The Man Without A Face

by The Man Without a Face (retail) (epub)

  Henry produced the articles in question and nodded.

  “There are precious few facts,” said Harrison, “that’s the trouble. But what do we know about Mr. Marston? Do you remember the details of the inquest, Mr. Bamberger? I’m sorry to have to drag up all these painful things. I wouldn’t, if I could help it.”

  “I understand,” replied Philip. “Yes, I remember the details well enough.”

  “I watched Mr. Marston rather carefully during the inquest,” said Harrison, “and it struck me that he was almost too eager to take the blame of the accident. Everyone knew it was an accident and everyone was sorry for him, but he seemed too emphatic about the part he played in it.”

  “I had not thought of it in that way,” said Philip; “but it may be right.”

  “I continually felt there was no need for it,” Harrison continued, “and so wondered whether all this outward protestation was covering up something else. That he was definitely hiding something.”

  “That might be so,” said Philip.

  “Mr. Marston is a stolidly-built Englishman,” said Harrison. “The accident was terrible in its suddenness, but not such as to break Marston’s nerve to that extent. I could not help feeling that he was out of proportion, if you see what I mean, Mr. Bamberger?”

  “I must admit that it seemed a fearful blow to him.”

  “Really more than you would have expected?”

  “Yes, I think you are right there, Mr. Harrison.”

  “As that was my feeling at the time,” Harrison went on, “I speculated something would happen, and that something would be attempted suicide. Now, I ask you again, Mr. Bamberger, does it fit in—the phrase you used yourself—with Mr. Marston’s character, as you know it, for him to contemplate suicide after such an accident?”

  “Quite honestly, it doesn’t.”

  “Then if a man is going to be true to his character—rather a rash assumption, certainly—but Mr. Marston is the product of ages of tradition and training and his character isn’t likely to change at a critical moment, we’re up against something we can’t explain.”

  “That may be so,” said Philip; “but you bring me back to the point which I refuse to believe.”

  “We’re only studying the case,” said Harrison; “we’re not trying to find a solution at present. We have only reached the stage where we can be fairly certain that, whatever happened, Marston has some extra knowledge. In fact, Marston is hiding something. Will you agree to that?”

  “There seems no other way,” answered Philip; “and yet I don’t see where it all leads.”

  “No need to, at present,” said Harrison. “We’re just fitting in the facts as they appear to us. That’s all we can do with Marston at the moment. Now the next thing: should anyone want to get rid of your father?”

  “I can’t think of any reason,” answered Philip. “I’m certain Mr. Marston hadn’t any.”

  “He did not like your engagement?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” said Philip. “He wasn’t very keen but he was getting used to it. It was much more Mrs. Marston who was against it. I quite understood. They’re an old family and all that, while we—” He stopped. “But that doesn’t strike me as a good motive, Mr. Harrison.”

  “A very poor one, I should say,” answered Harrison; “but we must look at everything. Could there have been anything else? Money, for example.”

  “They didn’t know each other well enough for that,” said Philip. “I had a job to get father to meet the Marstons at all.”

  “So you know of no motive which could account for Mr. Marston?”

  “None whatever.”

  “Very well,” said Harrison. “Let us reckon that we’ve accounted for him, for the moment, at any rate, as having no motive.”

  Philip looked gratefully at Harrison.

  “Anyone else?”

  “I can’t think of anyone,” said Philip, obviously trying to remember. “Father didn’t talk to me much, but there might have been somebody I don’t know. He was very worried recently.”

  “That’s important,” said Harrison. “But let us get a bit farther back. Where did your family come from?”

  “It’s rather difficult to say,” answered Philip. “Father never told me, but I looked at his books yesterday and, judging by the number of them about Czechoslovakia, I should say that is where father belonged. I’ll show you them.”

  Philip jumped up and went to a curtain at the side of the room. It looked as if it covered a window, as there were similar curtains at other places which certainly gave that suggestion. He pulled the curtain back and revealed a heavy iron door.

  “Pretty solid,” said Harrison.

  “It is,” answered Philip. “It cuts off father’s rooms from the rest of the house.”

  “I’ve heard about that,” said Harrison.

  “Where on earth—” started Philip, with astonishment.

  “I’m afraid it’s common gossip in the village,” answered Harrison.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter now,” said Philip, going to the door and pushing it open. It led into a smallish but comfortable room with a collection of bookcases, a writing-table and chair, and a comfortable-looking armchair.

  “This was father’s study,” said Philip. He paused for a moment in distress and then led the way to a door on the other side of the room. “This was his bedroom,” he said, throwing open the door. “His special indulgence.”

  Harrison followed Philip into the room and stood in wonder before a magnificently ornate bed with gilded ornaments and a general air of belonging to a medieval palace. It was bedecked with heavy velvet hangings, and the room itself was decorated to match. Sumptuous was hardly the word for this display; it was truly royal.

  “A strange fad, I suppose, Mr. Harrison,” said Philip, sadly. “Father used to say that some men wanted to live splendidly. That didn’t appeal to him. All he wanted to do was to sleep splendidly. The bed, I believe, is very valuable, but that didn’t mean so much to father. I think it was the effect he liked so much.”

  “It certainly is a wonderful room,” said Harrison. Henry, who had followed, was hardly impressed in the same way. He soon turned back to the other room with a feeling of pity for any man who could live in a museum of that kind.

  Philip brought Harrison back to the first room and showed him rows of books dealing with Czechoslovakia. Some were in English, some in French and a goodly number in Czech.

  “You agree with me?” asked Philip.

  “Certainly,” said Harrison. “A very fair assumption. You said you were looking at his books yesterday. Haven’t you seen them before?”

  “I have only been in here once or twice,” answered Philip; “and then he didn’t like me to stay. He once showed me his bedroom, but only for a few moments. I never had time to look around.”

  “Extraordinary,” said Harrison, going up to the iron door and examining the massive lock on the inside. “But why all these precautions?”

  They moved back to the smoking-room, Philip carefully shutting the door and pulling the curtain across it.

  “This part was built about two years ago while I was still up at the University,” he said. “I remember coming home and finding this new wing had been put up while I was away. It must have been a very quick piece of work. Then I asked father about it but he did not seem very keen on explaining—and he didn’t talk unless he wanted to. It was much later than that when he gave me something like a real explanation.”

  “When was that?”

  “About a year ago, I should say.”

  “And what was the explanation?”

  “Well, now I come to think of it, even that was rather vague. He said he knew too much about certain people, and that, at night, at any rate, he thought it would be wise to take precautions. He was not certain whether his life might be in danger, but there was just a possibility and he didn’t propose to take any risks.”

  “He definitely said his life might be in danger
?”

  “Yes, I’m sure of that. And so, after dinner each night, he used to shut himself up in this wing and I did not see him again until morning.”

  “He must have been very worried to do that?”

  “I do not think he was particularly worried then.”

  “You say ‘then.’ Did something happen later?”

  “Yes,” answered Philip. “I should say it was about a month ago. One night at dinner he seemed very excited. Happy and worried a same time, if you understand me. He told me he had found out how to settle with certain people altogether.”

  “He gave you no idea who they were?”

  “None at all,” was the reply. “He always talked about certain people. But he did seem worried as well. After that he seemed to lock himself away still earlier. He was all against taking any part himself in Livia’s celebrations. I am afraid it was I who persuaded him.” Here Philip Bamberger broke down for a few moments.

  “You have nothing to reproach yourself with,” said Harrison, gently. “You couldn’t have known what was going to happen.”

  “When he agreed to do it,” Philip went on, with an effort, “he said that the idea of being in the open air was the deciding factor.”

  “He did not think anything could happen to him in the open?” asked Harrison.

  “I expect that was his idea,” said Philip. “Poor father.”

  “Which all goes to show that he really was in danger of his life,” said Harrison. “Your father was a very brave man, Mr. Bamberger.

  “Do you really think so?” asked Philip, eagerly. “I must admit I didn’t when I found him locking himself up in the way he did.”

  “On the contrary,” said Harrison, “the danger must have been very real. He took reasonable precautions against a sudden attack at night, but that was all. He didn’t have any special servants, acting as a bodyguard or something like that?”

  “Not to my knowledge. I should say definitely not. He used to go about alone in the country.”

  “One more question, Mr. Bamberger. Do on remember anybody calling on him about a month ago, just about the time when you said he was excited?”

  “I don’t remember anybody,” answered Philip; “but they may have done. I was rather occupied at the Marstons’ then.”

  “Naturally,” said Harrison. “I must ask the servants about that, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course,” said Philip. “You can do what you like. Have you any ideas now?”

  “I can’t say yet,” said Harrison. “These Czechoslovakian histories. Did he ever look at them, do you think?”

  “I expect so,” answered Philip.

  “Do you think he was reading any of them in the past few weeks?”

  “I should say so,” said Philip. “That was how he must have spent his time. There was nothing else to do, and, judging by the number of them, I should think he must have been specially interested in reading them.”

  “So should I,” said Harrison. “And, just to test an idea of mine, I should be grateful if you would leave me here to look through some of them.”

  “Very well,” answered Philip. “I’ll say good night then and you will be undisturbed.”

  As Philip went out, Harrison turned to Henry and said, with a sigh, “It’s a hard life, Henry; no tea and possibly a long night of Czechoslovakian history.”

  Chapter VIII

  The Address On The Flyleaf

  Henry woke next morning feeling that he had not had nearly his usual allowance of sleep and did not seem over-enthusiastic when Harrison walked into his room, looking almost offensively fresh.

  “For goodness’ sake, wake up, Henry,” Harrison called, sitting on the end of the bed.

  “I need eight hours,” groaned Henry.

  “So do I, occasionally,” answered Harrison.

  “Regularly,” said Henry.

  “Habit,” replied Harrison, unfeelingly. “My dear Henry, if you become a slave to habit, you are lost. You’ll never be a great man and do great things and all that sort of stuff. Besides, you must have had your eight hours altogether. You were asleep for about two hours in the chair.”

  “It isn’t the same,” said Henry.

  “I call that sheer ingratitude,” said Harrison. “While I was working away at those wretched books, you were sleeping like a lamb. Hour after hour I was at it, long after I sent you off to bed. I got about four hours’ sleep altogether.”

  “I’m sorry I was ungrateful, sir,” said Henry, coldly, “but I might have kept awake if you had let me help you.”

  “You’re quite right, Henry,” answered Harrison. “It was my fault, but, as I did not know what I was looking for, I had to do it myself.”

  “Have you found anything, sir?” asked Henry, mollified, and sitting up in bed.

  “I may have done, Henry,” said Harrison. “That’s why I feel so cheerful. I may have found one of the real pointers in this queer affair.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Who on earth’s that?” asked Harrison.

  “May I come in a moment?” asked the voice of Philip Bamberger.

  “Of course,” shouted Harrison.

  Philip Bamberger walked in, apologising as he did so. He explained that he had gone to Harrison’s room but had found nobody there. He had then come on to Henry to see where he could find him.

  “Take a seat,” said Harrison, motioning to the other side of the bed. “Why did you want to see me so particularly?”

  “I must admit,” said Philip, “I wanted to know what your idea about the books was. I know you may think me inquisitive, but it’s been worrying me all night.”

  “Not at all,” answered Harrison. “I think you have a right to know. But let us go back for a minute to what you have told me about your father. Although he started taking precautions regarding his life some time ago, things seemed to become much more critical a month ago. That is so, isn’t it?”

  “Certainly,” said Philip.

  “Now we must assume that a month ago he obtained some information of a very valuable kind that would be distinctly damaging to certain people, as you said he called them, Mr. Bamberger. The information was so important that his life was in danger because of it, so I think we can assume that the ‘certain people’ were doing things they had no right to do. In fact, they might be called criminals. Indeed, as they were willing to endanger life—to use no uglier word—they might be classed as desperate criminals. Do you agree?”

  “That may be so,” said Philip, “but there might be nothing criminal in it at all. It might have been something political.”

  “Good for you, Mr. Bamberger,” assured Harrison, “especially if we realise that continental politics, and more so those of Central European countries, seem to admit less sense of humour and more violence than our own. What do you think, Henry?”

  “Considering the number of histories of the country he possessed,” said Henry, “it would seem more than likely.”

  “His absorption in politics would suggest that he had a deeper interest in them than might be healthy for him, sir.”

  “For you, too, Henry,” said Harrison, with a smile. “The reasoning sleuths are certainly well away this morning. The only way therefore to test the theory seems to be to study Czechoslovakian politics. That, for my sins, I did for many hours on end last night.”

  “And the results?” asked Philip.

  “In that direction, I should say, all against political crime.”

  “That’s that,” said Henry.

  “Definitely, I am afraid, Henry,” answered Harrison. “I should say, Mr. Bamberger, that your father read these histories for pure pleasure. It was his own country and he must have got great pleasure out of them. So we go back to my idea that certain people are definitely criminals, and criminals who would stick at nothing. A month ago your father obtained this unknown information. Now, Mr. Bamberger, can you tell me if there was any attempt at burglary here during that time?”

&n
bsp; “None,” answered Philip.

  “It couldn’t have been a particular document, then, in my humble opinion,” said Harrison. “It was something your father carried in his head and, therefore, to get rid of your father meant getting rid of something dangerous also.”

  “It all seems to fit,” said Philip, enthusiastically.

  “As far as it goes,” answered Harrison, “and that’s precious little. I only told you, Mr. Bamberger, to answer your question about the books.”

  “I don’t see it,” said Philip.

  “Nor I, sir,” commented Henry.

  “Come, come,” said Harrison. “Surely it is a complete answer.”

  “Don’t you be worried by Mr. Harrison,” said Henry, turning to Philip. “It’s one of his little ways, Mr. Bamberger. He loves to tell me a thing is perfectly obvious when he knows it isn’t and watch me scratch my head for the ‘answer’. He’s only waiting to be asked to explain. One day, sir,” and Henry addressed Harrison very solemnly, “nobody will rise to the bait, and you won’t be given the chance of explaining at all.”

  “Thank you, Henry,” said Harrison. “I propose to take this opportunity at any rate. Suppose, Mr. Bamberger, your father had some information which he felt was too dangerous to write down. Suppose also he wanted to keep some kind of a note of something important in it, what, I imagined, would he be likely to do? I thought of those histories of Czechoslovakia and, assuming he read them every night—and he did not seem to read anything else—I had the idea that he might have written something down in one of them. It might have sounded rather far-fetched, I know, but I felt there was just a chance.”

  “Did you find anything?” asked Philip.

  “Nothing,” answered Harrison “I ploughed through all those books page by page. It took a long time and was extremely tiring, but I had worked out my idea, and I proposed to test it to the last point. Your father was an exemplary reader of books: he never made a mark in any one of them. I must confess I was very disappointed after all the trouble to find nothing whatever.”