The Man Without A Face

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

  Mrs. Tunnery put her head round the door. “Sorry to disturb you, sir,” she said, “but it’s Dingle, Mr. Marston’s chauffeur. He says he’s come to see you.”

  “Show him in,” said Harrison, settling himself still more comfortably.

  The chauffeur entered the room with a somewhat truculent look but it was obvious that this attitude was only a protective covering to a definite uneasiness of conscience.

  “Well,” said Harrison.

  “You asked me to come here,” said the chauffeur, sullenly, “and here I am.”

  “Thank you,” said Harrison. “And now what can you tell me?”

  “I’ve nothing to tell you,” said the chauffeur, sharply. “I was a fool to come at all.”

  “Really, Mr. Dingle,” answered Harrison, quietly. When you got my message you were so surprised that you acted like a wise man and came and saw what it meant.”

  “I’ve nothing to tell you, I say,” said Dingle.

  “Very well, then, Mr. Dingle, I’ve nothing to tell you either,” answered Harrison, “and as you came here to find out exactly what I know, you can go home unsatisfied.”

  “You do know something then,” said Dingle, eagerly.

  “Of course.”

  “How much?”

  “Enough to get you sacked, Mr. Dingle,” said Harrison, solemnly.

  “I don’t believe it,” replied Dingle.

  “But you would like to know, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’m making no bargains,” was the reply.

  “I don’t want any bargains,” answered Harrison, slowly. “I don’t make them myself. Now, look here, Dingle, you’re in a difficult position. I know you are. It’s no good trying to deceive me. If you don’t want to talk, you needn’t. I’m not going to ask you to. I’ve tried being polite to you and that has done no good. Now I’m going to talk to you and you’ll be wise to listen.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said Dingle, in a much more humble tone.

  “That’s better,” said Harrison. “If you try to help me, we may be able to straighten things out all right. First of all, do you know why I came back to Penstoke?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Because Sir Jeremiah Bamberger was murdered.”

  “Murdered,” echoed Dingle, his face going an unpleasant grey.

  “There is no doubt whatever,” replied Harrison.

  “But it can’t be true,” said Dingle. “Mr. Marston—”

  “I told you I would talk to you,” continued Harrison. “The second reason I came back to Penstoke was to find out something about the foreigners with whom you were so friendly.”

  “Me, sir?” said Dingle, his suspicion bringing back the truculent note to his voice.

  “Certainly,” Harrison replied. “They were staying at the ‘Sun’ and they paid for quite a lot of drinks too. When you drove me to Penstoke House you told me something about them yourself. You said there were three or four, but I expect that was chauffeur’s licence for two. You also said that they asked you to get them into the grounds for the play and you refused.”

  “That’s true, sir,” said Dingle, “I swear it is.”

  “Then what did you do for them?” returned Harrison quickly.

  “Well, sir,” said Dingle, starting with hesitation but gaining speed as he proceeded. “They were very pressing about my helping them to get into the grounds but I kept on refusing. Then they said if I couldn’t do that, could I show them how it might be done. Wasn’t there some quiet spot near the road where they could get through the hedge, or something like that, without being noticed. They were so keen on seeing the play that they would be fearfully disappointed if they couldn’t.”

  “You believed that?” asked Harrison.

  “At the time, sir,” replied Dingle, looking defiantly at him. “I swear I did. They were so pressing and really seemed so disappointed. They had treated me generously, too. They were always paying for drinks and—”

  “How much?” snapped Harrison.

  “You can’t expect me to know all they paid for drinks,” said Dingle, innocently.

  “You know what I mean,” said Harrison. “How much did they pay you for your information?”

  “Five pounds, sir,” said the chauffeur, with a look of indignation.

  “Pretty good,” said Harrison. “It must have been a good place. But didn’t you think five pounds rather a lot for such a job?”

  “I can’t say I did, sir.”

  “It didn’t make you suspicious of what they were up to?”

  “Well, they had said all along they were so keen on seeing the play that I thought they were willing to pay anything for it.”

  “You’re a pretty poor liar, Dingle,” said Harrison; “Mrs. Marston wouldn’t have minded your friends coming in by the usual way but you wanted the five pounds and you’ve been frightened ever since that somebody would find you out. You see, the most important thing to remember is that your friends did not want to come in by the usual way. They might have been a bit rattled if you had tried to arrange that. But they knew their man, obviously. Now, what are you going to do about it?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” answered Dingle, his voice mumbling. “Are you going to tell Mrs. Marston?”

  “We’ll see about that,” said Harrison. “The first thing to do is for you to drive me in the car to the exact spot for which the foreigners paid you five pounds.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Dingle.

  “Now,” answered Harrison.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well,” said Harrison, “let’s get in,” and he left the room, with Dingle following. In the office he found Mr. Tunnery again immersed in his impossible arithmetical calculations. Harrison explained that he would only be away for a short while, and anybody who came for him was to be asked to wait, and incidentally upset the whole of Mr. Tunnery’s accountancy. That gentleman was, however, generously philosophic about it and smiled Harrison out of the inn. The chauffeur drove to Penstoke House by quite a different route to that which he had taken before when bringing Harrison from the railway station. They soon came to a long wall at the border of an excellent side road. “A very good road,” commented Harrison. “Where does it lead to?”

  “Nowhere in particular,” answered Dingle.

  “It’s too good for that,” objected Harrison.

  “Honestly sir,” answered Dingle, “It only connects two very small places, Penstoke and Polherne. The main road is only about a mile away.”

  “But surely no local council is going to throw its money away on a road like this when there’s nothing to show for it?” asked Harrison.

  “They might do,” said Dingle, “to please Mr. Marston.”

  Harrison smiled. Curious as it might seem, Mr. Marston was the important person in that part of the county and the habits of local authorities are so incalculable and occasionally so extravagant that it was quite believable that public rates had been spent for this reason.

  “Then there is very little traffic along here?” asked Harrison.

  “Hardly any,” was the reply.

  “The foreigners asked you that, of course?” said Harrison.

  The chauffeur nodded assent unwillingly.

  “In fact, they asked you particularly for a spot where there was no traffic?”

  The chauffeur nodded again.

  “You didn’t think it curious?” The chauffeur did not speak. “What reason did they give?”

  “They said they might get into trouble if their car was seen,” answered Dingle.

  “And you believed them, of course?” asked Harrison, but again no reply was forthcoming.

  The wall now ended and was succeeded by a hedge which Harrison could see, across the undulating ground, went practically up to the house.

  “Very convenient,” said Harrison, “but what’s happened to the wall?”

  “They say that one of Mr. Marston’s ancestors started to build it and then hadn’t any money left to go on with it,�
�� replied the chauffeur. “I was told that Mr. Marston had wanted to finish it but Mrs. Marston thought the view from the house would be spoilt.”

  The chauffeur stopped the car and he and Harrison walked up to the hedge where they found a natural gap leading into the Penstoke grounds. Pushing through and walking on a little way they found themselves on the edge of the little wood which had served as a natural background for Miss Livia’s play.

  “If you go right across there, sir,” said Dingle, “you come to where all the people were watching.”

  “I see,” said Harrison; “an excellent private door but rather open to the view, isn’t it? Anybody walking across there would be noticed at once.”

  “Oh, no, sir,” Dingle answered, quickly. “There were so many of the people in the play going backwards and forwards to the house—” He stopped.

  “That one more or less wouldn’t be noticed,” Harrison added. “There’s no doubt you earned your money, Dingle.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, sir,” said Dingle, pathetically. “If I’d realised for a moment, sir, that it was so serious, sir, I wouldn’t have—” Dingle stopped as he realised that Harrison was not listening to him. Harrison’s eyes were fixed on a spot of ground near the edge of the wood. Dingle followed his eye and saw a splash of white on the turf like a piece of paper thrown down by a careless picnicker. Harrison went across to the place and picked it up. The object proved to be an empty cigarette packet. There were also a number of cigarette ends and burnt-out matches, all of which he picked up carefully and placed in the empty packet.

  “That’s all, Dingle,” he said, putting his find very carefully in his pocket. “Now you can drive me back.”

  “What you picked up, sir,” said the chauffeur, as they drove towards the “Sun” again. “You’ll excuse my asking, but do they mean anything, sir?”

  “They have told me a great deal, Dingle,” said Harrison.

  “Wonderful, sir,” said Dingle.

  “It is wonderful,” replied Harrison. “They may help to undo some of the mischief you helped to do.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” was the answer. “What are you going to tell Mrs. Marston?”

  “If you behave yourself, Dingle,” said Harrison, “I may not have to tell her anything at all.”

  “You don’t know how grateful I should be,” said Dingle.

  “You don’t deserve it,” answered Harrison, “and I can’t be certain. But, as I said, if you behave and don’t talk, I may be able to forget it.” They drew up at the “Sun” and Harrison got out. “You can go back to Penstoke House,” said Harrison, “remember what I said. It all depends on yourself.”

  “I understand, sir,” said Dingle, as the car moved away, “and I don’t know how to thank you.”

  Harrison went back to the room he had made his head-quarters and settled down again to smoke. He took from his pocket the empty cigarette packet he had picked up by the wood. He then took out his wallet and picked out a cigarette card bearing the picture of the famous Admiral Benbow. These he placed on the table together and whistled softly.

  Soon afterwards Mrs. Tunnery appeared, “all of a flutter,” to use her own words.

  “Mr. Millward to see you, sir,” she said, as if announcing royalty.

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Tunnery?” said Harrison.

  “Mr. Millward, sir,” she replied, “from Penstoke House. There’s a fine man, if ever there was one.”

  “Mr. Marston’s butler?” asked Harrison.

  “That’s what he would be called officially,” answered Mrs. Tunnery, “but something more than that, sir. Mr. Millward is a wonderful man. Everybody respects him round here. Kind, generous, honest as the day—I expect Albion would ask why the day is more honest than anything else—but that’s what people say, isn’t it. It’s an honour to have Mr. Millward come into our house, and I defy contradiction.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, Mrs. Tunnery,” said Harrison. “Show Mr. Millward in.”

  Mrs. Tunnery turned to go, but as she did so she spied the fragments on the table. Muttering a few words about tidy and untidy habits she prepared to pick them up.

  “Don’t touch those, Mrs. Tunnery,” said Harrison, quickly.

  “All right, sir, all right,” she answered, soothingly. “I thought you might like them thrown away.”

  “Thrown away, Mrs. Tunnery,” exclaimed Harrison. “Look at them.”

  Mrs. Tunnery picked up the empty cigarette packet. “‘Little Slam’ cigarettes,” she said. “I never heard of them. Some fancy kind, I suppose. ‘Gold Mark’ or ‘Players’ are more our mark.”

  Harrison carefully placed the packet and picture back in his pocket. “Maybe,” he said, “but ‘Little Slam’ might lead to a solution of all my problems.”

  “You don’t say, sir,” said Mrs. Tunnery, her tone full of awe. “Marvellous, I call it.”

  She went out and soon returned, deferentially showing in Mr. Millward, the Marston butler. He was the perfect butler: square-faced, clean-shaven and side-whiskered, just as he should be. His overcoat and bowler hat somehow proclaimed his butlerhood. They seemed specially designed for the profession; and as he waited for Harrison to speak, deferential but never servile, he gave the impression of perfect breeding which only your butler of any long standing is able to convey— even when a fair majority of the aristocracy is included.

  “Sit down, Mr. Millward,” said Harrison, indicating a chair on the other side of the table.

  Still carefully holding his bowler hat, Millward sat down as he had been requested. “You sent for me, sir,” he said.

  “I did, Mr. Millward,” answered Harrison. “I apologise if I have given you any trouble.”

  “I didn’t want to come, sir, I will admit that,” said Millward, “but Higgins said it was a matter of life and death; although, if you will pardon my saying so, sir, I could not imagine that my presence was as urgent as that. I gave way to his persuasion.”

  “I am very greatly obliged to you, Mr. Millward,” answered Harrison, “and I will come to the point at once. You remember all the circumstances connected with the accident to Sir Jeremiah?”

  “I do, sir,” said Millward, the look of fear appearing in his eyes—that look which Harrison had already noticed during the inquest.

  “I watched you very carefully during the inquest myself,” said Harrison, “and I came to the conclusion that your evidence, if it had been asked for, would have thrown as much, or even more, light on the subject than that we then heard.”

  “I should not have thought so, sir,” answered Millward, the colour going from his face.

  “I don’t want to distress you, Mr. Millward,” continued Harrison, “but you may also remember that you came towards me in the hall afterwards as if you had something to tell me and then you seemed to think better of it and left me severely alone.”

  “I don’t remember it, sir,” replied Millward, seeming to grow more and more uncomfortable.

  “And yet there is something you could tell me, isn’t there?” asked Harrison, quietly.

  “Nothing at all, sir,” answered Millward.” I thought there was, but now I know I must have been mistaken.”

  “Well, what did you think?” pursued Harrison.

  “I would rather not say,” answered Millward.

  “Come, come, Mr. Millward,” said Harrison, “you may be hindering the cause of justice if you do not tell me what you thought.”

  Millward looked more uncomfortable still but shook his head. Suddenly an angry voice was heard outside the door of the room which made Millward jump to his feet in dismay. The door crashed open and in burst William Marston.

  “What’s this?” he shouted, angrily, “cross-examining my servants, Mr. Harrison. I won’t have it, I tell you, I won’t have it. Gross impertinence.”

  Harrison looked calmly at his new visitor and was shocked at the change he saw. Mr. Marston was now a nervous wreck and his eyes blazed wildly as he talked. The contrast with the
Marston of the night before the accident at Penstoke was terribly marked.

  “Millward, I’m surprised at you,” Marston continued. “Go back home at once.”

  “Just a minute,” said Harrison, sternly. “Mr. Marston, I resent this intrusion. I asked Millward to come and speak to me in the interests of justice. If you try to prevent him, I can only put one construction on your action—that you do not want justice to be done.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” answered Marston, shaking violently.

  “You understand perfectly well what I mean,” said Harrison. “I’ve come down again to settle the Bamberger case. Something is being hidden and I intend to know what it is. Now, Mr. Marston, are you going to help me or are you not?”

  “How can I?” asked Marston, feebly, collapsing into a chair.

  “By letting me question Millward,” answered Harrison.

  “Oh, well,” said Marston, his whole defiant spirit having evaporated. “Do what you like.”

  “I should prefer you to be present,” said Harrison.

  “I don’t care what he says,” answered Marston.

  “Now, Mr. Millward,” asked Harrison, “what was in your mind during the inquest when you were afraid something unpleasant might come out?”

  “I don’t like to say, sir,” said Millward, turning to Marston, “but if you will give me permission, sir, I am ready to.”

  “What do you say, Mr. Marston?” asked Harrison

  “I don’t mind what Millward says,” answered Marston, feebly.

  “But it’s very serious, sir,” urged Millward. “I won’t speak if you don’t want me to.”

  “I tell you I don’t mind now,” said Marston, irritably. “I don’t mind anything.”

  If a butler can show surprise at anything, Millward showed it then by a slight movement of his eyebrows.

  “Very well, sir,” he said, and then, turning to Harrison, he added, “I’m afraid I must explain first a little.”

  “That’s all right. Go ahead,” said Harrison.

  “Well, sir, I have been in the Marston family service all my life,” said Millward, “and that’s a fair stretch. I started as a boy and worked steadily upwards. For some time, quite a long time, I was valet to Mr. William and then he made me his butler, so you see I know the look of Mr. William as I know my own self. I could not mistake him for anyone else or anyone else for him, at a good long distance, too, sir, for my sight is said to be extremely good for my age, sir.”