“I shouldn’t have called her a spy,” objected Philip.
“Not now,” answered Harrison, “but later on. Mrs. Marston is a wonderful woman. One can’t help admiring her: extraordinary tact. Directly she found out who was speaking and where from, she said how delighted she was that I was in the district again and that somehow she felt happier with me about and all that sort of thing. It was really most charming of her. I told her partly what had happened here and she didn’t seem surprised. Then I made my suggestion. That, I must say, did surprise her. She said she wouldn’t try to understand but if I really thought it was for the best she would try and arrange it.”
“I can’t imagine Livia following anybody’s suggestions, in her present mood,” said Philip.
“I put my faith in Mrs. Marston,” said Harrison. “She will be ringing me up soon and, as I must wait for her, we had better see what we have to do in Penstoke before we go off to London again.”
“Is there much to do, sir?” asked Henry.
“Well, Henry, much as we like Penstoke, we want to finish off the job this time,” answered Harrison, “so that there will be no need to come dashing down again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And there’s going to be quite a lot to do in London.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of course we mustn’t forget Finney.”
“I’ll get rid of him at once,” said Philip.
“No, you won’t,” replied Harrison. “Finney is obviously an admirable and conscientious worker, Bamberger, even if it is for his other employers. We know we’re being watched so we must use Mr. Finney instead of letting the others do so. That is only fair, isn’t it? It would be a pity if Miss Williams knew too quickly what I was up to. Far better for her to know what I am not up to.”
“In what way do you mean?” asked Philip.
“From Finney’s point of view I want you to drive me back to London,” said Harrison. “It would be far better for his employers to know that. We could stop at the ‘Sun’ on the way and there may be one or two other things we want to do but I think it would be best for Finney to convey the news of our departure in that way. Incidentally, you may have to have a breakdown—I need all sorts of plausible reasons for not being in the place they expect me to be—but we can discuss that later.”
“Shall I get Finney out?”
“Yes, I think I would. I don’t expect he’s very far away,” answered Harrison, “and we had better see Higgins afterwards.”
“Higgins?” exclaimed Philip.
“Most important,” answered Harrison.
They were now walking very near the house and Philip Bamberger went on ahead to find Finney. As if by magic, that functionary seemed to appear from nowhere. As Harrison had said, Finney had not been very far away but Harrison had taken the precaution of walking in the middle of the paths, well away from hedges, trees and bushes, so that it would have been impossible to overhear any part of the conversation.
Philip gave Finney instructions regarding packing a bag and bringing the car round and explained his intention of driving Harrison to London.
“By the way,” said Harrison, coming up and speaking to Finney, “you might show my secretary where the telephone is. I am expecting an important call and would like him to wait for it.”
Finney looked suspiciously at Harrison for a moment—a look that would have confirmed all Harrison’s ideas on the subject of Finney’s behaviour, had it been necessary—but he saw nothing in Harrison’s face to suggest that the remark had any special meaning.
“And you might send Higgins to me, Finney,” said Philip.
Finney disappeared with the obsequious bow of a zealous butler, followed by Henry.
“No need for him to do his telephoning yet,” said Harrison. “We may as well put that off as long as possible and, besides, if Mrs. Marston rings up, as she promised, I do not particularly want him to know about it.”
Higgins soon appeared from the house.
“You sent for me, sir?” he asked, deferentially.
“Mr. Harrison wants to speak to you,” said Philip.
“The fact is, Higgins, you have shown yourself to be so observant that Mr. Bamberger has suggested that you might be useful to me on a rather delicate mission.”
“I am very grateful, sir,” answered Higgins, with a huge smile at Philip who, in his turn, looked somewhat puzzled.
“It is not going to be easy, Higgins; I warn you of that,” said Harrison.
“I will do my best, sir,” answered Higgins, with a very determined manner.
“And I don’t want you to talk to anyone about it—either before or after.”
“Certainly not, sir.”
“Now you know who I am, Higgins, and that I am not doing things just for fun. A very great deal depends on my inquiries and therefore partly on you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I want you to go up to Mr. Marston’s house and persuade the butler and the chauffeur to come to the ‘Sun’ public-house at Penstoke during the afternoon. At different times, if possible.”
“It won’t be difficult over the chauffeur, sir, if he’s that way,” answered Higgins. “I know him fairly well and he goes to the ‘Sun’ himself. But the butler is more of a problem. But I’ll do my best, sir.”
“I know you will, Higgins,” answered Harrison. “That’s why I thought of you. It is very important that I should talk to both of them. If you don’t have any luck or find things a bit difficult, send me a message to the ‘Sun’. I will be waiting there.”
“Very good, sir,” answered Higgins. “Mr. Bamberger has no objection, of course?”
“None at all, Higgins,” said Bamberger. “I think as highly of you as Mr. Harrison and propose to look into the question of your wages in a day or two.”
“I don’t know what to say, sir,” replied Higgins, almost overwhelmed, “or how to thank you.”
“Off you go, then,” said Harrison, “and mind, not a word to Finney or anybody else.”
“Certainly not, sir,” answered Higgins, hurrying away as if the fate of a great nation depended upon the successful carrying out of his mission.
“I’m afraid I must wait about until I hear from Mrs. Marston,” said Harrison. “If you don’t mind wandering about near the house I shall be very grateful.”
For some time Harrison and Bamberger perambulated the garden, always keeping within range, and talked mainly of indifferent things. However much one’s mind is on the exciting possibilities of events around one, it is impossible to go beyond a certain limit with them. At least Harrison thought so; and although Bamberger would like to have asked many questions regarding his father’s death he knew that Harrison would turn the conversation every time and so gave up his efforts.
After what seemed an interminable time to Bamberger, Henry came from the house and called Harrison, who immediately went to the telephone.
Mrs. Marston was obviously somewhat worried. She explained that Livia had arrived home very angry at seeing Harrison again, that she and Miss Williams had done her best to soothe her but with very little result, that Miss Williams had been as sweet as could be but that then her husband had started to be very difficult. He was almost rude to Miss Williams and quite discourteous to Mr. Cross—that was the name, wasn’t it, of Miss Williams’ friend.
Harrison was full of sympathy at having given her so much trouble and hoped that, in those circumstances, she had not tried to carry out his request.
“Of course I did,” answered Mrs. Marston over the telephone. “I knew you must have a reason for asking me to do it and as I have the greatest faith in your judgment I shouldn’t have thought of letting you down without trying.”
Harrison was very grateful.
“But it worked out in quite a different way to my expectations,” continued Mrs. Marston. “I waited till things were a bit quieter and then, as diplomatically and casually as I could, I mentioned the possibility of Livia going up to Lond
on with Helen—almost as a joke, you know.”
“Excellent,” commented Harrison.
“I’m afraid it wasn’t,” answered Mrs. Marston, sadly. “My husband looked daggers at me and asked Helen and Mr. Cross if they would leave us there alone for a moment. Helen looked surprised but I gave her a look, trying to convey that I wanted to humour him and she seemed to understand. Helen is very understanding, you know, Mr. Harrison.”
“Of course,” was the reply.
“Helen and Mr. Cross went into another room,” said Mrs. Marston, “and my husband very angrily told Livia that he forbade her to go to London with that woman. I was most astonished—really I could hardly believe my ears. It sounded so strange from him because I always thought he rather liked Helen. Still, his nerves are so bad one must expect anything. But still he should have remembered that Livia cannot be treated in that way. She went up in the air at once. Now her parents were against her like Philip and everybody else. Helen was the only friend she had and they had turned on her. She was quite hysterical. She didn’t care what her father said. She was going to London with Helen, come what may.”
“And what did Mr. Marston say?” asked Harrison.
“Poor William,” said Mrs. Marston, “it seemed to stun him. He started to speak and then stopped. Livia gave him one look and flounced out of the room. I followed her but she wouldn’t listen to me. She just threw some things into a case and has gone off with them. I have just seen them go. Of course, Helen is not to blame. She has been frightfully good. She tried to persuade Livia to stay here—”
“Of course,” said Harrison.
“—But she wouldn’t. One could see she was thoroughly upset and really didn’t know what she was doing. Still she’s gone and William has hardly said anything since. I have done what you told me, Mr. Harrison, and can’t you help me a little?”
“I will try,” said Harrison, quietly. “I will do my best to come and see you this evening and I may be able to do something then.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Harrison,” answered Mrs. Marston, gratefully. “I do trust you and I shall expect to see you then.”
Harrison put down the telephone thoughtfully. Things were certainly moving but he still needed a little more help to be certain of their direction.
“Bamberger,” he called, so that any listener might hear, “I have had an urgent call from London and I must get back as soon as I can. Are you ready?”
Chapter X
Cross
“Now, Henry,” said Harrison, as Bamberger drove them towards the ‘Sun’, “what do we remember about this famous hostelry?”
“Historically, sir?” asked Henry.
“I should like to think so, Henry,” answered Harrison, “but I don’t think we can be so descriptive about our own little actions at present. No, I mean in connection with the ‘Case of the King’s Scullion,’ as I think we may call it for the present.”
“Two foreigners, sir,” said Henry. “Their names—” he paused and produced his book—“one of them something like Skelofski and the other Josephs. Staying at the ‘Sun’ the night before the tragedy—”
“Perhaps ‘event’ would be better for the moment. My nerves don’t need thrilling.”
“—Before the event. They expected somebody whom they called the ‘Head.’ That’s all I know, sir, except for a note.”
“What’s the note, Henry?”
“Was Miss Williams anything to do with Skelofski and Josephs and did she visit the ‘Head’ at the ‘Sun’?”
“Pretty good, Henry,” said Harrison. “You do make a note of everything. Then what we have to do is to see the landlord of the ‘Sun’ and look at the wastepaper baskets.”
“Quite, sir,” said Henry, with the most obvious show of lack of surprise. “And what shall we find in the wastepaper baskets, sir?”
“It’s only a hope at present,” said Harrison, “but I promise you, Henry, whether I find it or not, I will tell you what it is I am looking for.”
They had now reached the ‘Sun’, a pleasant country-town inn, closed because of the afternoon hour to the general public. A paved way under an arch led to the back of the place where there was quite a large yard overlooked on one side by the inn itself and on the other by stables which had been converted into garages. However beautiful in structure a motor-car may be, thought Harrison, there is something infinitely sad about an inn yard without an ostler. Sam Weller and Straker both have their points and Straker’s predominance has given us Shaw’s world in place of that of Dickens, instead of adding it.
On this pleasant afternoon the yard looked rather sleepy and the whole place seemed untenanted, but Harrison found that the back door was open and wandered inside. Again everything seemed placid until he found a small office filled with a very large man who seemed to be struggling prodigiously to balance a column of figures in a large ledger.
“Excuse me,” said Harrison.
The large man looked up with irritation in his manner. “Don’t interrupt me,” he snapped, and continued his calculations.
Harrison waited and still the abstruse arithmetic went on. Three or four times the large man seemed to add up his column but gained no satisfaction from so doing. Finally he shut the book with a bang.
“It’s no good,” he exclaimed. “Six times I’ve counted it and each one different. I was two shillings in the last time so I’d better leave it at that for the time being. What with borrowers and income tax and odds and ends a man spends this life counting up figures. Nonsense, I call it, especially if one can’t add—nor can the wife.”
“I’m sorry, Mr.—”
“Albion Tunnery is my name, sir, landlord of the ‘Sun’ and the worst man at figures in Penstoke. Not counting women, for I swear Mrs. Tunnery is worse still. Now, what can I do for you?”
“My name’s Harrison—”
“Not Clay Harrison,” exclaimed Mr. Tunnery, his eyes shining. “Let me have a look at you.”
He moved himself very heavily off his chair in the office and came out into the hall of the inn. If he wanted to look at Harrison, certainly Harrison was glad to have a good sight of Mr. Albion Tunnery. He was an extraordinarily large man with not enough height to carry it off. Still more grotesque, he wore ‘plus fours’ of the most voluminous character which seemed to add still further to the effect of mass which he conveyed. His shoulders were amazingly wide and his jowl hung down heavily towards his chest. Clean shaven and somewhat bald, Mr. Albion Tunnery was worth looking at, if only for the picture of bulky humanity he presented. Henry felt in his “rubbing-eye” mood, as he called it. The landlord was too good to be true, he was literally too large to be true and yet, there he was, the whole mass of him, like an artist’s joyous conception of a big man, just after leaving a colossal gilt frame. Pygmalion’s surprise at the sudden lifelikeness of Galatea was what Henry might justly have compared his feelings with on his first sight of Mr. Tunnery.
“Admiring my shape,” said Mr. Tunnery, cheerfully, looking at Henry. “I should say I’m the biggest man in Penstoke; not counting women, of course, because Mrs. Tunnery can give me points.” He laughed and Henry laughed dutifully with him.
“Give me points,” he continued, “that’s where the English language makes a fool of itself and me. Now I ask you, is that perfectly right speaking to say ‘give me points’, and yet the thought of Mrs. Tunnery or me having any points at all. Well—” He gave a comprehensive glance over himself and Henry laughed again.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Mr. Tunnery went on, turning to Harrison. “I knew you had been up at Mr. Marston’s but I thought you had gone back to London. I never thought you would honour the ‘Sun’ and Mr. and Mrs. Albion Tunnery with a visit.”
“It is a very great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tunnery,” returned Harrison. “As a matter of fact you may be able to help me.”
“Anything Mrs. Tunnery or I can do, Mr. Harrison, you can be sure we will,” answered Tunnery, enthusiastically. “We’ve read e
verything we can get about you, sir. Detective writers are all very well, but it’s the real thing we like and you’re it. Now what can I do?”
“You have had a fair number of foreigners staying here?”
“Yes, I have, and very good and quiet customers they have been,” answered Tunnery, looking at young Bamberger. “I assumed they were something to do with your father, sir.”
“At any rate, they’re something to do with me,” said Harrison.
“Not really, sir!” asked Tunnery.
“Well, not all of them,” answered Harrison. “Just two of them. Josephs and Skelofski, I think their names are.”
“That’s right, sir,” said Tunnery. “They were staying here last week. They went away the morning of the accident. Very harmless sort of people they seemed to me.”
“They certainly weren’t harmless,” replied Harrison, “but you needn’t repeat that to anyone else. May I see the rooms they had?”
“Of course,” said Tunnery, going to the foot of the staircase and proceeding to shout, “Eva.”
A voice soon answered him from above with the sharp request as to the necessity of breaking into one’s afternoon slumbers in this ungallant and riotous manner.
“Mr. Clay Harrison’s here,” answered Tunnery, “and he wants to come up.”
“You don’t say, Albion,” came the reply, obviously flattered. “Go on, it’s one of your absurdities.”
“It isn’t, Eva,” said Tunnery. “It’s him himself. Up you go, sir.”
Harrison mounted the stairs, followed by Henry and Bamberger, and at the head found himself face to face with a woman who answered perfectly to Albion Tunnery’s description of his own wife. She was remarkably, even mountainously, fat and seemed a fitting mate for the landlord of the “Sun.” Her twinkling eye was an index to a native intelligence and her smile guaranteed a belief that beer and skittles filled the larger part of life.
Harrison explained what he wanted and Mrs. Tunnery was immediately all agreement. She apologised for the fact that the rooms had not been properly turned out but time waited for nobody and life was one long rush. She then moved quickly down a passage—at a speed which seemed out of all proportion to her weight—and opened two adjacent doors.
The Man Without A Face Page 13