“Oh,” said Harrison, feeling he would have to tread very delicately. “You talked the whole thing over with her?”
“Yes. She is a very dear friend.”
“And why did you both fix on me for work to which, obviously, I am quite unaccustomed?”
“I am afraid I did not know that, Mr. Harrison, and you will forgive me if I have made a mistake.”
“Of course,” was the reply.
“It was really Helen’s suggestion,” said Mrs. Marston. “She knew I was worried and suggested that it would not be a bad idea if I got to know something about the Bambergers. Of course, I had no idea how to go about it, and she mentioned your name. She really said the most astonishing things about what you had done.”
“Very kind of her,” commented Harrison.
“She seems to have a terrific belief in you,” said Mrs. Marston.
“But I still can’t understand why I should be chosen for this particular job.”
“Well, Helen said you were specially good when it came to dealing with foreigners. She said so few of us English people were, and I would certainly trust her on that because she must have travelled a very great deal and seems to know the Continent inside out. As the Bambergers definitely came from abroad, she thought you would be able to help more than anyone else.”
“You will excuse my asking, I know, Mrs. Marston,” said Harrison, “but did Miss Williams also suggest the way you should write your letter to me and, forgive me for mentioning it, the size of the fee as well?”
“I’m afraid I must plead guilty,” was the answer. “You see, I’m a child in such matters, and really Helen’s advice struck me as exceedingly good.”
“Miss Williams must be a very capable woman,” said Harrison.
“She is indeed,” replied Mrs. Marston, enthusiastically. “You will see her at dinner to-night and be able to judge for yourself.”
“And how do you yourself think Miss Livia knew?”
“I have no idea, except that she may have guessed. She is more up to date than I am and may have heard something about you. If so, in the state she is in, she could easily have put two and two together, don’t you think?”
“Possibly,” answered Harrison, keeping his mental reservations on the matter to himself. “Did Miss Williams suggest that she had actually met me anywhere—personally I cannot recall the name myself?”
“I don’t think she did,” answered Mrs. Marston. “She only talked about your reputation. I am afraid she was quite surprised at my ignorance. It seems that everybody who is anybody ought to know the name of Mr. Clay Harrison.”
“Astonishing enthusiasm,” said Harrison. “But it is clean out of my line. I’m mainly interested in crime, and this—”
“Surely you won’t refuse me, Mr. Harrison?” said Mrs. Marston, a genuine note of distress coming into her voice.
“I may tell you quite honestly, Mrs. Marston, I was going to refuse,” replied Harrison. “Up to about ten minutes ago. But directly your daughter appeared—and disappeared—I decided to accept, after all.”
“It is very kind of you,” said Mrs. Marston. “But it sounds queer. I should have thought that would be a reason for refusing.”
“The whole thing’s queer, Mrs. Marston,” said Harrison, solemnly.
“I’m glad you think so,” was the reply. “And now I can leave it in your hands.”
“I shall need your help, of course,” said Harrison. “For example, I want to meet Sir Jeremiah and his son. You said they were not coming to-night; will they be at the play to-morrow?”
“They are both taking part, and you will be able to see them afterwards.”
“That’s very interesting, but does not seem to fit in with what you have told me already about Bamberger.”
“Well, first of all, Philip insisted on his father doing something, and then, of course, if he had refused to take part, he might as well have given up his house altogether. Everybody in the district is taking some part in the celebrations, and a refusal from Sir Jeremiah would have made his position impossible around here.”
“The power of the Marstons,” said Harrison, with a smile.
Mrs. Marston smiled back, but did not seem quite certain how to take the remark.
“Very good,” said Harrison. “That’s all I need to know at present. When I find I need help I will come to you at once, Mrs. Marston.”
He rose and went out of the room. He had only just crossed the threshold when a hand grasped him firmly by the arm and pulled him a few paces along the corridor.
“Now, Mr. Clay Harrison,” said Livia Marston, still clutching him tightly and eyes ablaze with anger, “you’re going to talk to me for a little while.”
“Rather melodramatic, don’t you think, Miss Marston?” said Harrison, gently but firmly removing her hand.
“Don’t sneer,” said the girl, angrily. “Come along with me.”
She led him up a staircase to a small room, untidily littered with odd properties connected with the play but brightly furnished and obviously the young lady’s own room. Shutting the door, she placed herself firmly in front of him and glared into his face.
“Now,” she said, “what did mother tell you?”
“Nothing unpleasant,” answered Harrison, cheerfully.
“That’s a lie,” said the girl.
“Well, if you consider your engagement to be married unpleasant—”
“I don’t,” was the answer; “but others do.”
“I rather gathered that,” said Harrison.
“Of course you did,” returned the girl. “Mother meant you to. But I won’t have you interfering in my affairs, I tell you.”
“Why should I interfere in your affairs?”
“Don’t think I’m a fool,” replied the girl, angrily. “You’re down here as a spy: to spy on Philip Bamberger and myself.”
“Who told you that?”
“It’s obvious. There’s no need for anyone to tell me.”
“It isn’t obvious. Who told you?”
“Mr. Harrison, if you think—”
“Miss Helen Williams told you,” continued Harrison, without taking notice of the interruption. “Why should you believe her?”
“Because mother told her all about it,” answered the girl. Then, realising she had gone too far, she added, viciously, “Very clever, Mr. Harrison, tricking me into admitting it. My congratulations on a first-class bit of detective work. But that’s as far as you’ll get. If you have any sense of decency you’ll go back to London by the first possible train.”
“Miss Williams didn’t tell you to say that?”
“A very poor piece of humour,” said the girl, freezingly. “But if it gives you any satisfaction, she did not. She’s nearly as bad as the rest of them; she thinks it would be quite a splendid idea for you to go crawling round with your magnifying glass and finding out all about Sir Jeremiah Bamberger, how many baths he has, whether he changes his underclothes regularly and all the terrible things foreigners are supposed to do.”
“I’m not particularly opposed to foreigners myself, Miss Marston,” said Harrison, gently.
“I’m in love with Philip, and that’s enough for me. The don’t like his name and they are suspicious of his father, but I don’t care. I’m going to marry Philip, and that’s that.”
“I expect you will,” said Harrison, looking at her chin.
“A ray of sense at last,” said the girl, rudely. “Then why waste your time round here making things still more difficult? Why not leave it alone?”
“I should be letting down your mother,” said Harrison.
“She’ll soon get over that,” was the answer. “She doesn’t really, in her heart of hearts, think she can make any difference.”
“There’s another reason.”
“What’s that?”
“I would like to be quite honest with you, Miss Marston,” said Harrison, seriously. “Only in this mood it is rather difficult to talk to you.”
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“I will try to be calm,” said the girl, ironically.
“I hardly expect you to believe me,” said Harrison, “but nothing would induce me to leave this place at the moment. It isn’t you or your engagement or anything like that. It’s something else much more puzzling. There’s something wrong with the atmosphere.”
“Mr. Harrison turned psychic, I suppose.”
“No, it certainly isn’t that. But I’m not satisfied with things. Some people—like animals—either have instincts or are specially trained to spot things more quickly than others. Well, it’s hard to explain, but I’ve got that feeling here.”
“Rather overdoing the expert business, isn’t it, Mr. Harrison? It does not impress me. Being suspicious to order.”
“No, it isn’t that.”
“I suppose you expect a crime?”
“Maybe.”
“Really, Mr. Harrison, you don’t expect me to believe all this, do you?” said the girl, her anger rising again. “You must think me incredibly simple. But if you won’t go, you won’t. You can imagine what I think of you. Still, I could hardly have expected to be able to appeal to your feelings.”
“Hardly,” echoed Harrison.
“Then it’s war to the knife, Mr. Harrison,” said the girl, in a final burst. “I’ll do all I can to stop you, and heaven help you if Philip gets hold of you.”
Harrison looked the girl straight in the eyes and, directly she had spoken, Livia Marston was ashamed of herself. Harrison could see that, and liked her for it.
As he was finding his way to his room, already deep in the thought of the afternoon’s events, he was met by Mrs. Marston.
“What a pity, Mr. Harrison,” she said, as she reached him. “Helen Williams has such a bad headache she won’t be able to come down to dinner.”
Chapter III
The King’s Scullion
“I think a conference is indicated, Henry,” said Harrison, as they met in the sitting-room allotted to him after breakfast next morning.
“I should think it is, sir,” said Henry, emphatically. “The whole business puzzles me, and I know, by your face, there is more in it than anybody else imagines. Besides, I have to report to you about last night.”
“Can anyone listen at the door?” asked Harrison.
Henry opened the door and examined the corridor. “It wouldn’t be difficult, sir,” he replied, “if anyone really wanted to.”
“We mustn’t talk too near the window, either,” said Harrison, as if speaking to himself.
“Why not, sir?”
“Merely a safe precaution, Henry,” answered Harrison. “Miss Helen Williams has the room exactly overhead.”
“Are you as suspicious of her as all that, sir?”
“Well, Henry, if you must know, she appears to have too strong a family resemblance, for my liking, to a certain lady who led us a terrific dance in Switzerland when we were after the dope-traffickers.”
“You don’t mean Jeanne de Marplay?”
“I do, Henry. She disappeared then, and the papers said she was dead, but we didn’t believe that. The one glimpse I caught of Miss Williams’ face at the station seemed to bring it all back. If that woman is here there’s something extraordinarily fishy going on.”
“I hope she isn’t,” said Henry, solemnly.
“She rather frightened you, Henry,” said Harrison, “if my memory is sound. I admired her myself in a way, but she was harder than nails, wasn’t she? I should think the most callous woman I have ever met.”
“But you may be mistaken, sir?” queried Henry, hopefully.
“I may be, of course,” answered Harrison, “but it doesn’t seem very likely. Still, we might as well take precautions. Let’s move these two armchairs side by side into the middle of the room, and then we had better talk as softly as we can.”
They settled themselves as Harrison had suggested, and any observer who could have seen them seated in this manner, without having been given a hint as to the reason, would certainly have doubted the sanity of these two particular guests. Harrison lit a cigar, apologising to Henry for having to send forth clouds of smoke so near to him.
“Now, Henry, you first,” said Harrison. “What happened at the ‘Sun’?”
“Not as much as one might have hoped, sir,” answered Henry. “The chauffeur did not appear. I suppose, as you said, he was busy driving guests from the station all the evening. But that didn’t help. Obviously they had been warned not to talk.”
“They?”
“Yes, sir, the two foreigners staying there.”
“Did you get their names?”
“Yes, sir. Skelofski—I think that’s right—and Josephs. They didn’t seem a bad sort of people and stood drink for drink, but they were like oysters about themselves. I did my best, but got nothing at all. I only gathered that there was a certain amount of excitement because someone they seemed to call the ‘Head’ was expected down late at night.”
“That’s something, isn’t it, Henry?”
“I suppose so, sir,” answered Henry. “When I asked them who he was they seemed sorry they had spoken at all. As a matter of fact, I think it was the landlord who mentioned it. The ‘Head’ was going to have the best room in the place, and all that sort of thing.”
“And that’s all, Henry?”
“I’m afraid so, sir,” answered Henry. “Did you expect anything else?”
“I didn’t expect anything at all,” was the reply. “Your information is extremely interesting.”
“I’m glad you think so, sir,” said Henry. “It means little to me.”
“Well, Henry, the report of my evening is much duller,” said Harrison. “I had a very good dinner while a nondescript woman next to me gave repeated shrieks of excitement at the thought of meeting a real detective. After dinner I played bridge for a while, but the game was so continually interrupted by the arrival of fresh guests that it had to be abandoned. I wasn’t sorry. My game never seems to improve. Eventually I pleaded tiredness, just as Mrs. Marston was going to see how Miss Williams was feeling. We went upstairs together, and I am afraid I abused the laws of hospitality by following her, without her knowledge, up to the next story, and discovering which room she went into. That is how I know Miss Williams is exactly above us. By the way, Henry, how did you sleep?”
“Wonderfully, sir,” was the reply. “I don’t think I have ever been in a more comfortable bed.”
“They are comfortable, Henry,” said Harrison. “I thought as much when I saw mine. So, not feeling very sleepy, I decided to stay up for a while.”
“You must have had a good reason, sir.”
“I had, Henry,” answered Harrison. “If one can use such an expression, I had my ear to the ceiling, and there seemed to be much more movement in the room than should come from a woman with a bad headache. Of course, it might have been a maid, but somehow it went on too long and too late for that. So I turned out the light and sat in the dark. I heard you come to bed, Henry, and the rest of the house gradually settling down. But I had my reward.”
“What was it, sir?”
“About one o’clock in the morning, Henry, a figure went past my window from above on a rope or something like that. There was just light enough to throw a shadow from the outside against the curtains. Not long afterwards I heard a motor-car start away in the distance.”
“Miss Williams?”
“I should say so. Miss Williams, she of the headache, leaves the house without using the front door. An unusual habit, Henry.”
“Did you wait for her to come back, sir?”
“I should think not, Henry,” answered Harrison. “I was much too tired. It didn’t matter to me how long she was out. She had gone out. That was the only thing that mattered. So I slipped into that comfortable bed, Henry, and very soon forgot everything. But we have each gathered a curious fact. Do you think they tell us anything?”
“Do you mean, sir,” said Henry, “that Miss Williams went ou
t to meet ‘the Head’?”
“Steady, Henry, steady,” said Harrison. “Don’t jump. There may be a thousand other ways of looking at it. Still, that may be one of them.”
“But what does it mean, sir?” asked Henry.
“I wish I could tell you, Henry,” was the reply. “We have very little to go on as yet. All we seem to know is that I’m not here to watch the presents, as you call it, Henry. Let’s see what we’ve got. Mrs. Marston is worried about her daughter’s love-affair with young Bamberger. On the recommendation of this Miss Williams, she invites me to look into the matter and, if Miss Williams were a conjurer, I should have said she forced Mrs. Marston to take that card. Miss Williams therefore wanted me to be here. You agree on that, Henry?”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“But she didn’t want me to be particularly comfortable, because she told Miss Marston all about it, and that made my position a thousand times more difficult. So we may assume, for the moment, that she just wanted me to be here. She herself didn’t want to meet me at once, so she did not come down to dinner. But the headache could not have been fearfully bad or she would not have left by the window later in the evening. Possibly she doesn’t realise that I saw her face at the station, although I don’t suppose she’d worry very much if she’s the type we take her for.”
“And the foreigners, sir?”
“I can’t fit it in yet, Henry, and all this may be fantastic guess-work. But the arrival of ‘the Head,’ as you heard him called, at this particular time, may certainly be something more than a coincidence. It’s no good saying there might be some kind of a plot because we have no idea what it is all about. It might have something to do with old Bamberger himself. Gossip goes that he is afraid to go out at night. He is a foreigner. They are foreigners. An obvious connection, if it meant anything, but it doesn’t seem to. Why should Miss Williams want to stay at the Marstons’ house if her objective is Bamberger? And, above all, why, if she is up to anything of that kind, should she particularly want me to be present?”
“I can’t think, sir,” said Henry, despairingly. “She knows you will be looking for trouble and will soon see through any of her little games.”
The Man Without A Face Page 3