes out for the day, Madame, as
they call her, had an appointment with some man who wanted to fit up a
small touring company and needed clothes. He particularly mentioned a
'makeup' for an old woman."
Cleek twitched up his eyebrows. "How did Mrs. Malone know that?" he
asked.
"She says Mrs. McBride, to give Madame her real name, told her so, and
at the same time, said she didn't expect the deal to come off, for she
wasn't going to lower her price, not if she died for it----"
"H'm," said Cleek, rubbing his chin softly with his forefinger, "and she
did 'die for it,' poor soul. That looks suspicious. Did she already
suspect her customer of sinister designs?"
"Goodness knows! All we know is that a man was seen to go in----"
"By whom?" interposed Cleek swiftly.
"Several people, but the one most likely to be certain is the crippled
paper-boy who has a stand opposite the shop. He says a man went in,
stayed ever so long, and came out finally with a big bag. He then strode
off up in the direction of Wellington Street."
"H'm, like looking for a needle in a haystack to find _him_," threw in
Cleek with a little gesture of despair. "And when was the murder
discovered, may I ask?"
"Not until a couple of hours later, I believe, when Mrs. Malone returned
and came screeching out of the house with the news that Madame was
murdered, having been stabbed to the heart with a dagger. That's all I
know up to the present. But that's the case in a nutshell, Cleek."
"H'm, and a pretty tough nut to crack," threw in Cleek with a little
laugh. "If it is not too late I wouldn't mind viewing the body to-night,
if you don't mind. Unless----"
"Only too thankful," responded Mr. Narkom, jumping to his feet with
alacrity. "For what with these jewel thefts and now this murder, I am
almost beside myself with worry. Going to make any 'alterations' in your
appearance?"
"Yes. Give me a moment and I'll be ready."
"Thanks, Cleek. I knew I could rely upon you! I don't believe you need
bother about a disguise, though. It's as dark as pitch and there's
nobody now to see whether Cleek of Scotland Yard is still in the land of
the living or not."
The curious one-sided smile so characteristic of the man looped up the
corner of Cleek's mouth; his features seemed to writhe; and a strange,
indescribable change came over them as he made use of his peculiar
birth-gift. An instant later the only likeness which remained of the
dapper Lieutenant who had entered the room was his clothing, for the
bovine, stupid face above the Lieutenant's collar was the face of
George Headland who stood blinking and grinning into the
Superintendent's amazed and delighted countenance.
"I do not think it will matter at all," Cleek said as he smiled into Mr.
Narkom's eyes. "But it's as well to be careful. And Mr. George Headland
is good enough to take chances on. Come along."
Mr. Narkom "came along" forthwith and it was not until they were safely
seated in the limousine and heading swiftly for the purlieus of Drury
Lane, that Cleek spoke of his doings.
"I only hope the old-clothes woman has come to life again, like my
corpse did this evening," he said with just a tinge of whimsical humour
as he remembered the incidents through which he had just passed.
Mr. Narkom stared at him in natural astonishment and Cleek proceeded to
relate his adventures of the night, with the utmost detail, from the
moment when the shot attracted his attention outside Cheyne Court, down
to that when the ghastly discovery was made by him in the dusty
ballroom.
"You are absolutely sure the woman was dead?" said Mr. Narkom, mopping
his head with a silk handkerchief.
"Quite sure. I have seen death too many times not to recognize its
presence immediately, my friend. No, that woman was dead right enough,
but as to whether she was in reality Miss Cheyne, or whether it was
Miss Cheyne who drove us out of the house an hour later, is quite
another matter. The thing is not supernatural, it is simply a trick.
Once, in the old days that lie behind, when I was amongst those who are
hunted, in the old 'vanishing cracksman' days, I saw Margot play a
similar trick. Even in that time of the 'Kid Crawl,' I employed a
similar method to achieve a coup which would otherwise have ended badly
enough."
"Margot," repeated Narkom. "Yes, I wonder if it was she and what her
object was, but even if we knew it would not help us. Besides, she would
have recognized you."
"Oh, no, my friend," replied Cleek, with one of his curious smiles. "I
do not think any living being would recognize me, unless I wished them
to. I can assure you, and I think I should know, that it was not Margot.
As to an object, that is another matter. Do not forget the fact that the
jewels belonging to the house of Cheyne are historic, and worth untold
wealth. All are or will be shortly in the power of the poor little girl
I drove home and who stands a very good chance of being the target of
every jewel thief in Europe. Still, I don't suppose any one would be
allowed to remove them without there being first-class evidence as to
their identity. That is where the mystery lies. It is a pity we do not
know the family lawyers, or we could put them on their guard."
Mr. Narkom looked up with a little start. "That's strange, now you come
to think of it, for as it happens I do know them--they are Shallcott,
Woodward & Company of Lincoln's Inn, and I came up to town this morning
with old Mr. Shallcott. He's a precise old soul, and I don't fancy
there's any chance of their playing any tricks on him. He was telling me
about a young client of his who comes into her kingdom of jewels in a
week or so's time. He did not mention any names, but in the light of
what you say, it must be this very same lady. Perhaps you would like to
see him for yourself, old chap, and if I can get off I will see into the
matter of that dead body without fail. I will issue a search warrant if
you like. That is, if it'll be any good to you, with your amazing
methods!"
"You never can tell, as the old woman said when she married for the
fifth time, and a search warrant is a search warrant when necessity
arises. I'll have it, my friend."
Mr. Narkom nodded. Then he looked out of the window of the limousine and
beckoned to Lennard to stop.
"Here we are," said he, "and I promise you poor Madame will be dead
enough!"
Dead she certainly was, and the cause of death was only too plain. The
poor soul had been stabbed straight to the heart as she had stood
bargaining over her own counter. Cleek gave a little sigh as he turned
away from the gruesome sight. Except for the fact that every wig and
article of woman's clothing had been removed, there was no evidence of
any robbery in the shop. It looked likely to prove one of those plain,
straightforward cases that end simply in the verdict of murder against
some person or persons unknown.
He was about to follow Mr. Narkom when his eye caught sight of an old,
faded daguerreotype photo standing on the mantelshelf. It was no less
than a photo of the Honourable Miss Cheyne, in a red dress and her
unique rings and at the bottom of it was inscribed, "Elsie McBride from
her mistress, Marion Cheyne."