The Riddle of the Purple Emperor

"Cleek!" Mr. Narkom was in a very tremour of excitement. "You have discovered something. Tell me; what is it?"

"All in good time, my dear friend, remember the old proverb 'set a thief to catch a thief'! We'll see what our good friend Dr. Verrall has to say, and if I am not mistaken, here he comes."

And come he did, for a sound of voices and hurried footsteps introduced him to their presence.

"What is this?" said Dr. Verrall to the Superintendent, whose identity had evidently been impressed on him by Roberts who hovered obsequiously in the background. Of Cleek he took no notice, having apparently taken an unaccountable dislike to the man who had tried so hard to pump him, on the excuse of a servant's fit of indigestion but a night or two ago.

"What is this the man tells me? Miss Cheyne, the Honourable Miss Cheyne," he corrected himself as if the dead lady herself had reproved him for thus forgetting her title, "has been murdered. It is impossible!"

"Not so impossible," interposed Cleek smoothly, his eyes narrowing down to mere slits as he noted the doctor's white face and unconsciously trembling fingers, "as not to be the actual fact, Doctor." He made mental comment of the doctor's agitation. It was strange to find the man so upset over the death of an eccentric stranger even if she had been a patient of his. And how was it he was so quickly on the spot? Aloud, however, he continued blandly: "She has been murdered some time, too, Doctor – "

With a little cry of horror, Dr. Verrall passed to the body and bent over it for a minute. "Humm," he said, meditatingly. "Dead, but within a couple of hours, I should say."

But Mr. Narkom struck in upon him.

"Impossible," said he, involuntarily, looking over at Cleek, "why, we heard the shot – you and I, not half an hour ago."

"The doctor is quite right, Mr. Narkom," Cleek replied, an undercurrent of mockery in his voice. "The corpse – " Dr. Verrall started a little.

"This is the Honourable Miss Cheyne, sir," he said with a quick look of contempt at the policeman.

"Pardon me, Doctor," was the smooth reply. "The Honourable Miss Cheyne has been dead nearly a month. I said she had been dead a long time. This," he flung out his foot in scorn, "well, don't you think you had better remove the wig first?"

"What do you mean?" gasped the Superintendent. Then, without waiting for a reply, he bent down and touched almost fearfully the mass of golden hair. It moved under his fingers and with one twitch came away in his shaking hand, revealing the sleek, close-cropped head of a man, of which the particularly noticeable feature was a narrow, sloping forehead.

A sudden smile looped up the corner of Cleek's mouth as he turned to the astonished group about him with a little theatrical gesture. There was a sort of triumph in his eyes.

"As I thought," he said. He turned suddenly round on the horrified constable, his voice and features those of the young Lieutenant Deland. "It was not such a wild-goose chase that night a month ago, after all, eh?" he said briskly. "Lieutenant Deland, you know, Constable. Miss Cheyne was lying dead in that room, and this rascal took her clothes and her place. Heaven help that poor girl!" he added gravely, while both Mr. Narkom and the constable gazed from him to the grotesque figure, almost dazed by the sudden turn of events.

Almost as startled as his companions, the doctor tore away the clothes, revealing the slim body of a man about forty years of age, revealing, too, something that caused Mr. Narkom to lay a shaking hand upon Cleek's arm.

"You see what that is, don't you?" he gasped. "Look at his arm. It bears the sign of the pentacle. He's a member of the gang, at any rate."

Cleek stood still a moment, thinking.

"Yes," Cleek replied in a low voice. "The Purple Emperor has much to answer for."

"There is something clenched in his hand," said the doctor, who had proceeded with his task. "Bring the light nearer, please."

As the stiff-ringed fingers were bent back, a little glittering fragment was displayed.

Cleek grasped it, and twitching back his head sniffed violently two or three times.

The doctor started in amazement.

"Good Lord, man," said he testily, "you can't tell who it belongs to by smelling it."

"I'm not so sure of that," responded Cleek smiling. "At any rate, find me the person who scents himself or herself with Huile de Jasmin, and you will be on the right road."

"Huile de Jasmin!" interjected the doctor suddenly. "Huile de Jas– no, no, it is not possible. I will not believe that." He had risen to his feet and was gazing across at Cleek, his face drawn and white.

"You know some one who uses that scent?" said Cleek quietly. "Come, Doctor, in her interests, clear the ground first of all; do not delay matters. There may be nothing in it, but – " His tones were fraught with significance, and the other man realized their value.

"I have known Miss Jennifer Wynne to use it. She is very fond of the scent," he said, grudgingly. "But that does not mean she had anything to do with this," he pointed to the floor. "It is rarely that a woman fires a revolver, and as this wound has clearly been caused by this weapon here the first thing we have to do is to find the owner of it."

"True," said Cleek, quietly, bending as he spoke and pulling the dead man's lips down.

"Unfortunately for that theory, my dear Doctor, though the man has undoubtedly been shot, he was dead before ever that bullet reached him: killed with prussic acid. See. Here are the remnants of a little pellet, and I rather fancy if you have it analyzed, you will find it consists of nearly pure solidified prussic acid. Then again, look at the neck, there are the marks of long, slender fingers, showing that someone must have grasped the man by the neck, and forced the pellet into his mouth. Do you see?"

The doctor did see, and stood frowning heavily at these signs so easily read by this stranger.

Bending down again, he picked up the revolver which lay at the side. It bore an initial, that of the letter B.

"Brenton," muttered Mr. Narkom almost involuntarily, seeing one more link in the chain of fatal evidence against Sir Edgar. "Good lud, Brenton!"

Cleek apparently took no heed either of the remark or the revolver.

"Come," he said suddenly. "We have had enough of this gruesome spot, and there is nothing to be learned from it. Let us lock it up and have a look at some of those interesting footprints outside."

They had almost reached the outer gate when the silence was broken by a babble of angry voices, mingled with the sound of a scuffle, and there rang out the shrill tones of Dollops.

"No, you don't, my beauty! I've copped yer, and I'm going to keep you till my guv'nor's seen you. None of your larks, now! None of your larks!"

CHAPTER XII

THE WOMAN IN THE CASE

The distance between the door of Cheyne Court and the end of the lane, whence the sounds appeared to issue, was by no means a short one, but at the first sound of Dollops's voice the four men sped down the centre of the dark drive and round the corner, the bull's-eye lantern of Constable Roberts sending a brilliant path of light before them.

Close to the identical spot, where earlier in the evening Constable Roberts had had his helmet pushed down over his eyes by an unseen assailant, two figures struggled together. One was vainly endeavouring to free herself from the clutches of her captor, the other was intent on bringing her to the ground. Scattered all about were the drawings and paraphernalia with which Dollops had evidently been carrying out his usual proceedings. The light of the lantern and Cleek's electric torch revealed his prisoner to be a slim, fair-haired girl of about three and twenty, clad in a soft white gown now sadly soiled and torn by the rough usage she had undergone, while over her shoulders was hanging a crumpled but unmistakable gold scarf.

It hardly needed the doctor's startled exclamation, "Jennifer!" to tell the detective that this was indeed the girl of whom he had spoken, for even from that distance there emanated the sweet fragrance of jasmine. There before him was the girl the host at the Hampton Arms had gossiped about, and who was a bitter rival of Lady Margaret Cheyne for the love of Sir Edgar Brenton.

"Why, Doctor!" she said bravely. "This is a lucky meeting. Who and what is this disgusting individual? I was just taking a little stroll, when I was seized hold of and dragged along like a sack of coals, or a criminal on the way to the police-station."

Cleek noted her voice and tone, and stood watching her. He said nothing, however, merely removed the pressure of his thumb from the controlling button of his torch, slipped that useful article into his pocket, and busied himself with picking up Dollops' papers on which he had obviously been taking measurements of footprints.

"Here you, whoever you are, just keep your 'ands off my papers," snapped Dollops with a wink at the Superintendent which passed unnoticed by that irate individual. "I say, Mr. Narkom sir, don't let that new man take off my papers, and don't you be took in neither, sir," he added, earnestly. "I didn't do the young person no 'arm, but she wasn't up to no good a creeping and watching in the dark."

"Well, you can take it from me, sir," interposed Dr. Verrall, heatedly, "this lady is a personal friend of mine, and had a perfect right to be strolling down the lane. She was probably on her way home from Lady Brenton's; were you not, Miss Wynne?"

"Yes, yes, that's just where I had been," the girl answered, her dark eyes flashing gratefully at the doctor, "but I refuse to say another word till you send away this enterprising youth who has bruised my arms nearly black and blue."

"Certainly, Miss Wynne," said Mr. Narkom. "Dollops, get along back to the station."

"But, sir, Mr. Narkom – "

"Not another word: do as I say."