The Riddle of the Purple Emperor

"So it was a failure after all, Blake," he said, softly. "After escaping the price all these years, to be caught like a rat in a trap for the sake of a purple stone! Well! life is a queer mixture at best. But you've drunk your glass to the dregs, Blake, and it owes nothing at least to you!"

"Blake," ejaculated Mr. Narkom, "do you mean to say that you have found out – that this – no, no – surely not – not James Blake – the head of the Pentacle gang? The greatest set of rogues that ever saw their names in the calendar. Not that Blake, Cleek?"

Cleek smiled.

"The very same," he responded, gravely. "Give me but a few hours now, and I will put the whole gang into your hands, but now there's something I want to finish up here. I didn't want to do it this morning, and I don't know but what we are too late now. Try and find the very centre of this room for me, there's a good fellow, and stand there while I do a little measuring and counting."

Mr. Narkom took out his torch and sent it sweeping round the great room, until he found what he took to be the exact centre and announced the fact.

"Good!" said Cleek. "We'll make sure to save time. Now, let's see; here is one piece of wood. Now for the five others."

He paced slowly over the floor, marking at regular intervals with a piece of chalk a little dark piece of the parquet flooring.

"Three, four, five, six – the six points right enough. Now to find the centre."

Kneeling down, Mr. Narkom watched him draw long white chalk lines from point to point.

Finally he gave a little satisfied grunt, stood up, and surveyed his handiwork.

"Move a little away, Mr. Narkom, and if we aren't too late, we shall see what we shall see," he cried, excitedly.

Advancing into the centre of the room, he bent down over the centre piece of wood. As he did so, there came the horrible moaning cry, causing even Mr. Narkom's hardened nerves to fail him. With a crash the torch fell from his fingers, leaving them in total darkness!

"I forgot; I ought to have warned you – it's quite all right," said Cleek, taken aback.

"Gad, Cleek, it startled me. What is it?" whispered the Superintendent. "Have I ruined your plans?"

Cleek felt for his own torch and snapped it on so that the little disc of white light fell distinctly upon the floor.

"Never mind," said he, serenely. "It doesn't matter now, I have learnt all I want for the present. Come, let's get out of this. That is the answer to the riddle, and we are only just in time."

CHAPTER XXIII

UNTWISTING THE THREADS

In the big uncurtained ballroom of Cheyne Court the next morning, a plentiful gathering assembled for the inquest which had been postponed from the week before, and Mr. Narkom, who had entered with Cleek and a number of strangers that to an observant eye would have revealed themselves as plain-clothes men, watched the entry of every newcomer with almost morbid expectancy.

Early arrivals were Lady Brenton and Sir Edgar, who at Cleek's request had returned from town that same morning, after a presumably futile search for any trace of Lady Margaret. The boy's face was lined and anxious, his nerves evidently strained to breaking point. Close beside him sat Lady Brenton, her arm clenched tight in his, and Cleek smiled a little as he noticed that she wore a gold scarf – obviously the one which had been given such unwonted publicity the preceding week. It was not exactly morning attire, but she had evidently worn it in defiance of all gossip.

Jennifer Wynne and her brother were there, too, pale both of them, with eyes that told a tale of sleepless nights. Close beside them stood the immaculate, dapper figure of Gunga Dall, his dark eyes flashing from one face to the other, and lingering with a little smile on the perturbed countenance of Lady Brenton. It seemed as though he were quite satisfied with his work.

For a little while Cleek appeared to take no notice whatsoever of his surroundings, and it was not until the Coroner had got through the preliminaries of the inquest and proposed calling a witness that Cleek roused himself from his reverie, and said in a clear, incisive voice:

"Witnesses are unnecessary, Mr. Coroner, for I will venture to call on the murderer himself."

Had a bombshell fallen near the assembly it could not have caused more consternation, and Cleek, as he took the centre of the room, let the queer, one-sided smile travel up his face. There was a theatrical touch in this announcement which pleased him considerably.

"Yes, one murderer," he continued, "the other, fortunately, is dead. No, Mr. Wynne," he continued, rapidly, "please don't try to get to that door, they are all guarded and the windows, too. So if you don't mind – "

Suddenly he leapt swiftly in Bobby Wynne's direction. The startled young man was standing as if rooted to the spot, powerless with terror to move a step further. But with a spring Cleek bore down upon the figure of the man who was sitting smiling and complacent beside him – the figure of the Hindoo, Gunga Dall!

"Got you, you beauty! Got you!" he exclaimed, as the man tried to fight him off. "Thought to evade justice by casting the blame upon another, eh? But you came to the wrong person this time. Here, Petrie, Hammond, snap the bracelets on him, for he's as slippery as the proverbial eel, and I've no desire to have my wrists broken. That's it! Now the fish is caught at last. The game's up, Jimmy my lad."

Speaking he bent forward and stared into the man's dark, furious face. As he did so, the man's lips opened, and from his mouth issued a stream of cockney vituperation which would have shamed a Billingsgate barrow-holder.

"'Ere what yer gettin' at, blarst yer!" ended up the erstwhile Gunga Dall as his breath failed him. "And why does yer call me Jimmy? Just like yer bloomin' cheek, damn yer!"

"And just like my blooming knowledge, too, my friend," responded Cleek with a little harsh laugh. "I don't forget friends quite so soon as you do, Blake. Remember me now?"

Of a sudden his features writhed, twisted, altered, and the man whom he addressed as Blake, looking up into his eyes, turned white and shrank back with a sudden, overpowering fear.

"God! the Cracksman," he ejaculated, and his head fell forward upon his breast.

"Yes, and now – just Cleek, of Scotland Yard," came the reply.

"Cleek!" exclaimed the Coroner in amazement, and the name echoed from every mouth in that crowded room.

"Just Cleek," was the reply.

Suddenly Blake's face underwent a change.

"I don't care who you are, blarst yer! I haven't done nothing but get up as an Indian, and there's nothing criminal in that!"

"No, my friend," said Cleek, quietly. "But there is in murder and when it comes to killing your own brother – what's that? Oh, yes, it is. I know the dead man now: Sam Blake, tipster and member of the Pentacle Club. And you – you are James Blake, head of the Club, the biggest gang of jewel thieves in the world!"

"It's a lie!" shrieked the man. "I am not. I did not kill him!"

"You did," flung back Cleek. "You killed him with a little white pellet of prussic acid. I daresay – yes – they are – " His deft fingers felt in one of the resisting man's pockets.

With a little gasp of triumph, he held up a small box, and opening the lid, showed about a dozen white pellets similar to the fragment found in the mouth of the dead man. His face grew tense and grim as he surveyed them.

"See, here is the weapon," he said, "and if you want further proof, I have it here in finger-prints. These are the official prints of James Blake, and they correspond to the marks on the dead man's throat. One more thing, the footprints – "

Diving into his pocket, Cleek produced the roll of papers over which Dollops had taken such care.

"See," he said in sharp tones, "these are the marks of the footprints which led direct from the body itself. These, too, are the footprints which I found in Miss Jennifer Wynne's garden, at the foot of a certain window. To make things more sure, I think you will find that this" – he held up a scrap of gray tweed material – "is proof that this interesting gentleman climbed up by means of the wistaria plant, and obtained the prussic acid and magnesia from old Dr. Wynne's surgery."

A startled cry burst from the lips of the brother and sister, and their eyes met with such a mutually significant look that a little smile crept into Cleek's eyes for a moment. It so obviously explained the situation between them; each had suspected the other, and each had wished to shield the other.

Then Cleek turned his gaze back to the prisoner, who was a picture of sullen dejection.

"There is one more overwhelming proof of my story," Cleek said, and taking out his notebook, he scribbled something rapidly. Then detaching a leaf, he continued, "If Mr. Narkom will fetch it and if I am right, I do not think Mr. Coroner need hesitate any further."

Mr. Narkom gave but one glance at the scrap of paper in his hand, but those standing near him heard his exclamation of astonishment. Then he was gone, and attention was once more rivetted on Cleek's slim figure.

"You made a mistake, my friend, in drawing my attention to the gold scarves last week for I knew that you lied in saying that you had given Lady Margaret that scarf. It was her father's gift, not yours, so your effort to draw a red herring across the path was a failure," continued that gentleman as he peered into the face of the prisoner. "You made a bigger one to-day in leaving off that seal ring which left its mark on your brother's throat last week."

A string of vile expletives followed this statement as the bound man strove feebly to wrench his hand from the firm grasp which held it.