CHAPTER III
FOUR IMPORTANT CHARACTERS
The writer pauses here to say that the story of "The Man Who Knew" is anunusual one. It is reconstructed partly from the reports of a certaintrial, partly from the confidential matter which has come into thewriter's hands from Saul Arthur Mann and his extraordinary bureau, andpartly from the private diary which May Nuttall put at the writer'sdisposal.
Those practiced readers who begin this narrative with the wearyconviction that they are merely to see the workings out of aconventional record of crime, of love, and of mystery may be urged topursue their investigations to the end. Truth is stranger than fiction,and has need to be, since most fiction is founded on truth. There is astrangeness in the story of "The Man Who Knew" which brings it into thecategory of veracious history. It cannot be said in truth that any storybegins at the beginning of the first chapter, since all stories beganwith the creation of the world, but this present story may be said tobegin when we cut into the lives of some of the characters concerned,upon the seventeenth day of July, 19--.
There was a little group of people about the prostrate figure of a manwho lay upon the sidewalk in Gray Square, Bloomsbury.
The hour was eight o'clock on a warm summer evening, and that theunusual spectacle attracted only a small crowd may be explained by thefact that Gray Square is a professional quarter given up to the officesof lawyers, surveyors, and corporation offices which at eight o'clock ona summer's day are empty of occupants. The unprofessional classes whoinhabit the shabby streets impinging upon the Euston Road do not includeGray Square in their itinerary when they take their eveningconstitutionals abroad, and even the loud children find a lessdepressing environment for their games.
The gray-faced youth sprawled upon the pavement was decently dressed andwas obviously of the superior servant type.
He was as obviously dead.
Death, which beautifies and softens the plainest, had failed entirely todissipate the impression of meanness in the face of the stricken man.The lips were set in a little sneer, the half-closed eyes were small,the clean-shaven jaw was long and underhung, the ears were large andgrotesquely prominent.
A constable stood by the body, waiting for the arrival of the ambulance,answering in monosyllables the questions of the curious. Ten minutesbefore the ambulance arrived there joined the group a man of middle age.
He wore the pepper-and-salt suit which distinguishes the countryexcursionist taking the day off in London. He had little side whiskersand a heavy brown mustache. His golf cap was new and set at a somewhatrakish angle on his head. Across his waistcoat was a large and heavychain hung at intervals with small silver medals. For all his provincialappearance his movements were decisive and suggested authority. Heelbowed his way through the little crowd, and met the constable'sdisapproving stare without faltering.
"Can I be of any help, mate?" he said, and introduced himself as PoliceConstable Wiseman, of the Sussex constabulary.
The London constable thawed.
"Thanks," he said; "you can help me get him into the ambulance when itcomes."
"Fit?" asked the newcomer.
The policeman shook his head.
"He was seen to stagger and fall, and by the time I arrived he'd snuffedout. Heart disease, I suppose."
"Ah!" said Constable Wiseman, regarding the body with a proprietorialand professional eye, and retailed his own experiences of similartragedies, not without pride, as though he had to some extent theresponsibility for their occurrence.
On the far side of the square a young man and a girl were walkingslowly. A tall, fair, good-looking youth he was, who might haveattracted attention even in a crowd. But more likely would thatattention have been focused, had he been accompanied by the girl at hisside, for she was by every standard beautiful. They reached the cornerof Tabor Street, and it was the fixed and eager stare of a little manwho stood on the corner of the street and the intensity of his gazewhich first directed their attention to the tragedy on the opposite sideof the square.
The little man who watched was dressed in an ill-fitting frock coat,trousers which seemed too long, since they concertinaed over his boots,and a glossy silk hat set at the back of his head.
"What a funny old thing!" said Frank Merrill under his breath, and thegirl smiled.
The object of their amusement turned sharply as they came abreast ofhim. His freckled, clean-shaven face looked strangely old, and the big,gold-rimmed spectacles bridged halfway down his nose added to hisludicrous appearance. He raised his eyebrows and surveyed the two youngpeople.
"There's an accident over there," he said briefly and without anypreliminary.
"Indeed," said the young man politely.
"There have been several accidents in Gray Square," said the strange oldman meditatively. "There was one in 1875, when the corner house--you cansee the end of it from here--collapsed and buried fourteen people, sevenof whom were killed, four of whom were injured for life, and three ofwhom escaped with minor injuries."
He said this calmly and apparently without any sense that he was actingat all unconventionally in volunteering the information, and went on:
"There was another accident in 1881, on the seventeenth of October, acollision between two hansom cabs which resulted in the death of adriver whose name was Samuel Green. He lived at 14 Portington Mews, andhad a wife and nine children."
The girl looked at the old man with a little apprehension, and FrankMerrill laughed.
"You have a very good memory for this kind of thing. Do you live here?"he asked.
"Oh, no!" The little man shook his head vigorously.
He was silent for a moment, and then:
"I think we had better go over and see what it is all about," he saidwith a certain gravity.
His assumption of leadership was a little staggering, and Frank turnedto the girl.
"Do you mind?" he asked.
She shook her head, and the three passed over the road to the littlegroup just as the ambulance came jangling into the square. To Merrill'ssurprise, the policeman greeted the little man respectfully, touchinghis helmet.
"I'm afraid nothing can be done, sir. He is--gone."
"Oh, yes, he's gone!" said the other quite calmly.
He stooped down, turned back the man's coat, and slipped his hand intothe inside pocket, but drew blank; the pocket was empty. With anextraordinary rapidity of movement, he continued his search, and to theastonishment of Frank Merrill the policeman did not deny his right. Inthe top left-hand pocket of the waistcoat he pulled out a crumpled slipwhich proved to be a newspaper clipping.
"Ah!" said the little man. "An advertisement for a manservant cut out ofthis morning's _Daily Telegraph_; I saw it myself. Evidently amanservant who was on his way to interview a new employer. You see:'Call at eight-thirty at Holborn Viaduct Hotel.' He was taking a shortcut when his illness overcame him. I know who is advertising for thevalet," he added gratuitously; "he is a Mr. T. Burton, who is a rubberfactor from Penang. Mr. T. Burton married the daughter of the ReverendGeorge Smith, of Scarborough, in 1889, and has four children, one ofwhom is at Winchester. Hum!"
He pursed his lips and looked down again at the body; then suddenly heturned to Frank Merrill.
"Do you know this man?" he demanded.
Frank looked at him in astonishment.
"No. Why do you ask?"
"You were looking at him as though you did," said the little man. "Thatis to say, you were not looking at his face. People who do not look atother people's faces under these circumstances know them."
"Curiously enough," said Frank, with a little smile, "there is some onehere I know," and he caught the eye of Constable Wiseman.
That ornament of the Sussex constabulary touched his cap.
"I thought I recognized you, sir. I have often seen you at Weald Lodge,"he said.
Further conversation was cut short as they lifted the body on to astretcher and put it into the interior of the ambulance. The littlegroup watched th
e white car disappear, and the crowd of idlers began tomelt away.
Constable Wiseman took a professional leave of his comrade, and cameback to Frank a little shyly.
"You are Mr. Minute's nephew, aren't you, sir?" he asked.
"Quite right," said Frank.
"I used to see you at your uncle's place."
"Uncle's name?"
It was the little man's pert but wholly inoffensive inquiry. He seemedto ask it as a matter of course and as one who had the right to beanswered without equivocation.
Frank Merrill laughed.
"My uncle is Mr. John Minute," he said, and added, with a faint touch ofsarcasm: "You probably know him."
"Oh, yes," said the other readily. "One of the original Rhodesianpioneers who received a concession from Lo Bengula and amassed a largefortune by the sale of gold-mining properties which proved to be of noespecial value. He was tried at Salisbury in 1897 with the murder oftwo Mashona chiefs, and was acquitted. He amassed another fortune inJohannesburg in the boom of '97, and came to this country in 1901,settling on a small estate between Polegate and Eastbourne. He has onenephew, his heir, Frank Merrill, the son of the late Doctor HenryMerrill, who is an accountant in the London and Western Counties Bank.He--"
Frank looked at him in undisguised amazement.
"You know my uncle?"
"Never met him in my life," said the little man brusquely. He took offhis silk hat with a sweep.
"I wish you good afternoon," he said, and strode rapidly away.
The uniformed policeman turned a solemn face upon the group.
"Do you know that gentleman?" asked Frank.
The constable smiled.
"Oh, yes, sir; that is Mr. Mann. At the yard we call him 'The Man WhoKnows!'"
"Is he a detective?"
The constable shook his head.
"From what I understand, sir, he does a lot of work for the commissionerand for the government. We have orders never to interfere with him orrefuse him any information that we can give."
"The Man Who Knows?" repeated Frank, with a puzzled frown. "What anextraordinary person! What does he know?" he asked suddenly.
"Everything," said the constable comprehensively.
A few minutes later Frank was walking slowly toward Holborn.
"You seem to be rather depressed," smiled the girl.
"Confound that fellow!" said Frank, breaking his silence. "I wonder howhe comes to know all about uncle?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Well,dear, this is not a very cheery evening for you. I did not bring youout to see accidents."
"Frank," the girl said suddenly, "I seem to know that man's face--theman who was on the pavement, I mean--"
She stopped with a shudder.
"It seemed a little familiar to me," said Frank thoughtfully.
"Didn't he pass us about twenty minutes ago?"
"He may have done," said Frank, "but I have no particular recollectionof it. My impression of him goes much farther back than this evening.Now where could I have seen him?"
"Let's talk about something else," she said quickly. "I haven't a verylong time. What am I to do about your uncle?"
He laughed.
"I hardly know what to suggest," he said. "I am very fond of Uncle John,and I hate to run counter to his wishes, but I am certainly not going toallow him to take my love affairs into his hands. I wish to Heaven youhad never met him!"
She gave a little gesture of despair.
"It is no use wishing things like that, Frank. You see, I knew youruncle before I knew you. If it had not been for your uncle I should nothave met you."
"Tell me what happened," he asked. He looked at his watch. "You hadbetter come on to Victoria," he said, "or I shall lose my train."
He hailed a taxicab, and on the way to the station she told him of allthat had happened.
"He was very nice, as he always is, and he said nothing really which wasvery horrid about you. He merely said he did not want me to marry youbecause he did not think you'd make a suitable husband. He said thatJasper had all the qualities and most of the virtues."
Frank frowned.
"Jasper is a sleek brute," he said viciously.
She laid her hand on his arm.
"Please be patient," she said. "Jasper has said nothing whatever to meand has never been anything but most polite and kind."
"I know that variety of kindness," growled the young man. "He is one ofthose sly, soft-footed sneaks you can never get to the bottom of. He isworming his way into my uncle's confidence to an extraordinary extent.Why, he is more like a son to Uncle John than a beastly secretary."
"He has made himself necessary," said the girl, "and that is halfway tomaking yourself wealthy."
The little frown vanished from Frank's brow, and he chuckled.
"That is almost an epigram," he said. "What did you tell uncle?"
"I told him that I did not think that his suggestion was possible andthat I did not care for Mr. Cole, nor he for me. You see, Frank, I oweyour Uncle John so much. I am the daughter of one of his best friends,and since dear daddy died Uncle John has looked after me. He has givenme my education--my income--my everything; he has been a second fatherto me."
Frank nodded.
"I recognize all the difficulties," he said, "and here we are atVictoria."
She stood on the platform and watched the train pull out and waved herhand in farewell, and then returned to the pretty flat in which JohnMinute had installed her. As she said, her life had been made verysmooth for her. There was no need for her to worry about money, and shewas able to devote her days to the work she loved best. The East EndProvident Society, of which she was president, was wholly financed bythe Rhodesian millionaire.
May had a natural aptitude for charity work. She was an indefatigableworker, and there was no better known figure in the poor streetsadjoining the West Indian Docks than Sister Nuttall. Frank wasinterested in the work without being enthusiastic. He had all the man'sapprehension of infectious disease and of the inadvisability of abeautiful girl slumming without attendance, but the one visit he hadmade to the East End in her company had convinced him that there was nofear as to her personal safety.
He was wont to grumble that she was more interested in her work than shewas in him, which was probably true, because her development had been aslow one, and it could not be said that she was greatly in love withanything in the world save her self-imposed mission.
She ate her frugal dinner, and drove down to the mission headquartersoff the Albert Dock Road. Three nights a week were devoted by themission to visitation work. Many women and girls living in this areaspend their days at factories in the neighborhood, and they have onlythe evenings for the treatment of ailments which, in people bettercircumstanced, would produce the attendance of specialists. For thenight work the nurses were accompanied by a volunteer male escort. MayNuttall's duties carried her that evening to Silvertown and to anetwork of mean streets to the east of the railway. Her work began atdusk, and was not ended until night had fallen and the stars werequivering in a hot sky.
The heat was stifling, and as she came out of the last foul dwelling shewelcomed as a relief even the vitiated air of the hot night. She wentback into the passageway of the house, and by the light of a paraffinlamp made her last entry in the little diary she carried.
"That makes eight we have seen, Thompson," she said to her escort. "Isthere anybody else on the list?"
"Nobody else to-night, miss," said the young man, concealing a yawn.
"I'm afraid it is not very interesting for you, Thompson," said the girlsympathetically; "you haven't even the excitement of work. It must beawfully dull standing outside waiting for me."
"Bless you, miss," said the man. "I don't mind at all. If it is goodenough for you to come into these streets, it is good enough for me togo round with you."
They stood in a little courtyard, a cul-de-sac cut off at one end by asheer wall, and as the girl put back her diary into her little net bag aman came swiftly
down from the street entrance of the court and passedher. As he did so the dim light of the lamp showed for a second hisface, and her mouth formed an "O" of astonishment. She watched him untilhe disappeared into one of the dark doorways at the farther end of thecourt, and stood staring at the door as though unable to believe hereyes.
There was no mistaking the pale face and the straight figure of JasperCole, John Minute's secretary.
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