Cleek: The Man of the Forty Faces

The Man of the Forty Faces, by
Thomas W. Hanshew

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Title: Cleek: the Man of the Forty Faces
Author: Thomas W. Hanshew
Release Date: December 12, 2004 [EBook #14332]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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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.
l9l2

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.
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 alert
at once. "Excuse me, mum. See you presently. Something's up. One of
my mates 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 call
to '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 had
sprung into sight--the figure of a man in a grey frock-coat and a shining
"topper," a well-groomed, well-set-up man, with a small, turned-up
moustache and hair of that peculiar purplish-red one sees only on the
shell of a roasted chestnut. As he swung into sight, the distant whistle
shrilled again; far off in the distance voices sent up cries of "Head him
off!" "Stop that man!" et cetera; then those on the pavement near to the
fugitive took up the cry, joined in pursuit, and in a twinkling, what with
cabmen, tram-men, draymen, and pedestrians shouting, there was
hubbub enough for Hades.
"A swell pickpocket, I'll lay my life," commented Collins, as he
squared himself for an encounter and made ready to leap on the man

when he came within gripping distance. "Here! get out of the way,
madmazelly. Business before pleasure. And, besides, you're like to get
bowled over in the rush. Here, chauffeur!"--this to the driver of a big,
black motor-car which swept