“We’re finding out quite a lot about Mr. Smith,” answered Harrison. “He would be most surprised if he knew we were interested in him.”
“By the way, sir,” asked Henry, “who is Mr. Smith?”
“I haven’t an idea, Henry,” was the reply. “That’s why I am so curious.”
“But you said to Mr. Spoker—” began Henry.
“I say a lot of things, Henry,” answered Harrison. “That’s my work. Disguises are not only things one wears. You know that, Henry. You put on a wig and pretend to be someone else. One pretends to know things when one doesn’t. It all comes to the same thing.”
“I would like to ask you something else, sir,” said Henry. “What did you take out of that costume in Mr. Spoker’s shop?”
“Something very interesting indeed, Henry,” replied Harrison. “A cigarette picture.” He put his hand carefully into an inner pocket and produced the small card therefrom. “There it is, Henry.”
Henry took it and looked at it.
“You’re not pulling my leg, sir, are you?” he asked.
“Certainly not, Henry,” answered Harrison, taking back the card. “Look, it is given away with ‘Little Slam’ cigarettes. It is No. 17 of a series of twenty-four. They represent famous British admirals. No. 17 is a likeness, and I trust a good one, of Admiral Benbow. Very interesting, Henry, you must admit—very interesting.”
Chapter VII
Harrison As Prophet
“I’m going to turn prophet for once, Henry,” said Harrison, as he sat in his room next morning. “I propose to mystify you by remarkable predictions as a good detective should.”
“Thank you, sir,” answered Henry. “I certainly want something to cheer me up. The trip down west wasn’t very enjoyable, and I can’t get you to settle to anything fresh.”
“One thing at a time, Henry.”
“But why do you worry about this Bamberger business, sir?” asked Henry. “The coroner settled it and, even if you do think there’s something behind it, far better let it alone. I can’t see the object of poking around about it any more.”
“You’re in a bad mood this morning, Henry.”
“I suppose I am, sir,” said Henry. “But I hate to see you wasting your time. If I didn’t know you, sir, I should have said your pride was hurt at an accident happening when you were around.”
“Maybe it was, Henry,” answered Harrison. “Maybe I’m too interested in the Bamberger case altogether, but I must confess it fascinates me.”
“Why, sir?”
“I can’t tell you why, Henry,” was the reply. “You know I never produce a theory until there is really something to go on. I’ve got my suspicions and that’s all.”
“And your prophecies,” said Henry.
“Oh, yes, I have those,” answered Harrison. “They’re all mixed up together really. The first prophecy is that we shall be going back to Penstoke very shortly, possibly to-day.”
“That needn’t be a prophecy, sir,” said Henry. “You can just decide to go and make it come true.”
“We shall be invited to go there, Henry, and I prophesy for a very good reason too.”
“What is it, sir?”
“Because Mr. William Marston has tried to commit suicide.”
“When did you hear that, sir?” asked Henry, excitedly.
“I haven’t heard it, Henry,” answered Harrison. “It’s part of the prophecy.”
“Rather a stretch of imagination, sir,” said Henry, “if you’ll excuse me saying so. I shouldn’t have thought a man like Mr. Marston would commit suicide because he had accidentally killed another man.”
“That may not be the reason,” said Harrison.
“Then why, sir?”
“If you can’t think of one, Henry, I’m certainly not going to help you. Didn’t our visit to Mr. Spoker suggest anything to you?”
“I’m afraid it didn’t, sir,” answered Henry. “I was completely beaten. Mr. Smith was quite beyond me.”
“That’s a pity. Because you usually have some ideas, Henry.”
“I’m quite lost in this business, sir.”
“Well, Henry, my visit to Mr. Spoker made me feel practically certain of one thing, and that was Mr. William Marston’s state of mind. All we have to do now is to wait for an invitation.”
Henry shook his head mournfully and retired to his own office. It was not long, however, before there was a double knock on the door and he took in a telegram.
“A telegram, sir,” said Henry, taking it to Harrison.
“I must have my little triumph, Henry,” answered Harrison. “And you must be the conjuror’s assistant. Now open that telegram and tell me what it says.”
Henry opened the telegram and his look of amazement as he read out, “Come at once. Philip Bamberger.”
“And now will you believe,” said Harrison, enjoying the effect, “that Mr. William Marston has been up to something serious, suicide possibly, when you remember that I asked this young man to watch him and telegraph to me if anything unusual happened? Something unusual has happened, you see.”
“Wonderful, sir,” said Henry.
“It isn’t, Henry,” answered Harrison. “It’s fairly obvious. You must use your eyes a bit better, you know.”
“When do we go, sir?” asked Henry.
“Straight away, Henry,” said Harrison. “Things seem to be moving quickly.”
During the same evening Harrison and Henry were again leaving the train at the little station at Penstoke. This time there was no Miss Helen Williams in her car to dash away the moment they arrived, but they found Philip Bamberger on the platform. As soon as he saw them, he rushed up with a cry of welcome.
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” he said, shaking Harrison warmly by the hand. “We certainly need you.”
“Thank you,” said Harrison. “I told you to send for me if I was needed. What has happened?”
Philip looked at Henry rather doubtfully, but Harrison nodded suggesting that there were no secrets from him.
“I don’t know how to tell you,” said Philip. “It seems so absurd now.” He lowered his voice. “Mr. Marston tried to commit suicide this morning.”
“Good heavens,” said Harrison, with excellently assumed amazement, while Henry looked blankly at Bamberger.
“I won’t go into details now,” continued Philip. “It was an awful shock for me too. But you said I could send for you, and so I did. I’ve got the car outside, and I think you had better spend the night with me—unless you want to go up to Penstoke right away.”
“Better not, I should think,” said Harrison. “He won’t try again to-day, will he?”
“I don’t think he’ll try again at all,” said Philip.
“That’s good,” said Harrison. “I am more than grateful for your offer, Mr. Bamberger, and we’ll come along with you. Now I’m back in Penstoke I really shall have to settle down seriously asking a few questions. And I’m afraid I shall have to begin with you.”
“I don’t mind that, Mr. Harrison,” said the young man, eagerly. “I’ll help you in every way I can. You said there was something strange about the whole thing, and I’m certain you were right. Jump in and I’ll drive you up to the house.”
The Bamberger dwelling was somewhat more ornate than the Marstons’. It was not vulgar and one could hardly cavil at the general taste, but one had a feeling that it was a trifle florid, not quite English, and in great contrast to the simple, if not entirely artistic, manner of the other house. The furniture and pictures were undoubtedly good. Sir Jeremiah must have understood what he was buying. Still there was the feeling that things were a trifle accentuated, a feeling one would not have had if the house and its effects had been situated in whatever continental country to which Sir Jeremiah laid claim.
Philip Bamberger led them into the house, made arrangements with innumerable servants for their comfort, and then preceded them into a richly-appointed smoking-room. It was almost Moorish in co
nception, but its dim lighting conveyed an impression of exotic comfort rather than Oriental extravagance.
“Dinner will be ready for you soon,” said Philip, “but I want to get my story off my chest first. Would a cigar tempt you while I talk?”
“Mr. Bamberger,” said Harrison, settling down into a comfortable armchair, “it is an unfortunate thing that any human being can he bribed. Some with money, some with flattery, some of the strictest moralists even with a little Christian sentiment. I admit my failing. I find it almost impossible to refuse a good cigar. The offer of a box of good cigars would test my honesty to the limit. I do not know what infamy I would not contract to perpetrate for it.”
“The box is at your service, Mr. Harrison,” said Philip, with a smile.
Harrison laughed and Henry chuckled. “I knew I was right in liking you immediately I saw you,” said Harrison.
“It’s very kind of you to say that,” answered Philip. “I feel that I can honestly return the compliment, although I tried very hard not to. I realised you trusted me when you asked me to do something for you, but—” and he smiled again—“I wonder you had the nerve.”
“I’m afraid I have to do things like that,” answered Harrison. “Even when I’m frightened to death at the reception they may receive.”
“Rather an exaggeration, Mr. Harrison?” queried Philip.
“Why?”
“Well, I’ve realised already that you sum up the other person pretty carefully before you make a move like that. Still, we’re not going to talk about ourselves all the time. By the way, this was my father’s favourite room.”
Philip Bamberger was silent for a moment.
“And you know, Mr. Harrison, I am really grateful to you for having given me something to do,” he continued. “It has stopped me thinking about myself for a bit, and, if you knew how I felt, you’d understand it. Father was all I had, and though we didn’t talk much, we were very fond of one another. There is Livia, as well, of course, but I can’t ask her for sympathy. It wouldn’t be fair, would it? Especially after what you said to me.”
“We have to go very carefully,” said Harrison. “Now tell me exactly what happened.”
“I did what you told me to,” answered Philip, “and followed Mr. Marston about whenever he was outside the house. I felt very unpleasant about it, but I stuck to it. He wandered about the grounds a good bit yesterday, and I must say I didn’t like the look of him.”
“In what way?”
“He looked fearfully haggard and worried and, when no one was about, his eyes seemed quite wild. If anybody appeared, he seemed, with a terrible effort, to become normal, even in his looks, but directly he was left alone again he seemed to find the strain too much, and again looked wild.”
“Did he talk to himself?”
“No, I don’t think he did. Of course, I kept at a fair distance, but he didn’t seem to mutter or anything like that. He just walked pretty quickly, looking straight ahead of him.”
“Quite unlike what you would expect Mr. William Marston to be?”
“Absolutely.”
“Did he stay out very late?”
“No,” answered Philip, “which was rather a relief to me. He went in early, and I made the pretence of calling on Livia immediately afterwards. It sounds rather foolish, but I wanted to see her. It was not a very cheerful evening. Mrs. Marston was watching Mr. Marston all the time. She was pretty worried about him herself. When he said he was going to sit in his study, she followed him there, and they soon came back again together. Livia was most of the time boiling with indignation inwardly. I don’t quite know what about. She wasn’t particularly interested in me, and, when they all announced they were going to bed early, I was quite relieved. So I came home in fairly good time and went to bed myself.”
“And this morning?” queried Harrison.
“I behaved like a good lieutenant,” said Philip, “and I’m glad I did. I set the alarm clock at five, and, when it went off, I dashed into my clothes and pushed across to the Marstons’.”
“Excellent,” said Harrison.
“I suppose I had been waiting an hour,” said Philip, “—it was really a very pleasant morning—when out came Mr. Marston with a gun in his hand. He was stepping quite briskly, and certainly looked as if he was off to shoot something or other before breakfast.”
“How did he look?”
“Not a bit wild,” answered Philip. “That rather put me off, I must admit. Calm and collected and almost smiling.”
“He had made up his mind,” said Harrison.
“Of course,” replied Philip; “but I didn’t know that, at the time. I almost decided not to follow him, it seemed so foolish, but I had your instructions and went on his tracks.”
“He was walking quickly, you said.”
“Yes,” answered Philip. “He made for the wood, and I lost track of him. I pushed along to where I thought he might have gone and came to a small clearing. Then I saw him. There he was, sitting on the ground, with his back to a tree, quietly and carefully fixing his gun between his legs so as to shoot himself. Of course I crashed straight up to him, without thinking, and he pushed the gun on to the ground beside him. But I knew that, if I had been a very few minutes later, I should have been too late. He would have committed suicide.”
“What did you do then?” asked Harrison.
“I was so surprised I didn’t know what to do,” answered Philip. “He knew that I realised what he was up to and got up quickly. For a moment he said nothing and then he almost whispered, ‘I can rely on you to say nothing about this to my wife,’ that was all. He didn’t wait for an answer but started to walk away. Somehow I thought it wasn’t good enough, so I called after him. ‘What do you want?’ he shouted back, as he continued to walk away. ‘Your promise not to try to do it again,’ I said. I don’t know why I said it, but it seemed to be the only thing to say.”
“Absolutely the right thing,” said Harrison.
“He stopped immediately and came back to me,” answered Philip. “‘Why should you worry what I do?’ Mr. Marston said. ‘Your father is dead, isn’t he? Leave me to go my own road. That ought to satisfy you.’ The man was half-mad to talk to me like that, I knew, and so I told him not to make a fool of himself. ‘You are the fool to stop me,’ he answered. ‘My way is the easiest. Leave me alone, I tell you.’ ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I shall follow you wherever you go, and if you go into the house I shall tell Mrs. Marston at once.’ ‘Philip,’ was his reply, ‘I’ve been through hell. I’m still going through hell. Can’t you let me end it?’ I didn’t say a word, and his nerve seemed to be going as I looked at him. Suddenly he threw the gun down, just like an angry child and said, ‘Very well, have it your own way,’ and stalked off. Then I telegraphed to you as soon as I could.”
“And what do you think of it all?” asked Harrison.
“I’m glad you asked me to watch him. It’s almost as if you knew this was going to happen.”
“I expected it,” said Harrison.
“That he would try and commit suicide?”
“Certainly. Isn’t that so, Henry?”
“Mr. Harrison spoke of it before your telegram arrived,” answered Henry. “That’s true enough. But why were you so certain, sir?”
“Steady, Henry,” answered Harrison. “I’m asking the questions at the moment, not you. You’ve not answered the one I asked, Mr. Bamberger. What do you yourself think of it all?”
“I’m afraid to think about it, Mr. Harrison,” answered Philip, sadly. “I daren’t.”
“Why?”
“It must have been an accident,” exclaimed Philip, despairingly.
“But you’re not certain, are you?”
“You first put the idea into my head, Mr. Harrison.”
“But if I hadn’t,” said Harrison, slowly, “and Mr. Marston had committed suicide, what would you have thought then?”
“There would have been no alternative,” answered Philip, he
avily.
Dinner was announced for Harrison and Henry, but a look from Harrison to Philip was sufficient to indicate that the conversation was not quite at an end.
“And as he has tried to commit suicide,” persisted Harrison, “there is no alternative either?”
“I can’t believe it, Mr. Harrison,” answered Philip. “Your argument seems all right. It all points that way, and yet I can’t believe it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think Mr. Marston is capable of such a thing.”
“You may not have any idea of the motive. Mr. Marston may have had an overpowering motive and the opportunity was too good to miss.”
“But it doesn’t fit in with Mr. Marston,” objected Philip.
“That doesn’t carry us anywhere,” said Harrison. “Any man may commit murder—”
“Don’t,” said Philip, choking a little.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bamberger,” said Harrison, gently; “but if it wasn’t an accident we have to face the ugliest word of all. Any man may commit murder given the right circumstances. You can’t say it doesn’t fit in because the unlikeliest people have been known to do it.”
“Still I stick to my point,” said Bamberger, bravely. “I don’t believe Mr. Marston did anything like that—whatever your experience may have been.”
“Very well,” said Harrison, quietly. “I think we’d better have dinner.”
After the meal they settled down again in the smoking-room. “I really don’t know what to think,” said Philip, continuing their earlier conversation, general topics being the rule at the table, broken by long silences. “Let me ask you a question, Mr. Harrison.”
“Certainly.”
“What do you think yourself?”
“I haven’t enough to go on yet,” answered Harrison. “But, first of all, Mr. Bamberger, can I count on your help from now onwards?”
“Absolutely.”
“You see, it is impossible to carry on detection work of this kind single-handed. I shall need all the trustworthy help I can get hold of.”
“You can certainly count on me,” said Philip, emphatically.
“Then you are bound to me hence forward,” said Harrison; “and, as we are working together, it is only right that we should get a clear idea of the facts together. Henry, the note-book and pencil may be necessary. Are you ready?”
The Man Without A Face Page 9