The Man Without A Face

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

  “And my wife, Mr. Harrison,” asked Marston. “What of her?”

  “I leave that to you,” said Harrison. “You can tell her yourself or not, as you think fit. It may have to be told in evidence when I’ve straightened out the case but I shall say nothing. Your story has confirmed all my ideas and made it possible for me to start looking for the real criminal.”

  Marston heaved a sigh of relief and took Harrison’s hand. “I was a fool not to have spoken to you on my own account,” he said. “I am very grateful to you.”

  “Good,” said Harrison, “and what about Millward?”

  “A good servant,” said Marston, smiling for the first time, “with remarkably good eyesight for his age.”

  Chapter XIII

  The Man In Cook’s Clothing

  It was getting fairly late when Harrison arrived at Hawcross in a motor-car which the good Tunnery had magnanimously provided for him. All questions of payment had been waved aside. The “Sun” had been honoured by sheltering such a man as Harrison, even for so short a time, and the two large Tunnerys watched him depart with affectionate cordiality.

  If ever he was there again he must come and stay with them, said Tunnery. In fact, he must make it his business to be there again, said Mrs. Tunnery, or heaven knows how many fruity murders she herself would have to commit to make his reappearance essential. “What fun,” said Mrs. Tunnery, “you’ve never had to track anybody as fat as me, and if I said it was just because of my sheer affection for you no jury would convict me, would they?”

  Harrison had laughed. Such encounters were very rare and refreshing—and unusual—in his line of work. He said goodbye to them with real regret and was even more touched when the driver of the motor-car wanted to stop at every hostelry on the road, on Mr. Tunnery’s express instructions, to obtain refreshment for Harrison at the great Albion’s expense. This prodigal hospitality Harrison had politely to decline although the man explained that there would be “no end of a dust-up” with Tunnery when he found his instructions had not been carried out.

  As Harrison leaned back in the car and steadily moved eastwards from Penstoke, he felt a pang of conscience on account of Henry. Bamberger, though a pleasant young man, was certainly not the kind of companion Henry would willingly have chosen. Still it was all part of the great game. The pieces were moving satisfactorily and Henry, for the moment, had to be one of them.

  Henry had been right when he had guessed that the “White Hart” would be the chief hotel of Hawcross. When Harrison drove up to it, he found Henry and Philip Bamberger lounging disconsolately outside the porch waiting for him. He had a word with his driver and watched him turn and drive back towards Penstoke before going up to them.

  “You’re a nice pair of assistants for a detective,” said Harrison, with an air of resignation.

  “We’ve done what you said, sir,” answered Henry, apologetically.

  “How long have you been waiting outside here for me?” asked Harrison.

  “Since dinner,” said Bamberger; “about an hour and a half, I should think, although it seemed very much longer.”

  “And did I tell you to do that, Henry?”

  “No, sir,” said Henry, apologetically.

  “Suppose anybody is interested enough to be watching us,” said Harrison, “somebody who wants to know where I am tonight. Don’t you think the very fact that you have been all that time on the look-out would suggest to the simplest brain that you were expecting me to arrive here at any moment?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So that anybody can know I’m in Hawcross?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You ought to be more careful, Henry,” said Harrison. “Things are getting very serious and any false move may upset the whole thing. You see, I must rely on you sometimes to use your own judgment.”

  Henry looked pathetically contrite, a great contrast to the colleague rather than assistant of a great detective who had left the “Sun” inn earlier in the day.

  “Still,” continued Harrison, “it doesn’t matter much in this case. It rather fits in with my plans than otherwise. I want the world to know I’m at Hawcross. In fact, Bamberger, I want you to go and telephone to the delightful Finney. Tell him that you have broken down at Hawcross and will not go any farther to-night. You and Mr. Harrison—be particularly careful to mention my name—and his secretary have decided to stay here the night. If the car is ready you will go on to London in it in the morning. If not, you and your friends will go on by train and you will call for it on your way back to Penstoke. You understand?”

  “Yes, Mr. Harrison,” answered Bamberger, and he went off to carry out his commission.

  “You want Miss Williams and Mr. Cross to know you are staying here?” asked Henry.

  “Exactly,” said Harrison, “and as I have no direct means of communication with them, Henry, I am relying on Mr. Finney to pass on the message.”

  “I don’t quite see why, sir,” said Henry, very deferentially because he felt that, for the moment, the basis of equality between him and Harrison had quite disappeared.

  “Have a shot at it, Henry,” said Harrison, in a kindly voice. “You’re losing heart. You know my methods well enough by this time. Now why should I want the enemy to know that I am staying the night at Hawcross?”

  “I really can’t think, sir,” answered Henry.

  “Yes, you can, Henry,” said Harrison persuasively.

  Henry knitted his forehead in a great effort and then a gleam of light came into his eyes and a smile spread across his face.

  “I know, sir,” he said, triumphantly, “because you are not going to stay here the night at all.”

  “Quite right, Henry,” answered Harrison. “Now you’re showing some of your old form. And don’t forget we shall need it, too. I may have sounded rather angry a moment ago but that was only because I need your help as much as I ever did and you seemed to me to be getting slack.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said Henry.

  “That’s all right,” answered Harrison, “but neither of us can afford to be slack. We’ve got to be at our highest pitch. We’re fighting very strong opponents and it’s going to be touch and go to trap them. They must realise we’re well after them.”

  “Are we, sir?” asked Henry.

  “We certainly are,” answered Harrison, “and I personally should prefer a few hours’ quiet in the chambers before they know I’m there.”

  “I see, sir,” said Henry.

  “Directly they realise I’m back in London,” said Harrison, “they’ll be keeping a pretty close eye on me, so if I can arrange to be there a little earlier than they expect I can pull things together and make a few essential arrangements before they can take a hand in the game.”

  “So we leave here at once, sir?” asked Henry.

  “Directly Mr. Bamberger is ready,” answered Harrison.

  Philip Bamberger soon reappeared from the inn with the news that he had successfully carried out his instructions. Finney had been full of sympathy and hoped that both his master and Mr. Harrison would have a comfortable night. He seemed to emphasise his wishes about Harrison, but Bamberger might have imagined that, for telephones do play tricks with voices.

  Harrison smiled and explained to Bamberger exactly what he wanted to do next. The motor-car did not take long to get ready and the three of them were soon speeding in the gathering darkness towards London.

  They reached Harrison’s rooms in the Temple in the small hours of the morning and Henry immediately set about preparing the inevitable cup of tea.

  “Do you want to go to bed?” Harrison asked Bamberger.

  “Is that a question or a command?” asked Bamberger in return.

  “Certainly not a command,” said Harrison, “but I thought you might be tired.”

  “Not a bit,” was the reply. “I’d much rather stay here and listen.”

  “Young man,” said Harrison, with a laugh, “you’re expecting rather a lot, aren
’t you?”

  Bamberger started apologising but Harrison stopped him.

  “Still you’re entitled to listen,” he said. “It concerns you a great deal. I had intended to go over the ground with Henry before I went to bed so you can stay, if you like.”

  Bamberger gave a warm smile of gratitude and Henry soon appeared with the tea-tray.

  “Any letters of importance?” asked Harrison.

  “Nothing very exciting, sir,” answered Henry.

  “Any visitors?”

  “No sign of any, sir,” was the reply.

  “We’d better have a good look, at any rate, for traces of them,” said Harrison, and he and Henry proceeded to a minute scrutiny of every corner of the chambers.

  Bamberger was somewhat amused at these proceedings and Harrison caught his smile as he peered into a book-littered corner.

  “I assure you it’s quite necessary,” he said to Bamberger. “The people who mix in my circle are terribly informal; in fact, they seem to take a delight in doing things in an abnormal way. They would not think of doing anything as straight-forwardly as you might. They leave their traces in the oddest spots. They even leave themselves about sometimes when you least expect to see them. A very curious lot, Bamberger.”

  “It seems all right, sir,” said Henry.

  “Very well, Henry,” answered Harrison, “we can settle down now. I’m sorry to make you work overtime, but a notebook and pencil will be essential because we must record progress.”

  The thought of overtime did not seem to perturb Henry in the least. Harrison settled down in the chair at his desk, produced a cigar and, lighting it, puffed with great contentment. Bamberger settled in the armchair at the side of the desk usually occupied by anxious clients. Henry poured out the tea and, having allotted the cups, sat at the opposite side of the desk to Harrison and waited patiently to take the necessary notes.

  “First of all we have only three material pieces of evidence,” said Harrison. “One you know about. That is the address at Havre I found in Sir Jeremiah’s book. These are the other two.”

  He produced from his pocket the empty packet of ‘Little Slam’ cigarettes and the picture card of Admiral Benbow. “This remarkable likeness of a great English hero,” said Harrison, holding up the cigarette card, “is already known to Henry. I may as well explain to you, Mr. Bamberger, that we found it in the pocket of a cook’s costume exactly similar to that worn by Mr. Marston.”

  “Exactly similar?” asked Bamberger, with astonishment.

  “It may surprise you,” answered Harrison, “although it ought not to, because a chef’s costume is one of the easiest and therefore most popular fancy dresses in existence, but Mr. Spoker has quite a collection of such costumes, all in a stock pattern, and it was in one of them that this was found.”

  “I see,” said Bamberger.

  “Such a discovery is important in itself, of course,” said Harrison, blandly, with a certain innocent enjoyment of the bewilderment of his hearers, “but when it is coupled with the third material piece of evidence it is invaluable.” He held up the empty cigarette packet.

  “Little Slam!” said Henry, with a gasp.

  “The same kind of packet from which the cigarette card came,” said Harrison. “Fancy cigarettes, Mrs. Tunnery calls them, and therefore more easily identified. It may be that this is the identical packet which contained this particular card.”

  “Where on earth did you get it, sir?” asked Henry, excitedly.

  “I found it on the edge of the wood at Penstoke, not far from where the play was performed,” answered Harrison.

  “Good lord,” said Henry.

  “I am afraid I don’t quite see what it all means,” said Bamberger.

  “It may mean, Bamberger,” answered Harrison, “I think we may fairly claim it may mean that the second cook’s costume went down to Penstoke and back again to Spoker’s at the time the famous play was taking place.”

  “It’s a long shot, sir,” said Henry reproachfully.

  “Not so long as you think, Henry,” answered Harrison. “I have told you they were fancy cigarettes—a special brand favoured by a particular individual. The connection of this particular kind of costume with the spot where the packet was lying is not difficult to follow.”

  “You mean that somebody else wore the same kind of costume as Mr. Marston?” asked Bamberger.

  “That’s the suggestion,” said Harrison who had his eye on Henry, bursting to give his own views on the matter, “but we must go steadily. Henry’s a great jumper, Bamberger, and we really must keep an eye on him. He’d jump anybody into the dock on these small objects, but I’m not going to let him. He’s going to take notes while we look at the facts of the case as we know them, or think we know them at present. Indeed they may be much more important than the material evidence.”

  “Very well, sir,” said Henry, subsiding, “but I can’t help guessing.”

  “And you may be right,” said Harrison. “I expect you are, but let’s wait till we’ve gone a bit farther. Now then, what do we know? First of all, we know that Miss Williams had a great hand in the organising of the play.”

  “That’s true,” said Bamberger.

  “It written by Miss Livia, I gather,” said Harrison. “Was it all her own idea?”

  “Well, we all had suggestions, of course,” said Bamberger, “and if she liked them she worked them in.”

  “So you added scenes when a bright idea occurred to you?” said Harrison. “The whole programme wasn’t complete to start with.”

  “No,” said Bamberger.

  “And the King’s Scullion episode?” asked Harrison. “Was that one of the original ideas or added later?”

  “I don’t think it was one of the first things we thought of,” answered Bamberger. “In fact, I’m sure it wasn’t.”

  “Was it thought of more than a month ago?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Or who suggested it?”

  “I couldn’t say that either.”

  “For my own part,” said Harrison, “I’m prepared to believe that it was not suggested more than a month ago and that, if Miss Helen Williams did not make the suggestion, she certainly had a hand in fixing the final details.”

  “That would be extremely likely.”

  “I suppose anybody would suggest odd pieces of by-play?” asked Harrison.

  “Yes, we all had ideas in that way,” answered Bamberger, and then his face clouded over and a look of sadness came into his eyes.

  “I understand, Bamberger,” said Harrison, gently, “and I know how painful all this must be to you. I shan’t stay on the point long but we must clear it up. The idea of hitting your father on the head with a spoon. Did you suggest it?”

  “I have no idea,” answered the young man in a quiet voice. “We all had ideas. Anyone might have done.”

  “Miss Williams might, for example?” asked Harrison.

  “Certainly she might,” said Bamberger.

  “And now,” said Harrison, “did Miss Williams suggest Spoker’s?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” answered Bamberger. “We went through a list of people who supplied costumes. Livia and I decided that. I had heard of them as being very reliable. No, I don’t think Miss Williams had anything to do with choosing them at all.”

  “But she knew whom you had chosen?”

  “Oh, yes,” answered Bamberger; “she would have known that. She was particularly keen on knowing all the details.”

  “Of course she was,” said Harrison. “So we may assume that, on every matter to do with the play, Miss Williams was particularly well informed.”

  “Certainly,” answered Bamberger.

  “Now we can start putting one or two of the facts together,” said Harrison. “About six months ago a strange man called on your father. His visit was so important that your father thought his life might be in danger as a result of it. You will remember that your admirable but untrustworthy butler
, Mr. Finney, was also perturbed by it. We must therefore assume that he had some information to give your father which was extremely damaging to some other person or persons—so damaging that they would stop at nothing to suppress it. I think we may further assume that they had ways and means of keeping an eye on your father so as to make certain that he did not communicate that information to anyone else. Still he was a source of danger to them because he actually possessed it. I am sorry to put it so crudely, Bamberger; you understand, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do,” answered Philip Bamberger, with a reassuring look at Harrison.

  “We realise that your father thought of a safe place for that information,” continued Harrison “He wrote it down in the book he was reading and in such a way that those who were watching never guessed.”

  “You mean the Havre address was the reason for murdering my father?” asked Bamberger, with horror.

  “Exactly,” said Harrison. “Not quite the address itself but I should say all that address means to the other people—‘the enemy’, as we have called them before. The next point is that we feel certain that part of the enemy forces consists of Miss Williams and Mr. Cross.”

  “Do we?” asked Bamberger.

  “Well, I think we can say that their conduct has been so suspicious that we are justified including them among the enemy,” answered Harrison. “Now, Henry, we have two more members of the enemy in your foreign friends at the ‘Sun.’ What were their names?”

  “Josephs and Skelofski,” said Henry, looking at this notes.

  “Not very important, of course,” said Harrison, “but all part of the scheme. First of all, Miss Williams, with all her charm and brain, arrives at Penstoke. I don’t want to put it too bluntly, Bamberger, but when she arrived, the enemy had definitely fixed the fate of your poor father.”