CHAPTER XX
May had smiled itself out and June had blushed itself in—the most wondrous June, in Cleek’s eyes, the world had ever seen. For the long waiting was over, the old order of things had changed, the little house in the meadowlands had its new tenant, and she was in England again.
It did not fret him, as it otherwise might have done, that he and Dollops had been obliged to go back to the old business of lodging a week here and a week there in the heart of the town, rather than within reach of the green trees and the fragrant meadows he loved, for always there was the chance of stealing out to meet her in the glorious country-lands when the evening came, or of a whole day with her in the woods and fields when a whole day could be spared; and to a nature such as his these things were recompense enough.
Not that many days could be spared at present, for, although nothing had been seen or heard of Waldemar or the Apaches for weeks on end, these were strenuous times for Mr. Narkom and the forces of the Yard, and what with the Coronation of his Majesty close at hand, and every train discharging hordes of visitors into London day in and day out, and crooks of every description—homemade as well as imported—from the swell mobsman down to the common lag making it the Mecca of an unholy pilgrimage—they had their hands filled to overflowing, and were worked to their utmost capacity.
The result, so far as Cleek was concerned, scarcely needs recording. It was not in him to be guilty of that form of snobbishness which is known as “standing on his dignity” at such a time—when the man who had stood his friend was in need of help, indeed, might lose his official head if he were found wanting in such a crisis—so that, naturally, he came to Mr. Narkom’s assistance and took a hand in the “sorting out” process in the manner—yes, and at times, in the uniform, too—of the ordinary constable, and proved of such invaluable aid in the matter of scenting out undesirables and identifying professional crooks that things speedily fell into a more orderly shape, and he had just begun to look forward to a resumption of those happy days of wandering in the woods with Ailsa when out of the lull of coming peace there fell an official bombshell.
It took the form of a cablegram—a belated cipher communication from the police of America to the police of Great Britain—which on being decoded, ran thus:
“Just succeeded in tracing 218. Sailed ten days ago on Tunisian—Allan Line—from Canada, under name of Hammond. Woman with him. Handsome blonde. Passing as sister. Believed to be 774.”
Now as this little exchange of courtesies relative to the movements of the noted figures of the underworld is of almost daily occurrence between the police systems of the two countries in question, Mr. Narkom had only to consult his Code Book to get at the gist of the matter; and when he did get at it, his little fat legs bent under him like a couple of straws, his round little body collapsed into the nearest chair, and he came within a hair’s breadth of having a “stroke.”
For the Tunisian, as it happened, had docked and discharged her passengers exactly thirteen hours before, so that it was safe to declare that the persons to whom those numerals alluded had unquestionably slipped unchallenged past the guardians of the port, and were safely housed at this minute within the intricacies of that vast brick-and-mortar puzzle, London; yet here they were registered in the Code Book, thus: