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CLEEK: The Man of the Forty Faces

By THOMAS W. HANSHEW

AUTHOR OF "Cleek of Scotland Yard," "The Riddle of the Night," Etc.

1912

CLEEK: THE MAN OF THE FORTY FACES

PROLOGUE

THE AFFAIR OF THE MAN WHO CALLED HIMSELF HAMILTON CLEEK

The thing wouldn't have happened if any other constable than Collins hadbeen put on point duty at Blackfriars Bridge that morning. For Collinswas young, good-looking, and—knew it. Nature had gifted him with asusceptible heart and a fond eye for the beauties of femininity. So whenhe looked round and saw the woman threading her way through the maze ofvehicles at "Dead Man's Corner," with her skirt held up just enough toshow two twinkling little feet in French shoes, and over them agraceful, willowy figure, and over that an enchanting, if rather toohighly tinted face, with almond eyes and a fluff of shining hair underthe screen of a big Parisian hat—that did for him on the spot.

He saw at a glance that she was French—exceedingly French—and hepreferred English beauty, as a rule. But, French or English, beauty isbeauty, and here undeniably was a perfect type, so he unhesitatinglysprang to her assistance and piloted her safely to the kerb, revellingin her voluble thanks, and tingling as she clung timidly but ratherfirmly to him.

"Sair, I have to give you much gratitude," she said in a pretty, wistfulsort of way, as they stepped on to the pavement. Then she dropped herhand from his sleeve, looked up at him, and shyly drooped her head, asif overcome with confusion and surprise at the youth and good looks ofhim. "Ah, it is nowhere in the world but Londres one finds thesedelicate attentions, these splendid sergeants de ville," she added, witha sort of sigh. "You are wonnerful—you are mos' wonnerful, you Anglaispoliss. Sair, I am a stranger; I know not ze ways of this city ofamazement, and if monsieur would so kindly direct me where to find theAbbey of the Ves'minster—"

Before P.C. Collins could tell her that if that were her destination,she was a good deal out of her latitude; indeed, even before sheconcluded what she was saying, over the rumble of the traffic there rosea thin, shrill piping sound, which to ears trained to the call of itpossessed a startling significance.

It was the shrilling of a police whistle, far off down the Embankment.

"Hullo! That's a call to the man on point!" exclaimed Collins, all alertat once. "Excuse me, mum. See you presently. Something's up. One of mymates is a-signalling me."

"Mates, monsieur? Mates? Signalling? I shall not understand the vords.
But yes, vat shall that mean—eh?"

"Good Lord, don't bother me now! I—I mean, wait a bit. That's the callto 'head off' someone, and—By George! There he is now, coming head on,the hound, and running like the wind!"

For of a sudden, through a break in the traffic, a scudding figure hadsprung into sight—the figure of a man in a grey frock-coat and ashining "topper," a well-groomed, well-set-up man, with a small,turned-up moustache and hair of that peculiar purplish-red one sees onlyon the shell of a roasted chestnut. As he swung into sight, the distantwhistle shrilled again; far off in the distance voices sent up cries of"Head him off!" "Stop that man!" et c