Title:  Cleek:  the Man of the Forty Faces

Author:  Thomas W. Hanshew

Release Date:  December 12, 2004 [EBook #14332]

Language:  English

Character set encoding:  ASCII

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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.

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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 had been put on point duty at Blackfriars Bridge that morning.  For Collins was young, good-looking, and—­knew it.  Nature had gifted him with a susceptible heart and a fond eye for the beauties of femininity.  So when he looked round and saw the woman threading her way through the maze of vehicles at “Dead Man’s Corner,” with her skirt held up just enough to show two twinkling little feet in French shoes, and over them a graceful, willowy figure, and over that an enchanting, if rather too highly tinted face, with almond eyes and a fluff of shining hair under the 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 he preferred English beauty, as a rule.  But, French or English, beauty is beauty, and here undeniably was a perfect type, so he unhesitatingly sprang to her assistance and piloted her safely to the kerb, revelling in her voluble thanks, and tingling as she clung timidly but rather firmly to him.

“Sair, I have to give you much gratitude,” she said in a pretty, wistful sort of way, as they stepped on to the pavement.  Then she dropped her hand from his sleeve, looked up at him, and shyly drooped her head, as if overcome with confusion and surprise at the youth and good looks of him.  “Ah, it is nowhere in the world but Londres one finds these delicate attentions, these splendid sergeants de ville,” she added, with a sort of sigh.  “You are wonnerful—­you are mos’ wonnerful, you Anglais poliss.  Sair, I am a stranger; I know not ze ways of this city of amazement, and if monsieur would so kindly direct me where to find the Abbey 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 she concluded what she was saying, over the rumble of the traffic there rose a thin, shrill piping sound, which to ears trained to the call of it possessed a startling significance.