The Riddle of the Mysterious Light E-Book

Thomas W. Hanshew

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

In „The Riddle of the Mysterious Light”, consulting detective Hamilton Cleek is en route to meet with Scotland Yard detective Narkom when he’s intercepted by a roving gang of nefarious ne’er-do-wells. Can he muster his mighty intellect and physical prowess and hatch a plan to escape his captors? Hamilton Cleek is the central figure in dozens of short stories that began to appear in 1910 and were subsequently collected in a series of books. Cleek is a detective as remarkable as Sherlock Holmes. He has, however, the prime quality of always being in an apparently hopeless tangle of circumstances, and he has also the genius of getting out. The Cleek stories were written by Thomas W. Hanshew, until his death in 1914. His wife, Mary E. Hanshew, then took over this popular pulp mystery series.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. TRAPPED BY THE APACHES

II. A KISS FOR A LIFE

III. THE HAUNTED VILLAGE

IV. WEIRD CHURCH BELLS OF THE NIGHT

V. THE PRIVATE AFFAIRS OF A DUKE

VI. THE GHOST IN THE CHURCH BELFRY

VII. A GARDEN OF TRANSPLANTED FLOWERS

VIII. THE MURDER OF CAPTAIN SANDRINGHAM

IX. A FAINTLY FAMILIAR FACE

X. A WALK IN THE GARDEN

XI. CLUES FROM A DEAD BODY

XII. A JANGLE OF PEALING BELLS

XIII. THE MYSTERIOUS LIGHT

XIV. "GEORGE HEADLAND" KEEPS AN APPOINTMENT

XV. THE LAYING OF THE VALEHAMPTON "GHOST"

XVI. CLEEK EXPLAINS

XVII. THE MYSTERY OF THE "ROSE OF FIRE"

XVIII. MURDER AT MANOR LODGE

XIX. THE WINGED MESSENGER OF DEATH

XX. THE STOLEN FORMULAS

XXI. COUNTESS MARAVITZ ENTERTAINS

XXII. AN INTERRUPTED HOLIDAY

XXIII. A DIVIDED LEGACY

XXIV. "THE FIRE THAT SLAYS IN THE DARK"

XXV. THE PRICELESS STATUE THAT VANISHED

XXVI. FLECKS OF WHITE POWDER

XXVII. THE RUSE OF THE SPRAINED WRIST

XXVIII. THE MYSTERY OF THE "ROPE OF FEAR"

XXIX. THE MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF ELTON CARLYLE

XXX. THE SAFE WITH THE TIME-LOCK

XXXI. IN THE DEN OF THE APACHES

XXXII. THE PASSING OF CLEEK

I. TRAPPED BY THE APACHES

There are days, even in the capricious climate of London, when the whole world seems at peace; when the blue of the summer sky, the fragrance of some distant flower brought in by a passing breeze, and the contented chirp of the birds, all unite to evoke a spirit of thankfulness for the very gift of life itself.

This was the spirit of Mr. Maverick Narkom, Superintendent of Scotland Yard, on this particular day in July. Even the very criminals had apparently betaken themselves to other haunts and distant climes, and the Yard, therefore, may be said to have been surprisingly slack. Up in his own private room, seated in front of his desk–both desk and room reduced to a state of order and tidiness uncanny to behold–sat the Superintendent, if the truth must be told, oblivious to all the world; a purple silk handkerchief draped itself gracefully over his head and rose softly up and down with the rise and fall of his breath. This was his last day at the Yard, for to-morrow would see him well on the road to Margate for a blessed two weeks’ holiday with Mrs. Narkom and the children, not to mention guests who were nearly as precious to him, namely Ailsa Lorne and Hamilton Cleek.

His famous ally had himself been absent for more than two months, but was returning this very day–day, in fact, might be expected to arrive now at any minute, so it was little wonder that peace reigned supreme in the worthy Superintendent’s heart, and induced his gentle slumbers even in the sacred precincts of what has been termed the Hub of London.

But outside, in the blue azure of the sky above, a tiny cloud, no bigger than that of the proverbial man’s hand, had gathered, and as if it were a reflection of the storm-clouds of crime hovering round, there came the sharp ting-ting of the telephone bell at his elbow. For a minute, thus suddenly aroused, Mr. Narkom stared blankly at the disturber of his peace. A swift glance at the indicator told him it was a summons from the Chief Commissioner, and Mr. Narkom betook himself to the interview.

It lasted only fifteen minutes as registered by the clock ticking gently on the mantelshelf, but its deadly effect was that of fifteen years on Mr. Narkom, and when he once more entered his own official sanctum, he sank down into the chair with a groan. For he had heard the first details of that mystery of the haunted village of Valehampton, which later on was to rouse a whole county, and bring to Hamilton Cleek one of the chief problems of his career. That the strangeness of the case was apparent on the face of it could be gathered from Mr. Narkom’s muttered remarks.

“Curses!” he growled. “Suicides! Murders! Ghosts! Prophecies! It’s the work of the devil himself.” He consulted his notes again, but though copious enough, it was clear they afforded no further light. He pulled out his watch and heaved a sigh of relief. “Only half-past nine now,” he ejaculated, “and if only Cleek arrived safely by the 8:40, I think he said, at Charing Cross, there’s a chance of seeing light. I don’t know where he’s been, the amazing beggar, but he’s never been wanted so badly here in his life. Thank goodness he’s back again.”

He reached out a hand for that friendly instrument the telephone receiver; but his complacent gratitude had evidently tried the patience of the Fates, for ere his fingers closed round the familiar black handle, the door of his room was thrown violently open, and without ceremony or even apology a slim figure fairly hurled itself before the gaze of the astonished Superintendent.

It was Dollops, worshipper of Cleek and his ever-faithful assistant. His face was the colour of a Manila paper bag, and his eyes bulged out of his head as they took in the fact that Mr. Narkom was alone.

“Lor’ lumme!” he cried, relapsing into broad cockney, as he invariably did when excited. “Don’t go for to say he ain’t ‘ere, neither,” he blurted out, his eyes seeking those of Mr. Narkom with a very agony of impatience.

For both of them there could be but one “he,” and Mr. Narkom’s face became nearly the same colour as the lad’s as he realized that his famous ally was not at hand.

“Didn’t he arrive at Charing Cross by the 8:40?” he cried.

Dollops shook his head.

“No, bless ‘im, that’s just what he didn’t do, Mr. Narkom. Me and Miss Lorne waited for ‘im, me wivout so much as a bite to keep my insides from sticking together, and them blooming Apaches–beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Narkom, but they are blooming, too–merry and bright they was, I tell you, buzzing round that station like bluebottles round a piece of meat. That’s wot made me come ‘ere, thinkin’ he’d twigged ‘em as usual and come another way. But if ‘e ain’t ‘ere, ‘e ain’t, and I’ll get back to Portman Square.”

With a dejected lurch of the shoulders, he turned, leaving Mr. Narkom to make his own preparations.

Soon deep in the business of issuing orders to his underlings, despatching telegrams–one, of course, to Mrs. Narkom herself to prepare her for the disappointment of a postponed holiday–and in writing and expanding the notes of this last case just entrusted to him by his chief, Mr. Narkom for the first time in his life since he had known and learned to love his famous ally, Hamilton Cleek, once known as the Man of Forty Faces by reason of his peculiar birth-gift, his ability to change instantaneously his whole appearance by an extraordinary distortion of his facial muscles, and also as the Vanishing Cracksman, for his capacity of extricating himself from perilous positions, and now as Cleek of Scotland Yard–for the first time, we say, Mr. Narkom forgot to be anxious at his evident non-arrival.

The sound of hurried footsteps in the corridor outside struck upon his ear and he wheeled suddenly in his chair. But if he had expected to see Cleek, he was doomed to disappointment. There came a knock, the door opened and closed, and a deprecatory cough came from Inspector Hammond, white-faced and anxious, his lips set in a grim line of tense anxiety.

“Hammond–why, what is wrong, man? Speak up,” cried the Superintendent. “Come, out with it.”

“It’s ‘im, sir,” said Hammond. “A kid of a paper-boy just pushed this ‘ere paper into my ‘and as I was leaving my beat and ‘ops it before I could as much as breathe Jack Robinson.”

His hand shaking, he extended to the obviously irritated Mr. Narkom a scrap of dirty paper, and as the Superintendent gave a glance at the few words scrawled on it, his own ruddy face was drained of every vestige of colour, and it looked not unlike that of Dollops but a brief half hour previous.

The scribbled words were barely half a dozen in number but in their import they told of more dire disaster to him than could any voluminous cabinet epistle.

Irregularly penned as by one in imminent peril, the message danced before his blurred eyes.

“Come, God’s sake, 1st barge, Limehouse, Dock 3.–Cleek.„

“What does it mean, sir?” asked Hammond, anxiously, as Mr. Narkom sucked in his breath and stood staring rigidly.

“Means,” he gasped, “that they’ve got him, the devils. Dollops was right. Apaches! God, but he’s gone by now perhaps. Cleek, my pal–my––”

He wheeled on the now frightened Inspector. “Quick, man–the car. You follow, with Petrie and whoever else is off duty.”

Hammond needed no second telling. He almost fled from the room, and the dread news preceding him, Lennard was on the spot and waiting as impatiently as the Superintendent himself.

“Limehouse Docks, Lennard–and streak it. Mr. Cleek is in danger––”

“I know, sir. Hop in, and Lord help the man or vehicle in my way!” was the fervent reply as he cranked up and took his seat.

“Streak it” he did, and not a policeman on duty, after a brief glance at his grim face and that of the Superintendent within, did more than hold up every cart, cab, tram, or ‘bus that was likely to impede his way. Obviously the Yard, as vested in the sacred person of Superintendent Narkom and his prime minister Lennard, was “on active duty” and like a fire engine in speed and purpose, the Yard limousine rocked and swayed its way through grimy lanes and malodorous byways till it reached the squalid region known as Limehouse Docks. Here Lennard could go no farther, and ere the car had pulled up, quivering, the portly form of the Superintendent had thrown itself out, and was peering into the sunlit distances.

“Wait here, Lennard, and when the others come along bring them to Dock 3 and look out for Barge No. 1, if we are not here first.”

“Righto, sir,” said Lennard.

But already Mr. Narkom was out of sight, all other duties forgotten.

Swiftly he turned a sharp corner, nearly falling over a sailor leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette. At the first whiff, Mr. Narkom glanced up swiftly. It did not take his trained sense long to recognize that it was a French cigarette–hence Apache–and that Cleek must be here, in need of him!

“La, la, but you are queek,” the man muttered. “It is ze brave Super-in-tend-ent and he come for his gr-great frien’ Cleek–is it not so, my frien’?”

“Yes, yes–you know! He is here?” gasped Mr. Narkom, barely, if at all, stopping to think of any possible peril to himself. “You shall be finely rewarded for this, my good man,” he said, warmly. “Lead on––”

“But yes,” was the reply, “a brave reward. Come!” He turned silently and swiftly, beckoning to the Superintendent to follow.

Nothing loath and unsuspecting, Mr. Narkom turned and followed the sailor till they reached one of the docks–and a barge.

“This is dock 3,” he said, as he noticed the number.

“Quite right,” said his guide. “Get in, queek–ze boat–ze others, zay weel return and it weel be too late.”

That was sufficient for Mr. Narkom. Obviously, his friend was in danger; equally obvious was it that this guide had brought him as a reinforcement against returning Apaches.

“Get in” he did, and it was not until he had stumbled down a dark companionway into the grimy cabin and heard the door click swiftly behind him that he realized he was trapped–deceived by a trick as simple as it had been effective. The sweat stood out on the Superintendent’s forehead, rolling down in great beads, while his hands grew cold and clammy.

“Cleek!” he cried, hoping even now that his ally were with him to help and be helped! But a light laugh–half snarl, half sneer–caused him to turn. His guide stood regarding him with mocking amusement.

“Bravo! my frien’–so easy it was! Caught like the great big turkey-gobbler. Oh, non, non–but not so queek, my frien’––”

For Mr. Narkom had flung himself forward in a vain effort to escape. A sharp whistle and a door hitherto unseen in the darkness of the cabin behind him was flung open. Mr. Narkom was seized from behind, flung down some three minutes later, and trussed up, panting and helpless, tears of rage and mortification in his eyes.

Soon, as it grew darker and darker, betokening the fall of the summer night, he felt the movement of the boat beneath him, and even while Lennard and a posse of his own men were interviewing the officials and overhauling Dock 1, the boat with its valuable burden was drifting out to meet a larger vessel, waiting well up the river’s mouth, bearing away one of the only two men who could solve one of the greatest mysteries the Law had ever been faced with.

II. A KISS FOR A LIFE

It was just dusk when the police officials were obliged to give up their quest for the Superintendent and Hammond returned to Scotland Yard to make his report to the Chief Commissioner. Dejected of mien and heavy of heart he stopped mechanically at the door of the Superintendent’s room. He would have given worlds if he had never been the unconscious instrument of his superior’s disaster. The door stood slightly ajar and he halted with the intention of closing it.

The electric light had been switched on and he stood in the doorway. A figure sat at the familiar desk and as the Inspector gave one brief glance, a cry of half pain, half fear, burst from his shaking lips.

“Mr. Cleek–you, sir! But––”

Cleek–for he it was–switched round in his chair, exclaiming at sight of the man’s face, “Why, man! What’s wrong?”

“Mr. Narkom, sir–they’ve got him. He’s gone!”

“Got him–who’ve got him? He’s not dead?”

Hammond shivered at that; then hoarsely and somewhat incoherently got out the tale of the afternoon. And as Cleek realized the trap the Superintendent had bravely entered to save him, his friend and associate, from danger, he collapsed into the chair, his face hidden in the palm of his hand.

“God! A friend indeed! They think to hurt me through him,” he muttered. “They’ll never dare to injure him, surely! God, if only I hadn’t lost that train–only by a minute, too! But I’ll get him, I swear it. The rats shall pay for this––”

He leapt to his feet, his eyes narrowed down to slits, his lips set in a straight line, as he mentally reviewed once more the facts of Hammond’s story.

“Leave me alone, Hammond. You can do nothing more. Keep a lookout at the docks. Tell Dollops I’m all right, and to lie low himself–or he’ll be the next.”

Hammond saluted and left the room, as Cleek turned to the telephone. A quarter of an hour later, out of the sacred precincts of the Yard itself, slouched one of the most villainous-looking Apaches that Soho or Montmartre itself ever could have seen. It was Cleek the Vanishing Cracksman, Cleek the Man of Forty Faces–the King Rat himself on the warpath. Had Marise of the Twisted Arm, Gustave Merode, or even Margot herself, the Queen of the Apaches, seen him, they would have feared and trembled.

Meanwhile, the barge had transferred its precious if bulky burden to one of the numerous produce boats going up the river and it was well on its way to Havre before police launches or port officials were made aware of the loss.

But it was not until midnight had struck that the cramped, aching body of the Superintendent was hustled out of the boat at a little landing place outside the port itself, and smuggled hastily down into cellars of the Coq d’Or. Officials were too used to drunken sailors being helped in and out of this none too savoury tavern to note one more helpless, stumbling figure, held up between comrades, and a brief second found Mr. Narkom in the midst of an uproarious, shouting crew of Apaches, headed by no less than Margot herself, disguised as a Breton fishwife. She had escaped the eagle eye of her born foes, the French gendarmes, and here reigned supreme, surrounded by her compères in crime and those subject to her sway.

Her shrill cries of delight resounded to the roof as her eyes fell upon the gagged and bound figure of Mr. Narkom.

“Brava, brave Jules; so you succeeded! La! La! but we ‘ave the rat himself now. This is the toasted cheese, and Cleek will come after his friend very soon–if we send for him. Eh, mes amis? A splendid plan, and meanwhile the good Duke is being hurt, eh! But it is good!”

Jeering and laughing, she thrust her face close to the drawn one of the Superintendent.

“But not so clever, eh, my friend? We cannot afford to have you and Cleek, the rat!”–she spat the words out–“in England. We want a rest.”

“Into the cellar–hark, what’s that? All right, an aeroplane–that’s all right. Into the cellar with him, lads. All we have to do now is to wait for the rat to come to the trap!”

To the accompaniment of another laugh, Mr. Narkom was pulled down into the vaults below, where, dazed with hunger, pain, and anxiety lest Cleek should indeed be led into fresh danger, he sweated an hour away.

Upstairs all was renewed merriment, and in the midst of it the door opened and a familiar figure slouched in–evil of face, disfigured with scars and bruises. As a shout arose at his appearance, there was no question as to his identity. “Merode. Nom de dieu, Gustave!” cried Margot. “But a pretty picture you cut!”

“Sacré nom!„ he growled through his clenched teeth. “So would you, if you had been fighting for your life! The pigs of police are after me. Give me a drink and take me down through the cellar. The boat goes back to-night, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” said Margot. “Here’s your drink–and drink to Jules there for he caught the turkey gobbler. Cleek the Rat’s man–Narkom!”

“Nonsense–impossible!” cried Merode with an oath.

“But not so, my friend, you shall see him,” cried half a dozen voices.

“See him? I’ll mark him for life, the devil. Someone go for the vitriol–here!”

With dirty, scratched, and bloodstained hands, Merode threw a coin to one of the Apaches who vanished in the blue fumes of smoke and wine, while Merode slouched deeper into the shadows as there came the sound of a gendarme’s clattering sword on the cobbles outside.

“Mon dieu, Margot, I mustn’t be caught.”

Margot gave orders swiftly. “Down with him, Jeannette, into the vaults, while I hold the fort.”

Jeannette clutched Merode’s arm. “Come, mon ami, through here! You know the way!”

Stumbling, cursing, praying all in one breath, Merode followed down the rickety wooden ladder, down, it seemed, into the very bowels of the earth.

Thrusting open another door, Jeannette grumblingly lighted a torch stuck in the woodwork, and as Merode’s eyes fell upon the figure of Mr. Narkom an oath of triumph burst from his lips.

“Dieu, but Margot spoke the truth. It’s the pig himself. I’ve half a mind to take him with me and make him dance with a hot iron or two! Better than vitriol––” He gave vent to a hoarse, chuckling laugh, at the sound of which the Superintendent shivered, even though the confined space was close enough on the hot summer’s night.

“Margot will never stand that,” said Jeannette. “She means to keep him here till Cleek the Rat comes––”

“Margot! Nom du pipe! If she is Queen, I am King. Leave him to me and give me the key of the door.”

Jeannette wheeled suddenly on him.

“What key–what door?” she asked. Then without waiting for an answer she snatched the torch from the wall and thrust it in Merode’s face.

He drew back from her piercing gaze.

“Hola!„ she cried in triumph. “I was right–it is not Merode!” For Merode knew of the trap-door. And as the man followed her glance toward it he realized his mistake.

“And you, who are you?” she cried.

As the man shrank back she advanced, and with a swift gesture plucked at the matted hair. It came away in her hand, and her own cry of triumph as it revealed the smooth head beneath drowned the Superintendent’s cry of “Cleek!” even as he realized the double peril of himself and the man whose friendship was dearer to him even than life itself.

“Aha, I know you now,” cried Jeannette. “The great Cleek himself! And it is I who have got you–moi–whom she laughed at.”

“And will again, ma petite,” said Cleek, for he indeed it was. “Jeannette, be merciful, as you hope for mercy. Let me get my friend here through the door into the boat and you shall deliver me up to Margot. I will come back–I swear it–if you set him free.”

“Free to bring the gendarmes on us–pas si bête. No, my friend,” laughed the girl.

“He will not do that, I swear it. Did Cleek the Cracksman ever break his oath?”

“No, but Cleek of what do you call your quarters–eh–ah–Scot-land Yard–eh–yes, he might!” said the girl.

Swiftly, in a torrent of French patois that Narkom could not follow, Cleek pleaded, disregarding the Superintendent’s own pleas to exchange his life for that of Cleek himself.

Minutes passed and the girl remained obdurate. Suddenly she looked up.

“They say you have a white-and-gold lady to be your woman over on the other side–is it not so?”

Cleek shivered and shut his eyes in a veritable agony of spirit at this reference to Ailsa Lorne–his adored Ailsa who awaited him in the rose-clad riverside home, and who within a few brief days was to have been his wife.

A low, sibilant laugh burst from Jeannette’s painted lips.

“Eh, but she would not like to know of this little meeting, my friend? She would scorn the poor Jeannette, eh? But it is Jeannette who holds you like that!” She snapped her finger and thumb in triumph, and as the bursts of merriment above them seemed to roll nearer, Cleek grew very, very still. This was indeed the end, and though he would die for the sake of his friend, the blow would be none the less bitter.

Jeannette stood silent, too, looking at him. One, two, perhaps three minutes passed before she turned again.

“Well, mon ami, I don’t know that I owe anything to Margot up there. What happens to me if I let you go? How do you pay me–eh?”

“Jeannette, you will? You have only to tell me what to do in return.”

Cleek’s voice trembled despite himself at this shadow of renewed hope, and Jeannette flushed in the dark.

“Bah, but I am the fool she calls me,” she muttered, “But death comes soon enough. Pay me––“ She came close to him, thrusting her face close to his. “No lover have I. I am old and plain; you are Cleek, once the lover of Margot the Queen. Kiss me! Nay, as you value your life and that of your friend there, kiss me as you would your woman over there–that is the price you shall pay!”

For one brief second Cleek’s soul revolted. The thought of offering his lips–which he held sacred to the one fair woman who had led him up from depths such as these to her own pure level–sickened him. He would sooner yield life itself. Yet Narkom’s life depended on his own, and with a secret prayer for forgiveness he bent over, took the thin, shaking figure literally into his arms, and kissed the painted lips, not once, but thrice. “God bless you, Jeannette!” he murmured. “He alone can reward you.”

With a little moan of pain Jeannette clung to him as if indeed he were the lover she craved; then, slipping from his arms, she turned, sped across the room, and tugged at a small, half-hidden trap-door.

“Quick,” she panted. “Slash his ropes and go–before I repent! I’ll tell them you’ve gone!”

Without another look or sound she disappeared up the staircase, leaving Cleek to make good the escape of them both, in his heart a prayer of gratitude, and a resolution to save Jeannette from this den of crime if he but lived to escape into safety.

Hardly daring to breathe, he and Narkom stumbled down another foul-laden ladder and into a noisome passage, which eventually brought them onto the little landing stage.

“I have the ‘plane here,” said Cleek, with a little happy laugh. “Be brave, my friend, but a few more minutes.”

He vanished in the darkness, and though it seemed ages to the aching Superintendent, it was barely three minutes before the shadowy, whirring body of a War Office hydroplane hovered over him. Not more than five minutes later they were once more on the way to safety and to London, there to unravel the riddle which had been propounded to the Superintendent by his chief but a few hours before.

“What’s that, my friend–how did I find you?” said Cleek, later, when Mr. Narkom had got through a meal which would have done justice to Dollops himself.

“Well, I ‘phoned for the use of one of our sea-planes, and scouted over every likely boat and barge in the Channel. When I saw one pass by Havre and stop just beyond, I remembered the old Coq d’Or and determined to risk it. And now, my friend, all you have to do is to rest. What’s that? A case? Not to-night, Mr. Narkom, nor this morning. We both want rest and a quiet hour to offer up thanks to le bon dieu and Jeannette for our escape.”

And that is why the case of the Mysterious Light, the riddle which was terrifying a whole village, was given no thought until many hours later. It had been a time too fraught with danger to be thought of lightly, and both men realized perhaps even more clearly the bond of friendship which had prompted both to walk into the very shadow of death in each other’s service.

III. THE HAUNTED VILLAGE

It was more than twenty-four hours later, and Superintendent Narkom, fully recovered from the effects of the awful night in the cellar of the Apaches at the Coq d’Or, was now in fine feather. Anything that had to do with what certain of his men were wont to allude to as “the hupper clarses” possessed an especial interest for him, and to-day’s affair was flying high in the social scale indeed.

“A duke, I think you said?”

The inquiry came from beside him, from Cleek, as they both sat in the Superintendent’s limousine, in which they were skimming onward in the direction of the Carlton, where they were due at half-past two.

“A duke–yes,” agreed Mr. Narkom.

“But there are so many. And you whisked me off in such hot haste that there was no time to inquire which. Now, however, if you don’t mind satisfying a natural curiosity––”

“The Duke of Essex. He came up to town this morning and called me to a private interview at his hotel. It was a corroboration of what he told the Chief the other day.”

“Ah!” said Cleek, with something like a twinkle in his eye. “That will be a pleasant little bit of news to tell Mrs. Narkom over the dinner table to-night. The Duke of Essex, eh? Well, well! That is the illustrious personage, is it not, who is famous for having a castle whose underground dungeons have been converted into a vast banqueting hall, and who is said to possess a service of gold plate which is the equal, if not the superior, of that which adorns the royal table on State occasions? That’s the Johnnie, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s the–– My dear Cleek, you are hardly respectful, are you?”

“No, I am not. But you see, there must be something of the–er–well, fashionably democratic strain in my blood, and I’m never quite so overcome by the importance of dukes as a policeman ought to be. But we will stick to our–duke, if you please. Will his call upon us have something to do with guarding that gold plate and the very remarkable array of wedding presents which is sure to be an accompaniment to the marriage of his only child, Lady Adela Fulgarney?”

“Nothing whatsoever. It is an affair of a totally different kind.”

“H’m! That is both disappointing and gratifying, Mr. Narkom. Disappointing, because I see by the papers that Lady Adela’s wedding is set for Thursday, the day after to-morrow; and gratifying, because to tell you the truth, I shouldn’t much care to play the role of plain clothes man and special guard over the wedding gifts of even so important a lady as a duke’s daughter.”

“As if I would have brought the case to you had it been anything of the sort!” came reproachfully from Mr. Narkom.

“I think my only reason for imagining that the duke’s call would be something in connection with Lady Adela’s approaching marriage lay in the fact that a good many of the guests have, according to the newspapers, already arrived in Valehampton and either become domiciled at Essex Castle or at some of the neighbouring estates. At such a period one would naturally expect the duke to feel an interest in nothing but the forthcoming event–or, at least, not sufficient interest in anything else to cause him to leave his guests and make a flying trip up to London within forty-eight hours of the ceremony. It must be something of very serious importance, I take it, Mr. Narkom, to impel him to make this sudden visit to town and this urgent appeal to the Yard at such a time as this.”

“It is. Wait until you hear the full details, old chap. I’ve had only a mere outline of them, but even that was sufficient to make me sit up. It’s the devil’s own business. And if Old Nick himself isn’t at the bottom of it I’m blest if I can imagine who in the world can be. You’ve tackled about all sorts in your day, but I don’t think you ever went spook hunting before.”

“Went what!”

“Spook hunting, ghost tracking, spirit laying–that sort of thing. That blessed village of Valehampton is haunted. The country folk are leaving it by the dozen. Half the duke’s tenants have flown the place already, and the other half are getting ready to follow suit. That’s what he’s come up here for, that’s what he wants you to do: Lay the ghost that’s making life in the place a nightmare and driving people almost insane with fright.”

“Tommyrot!”

“No, it isn’t, Cleek–it’s facts. The place seems under a curse on account of some infernal dead man who was buried there. The duke will give you the particulars–I can’t–and the beggar’s making life a burden to the village folk. Somebody or other said that a curse would follow wherever that dead Johnnie’s body rested, and it has, too. One of the duke’s tenants let it be buried from his house, and since that time nobody can live in the blessed place. And as for the church bells–lord! They make a perfect pandemonium of the neighbourhood at night–ring, bang, slam, without rhyme or reason, until people are silly with terror over the peal of them.”

“Who rings them?”

“Nobody–that’s the devil of it. The duke thought it was the work of somebody who was doing the thing for a lark, and he and the vicar had all the ropes removed. It didn’t make any difference. The bells rang just the same the next night, and they’ve rung pretty nearly every night since. But that’s not the worst of it. People have begun to be spirited away–out of their own houses, in the dead of night, without a blessed sign of where or how they went, and not a trace of them since. Last night, as if to cap the climax–– Hello! here we are at the Carlton at last. Jump out, old chap. We’ll soon be with the duke now, and he will tell you.”

The limousine had come to a halt. Mr. Narkom, opening the door, got out, dapper and sleek as always–doing the gentlemanly part of the Yard’s business in a gentlemanly way–and Cleek, silk-hatted and morning-coated, the very antithesis of the professional detective, followed him, crossing the pavement and entering the hotel with an easy grace and repose of manner.

It was at once the envy and despair of his associates, that “way of carrying himself,” as they expressed it, “like as if the earth wasn’t none too good for him to walk upon, and he was sort of expecting a red carpet.” And it was a curious fact that men of all classes on coming into contact with him were conscious of an indefinable something about the man which commanded rather than asked for respect.

And yet the man seemed, as a general thing, inclined to efface himself when in public. He did so now. Keeping in the background, he neither spoke nor asserted himself in any way; simply stood there and waited passively while Mr. Narkom sent up a card to the duke, and was wholly unperturbed when, a few minutes later, the messenger returned and stated that “His Grace would be pleased to see the gentlemen at once if they would kindly go up.”

They went up forthwith, and were shown without delay into the presence of the Duke of Essex.

“Your fame is world-wide, Mr. Cleek, and I hold myself most fortunate in being able to have a man so ably equipped for taking up this amazing case,” began the duke as Narkom introduced his famous ally. “I wish to enlist your services in ferreting out a very remarkable affair–in fact, one of the most unbelievable mysteries which even the fictionists could possibly evolve.”

“Mr. Narkom has been giving me a hint of the case,” said Cleek, as he seated himself upon the chair which the duke indicated. “It is about the reputed ‘haunting’ of the village where your country seat is located, I believe? I am told that you desire me to discover the mysterious agency which causes the church bells to ring without ropes or hands and is supposed to be accountable for the mysterious disappearance of certain persons.”

“That’s it precisely. I do not wonder at your smiling, Mr. Cleek. At first the affair appears so utterly absurd that it is difficult to imagine anybody with an ounce of brains regarding it seriously. Let me tell you the facts, however, and you will, I am sure, change your views upon that point as completely as I have been compelled to change mine. I may say, however, that it is an exaggeration to state that ‘persons’ have disappeared. Two have come to an untimely end because of the mysterious visitation, but only one can be said to have disappeared. The body of the second victim has been discovered. It was found this morning at daybreak lying at the foot of the church belfry. The poor fellow’s skull had been battered in by some implement of which no trace is to be found. The other victim–the one who disappeared–was a girl of thirteen. She vanished from her father’s cottage in the dead of night one week ago. Every door and window was found locked on the inside in the morning, and whatever the diabolical power may have been that spirited her away, it did so effectually; for not the faintest shadow of a clue to her whereabouts has been discovered from that hour to this.”

Cleek’s brows gathered, and his direct eyes lost something of their placid expression.

“This would seem to be something more serious than I had at first imagined,” he said. “Would you mind giving me the full details as explicitly as possible, and from the very beginning, please?”

The duke did so with as little divergence from the direct line of evidence as was consistent with the narration of a story so amazing.