by Otto Penzler
Mr. Narkom went over and stood beside the glittering mass, resting his hand against the table and feasting his eyes upon all that opulent splendour.
“God bless my soul! it’s superb, it’s amazing,” he commented. “No wonder the fellow is willing to take risks for a prize like this. You are a splendid temptation; a gorgeous bait, you beauties; but the fish that snaps at you will find that there’s a nasty hook underneath in the shape of Maverick Narkom. Never mind the many windows, Sir Horace. Let him come in by them, if that’s his plan. I’ll never leave these things for one instant between now and the morning. Good night, Miss Lorne. Go to bed and to sleep—you do the same, Sir Horace. My lay is here!”
With that he stooped and, lifting the long drapery which covered the table and swept down in heavy folds to the floor, crept out of sight under it, and let it drop back into place again.
“Switch off the light and go,” he called to them in a low-sunk voice. “Don’t worry yourselves, either of you. Go to bed, and to sleep if you can.”
“As if we could,” answered Miss Lorne agitatedly. “I shan’t be able to close an eyelid. I’ll try, of course, but I know I shall not succeed. Come, uncle, come! Oh, do be careful, Mr. Narkom; and if that horrible man does come—”
“I’ll have him, so help me God!” he vowed. “Switch off the light, and shut the door as you go out. This is ‘Forty Faces’ ’ Waterloo at last.”
And in another moment the light snicked out, the door closed, and he was alone in the silent room.
For ten or a dozen minutes not even the bare suggestion of a noise disturbed the absolute stillness; then of a sudden, his trained ear caught a faint sound that made him suck in his breath and rise on his elbow, the better to listen—a sound which came, not without the house, but from within, from the dark hall where he had stationed his men, to be exact. As he listened he was conscious that some living creature had approached the door, touched the handle, and by the swift, low rustle and the sound of hard breathing, that it had been pounced upon and seized. He scrambled out from beneath the table, snicked on the light, whirled open the door, and was in time to hear the irritable voice of Sir Horace say, testily: “Don’t make an ass of yourself by your over-zealousness. I’ve only come down to have a word with Mr. Narkom,” and to see him standing on the threshold, grotesque in a baggy suit of striped pyjamas, with one wrist enclosed as in a steel band by the gripped fingers of Petrie.
“Why didn’t you say it was you, sir?” exclaimed that crestfallen individual, as the flashing light made manifest his mistake. “When I heard you first, and see you come up out of that back passage, I made sure it was him; and if you’d a struggled, I’d have bashed your head as sure as eggs.”
“Thank you for nothing,” he responded testily. “You might have remembered, however, that the man’s first got to get into the place before he can come downstairs. Mr. Narkom,” turning to the superintendent, “I was just getting into bed when I thought of something I’d neglected to tell you; and as my niece is sitting in her room with the door open, and I wasn’t anxious to parade myself before her in my night clothes, I came down by the back staircase. I don’t know how in the world I came to overlook it, but I think you ought to know that there’s a way of getting into the picture gallery without using either the windows or the stairs, and that way ought to be both searched and guarded.”
“Where is it? What is it? Why in the world didn’t you tell me in the first place?” exclaimed Narkom irritably, as he glanced round the place searchingly. “Is it a panel? a secret door? or what? This is an old house, and old houses are sometimes a very nest of such things.”
“Happily, this one isn’t. It’s a modern innovation, not an ancient relic, that offers the means of entrance in this case. A Yankee occupied this house before I bought it from him—one of those blessed shivery individuals his country breeds, who can’t stand a breath of cold air indoors after the passing of the autumn. The wretched man put one of those wretched American inflictions, a hot-air furnace, in the cellar, with huge pipes running to every room in the house—great tin monstrosities bigger round than a man’s body, ending in openings in the wall, with what they call ‘registers,’ to let the heat in, or shut it out as they please. I didn’t have the wretched contrivance removed or those blessed ‘registers’ plastered up. I simply had them papered over when the rooms were done up (there’s one over there near that settee), and if a man got into this house, he could get into that furnace thing and hide in one of those flues until he got ready to crawl up it as easily as not. It struck me that perhaps it would be as well for you to examine that furnace and those flues before matters go any further.”
“Of course it would. Great Scott! Sir Horace, why didn’t you think to tell me of this thing before?” said Narkom, excitedly. “The fellow may be in it at this minute. Come, show me the wretched thing.”
“It’s below—in the cellar. We shall have to go down the kitchen stairs, and I haven’t a light.”
“Here’s one,” said Petrie, unhitching a bull’s-eye from his belt and putting it into Narkom’s hand. “Better go with Sir Horace at once, sir. Leave the door of the gallery open and the light on. Fish and me will stand guard over the stuff till you come back, so in case the man is in one of them flues and tries to bolt out at this end, we can nab him before he can get to the windows.”
“A good idea,” commented Narkom. “Come on, Sir Horace. Is this the way?”
“Yes, but you’ll have to tread carefully, and mind you don’t fall over anything. A good deal of my paraphernalia—bottles, retorts, and the like—is stored in the little recess at the foot of the staircase, and my assistant is careless and leaves things lying about.”
Evidently the caution was necessary, for a minute or so after they had passed on and disappeared behind the door leading to the kitchen stairway, Petrie and his colleagues heard a sound as of something being overturned and smashed, and laughed softly to themselves. Evidently, too, the danger of the furnace had been grossly exaggerated by Sir Horace, for when, a few minutes later, the door opened and closed, and Narkom’s men, glancing toward it, saw the figure of their chief reappear, it was plain that he was in no good temper, since his features were knotted up into a scowl, and he swore audibly as he snapped the shutter over the bull’s-eye and handed it back to Petrie.
“Nothing worth looking into, superintendent?”
“No—not a thing!” he replied. “The silly old josser! pulling me down there amongst the coals and rubbish for an insane idea like that! Why, the flues wouldn’t admit the passage of a child; and even then, there’s a bend—an abrupt ‘elbow’—that nothing but a cat could crawl up. And that’s a man who’s an authority on the human brain! I sent the old silly back to bed by the way he came, and if—”
There he stopped, stopped short, and sucked in his breath with a sharp, wheezing sound. For, of a sudden, a swift pattering footfall and a glimmer of moving light had sprung into being and drawn his eyes upward; and there, overhead, was Miss Lorne coming down the stairs from the upper floor in a state of nervous excitement, and with a bedroom candle in her shaking hand, a loose gown flung on over her nightdress, and her hair streaming over her shoulders in glorious disarray.
He stood and looked at her, with ever-quickening breath, with ever-widening eyes, as though the beauty of her had wakened some dormant sense whose existence he had never suspected; as though, until now, he had never known how fair it was possible for a woman to be, how fair, how lovable, how much to be desired; and whilst he was so looking she reached the foot of the staircase and came pantingly toward him.
“Oh, Mr. Narkom, what was it—that noise I heard?” she said in a tone of deepest agitation. “It sounded like a struggle—like the noise of something breaking—and I dressed as hastily as I could and came down. Did he come? Has he been here? Have you caught him? Oh! why don’t you answer me, instead of staring at me like this? Can’t you see how nervous, how frightened, I am? Dear Heaven! will no one tell
me what has happened?”
“Nothing has happened, miss,” answered Petrie, catching her eye as she flashed round on him. “You’d better go back to bed. Nobody’s been here but Sir Horace. The noise you heard was me a-grabbing of him, and he and Mr. Narkom a-tumbling over something as they went down to look at the furnace.”
“Furnace? What furnace? What are you talking about?” she cried agitatedly. “What do you mean by saying that Sir Horace came down?”
“Only what the superintendent himself will tell you, miss, if you ask him. Sir Horace came downstairs in his pyjamas a few minutes ago to say as he’d recollected about the flues of the furnace in the cellar being big enough to hold a man, and then him and Mr. Narkom went below to have a look at it.”
She gave a sharp and sudden cry, and her face went as pale as a dead face.
“Sir Horace came down?” she repeated, moving back a step and leaning heavily against the bannister. “Sir Horace came down to look at the furnace? We have no furnace!”
“What!”
“We have no furnace, I tell you, and Sir Horace did not come down. He is up there still. I know—I know, I tell you—because I feared for his safety, and when he went to his room I locked him in!”
“Superintendent!” The word was voiced by every man present, and six pairs of eyes turned toward Narkom with a look of despairing comprehension.
“Get to the cellar. Head the man off! It’s he—the Cracksman!” he shouted out. “Find him! Get him! Nab him, if you have to turn the house upside down!”
They needed no second bidding, for each man grasped the situation instantly, and in a twinkling there was a veritable pandemonium. Shouting and scrambling like a band of madmen, they lurched to the door, whirled it open, and went flying down the staircase to the kitchen and so to a discovery which none might have foreseen. For, almost as they entered they saw lying on the floor a suit of striped pyjamas, and close to it, gagged, bound, helpless, trussed up like a goose that was ready for the oven, gyves on his wrists, gyves on his ankles, their chief, their superintendent, Mr. Maverick Narkom, in a state of collapse, and with all his outer clothing gone!
“After him! After that devil, and a thousand pounds to the man that gets him!” he managed to gasp as they rushed to him and ripped loose the gag. “He was here when we came! He has been in the house for hours. Get him! get him! get him!”
They surged from the room and up the stairs like a pack of stampeded animals; they raced through the hall and bore down on the picture-gallery in a body, and, whirling open the now closed door, went tumbling headlong in.
The light was still burning. At the far end of the room a window was wide open, and the curtains of it fluttered in the wind. A collection of empty cases and caskets lay on the middle table, but man and jewels were alike gone! Once again the Vanishing Cracksman had lived up to his promise, up to his reputation, up to the very letter of his name, and for all Mr. Maverick Narkom’s care and shrewdness, “Forty Faces” had “turned the trick” and Scotland Yard was “done”!
III
Through all the night its best men sought him, its dragnets fished for him, its tentacles groped into every hole and corner of London in quest of him, but sought and fished and groped in vain. They might as well have hoped to find last summer’s partridges or last winter’s snow as any trace of him. He had vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared, and no royal jewels graced the display of Miss Wyvern’s wedding gifts on the morrow.
But it was fruitful of other “gifts,” fruitful of an even greater surprise, that “morrow.” For the first time since the day he had given his promise, no “souvenir” from “The Man Who Called Himself Hamilton Cleek,” no part of last night’s loot came to Scotland Yard; and it was while the evening papers were making screaming “copy” and glaring headlines out of this that the surprise in question came to pass.
Miss Wyvern’s wedding was over, the day and the bride had gone, and it was half-past ten at night, when Sir Horace, answering a hurry call from headquarters, drove post haste to Superintendent Narkom’s private room, and passing in under a red and green lamp which burned over the doorway, entered and met that “surprise.”
Maverick Narkom was there alone, standing beside his desk, with the curtains of his window drawn and pinned together, and at his elbow an unlighted lamp of violet-coloured glass, standing and looking thoughtfully down at something which lay before him. He turned as his visitor entered and made an open-handed gesture toward it.
“Look here,” he said laconically, “what do you think of this?”
Sir Horace moved forward and looked; then stopped and gave a sort of wondering cry. The electric bulbs overhead struck a glare of light down on the surface of the desk, and there, spread out on the shining oak, lay a part of the royal jewels that had been stolen from Wyvern House last night.
“Narkom! You got him, then—got him after all?”
“No, I did not get him. I doubt if any man could, if he chose not to be found,” said Narkom bitterly. “I did not recover these jewels by any act of my own. He sent them to me; gave them up voluntarily.”
“Gave them up? After he had risked so much to get them? God bless my soul, what a man! Why, there must be quite half here of what he took.”
“There is half—an even half. He sent them tonight, and with them this letter. Look at it, and you will understand why I sent for you and asked you to come alone.”
“ ‘There’s some good in even the devil, I suppose, if one but knows how to reach it and stir it up,’ ” Sir Horace read. “ ‘I have lived a life of crime from my very boyhood because I couldn’t help it, because it appealed to me, because I glory in risks and revel in dangers. I never knew where it would lead me—I never thought, never cared—but I looked into the gateway of heaven last night, and I can’t go down the path to hell any longer. Here is an even half of Miss Wyvern’s jewels. If you and her father would have me hand over the other half to you, and would have “The Vanishing Cracksman” disappear forever, and a useless life converted into a useful one, you have only to say so to make it an accomplished thing. All I ask in return is your word of honour (to be given to me by signal) that you will send for Sir Horace Wyvern to be at your office at eleven o’clock tonight, and that you and he will grant me a private interview unknown to any other living being. A red and green lantern hung over the doorway leading to your office will be the signal that you agree, and a violet light in your window will be the pledge of Sir Horace Wyvern. When these two signals, these two pledges, are given, I shall come in and hand over the remainder of the jewels, and you will have looked for the first time in your life upon the real face of “The Man Who Calls Himself Hamilton Cleek.” ’
“God bless my soul! What an amazing creature—what an astounding request!” exclaimed Sir Horace, as he laid the letter down. “Willing to give up £20,000 worth of jewels for the mere sake of a private interview! What on earth can be his object? And why should he include me?”
“I don’t know,” said Narkom in reply. “It’s worth something, at all events, to be rid of ‘The Vanishing Cracksman’ for good and all; and he says that it rests with us to do that. It’s close to eleven now. Shall we give him the pledge he asks, Sir Horace? My signal is already hung out; shall we agree to the conditions and give him yours?”
“Yes, yes, by all means,” Sir Horace made answer. And lighting the violet lamp, Narkom flicked open the pinned curtains and set it in the window.
For ten minutes nothing came of it, and the two men, talking in whispers while they waited, began to grow nervous. Then somewhere in the distance a clock started striking eleven, and without so much as a warning sound, the door flashed open, flashed shut again, a voice that was undeniably the voice of breeding and refinement said quietly: “Gentlemen, my compliments. Here are the diamonds and here am I!” and the figure of a man, faultlessly dressed, faultlessly mannered, with the slim-loined form, the slim-walled nose, and the clear-cut features of the born aristocrat, stood
in the room.
His age might lie anywhere between twenty-five and thirty-five, his eyes were straight-looking and clear, his fresh, clean-shaven face was undeniably handsome, and, whatever his origin, whatever his history, there was something about him, in look, in speech, in bearing, that mutely stood sponsor for the thing called “birth.”
“God bless my soul!” exclaimed Sir Horace, amazed and appalled to find the reality so widely different from the image he had drawn. “What monstrous juggle is this? Why, man alive, you’re a gentleman! Who are you? What’s driven you to a dog’s life like this?”
“A natural bent, perhaps; a supernatural gift, certainly, Sir Horace,” he made reply. “Look here! Could any man resist the temptation to use it when he was endowed by Nature with the power to do this?” His features seemed to writhe and knot and assume in as many moments a dozen different aspects. “I’ve had the knack of doing that since the hour I could breathe. Could any man ‘go straight’ with a fateful gift like that if the laws of Nature said that he should not?”
“And do they say that?”
“That’s what I want you to tell me—that’s why I have requested this interview. I want you to examine me, Sir Horace, to put me through those tests you use to determine the state of mind of the mentally fit and mentally unfit; I want to know if it is my fault that I am what I am, and if it is myself I have to fight in future, or the devil that lives within me. I’m tired of wallowing in the mire. A woman’s eyes have lit the way to heaven for me. I want to climb up to her, to win her, to be worthy of her, and to stand beside her in the light.”
“Her? What ‘her’?”
