DETECTIVE HAMILTON CLEEK TRILOGY. Thomas W. Hanshew
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Thomas W. Hanshew
DETECTIVE HAMILTON CLEEK TRILOGY: Cleek, the Master Detective + Cleek of Scotland Yard + Cleek's Government Cases
The Adventures of the Vanishing Cracksman and the Master Detective, known as "the man of the forty faces" Illustrator: Clarence Rowe
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[email protected] 2017 OK Publishing ISBN 978-80-7583-264-1
Table of Contents
Cleek, the Master Detective; or The Man of the Forty Faces (1910)
Cleek’s Government Cases (1916)
Cleek, the Master Detective; or The Man of the Forty Faces (1910)
CHAPTER I THE AFFAIR OF THE MAN WHO CALLED HIMSELF HAMILTON CLEEK
CHAPTER II THE PROBLEM OF THE RED CRAWL
CHAPTER III THE RIDDLE OF THE SACRED SON
CHAPTER IV THE CALIPH'S DAUGHTER
CHAPTER V THE RIDDLE OF THE NINTH FINGER
CHAPTER VII THE RIDDLE OF THE 5.28
CHAPTER IX THE MYSTERY OF THE STEEL ROOM
CHAPTER X THE RIDDLE OF THE SIVA STONES
CHAPTER XII THE RIDDLE OF THE RAINBOW PEARL
CHAPTER I
THE AFFAIR OF THE MAN WHO CALLED HIMSELF HAMILTON CLEEK
I
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 its call 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 unnerstand 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' some one, 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. It was the figure of a man in a gray frock-coat and a shining "topper," a well-groomed, well-set-up man, with a small, turned-up moustache and hair of a peculiar reddish shade. 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!" etcetera; then those on the pavement near to the fugitive took up the cry,