The Man Without A Face

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

“I still can hardly believe a woman like her could be mixed up in such a horrible business,” said Bamberger.

  “Miss Williams, to my mind, Bamberger, has no feelings whatever,” answered Harrison. “If there existed anybody without a heart, that person is Miss Williams. She is a type, luckily a rare one, of beauty and brains of outstanding order, mixed with sheer disregard of all law, convention and morality. A dangerous combination in a woman. We’ve seen it before, Henry, haven’t we, in a woman very like Miss Williams, even to look at. They might almost have been twins.”

  “If you ask my opinion—” started Henry.

  “But I don’t, Henry, although I regret it,” said Harrison. “Let’s leave it at that and forget your illusion that Miss Helen Williams and a lady we once did battle with in Geneva are one and the same person. What if they are? It doesn’t help us. Miss Williams is the name of the woman were dealing with now and that ought to be sufficient. Now, as I said, Bamberger, if a person like Miss Williams appears on the scene, something pretty serious is in the air. You can see how she organised Miss Marston’s play.”

  “It wouldn’t please Livia to hear that said,” commented Bamberger with a smile.

  “The best conjuror always insists that you choose a card for yourself,” said Harrison “Miss Williams became so friendly with the Marston ladies and was so extraordinarily tactful in her behaviour that nobody would suggest she interfered with the play at all. Just a few suggestions—one wouldn’t even remember what they were. Really very helpful. Yet we have a shrewd idea what they were. Miss Williams suggested the King’s Scullion episode; Miss Williams suggested the by-play of hitting your father on the head; Miss Williams suggested that Marston should do the hitting and—” here Harrison’s voice grew grave—“Miss Williams suggested that your father should be the victim.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Bamberger. “You’ve been right over everything up to now, but if you put me in the witness box I couldn’t prove any one of those points and I had as much to do with organising the play as anybody.”

  “But you couldn’t deny it, could you?” said Harrison.

  Bamberger thought for a moment. “Of course that’s true,” he answered. “I certainly couldn’t deny it.”

  “You must realise all the time, Bamberger,” said Harrison, “these people—the enemy—are playing for very high stakes and they’re using their brains as well and pretty good brains at that. Now we fit Mr. Josephs and Mr. Skelofski into the puzzle. The plan is going as arranged. Your father has accepted the invitation to take part in the play. The scene is worked out as the enemy wants it. The preparations for the play are in full swing and down come Josephs and Skelofski as odd job men. Their work is to hang about the place, keep an eye on things and pick up any odd knowledge in the neighbourhood. They are also a point of contact between Miss Williams and someone greater than themselves: the ‘Head’ they call him, a mysterious person whom we may have identified as Mr. Cross?”

  “I should have thought that was pretty clear,” said Bamberger.

  “It’s only jumping at conclusions, that’s all,” said Harrison. “We may know he is a friend of Miss Williams. We may know she met him here secretly the night before the play. We may know that Josephs and Skelofski were expecting the ‘Head’ that same night, but it is jumping at conclusions to make him and Mr. Cross identical.”

  “I suppose so,” said Bamberger.

  “Of course, we know, incidentally, that all this furious driving about the country in her car was just a blind,” continued Harrison. “That was obviously her way of keeping in touch with your two foreigners, Henry. If we could trace all their movements while they were in the Penstoke district, you would find that she met them regularly in out-of-the-way places. She could not meet them openly, and to send messages mm the house in any way would have been far too risky.”

  “I see that,” said Bamberger.

  “But what is, of course, much more important,” said Harrison, “is what happened when the play was acted. A point which you do not know but which I have just found out is that Josephs and Skelofski had discovered a way to get to the scene of the play from the road without having to come through the grounds.”

  “Good heavens,” said Henry. “That’s something fresh, sir.”

  “It carries us a bit farther, Henry, certainly,” answered Harrison. “Now we know that at the same time in London a series of clever moves were being made to procure a duplicate of the costume worn by Mr. Marston and to procure it in such a way that nobody would know it had been used at all for such a purpose. That’s why I asked you about Miss Williams and Spoker, Bamberger.”

  “Go on,” said Bamberger, eagerly.

  “The costume was brought down here at the last possible moment,” said Harrison. “Far better that it should not be missing too long. Just about the time the play was to begin, a man came through the gap which had been so conveniently discovered—I expect he was brought by a motor-car which stood and waited for him. By the way, the road at that spot is not much used by traffic. We must assume he was wearing the cook’s clothes covered by a long raincoat or something like that—he may not even have had that because if he walked about openly everybody would have thought he was William Marston.”

  “But suppose he had met Mr. Marston wearing the same kind of costume?” asked Bamberger.

  “That would have been impossible,” answered Harrison.

  “Impossible?” asked Henry with surprise.

  “Quite impossible,” answered Harrison. “That is another thing I have learnt to-day. An unavoidable accident, carefully arranged, kept Mr. Marston in the house until quite ten minutes after his own particular scene was due to begin. That I know for certain. Now, Bamberger, you were looking after a lot of the details of stage management. Did you notice whether the King’s Scullion scene started punctually?”

  “To the best of my knowledge,” answered Philip Bamberger, “pretty well the time we had arranged.”

  “Well, then,” said Harrison, “can’t you see what happened?”

  “Somebody took Mr. Marston’s place,” said Henry.

  “And struck down my father,” said Bamberger.

  “Just a moment,” said Harrison, “let us go on with the story we are tracing. The stranger, let us call him that for the moment, waited outside the wood. He must have been there a little time because he smoked quite a number of ‘Little Slam’ cigarettes.”

  Henry nearly dropped his notebook at the last remark.

  “That’s all right, Henry,” said Harrison. “I found the empty cigarette packet there, with a number of cigarette ends, so that is fairly simple. Now we have to guess again. One of his friends in the car would have relieved him of his coat just at the time he was to perform. He kept his cigarette packet because we may assume he had only one left. This he smoked while wearing the cook’s clothes and then, being very careful about leaving traces in that particular garment, he very wisely threw the empty packet away. The scene was beginning. Possibly someone called to him and he took his place—or Mr. Marston’s place, if you prefer it that way. At the critical moment he struck your unfortunate father on the head—but not with the spoon.”

  “Not the spoon?” said Bamberger.

  “No, he deliberately murdered your father with something like a piece of iron—a life preserver or something like that. The wound should have told the doctor that, but he didn’t look for it. He had made up his mind what had happened and could hardly have made any examination at all. What is more, the stranger was used to murder—he knew exactly where to hit.”

  “The swine,” cried Bamberger.

  “Amazingly cool,” Harrison, “for he went on as if nothing out of the way had happened. We were all taken in by him. Really astonishing acting. Then before anybody could know what had happened to your father, he was off the field with the players, amid great applause, and slipped back to the car and his friends without being noticed by anyone.”

  “If I could only be
lieve it,” said Bamberger.

  “It’s the only possible solution,” replied Harrison.

  “I agree, sir,” echoed Henry.

  “What I mean, Mr. Harrison,” said Bamberger, “is that I can’t understand Mr. Marston’s behaviour at the inquest. I can’t see why he took all the blame if he knew he was perfectly innocent. If he knew someone else had taken his place surely it would have been easy enough to say so?”

  “That is one thing, Bamberger, that I am not prepared to discuss,” answered Harrison, definitely. “There was an unavoidable accident and somebody took Mr. Marston’s place and he decided to take the blame himself. That is all I can say but, believe me, he felt he was doing right. I know that.”

  “Everything fits in so remarkably,” said Bamberger, “one must believe it. It is really a great relief to me—except that the thought of my father being intentionally struck down is terrible.”

  “Everything doesn’t fit in, sir,” said Henry, emphatically.

  “That’s interesting, Henry,” answered Harrison with a smile. “What’s your trouble?”

  “Well sir, may I put it in this way?” said Henry. “Everything you have told us fits in but you haven’t told us everything.”

  “Really, Henry, your curiosity will be your undoing,” answered Harrison.

  “It isn’t a joke, sir,” said Henry, reprovingly, “and you know it isn’t. You understand what I mean?”

  “My dear Henry—” protested Harrison.

  “You said the strange was very careful about leaving clues in the cook’s dress,” said Henry, unsatisfied, “and yet, he did leave one.”

  “Did he?” asked Harrison, innocently.

  “It’s no good trying to pull my leg, sir,” said Henry. “What about the Admiral Benbow?”

  “The cigarette card?”

  “‘Of course, sir. If it came out of the identical packet, as you suggested, the stranger must have put it in the cook’s costume.’

  “Henry, I take back everything I said about slackness,” answered Harrison. “You’ve got to the essential point of the material clues all on your own.”

  Henry smiled cheerfully.

  “Why should a man who was careful enough to leave no other clues keep a cigarette picture of this kind?” continued Harrison. “Firstly because in keeping a thing of that nature he would act almost subconsciously. A cigarette card is taken out of a packet and slipped into the pocket automatically. He hardly knew he was doing it. No ordinary man does. But even if he was no ordinary man and tried to think of everything, there may be a second reason. He may have particularly wanted that special card and, recognising it, he may have put it in his pocket—as I said, almost automatically—and then forgotten it.”

  “Particularly wanted it?” asked Henry.

  “That’s what I said,” answered Harrison, “and it’s up to you, Henry, to think why. You haven’t done so badly up to now so I leave the problem to you. That’s about as far as we can go,” he ended, turning to Bamberger.

  “You have done wonders,” said Bamberger, enthusiastically; “now you’re going to find out who is the stranger, as you call him?”

  “I have an idea—” said Henry.

  “Better not, Henry,” said Harrison. “Long shots would not be fair at this stage. I suppose we all have our suspicions but you can’t convict for murder on suspicion. In fact, it may be a mistake to have suspicions because they taint any evidence we get. Our minds continually think of the person we suspect and we try to make the evidence convict him instead of allowing it first to lead to the murderer, whoever he may be. We’ve done fairly well for the moment, we know how the murder happened and that’s a step forward.”

  “It is,” said Bamberger, emphatically.

  “Now we must know ‘who’ and ‘why.’ Both these things are wrapped up together. I’m going to start looking for ‘why’ and the farther we go with that—for I shall need a lot of help—the nearer we shall get to ‘who.’”

  Part III

  Why

  Chapter XIV

  Surrounded

  It was now four o’clock in the morning and daylight was beginning to appear.

  “I almost forgot,” said Harrison, vigorously, “I must ring up the Czechoslovakian legation.”

  “Better get some sleep first, sir,” said Henry, soothingly.

  “That would give the enemy time to follow my next move,” said Harrison. “I’m sorry to have to disturb them but I’m afraid it must be done.”

  He took the telephone and spent a long time trying to obtain the particular number but patience was finally rewarded, and Bamberger was surprised to find the obvious deference the name of Clay Harrison produced. A very short chat and Harrison put back the receiver.

  “They didn’t seem very annoyed,” said Bamberger, with a laugh.

  “Good people,” said Harrison. “I’ve done one or two things for them and they’re always willing to help. I’m going round there at once.”

  “They must be good people,” said Bamberger, with conviction. “Pretty early to get up, even for a foreigner.”

  “There are foreigners and foreigners, Bamberger,” answered Harrison, “and I can tell you these are first-rate specimens. What are you going to do?”

  “Find Livia,” was the brief reply.

  “Pretty early to look for a lady, even for an Englishman,” answered Harrison.

  “I suppose it is,” said Bamberger.

  “As Henry has just said, better get some sleep first,” said Harrison. “You make yourself as comfortable as you can on my couch. I’d much rather you stayed here till I got back, then we can talk about finding Miss Marston.”

  “I’m under your orders,” answered Bamberger, with a smile, and proceeded to settle down on the couch, as Harrison had suggested.

  Henry settled down, too, in his own outer office, and started looking at a few letters. He had hardly got through the first when he heard Harrison’s key in the door.

  “Left anything behind, sir?” said Henry, anxiously.

  “Not that I know about,” answered Harrison. “How long have I been gone, Henry?”

  “Hardly a minute, sir,” said Henry.

  “I should call it just over an hour and a half, to be perfectly correct,” answered Harrison.

  “Impossible, sir,” said Henry, his face falling. He looked at the clock and saw that it was nearly six o’clock.

  “Nothing to worry about, Henry,” said Harrison. “You deserved a little sleep and there was certainly nothing to keep awake for.”

  “I could have sworn, sir—” said Henry, looking ruefully at the letter which was still in his hand.

  “It really makes no difference,” answered Harrison. “Is he still asleep?” He nodded to his own room.

  Henry peeped cautiously at the form on the couch. “Like a lamb,” he answered.

  “Well, we’d better stay in here,” said Harrison. “We must have a few notes about Czechoslovakia; we may not have time later on. Sorry, Henry, but the notebook must make another appearance.”

  Henry smiled. He was as wide awake as usual now and he waited with notebook and pencil ready.

  “You see, Henry, Sir Jeremiah was so interested in Czechoslovakia that the obvious thing was to go to the people here who knew that country and ask a few questions,” said Harrison.

  “Of course,” said Henry.

  “That’s what I did at the Czechoslovakian legation,” continued Harrison. “They really were very charming and, in some ways, quite helpful. Sir Jeremiah did come from that country when it was part of the old Austria-Hungary and, of course, he had been naturalised a long time. He started as a tailor in a very small way and, in those cheerful days before the Great War, when there seemed to be no restrictions on anything, he got a few of his many poor relations and possibly poorer friends to come and join him. He treated them well, I am told, and by sheer hard work and inventiveness built up a great trade in ready-made clothing—a romance of modern business and
all that sort of thing, Henry.”

  “Very praiseworthy,” said Henry, solemnly.

  “As you say Henry, very praiseworthy,” answered Harrison, “the more so because he never forgot his friends in Czechoslovakia. The legation says they saw little of him themselves but he was always sending money to his own country, either to help individuals or in answer to public charity appeals. When any fellow-countryman was in distress over here, a word to Bamberger was quite sufficient. An admirable man in every way; what is more, he valued his country’s good name and this is rather important, Henry. The legation know, for a fact, that Sir Jeremiah had many friends in authority and that, through him, a number of undesirable Czechoslovakian subjects had been deported from this country.”

  “What was the reason, sir?” asked Henry.

  “I asked them and they were very vague about it,” answered Harrison. “I pressed them hard but they didn’t seem to know. I don’t think they were holding anything back. It was all rather mysterious; that’s why it seems rather important. The legal proceedings were very brief. The authorities were satisfied that they were undesirable and off they went. Sometimes, according to the legation, fairly well-to-do compatriots went home in this startling manner. They were mildly surprised themselves but they had implicit faith in Sir Jeremiah and when they knew he was behind a particular case they assumed things were all right.”

  “That’s the way to make enemies, sir,” said Henry.

  “Quite right, Henry,” answered Harrison, “it is. And I expect he made quite a large number. As he gained the respect of the British authorities he was responsible in recent years for an increasing number of such cases and, although the legation wouldn’t swear to it, he had some people of other nationalities turned out as well.”

  “That’s interesting, sir,” said Henry. “No wonder he started to take precautions about himself.”

  “I asked them what they thought was behind it all,” continued Harrison, “and they were rather surprised. Nothing, they said, except that he was exceptionally patriotic. There had not been many like him and it was a great loss to their country that he was dead.”