“Quite right, sir,” said Henry.
“I feel that it may have been a great loss to our country, too,” said Harrison, gravely. “Then I asked them about a month ago.”
“Did you get anything, sir?” asked Henry, eagerly.
“They were very helpful indeed,” answered Harrison. “It was a curious if somewhat short story. About a month ago a rather dishevelled and poorly-dressed compatriot walked into the legation. He gave a Czech name and was obviously one of their own people. He seemed somewhat excited but little disposed to answer questions about himself. All they seemed to know about him was that he had just crossed the Channel and had managed to discover the address of the legation. His particular aim was to see Bamberger, senior. The legation people hesitated. They were not particularly keen on the look of him but he seemed so much in earnest that at last they gave him the address at Penstoke and he dashed off.”
“That fits in all right, sir,” said Henry.
“For what it’s worth, Henry,” answered Harrison, “but that’s as far as it goes. They know nothing about the man. They’ve never seen him since. The name he gave was a false one. It might have been Czech but it was not traceable. I gather they have a fairly good system over there, and when the legation made inquiries nothing was known of a man of that name. All the families with the name could be accounted for. So we’re left high and dry.”
“And you’re keeping the best bit of information till the last,” said Henry.
“Really, Henry, I’m ashamed of you,” said Harrison; “a breach of good manners.”
“1 can’t help knowing your methods,” answered Henry with a smile. “What else shall I put in the notebook?”
“Very well, Henry,” said Harrison, “I asked them if they had ever heard of Helen Williams?”
Henry smiled broadly.
“Sorry, Henry,” continued Harrison, “but they hadn’t, in a professional way. Of course they knew about her from the picture-papers and that sort of thing, but that was all. No trace of a connection with anything else.”
“And then?” asked Henry.
“You’re really very persistent, Henry,” said Harrison. “Then, to round things off, I asked them if they had ever heard of Cross. Henry, they had.”
“Splendid,” said Henry.
“They said it was curious I should mention the name,” said Harrison, “and they didn’t know whether they ought to say anything but we had always been good friends, and all that sort of thing—very mysterious, you know, Henry.”
“Something pretty good, then,” said Henry.
“Well, in a way, I think we might say it was,” answered Harrison. “They looked mysteriously round the room as if they would like to have searched every corner for spies, and then they told me that they had recently had a very secret message from Prague asking them to find out all they could about a man named Cross, who was known to be in London at that moment.”
“Is that all, sir?” asked Henry, in a disappointed tone.
“All, Henry; isn’t that enough?” returned Harrison. “A very definite link of Cross with Czechoslovakia and so with Bamberger. It’s one of the most satisfactory thing we’ve heard yet. It’s helping to simplify the ground for us.”
“Did they know anything about Cross?” asked Henry, duly reproved.
“Strangely enough, very little,” answered Harrison, “not much more than they did about the excited gentleman. They made inquiries and discovered that Mr. Cross was of German descent and had been staying in London for some little while. He seemed to have a fair amount of money and was willing to spend it. He mixed in quite good society. He came under that nondescript heading of ‘financier.’ He was making arrangements for floating a company to be called the ‘European Development Company.’ A beautiful name, Henry; nothing wrong with that. There seemed to be nothing wrong about it. The idea was to supply capital to European industries which needed it. Get rid of the national idea and make it European.”
“Sounds a bit wild to me,” said Henry.
“I wasn’t very convinced myself,” replied Harrison, “but it seems to have good backing in the City and all that sort of thing. They even asked Scotland Yard to make doubly sure and, very curiously, Scotland Yard had had their eye on Mr. Cross too but could find nothing against him at all.”
“Seems all right, then, sir,” said Henry.
“Except that the fact that Mr. Cross had roused suspicion in a number of quarters is extremely interesting and might explain a lot of the facts we hope to discover. One thing they were particularly emphatic about, and they said the Yard was inclined to agree, and that was the lack of personality of Mr. Cross. He seemed so self-effacing—a kind of nondescript sort of type, the sort of man you would not remember long after meeting him. So much so, they said, that he was a man almost impossible to describe. People who knew him described him to them as just an ordinary sort of man and that was about as far as the got. Not the type you would expect to be mixed up with big financial transactions.”
“Possibly being used by somebody else,” commented Henry.
“Possibly, Henry,” answered Harrison. “Still Mr. Cross must take his own special place in our investigations. I haven’t come to any real conclusion about him yet but he interests me enormously. The legation people promised to let me know if they found out anything more about him. They knew their own authorities would not be satisfied with the present results and, of course, I promised to let them know if I stumbled on anything myself. And that is really everything, Henry. I’ve kept nothing back from you.”
Henry smiled affectionately at his master and, after a short disappearance, reappeared with tea. Harrison drank happily and the two of them sat quietly thinking while Philip Bamberger slept peacefully in the other room.
Soon after eight o’clock there was a knock on the door.
“Rather early for visitors,” said Harrison.
“Postman, I expect,” answered Henry.
“Better see if it is anybody, Henry,” said Harrison.
Henry went to the door and opened it. He gave a gasp as he did so for, standing there in her freshest and most dazzling toilet, stood Miss Williams.
“I’m afraid I’m rather early, Mr. Harrison,” she said, with a brilliant smile, “but I particularly want to talk to you. May I come in?”
“Of course, Miss Williams,” said Harrison, with as much heartiness as he could muster. “It is good of you to honour me with a visit.”
“A little insincere, Mr. Harrison, I must say,” answered the lady, coming into the room, “but that’s excusable in a man as tired as you must be.”
“My own room’s occupied at the moment,” said Harrison, “but it will be all right in a moment.”
Harrison went to his own room and speedily woke up Bamberger, telling him who was outside. Bamberger gave an exclamation of surprise and jumped off the couch. “No, go outside with Henry and wait,” said Harrison. “Don’t go away and, for heaven’s sake, don’t show too much surprise, or anything else, when you see Miss Williams.”
Harrison went to the door with him and held it open for Miss Williams. He noticed that Henry was in the farthest part of the room away from her and had a look in his eyes compounded of fright and fascination, such as the fabled rabbit is supposed to reveal in the presence of the serpent.
“Sit down, Miss Williams,” said Harrison, cheerfully, seating himself at his desk; “and tell me what I can do for you.”
“All sorts of things, Mr. Harrison,” answered Helen Williams, equally cheerfully, sitting down. “First of all may I smoke?”
“Certainly,” answered Harrison. “Mine or yours?”
“My own, if you don’t mind,” was the answer. “I am sorry I do not carry cigars. Clay Harrison’s reputation can hardly be divorced from cigars, can it?”
“You flatter me by giving me a reputation,” said Harrison.
“I haven’t come here to flatter you,” said Miss Williams, “but I can’t help liking y
ou.”
“I am still flattered,” said Harrison.
You use your brain and you’re a good worker,” said Miss Williams. “And what is more, you do it yourself. You’re an individualist. In a world where everybody seems to be looking after everybody else, you maintain your own individuality.”
“I’m frightfully interested in other people’s business.”
“Too much so,” said Miss Williams, looking at him fixedly with her beautiful eyes, “but all the same you only do that as your job in life, not as this horrible socialist idea would have it, because you can’t keep your finger out of the other man’s pie.”
“I try to protect society,” answered Harrison.
“You’re very perverse, Mr. Harrison,” she said. “You know what I mean. You’re an individualist. You’ve too much brain to be anything else. I’m one too.”
“Congratulations,” said Harrison. “If it’s a question of brain I should say that you have too much yourself to be anything else.”
“I didn’t come here for a mutual admiration society or to discuss politics,” said Miss Williams, “but I think we shall understand each other more clearly—or, at any rate, you will understand me better—if we know exactly where we are. You will admit there’s not much chance for an individualist in present-day society.”
“Well?” said Harrison.
“There’s more chance out of it, as a matter of fact,” said Miss Williams.
“That means a desert island or—”
“Or being against society, of course,” Miss Williams said with a smile. “If you want to lead your own life you have to lead it your own way.”
“And if the law interferes?”
“You must interfere with the law.”
“In fact become a criminal.”
“Criminal is a harsh word,” said Miss Williams.
“But the right one,” commented Harrison.
“An unnecessarily ugly word,” said Miss Williams. “Still you cling to conventionality, Mr. Harrison, because I suppose you’re afraid to give it up. If I express my true self by breaking the law would you call me a criminal?”
“Certainly,” said Harrison.
“Then I suppose I must be,” she said with a brilliant smile. “I’ve broken the law for years because it’s much more interesting than keeping it. Crime, as you call it, gives me so much more scope. To me it’s so much more worth doing.”
“At any rate you can reckon me on the other side,” said Harrison.
“I suppose that’s all I could expect,” said Miss Williams, sadly, placing her gloved hand on the desk very near Harrison’s. “I thought you would understand.”
“Possibly I do,” was his reply, “but it doesn’t help matters. I don’t agree, that’s all. My job is to get you put in prison, if I can find evidence enough. Two points of view that’s all.”
“But you won’t, will you?” asked Miss Williams, with a melting look.
“I’m sorry to seem discourteous, Miss Williams,” said Harrison, “but you yourself have mentioned that I seem tired. I admit it, I am very tired, so if the only reason why you came to see me was to discuss the theory of crime, I am afraid I must say we have had enough of it.”
Miss Williams looked extremely hurt.
“But if you came to discuss some much more important business,” said Harrison, “which is what I assume, we may get on with it?”
Miss Williams laughed.
“Don’t be so ponderous, Mr. Harrison,” she said, laughing again. “You know very well I came for something else, but honestly I do like talking to you, and to see your non-conformist conscience bubbling up and to watch the halo of social sanctity glow round your head always gives me a new thrill. I am so sorry but really you mustn’t be quite so heavy with me. You like me a bit yourself, you know, and you admit, without saying it, that I’m worth fighting. Now let’s put our cards on the table.”
“I think we’d better call first and find out who’s to be dummy,” said Harrison quietly.
“Good,” said Miss Williams.
“You can call,” said Harrison.
“Then I advise you to keep out of the game altogether,” said Miss Williams.
“That’s not very sporting,” said Harrison. “A minute ago you said we’d put our cards on the table.”
“I suppose I used the wrong phrase, Mr. Harrison,” answered Miss Williams, with another enchanting smile. “I really meant that you should throw your cards on the table.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re meddling.”
“That’s no reason.”
“Because meddling’s dangerous.”
“That’s no reason either.”
“Suppose I admit you’re brave,” said Miss Williams, “You’d have made a far finer criminal than non-conformist. Still, it’s useless to waste yourself, isn’t it?”
“Am I wasting myself?”
“Obviously,” answered Miss Williams, “but of course you need convincing so I’ll produce some cards. First of all you imagine that Bamberger died by violence?”
“That’s not difficult,” said Harrison. “Try again.”
“Secondly, you have been making inquiries which annoy a number of my friends.”
“Because they are suspicious characters?”
“My dear Mr. Harrison,” said Miss Williams, sweetly, “from your point of view all my friends are suspicious characters. You have been ferreting around at Penstoke until you think you have found something that leads to my friends.”
“Really?” said Harrison, innocently.
“Why pose, Mr. Harrison,” said the lady, sweetly; “We understand each other well enough by now. We know all you did at Penstoke. We know you pretended to stay the night at Hawcross and that you came straight here. By the way, may I say that was rather a poor effort; it wouldn’t have taken in a child. So you see we know a lot about you.”
“Good.”
“And I warn you that whenever you make a move we make another one to counter it.”
“So you admit that you are dodging me?” said Harrison.
“Good again,” was the reply. “I am willing to admit that I realise you are interested in me—in a way I’m not particularly pleased about. There are other ways, of course?”
“If only I were a lady’s man,” said Harrison.
“I’ve wasted an awful time trying to get you to like me,” said Miss Williams. “I suppose you boast of being woman-proof. Other men have proved easier.” As she said the last words she gave him a meaning look and waited for an answer.
“That’s not my fault,” said Harrison, placidly.
“So you see,” went on Miss Williams, betraying no hint of disappointment at the lack of reaction to her remark, “we are very well informed about you.”
“But you have said nothing about me which should alarm you or your friends.”
“We don’t know what’s in your head,” said Miss Williams.
“And you’re afraid of that?”
“You know more than we have discovered,” said Miss Williams, “so we don’t trust you.”
“You and your friends pay me quite an undeserved compliment,” said Harrison; “besides, you have been watching everything I did. You said so yourself.”
Miss Williams hit her lip and said nothing.
“Bluff, my dear Miss Williams,” said Harrison. “It works sometimes.”
“Frightfully clever, Mr. Harrison,” said the lady, venomously, “but we’re taking no chances. You’re in the way, very much in the way. Because you once got the better of a friend of mine, Miss Jeanne de Marplay, you think yourself no end of a detective and can do the same to me. I promised Jeanne I would straighten up the account for her—”
“And you’re going to do it?’
“You can’t prevent it this time, Mr. Harrison,” said Miss Williams, decisively. “I’m afraid you made me a bit angry a moment ago but you are so foolish about your own interests. You won’t leave things al
one then?”
“You have given me no reason to.”
“It may be rather a dangerous game.”
“Thank you, Miss Williams,” was the reply, “it’s my job.”
“Very well,” said Miss Williams, “I’ve given you your chance.” She took up her handbag and opened it quickly. Harrison thought vaguely that she was going to produce an automatic pistol and finish things on the spot, but instead she brought out a large envelope and handed it to him.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Just an invitation for to-night,” was the reply.
Harrison took a handsomely engraved card from the envelope and read that Mr. Eugene Cross had much pleasure in requesting his company to a reception to be held at some address in Hampstead.
“How very nice of Mr. Cross,” said Harrison, “but—”
“Of course you’ll come,” said Miss Williams. “I’ve promised to act as hostess. He’s not married, you see, and he wants to meet some of the people who count, so they’re coming to-night.” She saw a look of hesitation in Harrison’s eyes. “Afraid?”
“Not particularly,” said Harrison, “and I should like to see you doing the honours—so to speak. But I’m wondering whether the atmosphere won’t be a bit unhealthy for me.”
“Mr. Cross was particularly keen on your coming,” said Miss Williams; “in fact, some friends of his are going to call for you in a car about nine o’clock.”
“That’s very kind of him,” said Harrison, “but I couldn’t put him to that trouble.”
“It’s no trouble, I assure you,” answered Miss Williams, her eyes taking on rather a cruel look. “You really must be there.”
“And I suppose some of Mr. Cross’s friends will be watching my movements all day to see that nothing happens to me before the party?”
Miss Williams laughed. “Very bright of you,” she said, and added apologetically, “our plans would be so badly upset if you weren’t there that really we had to take some precautions.”
“So really I’m surrounded,” said Harrison.
“We must see you to-night,” was the reply.
“I gave you your chance, you know,” said Miss Williams, sadly. “There’s still time to take it even now.”
The Man Without A Face Page 19