Part 36 (1/2)

Cleek's equanimity did not desert him, however. It was one of his strong points that he always kept his mental balance even when his most promising theories were deracinated. He therefore showed not the slightest trace of the disappointment with which this utterly unexpected discovery had filled him, but, with the most placid exterior imaginable, suffered himself to be introduced to the old waxworker, who was at the time working a.s.siduously upon the huge tableau-piece designed for the forthcoming Indian Exhibition, a well-executed a.s.sembly of figures which occupied a considerable portion of the rear end of the gla.s.s-room, and represented that moment when the relief force burst through the stockade at Lucknow and came to the rescue of the beleaguered garrison.

”A couple of gentlemen from Scotland Yard, Loti, who have come to look into the matter of young Colliver's disappearance,” was the way in which Trent made that introduction. ”You can go on with your work; they won't interfere with you.”

”Welcome, gentlemen--most welcome,” said Loti, with that courtesy which Continental people never quite forget; then nodded, and went on with his work as he had been told, adding, with a mournful shake of the head: ”Ah! a strange business that, signori; an exceedingly strange business.”

”Very,” agreed Cleek off-handedly and from the other end of the room.

”Rippin' quarters, these, signor; and now that I've seen 'em I don't mind confessing that my pet theory has gone all to smash and I'm up a gum-tree, so to speak. I'd an idea, you know, that there might be a sliding-panel or a trapdoor which you chaps here might have overlooked, and down which the boy might have dropped, or maybe gone on a little explorin' expedition of his own, don't you know, and hadn't been able to get back.”

”Well, of all the idiotic ideas--,” began Trent, but was suffered to get no further.

”Yes, isn't it?” agreed Cleek, with his best blithering-idiot air.

”I realize that, now that I see your floor's of concrete. Necessary, I suppose, on account of the chemicals and the inflammable nature of the wax? You could have a rippin' old flare-up here if that stuff was to catch fire from a dropped match or anything of that sort--eh, what? Blest if I can see”--turning slowly on his heel and looking all round the room--”a ghost of a place where the young nipper could have got. It's a facer for me. But, I say”--as if suddenly struck with an idea--”you don't think that he nipped something valuable and cut off with it, do you? Didn't miss any money or anything of that sort which you'd left lying about, did you, Mr.--er--Lotus, eh?”

”Loti, if you please, signor. I had indeed hoped that my name was well known enough to--_Pouffe!_ No, I miss nothing--I miss not so much as a pin. I am told he shall not have been that kind of a boy.”

And then, with a shake of the head and a pitying glance toward the author of these two asinine theories regarding the strange disappearance, returned to his work of putting the finis.h.i.+ng touches to a rec.u.mbent figure representing a dead soldier lying in the foreground of the tableau.

”Oh, well, you never can tell what boys will do; and it's an old saying that 'a good booty makes many a thief,'” replied Cleek airily.

”Reckon I'll have to hunt up something a bit more promising, then.

Don't mind my poking about a bit, do you?”

”Not in the slightest, signor,” replied the Italian, and glanced sympathizingly up at Trent and gave his shoulders a significant shrug, as if to say: ”Is this the best that Scotland Yard can turn out?” when Cleek began turning over costume plates and looking under books and sc.r.a.ps of material which lay scattered about the floor, and even took to examining the jugs and vases and tumblers in which the signor's bunches of cut flowers were placed. There were many of them--on tables and chairs and shelves, and even on the platform of the tableau itself--so many, in fact, that he was minded, by their profusion, of what Trent had said regarding the old waxworker's great love of flowers.

He looked round the room, in an apparently perfunctory manner, but in reality with a photographic eye for its every detail, finding that it agreed in every particular with the description which Trent had given him.

There were the cheap lace curtains all along the glazed side which overlooked the short pa.s.sage leading down to the narrow alley, but they were of so thin a quality, and so scantily patterned, that the mesh did not obstruct the view in any manner, merely rendering it a trifle hazy; for he could himself see from where he stood the window in the side of the house opposite, and, seated at that window, Mrs.

Sherman and her daughter, busy at their endless sewing.

And there, too, were the blinds--strong blue linen ones running on rings and cords--with which, as he had been told, it was possible to arrange the light as occasion required. They were fas.h.i.+oned somewhat after the manner of those seen in the studios of photographers--several sectional ones overhead and one long one for that side of the room which overlooked the short pa.s.sage; and, as showing how minute was Cleek's inspection for all its seeming indifference, it may be remarked that he observed a peculiarity regarding that long blind which not one person in a hundred would have noticed. That is to say, that, whereas, when one looks at a window from the interior of a room, one invariably finds that the blinds are against the gla.s.s, and that the curtains are so hung as to be behind them when viewed from the street, here was a case of the exactly opposite arrangement being put into force; to wit: It was the lace curtains which hung against the window panes and the big blind which was next the room, so that, if pulled down, a person standing within would see no lace curtains at all, while at the same time they would remain distinctly visible to anybody standing without.

If this small discrepancy called for any comment, Cleek made none audibly; merely glanced at the blind and glanced away again, and went on examining the books and the vases of flowers, and continued his apparently aimless wandering about the room.

Of a sudden, however, he did a singular thing, one which was fraught with much significance to Mr. Narkom, who knew the ”signs” so well.

His wandering had brought him within touching distance of the busy waxworker, who, just at that moment, half turned and stretched forth his hand to pick up a tool which had fallen to the floor, the act of recovering which sent his wrist protruding a bit beyond the cuff of his working-blouse. What Narkom saw was the quick twitch of Cleek's eye in the direction of that hand, then its swift travelling to the man's face and travelling off again to other things; and he knew what was coming when his great ally began to pat his pockets and rummage about his person as if endeavouring to find something.

”My luck!” said Cleek, with an impatient jerk of the head. ”Not a blessed cigarette with me, Mr. Narkom; and you know what a duffer I am if I can't smoke when I'm trying to think. I say--nip out, will you, and get me a packet? There!”--scribbling something on a leaf from his notebook and pus.h.i.+ng it into the superintendent's hand--”that's the brand I like. It's no use bringing me any other.

Look 'em up for me, will you? There's a good friend.”

Narkom made no reply, but merely left the room with the paper crumpled in his shut hand and went downstairs as fast as he could travel. What he did in the interval is a matter for further consideration. At present it need only be said that had any one looked across the short pa.s.sage some eight or ten minutes after his departure Narkom might have been seen standing in the background of the room at whose window Mrs. Sherman and her daughter still sat sewing.

Meanwhile Cleek appeared to have forgotten all about the matter which was the prime reason for his presence in the place and to have become absorbingly interested in the business of tableau making, for he plied the old Italian with endless questions relative to the one he was engaged in constructing.

”Jip! You don't mean to tell me that you make the whole blessed thing yourself, do you--model the figures, group 'em, paint the blessed background, and all?” said he, with yokel-like amazement.

”You _do_? My hat! but you're a wonder! That background's one of the best I've ever clapped eyes on. And the figures! I could swear that that fellow bursting in with a sword in his hand was alive if I didn't know better; and as for this dead johnnie here in the foreground that you're working on, he's a marvel. What do you stuff the blessed things with? Or don't you stuff 'em at all?”

”Oh, yes, signor, they are stuffed, all of them. There is a wicker framework covered with canvas; and inside cotton waste, old paper, straw.”

”You don't mean it! Well, I'm blest! Nothing but waste stuff and straw? Why, that fellow over there--the Sepoy chap with the gun in his hands----Oh, good Lord! just my blessed luck! I hope to heaven I haven't spoilt anything!” For, in leaning over to indicate the figure alluded to, he had blundered against the edge of the low platform, lost his balance, and sprawled over so awkwardly and abruptly that, but for the fact that the figure of the dead soldier was there for his hand to fall upon in time to check it, he must have pitched headlong into the very heart of the tableau, and done no end of damage. Fortunately, however, not a figure had been thrown down, and even the ”dead soldier” had stood the shock uncommonly well, not even a dent showing, though Cleek had come down rather heavily and his palm had struck smack on the figure's chest.

”Tut! tut! tut! tut!” exclaimed the Italian with angry impatience.