Mary E. Hanshew - The Riddle of the Frozen Flame

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He laughed again, a happy, schoolboyish laugh which brought a positively
shocked expression to Mr. Narkom's round face.

"My dear Cleek!" he expostulated. "Really, one might think that you
actually enjoyed this sort of thing! One of these fine days, if you're
not careful, you'll be caught napping, and it'll take all Dollops's
and my ingenuity to get you out of the clutches. I do beg of you to be
careful--for Ailsa's sake, if not for mine."

At mention of the name, for a second the whole look upon Cleek's face
altered. Something came into his eyes that softened their keenness,
something settled down over his countenance, wiping away the mirth and
the grim lines together. He sighed.

"Heigho!" he said, softly, spinning round upon his heel and surveying Mr.
Narkom with a half-smile upon his lips. "I will be careful, dear friend.
I promise. And I have given my word to--her--as well. And that the life
of Hamilton Cleek should be so precious to any such angel as that--well,
it 'fair beats me', as Dollops would say.... I'll be careful, all right.
You may depend upon it. But Dollops and I are going to have a little
outing on our own. We'll ransack the 'make-up' box after lunch and see
what it can produce. And if we don't bring back something worth hearing
to you on our return to-night, then I'll retire from Scotland Yard
altogether and take a kindergarten class.... Gad! I feel sorry for young
Merriton. But there's no other course open to us at present but to keep
him where he is. Coroner's inquest takes place to-morrow afternoon, and
a lot may happen in the meantime."

Mr. Narkom gravely shook his head.

"Don't like the thing at all, Headland," he supplemented slowly, lighting
a fresh cigarette from the stump of the other one, and blowing a cloud of
smoke into the air. "There's something here that we haven't got at.
Something _big_. I feel it."

"Well, you'll have that feeling further augmented before many more days
are over, my friend," returned Cleek, meaningly. "What did the letter
from Headquarters say? I noticed you got one this morning, and recognized
it by the way the stamp was set on the envelope--though I must say your
secretary is more than discreet. It looked for all the world like a
love-letter, which no doubt your curious friend Borkins thought it was."

But if Cleek appeared in fine fettle at the prospect of a possible
exciting evening with Dollops, Mr. Narkom's barometer did not register
the same comforting high altitude. He did not smile.

"Oh, it had to do with these continual bank robberies," he replied with a
sigh. "They're enough to wear a man right out. Seem so simple, and all
that, and yet--never a trace left. Fellowes reports that another one took
place, at Ealing. As usual, only gold stolen. Not a bank-note touched.
They'll be holding us up in the main road, like Dick Turpin, if the
robbers are allowed to continue on their way like this. It's damnable, to
say the least! The beggars seem to get off scot-free every time. If this
case here wasn't so difficult and important, I'd be off up to London to
have a look into things again. Frankly, it worries me."

Cleek lifted a restraining hand.

"Don't let it do anything so foolish as that to you, old man," he
interposed. "Give 'em rope to hang themselves, lots of rope. This is just
the opportunity they want. Give orders for nothing to be done. Let 'em
have a good run for their money, and by-and-by you'll have 'em so they'll
eat out of your hand. There's nothing like patience in this sort of a
job. They're bound to get careless soon, and then will be your chance."

"I wish I could feel as confident about it as you do," returned Mr.
Narkom, with a shake of the head. "But you've solved so many unsolvable
riddles in your time, man, so I suppose I'll just have to trust your
judgment, and let your opinion cheer me up. Still.... Ah, Borkins! lunch
ready? I must say I don't like eating the food of a man I've just placed
in prison, but I suppose one must eat. And there are a few very necessary
enquiries to be gone into before the coroner's inquest to-morrow. The men
have been up from the local morgue, haven't they?"

Borkins, who had tapped discreetly upon the door and then put in a sleek
head to announce lunch, came a little farther into the room and replied
in the affirmative. Save for a slight light of triumph which seemed to
flicker in his close-set eyes, and play occasionally about his narrow
lips, there was nothing to show in his demeanour that such an extremely
large pebble as his master's conviction for murder had caused the ripples
to break on the smooth surface of his life's tenor.

Cleek blew a cloud of smoke into the air and swung one leg across the
other with a sort of devil-may-care air that was part of his Headland
make-up in this piece.

"Well," said he, off-handedly, "all I can say is, I wouldn't like to be
in your master's shoes, Borkins. He's guilty--not a doubt of it; and
he'll certainly be called to justice."

"You think so?" An undercurrent of eagerness ran in Borkins's tone.

"Most assuredly I do. Not a chance for him--poor beggar. He'll possibly
swing for it, too! Pleasant conjecture before lunch, I must say. And
we'll have it all cold if we don't look sharp about it, Lake, old chap.
Come along."

... They spent the afternoon in discussing the case bit by bit, probing
into it, tearing it to ribbons, analysing, comparing, rehearsing once
more the scene of that fateful night when Dacre Wynne had crossed the
Fens, and, according to everyone's but Borkins's evidence, had never
returned. By evening Mr. Narkom, note-book in hand, was suffering with
writer's cramp, and complained of a headache.

As Cleek rose from this private investigation and stretched his hands
over his head, he gave a sudden little laugh.

"Well, you'll be able to rest yourself as much as you like this evening,
Mr. Lake," he said, lightly, trying the muscles of his right arm with his
left hand, and nodding as he felt them ride up, smooth and firm as ivory,
under his coat-sleeve. "I'm not in such bad fettle for an amateur, if
anything in the nature of a scrap comes along, after all. Though I'm not
anticipating any fighting, I can assure you. There's the morning's
papers, and the local rag with various lurid--and inaccurate--accounts of
the whole ghastly affair. Merriton seems to have a good many friends in
these parts, and the local press is strong in his favour. But that's as
far as it goes. At any rate, they'll keep you interested until we come
home again. By the way, you might drop a hint to Borkins that I shall be
writing some letters in my room to-night, and don't want to be disturbed,
and that if he wants to go out, Dollops will post them for me and see to
my wants; will you? I don't want him to 'suspicion' anything."

Mr. Narkom nodded. He snapped his note-book to, and bound the elastic
round it, as Cleek crossed to the door and threw it open.

"I'll be going up to my room now, Lake," he said, in clear, high tones
that carried down the empty hallway to whatever listener might be there
to hear them. "I've some letters to write. One to my fiancee, you know,
and naturally I don't want to be disturbed."

"All right," said Mr. Narkom, equally clearly. "So long."

Then the door closed sharply, and Cleek mounted the stairs to his room,
whistling softly to himself meanwhile, just as Borkins rounded the corner
of the dining-room door and acknowledged his friendly nod with one
equally friendly.

A smile played about the corners of the man's mouth, and his eyes
narrowed, as he watched Cleek disappear up the stairs.

"Faugh!" he said to the shadows. "So much for yer Lunnon policeman, eh?
Writin' love-letters on a night like this! Young sap'ead!"

Then he swung upon his heel, and retraced his steps to the kitchen.
Upstairs in the dark passageway, Cleek stood and laughed noiselessly, his
shoulders shaking with the mirth that swayed him. Borkins's idea of a
'Lunnon policeman' had pleased him mightily.

CHAPTER XIX

WHAT TOOK PLACE AT "THE PIG AND WHISTLE"

It was a night without a moon. Great gray cloud-banks swamped the sky,
and there was a heavy mist that blurred the outline of tree and fence and
made the broad, flat stretches of the marshes into one impenetrable blot
of inky darkness.

Two men, in ill-fitting corduroys and soiled blue jerseys, their swarthy
necks girt about by vivid handkerchiefs, and their big-peaked caps pulled
well down over their eyes, made their way along the narrow lane that led
from Merriton Towers to Saltfleet Bay. At the junction with Saltfleet
Road, two other figures slipped by them in the half-mist, and after
peering at then from under the screen of dark caps, sang out a husky
"Good-night, mates." They answered in unison, the bigger, broader one
whistling as he swung along, his pace slackening a trifle so that the two
newcomers might pass him and get on into the shadows ahead.

Once they had done so, he ceased his endless, ear-piercing whistle and
turned to his companion, his hand reaching out suddenly and catching the
sleeve nearest him.

"That was Borkins!" he said in a muttered undertone, as the two figures
in front swung away into the shadows. "Did you see his face, lad?"

"I did," responded Dollops, with asperity. "And a fine specimen of a face
it were, too! If I were born wiv that tacked on to me anatomy, I'd drown
meself in the nearest pond afore I'd 'ave courage to survive it.... Yus,
it was Borkins all right, Guv'nor, and the other chap wiv him, the one
wiv the black whiskers and the lanting jor--"

"Hush, boy! Not so loud!" Cleek's voice cut into the whispered undertone,
a mere thread of sound, but a sound to be obeyed. "I recognized him,
too," interrupted Cleek. "My friend of the midnight visit, and the
plugged pillow. I'm not likely to forget that face in a day's march,
I can promise you. And with Borkins! Well, that was to be expected, of
course. The next thing to consider is--what the devil has a common sailor
or factory-hand to do with a chap like Dacre Wynne? Or Merriton, for that
matter. I never heard him say he'd any interest in factories of any kind,
and I dare swear he hasn't. And yet, what's this dark stranger--as the
fortune-tellers say--doing, poking his nose into the affair, and trying
to murder me, just because I happen to be down here to investigate the
question of the Frozen Flames?... Bit of a problem, eh, Dollops? Frozen
Flames, Country Squires, Dark Strangers who are sailormen, and a butler
who has been years in the family service; there you have the ingredients
for quite a nice little mix-up. Now, I wonder where those two are bound
for?"

"'Pig and Whistle'," conjectured Dollops. "Leastways, tha's where old
Black Whiskers is a-makin' for. Got friend Borkins in tow as well
ternight, so things ought ter be gittin' interestin'. Gawd! sir,
if you don't looka fair cut-throat I an't ever seen one.

"Makes me blood run cold jist ter squint at yer, it does! That there
moustache 'ud git yer a fortin' on the stage, I swear. Mr. Narkom'd faint
if 'e saw yer, an' I'm not so certing I wouldn't do a bunk meself, if
I met yer in a dark lane, so to speak. 'Ow yer does the expression fair
beats me."

Cleek laughed good-humouredly. The something theatrical in his make-up
was gratified by the admiration of his audience. He linked his arm
through the boy's.

"Birthright, Dollops, birthright!" he made answer, speaking in a
leisurely tone. "Every man has one, you know. There is the birthright
of princes--" he sighed. "Your birthright is a willing soul and an
unwavering loyalty. Mine? A mere play of feature that can transform me
from one man into another. A poor thing at best, Dollops, but.... Hello!
Lights ahead! What is it, my pocket guide-book?"

"'Pig and Whistle'," grunted Dollops in a husky voice, glad of an excuse
to hide his pleasure at Cleek's appreciation of his character.

"H'm. That's good. The fun commences. Don't forget your part, boy. We're
sailoring men back from a cruise to Jamaica and pretty near penniless.
Lost our jobs, and looking for others. Told there was a factory somewhere
in this part of the world that had to do with shipping, and have walked
down from London. Took six days, mind; don't forget that. And a devilish
long walk, too, I reckon! But that's by the way. Your name's Sam--Sam
Robinson. Mine--Bill Jones.... Our friends are ahead of us. Come along."

Whistling, they swung up to the brightly lit little public-house, set
there upon the edge of the bay. Here and there over the unruffled surface
of the waters to the left of them, a light pricked out, glowing against
the gloom. Black against the mouth of the harbour, as though etched upon
a smoky background, a steamer swayed uneasily with the swell of the water
at her keel, her nose touching the pier-head, a chain of lights outlining
her cumbersome hulk. Men's voices made the night noisy, and numerous feet
scuttled to and fro over the cobbles of the dockyard to where a handful
of fishing boats were drawn up, only their masts showing above the
landing, with here and there a ghostly wraith of sail.

Cleek paused a moment, drinking in the scene with his love of beauty, and
then assumed his role of the evening. And how well he could play any role
he chose!

He cleared his throat, and addressed his companion in broad cockney.

"Gawd's truf, Sammie!" he said. "If this fair don't look like a bit of
'ome. Ain't spotted the briny for a dog's age. Let's 'ave a drink."

Someone turned at his raucous voice and looked back over the curve of a
huge shoulder. Then he went to the doorway of the little pub, and raised
a hand, with two fingers extended. Obviously it was some sort of sign,
for in an instant the noise of voices dropped, and Cleek and Dollops
slouched in and up to the crowded bar. Men made room for them on either
side, as they pushed their way in, eyeing them at first with some
suspicion, then, as they saw the familiar garments, calling out some
hoarse jest or greeting in their own lingo, to which Cleek cheerfully
responded.

A little to the right of them stood Borkins, his cap still pulled low
over his eyes, and a shabby overcoat buttoned to the neck. Cleek glanced
at him out of the tail of his eye, and then, at sight of his companion,
his mouth tightened. He'd give something to measure _that_ cur muscle for
muscle, strength for strength! The sort to steal into a man's room at
night and try to murder him! The detective planted an arm--brown and
brawny and with a tattooed serpent winding its way round the strong wrist
to the elbow (oh, wonderful make-up box!)--on the edge of the marble bar,
and called loudly for a drink. His very voice was raw and husky with a
tang of the sea in it. Dollops's nasal twang took up the story, while the
barmaid--a red-headed, fat woman with a coarse, hard face, who was
continually smiling--looked them up and down, and having taken stock of
them set two pewter tankards of frothing ale before them, took the money
from Cleek, bit it, and then with a nod dropped it into the till and came
back for a chat.

"Strangers, ain't you?" she said, pleasantly, leaning on the bar and
grinning at them.

"Yus." Cleek's voice was sharp, emphatic.

"Thought so. Sea-faring, I take it?"

"Yus," said Cleek again, and gulped down the rest of his ale, pushing the
tankard toward her and nodding at it significantly.

She sniffed, and then laughed.

"Want another, eh? Ain't wastin' many words, are yer, matey? 'Oo's the
little 'un?"

"Meaning me?" said Dollops, bridling. "None of yer blarney 'ere, miss! Me
an' my mate's been on a walkin' tooer--come up from Lunnon, we 'ave."

"You never did!"

Admiration mingled with disbelief in the barmaid's voice. A little stir
of interest went round the crowded, smoky room and someone called out:

"Lunnon, 'ave yer? Bin walkin' a bit, matey. Wot brought yer dahn 'ere?
An' what're sailor men doin' in Lunnon, any'ow?"

"Wot most folks is doin' nowadays--lookin for a job!" replied Cleek, as
he gulped down the second tankard and pushed it forward again to be
replenished. "Come from Southampton, we 'ave. Got a parss up to Lunnon,
'cause a pal told us there'd be work at the factories. But there weren't
no work. Gawd's truf! What're sailormen wantin' wi' clorth-makin' and
'ammering' tin-pots? Them's the only jobs we wuz offered in Lunnon. I
don't give a curse for the plyce.... No, Sammy an' me we says to each
other"--he took another drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand--"we says this ain't no plyce for us. We'd just come over frum
Jamaica--"

"Go on! Travellin' in furrin parts was you!" this in admiration from the
barmaid.

"--and we ain't seein' oursel's turning inter land-lubbers in no
sich spot as that. Pal told us there was a 'arbour down 'ere abahts,
wiv a factory wot a sailorman might git work at an' still 'old 'is
self-respec'. So we walked 'ere."

"Wot energy!"

Black Whiskers--as Dollops had called him--broke in at this juncture, his
thin mouth opening in a grin that showed two rows of blackened teeth.

Cleek twitched round sharply in his direction.

"Yus--wasn't it? An', funny enough, we've plenty more energy ter
come!... But what the 'ell is this factory work 'ere, any'ow? An' any
chawnce of a couple of men gittin' a bit er work to keep the blinkin'
wolf from the door? Who'll tell us?"

A slight silence followed this, a silence in which man looked at man, and
then back again at the ginger-headed lady behind the bar. She raised her
eyebrows and nodded, and then went off into little giggles that shook her
plump figure.

A big man at Cleek's left gave him the answer.

"Factory makes electric fittin's an' such-like, an' ships 'em abroad," he
said, tersely. "Happen you don't unnerstan' the business? Happen the
marster won't want you. Happen you'll 'ave ter move on, I'm a-thinkin'."

"Happen I won't!" retorted Cleek, with a loud guffaw.

"S'welp me, you chaps, ain't none uv you a-goin' ter lend a 'and to a
mate wot's out uv a job? What's the blooming mystery? An' where's the
bloomin' boss?"

"Better see 'im in the mawning," supplemented Black Whiskers,
truculently. "He's busy now. Works all night sometimes, 'e does. But
there's a vacancy or two, I know, for factory 'ands. Bin a bit of
riotin' an' splittin' uv state secrets. But the fellers wot did it are
gorn now"--he laughed a trifle grimly--"won't never come troublin' 'ere
again. Pretty strict, marster is. But good work and good pay."

"And yer carnt arsk fer more, that's wot I ses!" threw in Dollops in his
shrill voice.

Now Cleek, all this time, had been edging more and more in the direction
of Borkins and his sinister companion who were standing a little apart,
but nevertheless were interested spectators of all that went on.

Having at last obtained his object, he cast about for a subject of
conversation and picked the barmaid whose rallies met with the approval
of the entire company, and who was at that moment carrying on a spirited
give-and-take conversation with the redoubtable Dollops.

"Bit of a sport, ain't she, guv'nor?" Cleek remarked to Borkins, with a
jerk of his head in the woman's direction. The butler whirled round and
fixed him with a stare of haughty indignation.

"Here, you keep your fingers off your betters!" he retorted angrily, for
Cleek had dug a friendly elbow into his ribs.

"Oh, orl right! No offence meant! Thought perhaps _you_ wuz the boss, by
the look of yer. But doubtless you ain't nuffink ter do wiv the factory
at all. Private gent, I take it."

"Then you take it wrong!" retorted Borkins, sharply. "And I _have_
something ter do with the factory, if you wants ter know. Like ter show
your good manners, I might be able to get you a job--an' one for the
little 'un as well, though I don't care for Londoners as a rule. There's
another of 'em up at the place where I lives. I'm 'ead butler to Sir
Nigel Merriton of Merriton Towers, if you're anxious to know who _I_ am."
His chest swelled visibly. "In private I dabbles a little in--other
things. And I've influence. You men can keep your mouths shut?"

"Dumb as a blinkin' dorg!" threw in Dollops, who was close by Cleek's
side, and both men nodded vigorously.

"Well, then, I'll see what I can do. Mind you, I don't promise nothink.
I'll think it hover. Better come to me to-morrow. Make it in the evening
for there's a h'inquest up at the Towers. My master's been copped for
murderin' his friend, and I'll 'ave to be about, then. Ow'll to-morrow
evening suit?"

Cleek drew a long breath and put out his hand. Then, as if recalling the
superior station of the man he addressed, withdrew it again and remarked:
"You're a real gent, you are! Any one'd know you was wot they calls
well-connected. Ter-morrow it is, then. We'll be 'ere and grateful for
yer 'elp.... Wot's this abaht a murder? Fight was it? I'm 'appy at that
sort of thing myself."

He squared up a moment and made a mock of boxing Dollops which seemed to
please the audience.

"That's the stuff, that's the stuff, matey!" called out a raw-boned man
who up to the present had remained silent. "You're the man for us, I ses!
An' the little 'un, too."

"Reckon I can give you a taste of fightin' that'll please you,"
remarked Borkins in a low voice. "Yes, Mainer's right. You're the man
for us.... Good-night, all. Time's up. I'm off."

"Good-night," chorused a score of voices, while the fat barmaid blew a
kiss off the tips of her stubby fingers, and called out after him: "Come
again soon, dearie."

Cleek looked at Dollops, and both realized the importance of getting back
to the Towers before the arrival of Borkins, in case that worthy should
think (as was far from unlikely) of spying on their movements, and
checking up on Cleek's progress in letter writing. It was going to
require some quick work.

"Well, Sammy, better be movin' back to our shelterin' roof an' all the
comforts of 'ome," began Cleek almost at once, and gulping down the last
of his fourth tankard and slouching over to the doorway. A chorus of
voices stopped him.

"Where you sleepin'?"

"Under the 'aystack about 'arf a mile from 'ere," replied Cleek glibly
and at a venture.

The barmaid's brows knitted into a frown.

"'Aystack?" she repeated. "There ain't no 'aystack along this road from
'ere to Fetchworth. Bit orf the track, ain't yer?"

Cleek retrieved himself at once.

"Ain't there? Well, wot if there ain't? The place wot I calls a
'aystack--an' wot Lunnoners calls a 'aystack too--is the nearest bit of
shelter wot comes your way. Manner of speakin', that's all."

"Oh! Then I reckon you means the barn about a quarter of a mile up the
road toward the village?" The barmaid smiled again.

"That's it. Good-night."

"Good night," chorused the hoarse voices.

The night outside was as black as a pocket.

"Better cut along by the fields, Dollops," whispered Cleek as they took
to their heels up the rough road. "Got to pass him. This mist will help
us. That was a near shave about the haystack. I nearly tripped us up
there. Awful creature, that woman!"

"Looks like a jelly-fish come loose," threw in Dollops with a snort.
"There's ole Borkins, sir, straight ahead. 'Ere--in through this gap in
this edge and then across the field by the side of 'im.... Weren't such a
rough night after all, was it, sir?"

Cleek sighed. One might almost have thought that he regretted the fact.

"No, Dollops," he said, softly, "it was the calmest night of its kind
I've ever experienced. But we've gleaned something from it. But what the
devil has Borkins got to _do_ with this factory? What ever it is he's
in it right up to the neck, and we'll have to dig around him pretty
carefully. You'll help me, Dollops, won't you? Can't do without you, you
know."

"Orlways, sir--orlways," breathed Dollops, in a husky whisper. "Where you
goes, I'm a-hikin' along by yer side. You ain't ever going ter get rid of
me."

"Good lad!" and they redoubled their pace.

CHAPTER XX

AT THE INQUEST

Thursday dawned in a blaze of sunshine, and after the bleak promise of
the day before the sky was a clear, sapphire-blue.

"What a day! And what a mission to waste it on!" sighed Cleek next
morning, as he finished breakfast and took a turn to the front door,
smoking his cigarette. "Here's murder at the very door of this ill-fated
place. And we've got to see the thing out!"

He spun upon his heel and went back again into the gloomy hall, as though
the sight of the sunshine sickened him. His thoughts were with Merriton,
shut away there in the village prison to await this day of reckoning,
with, if the word should go against him, a still further day of reckoning
ahead. A day when the cleverest brains of the law schools would be
arrayed against him, and he would have to go through the awful tragedy
of a trial in open court. What was a mere coroner's jury to that
possibility?

Then too, perhaps in spite of evidence, they might let the boy off. There
was a chance in that matter of the I.O.U., which he himself had found in
the pocket of the dead man, and which was signed in the name of Lester
Stark. Stark was due at the inquest to-day, to give his side of the
affair. There was a possible loophole of escape. Would Nigel be able
to get through it? That was the question.

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