There are days, even in the capricious climate of London, when the whole world seems at peace; when the blue of the summer sky, the fragrance of some distant flower brought in by a passing breeze, and the contented chirp of the birds, all unite to evoke a spirit of thankfulness for the very gift of life itself. This was the spirit of Mr. Maverick Narkom, Superintendent of Scotland Yard, on this particular day in July. Even the very criminals had apparently betaken themselves to other haunts and distant climes, and the Yard, therefore, may be said to have been surprisingly slack. Up in his own private room, seated in front of his desk-both desk and room reduced to a state of order and tidiness uncanny to behold-sat the Superintendent, if the truth must be told, oblivious to all the world; a purple silk handkerchief draped itself gracefully over his head and rose softly up and down with the rise and fall of his breath. This was his last day at the Yard, for to-morrow would see him well on the road to Margate for a blessed two weeks' holiday with Mrs. Narkom and the children, not to mention guests who were nearly as precious to him, namely Ailsa Lorne and Hamilton Cleek.
The other reviewer for this book at the time of my writing says that you need to suspend your disbelief, to enjoy it. I say mostly no. You must know Cleek. And be willing to accept that he is one of those people who are constantly in demand by this time.
Written by a husband and wife team, Detective Cleek is a man of 100 faces. Fast paced, with several mysteries in my edition. I had to google French Apaches, which was a violent street gang. Nothing to do with native Americans.
The Cleek mysteries are very much in the line of the old Nick Carter stories: they require you to suspend a LOT of disbelief. If you can enjoy stories where people can completely change their identity by simply changing their expression, then you will enjoy this. If you can't suspend that much disbelief, then you will probably prefer other books to this!