“I am very thankful you trusted me,” said Harrison.
“I hope I have done right,” was the fervent reply.
“I feel certain you have,” said Harrison, “but there are one or two more things I want to know. What are Cross’s callers like? Especially those who come on Sundays?”
“I don’t know an awful lot about them. Mainly foreigners, as far as I can tell.”
“Do they come often?”
“Only one or two of them come more than once. The others appear and vanish.”
“Any women?”
“Not many. Just occasionally, but usually men.”
“Do you ever see them go out of the house?”
“Of course I do, sir,” said the woman, excitedly, “and they—”
“I know,” said Harrison. “Their clothes are different.”
“Have you watched them yourself, sir?” asked the woman, her eyes wide with surprise.
“Oh, no,” answered Harrison. “That’s what I should guess.”
“That’s wonderful, sir, because it is just what does happen. They come in wearing their foreign clothes—or at least, most of them do—and they go out dressed—well, rather like you, sir. Definitely English clothes.”
“Good,” said Harrison. “Where do they get them?”
“I don’t know, sir,” was the reply. “They change them here, that’s all I know.”
“Cross supplies them, of course?”
“I can’t say, sir,” said the woman. “He always brings his big trunks backwards and forwards but he keeps his room locked so I can’t tell.”
“I think that’s all, then,” said Harrison, rising. “If he’s likely to be coming back any minute I hadn’t better take any risks.”
“He isn’t really likely to be back to-day, sir,” said the woman, excitedly. “He said he wouldn’t be back until ten o’clock to-morrow morning and I’m practically certain he meant it. Plenty of time for you to take me and Reggie away.”
“I’m very sorry,” said Harrison, “but I’m afraid you must wait until he comes back.”’
The woman moaned. “I can’t, I can’t,” she cried, “and you promised to help me.”
“I will help you,” returned Harrison, “but you must stay here till then. Be all packed up ready and I will get you away afterwards.”
“It will be hopeless once he gets back.”
“I promise you it won’t.”
“You don’t know Cross. He’ll find everything out and I don’t know what he’ll do to us.” The woman was on the verge of hysteria.
“It is just because I do know Cross, know him better than you do, that I want you to stay,” said Harrison, in an even tone. “I admit that he is clever, very clever, and thorough, very thorough indeed, but Cross is only able to provide against the things he expects. He expected you to try and escape and he made his arrangements accordingly. He expected you to write to your friends. He expected you to ask the people who came here for help. Very clever, but also very simple. He doesn’t expect me and that makes all the difference. He won’t have a chance of getting back on you; I promise you that.”
“You really think you can do it?” The woman stopped and looked at Harrison. Then she smiled and seemed to grow quite calm again. “I believe you can. Tell me what you want me to do.”
“That’s fine,” said Harrison, approvingly. “I shall be here at half-past nine tomorrow morning. You will let me in at once and put me in here. Directly Cross arrives you will tell him there is somebody waiting for him and you will get him in here at once.”
“I’ll do it.”
“By the way, there are no revolvers or anything like that knocking around the house?” asked Harrison.
“You can be certain there aren’t,” said the woman, bitterly. “There may be in his room, but one can’t get into that. I’ve searched every corner of the place for one. It might have come in very useful.”
“True,” said Harrison. “And just one thing more. Does Reggie collect things?”
“Collect things?”
“Yes; stamps, cigarette cards, you know, what boys do collect?”
“Oh, yes,” said the woman; “he had quite a lot of cigarette pictures.”
“Good,” said Harrison. “Tell him I’m interested in his cigarette cards and get him to put all of them, sorted out in their series, in heaps on the mantelpiece here so that I can see them when I come to-morrow.”
“Cross won’t like it,” was the woman’s comment.
“I don’t expect he will,” said Harrison, “but he may be much more interested than you think.”
Chapter XXI
The Man Without A Face
Harrison walked quickly away from the house and past the cafe where he had left Henry. Out of the tail of his eye he saw the latter get up and follow him, whereupon he led the way to the main post office and was pleased to find a letter waiting for him there. Henry, punctilious about instructions, hovered about outside the building and made no effort to get into touch with Harrison.
The landlord of the Pension du Paradis was sitting in his little office in the lounge as Harrison appeared. He nodded pleasantly and returned to his task of balancing his extremely neat books. A contrast, thought Harrison, to the terrible efforts of Mr. Albion Tunnery, of the “Sun” inn, in the same direction. After a decent interval Henry appeared. He smiled warmly at Harrison and shaking him effusively by the hand he said, “Back agen, mon; hoots, it’s a gran’ morning.”
The landlord smiled approvingly. Obviously Henry’s accent had roused some pleasant memories of earlier and more stirring days in Havre. A look of inspiration came over his face as he said the one word, “Whisky?”
“A bottle, mon, a bottle,” said Henry, loudly, “in Mr. Harrison’s room—at once.”
The landlord, still more smiling than ever, dashed away to execute the order, and Harrison and Henry made their way upstairs. They were quickly followed by the whisky and glasses and the hotel waiter bearing them. As he turned to go, Henry called, “And a jug of milk.”
“Milk?” asked the astonished waiter.
“Of course,” shouted Henry, “I always drink milk with my whisky.”
The waiter disappeared, a study in surprise, and Harrison proceeded to settle down in a reasonably comfortable arm-chair. He waited until the milk had arrived and the waiter had departed and then said, “Now perhaps you will explain, Henry?”
“But surely, sir—” started Henry.
“I appreciate the efforts you made to sustain your character, Henry,” said Harrison, “and I think you have made a great success with the host here. But was a bottle quite necessary—a bottle and we neither of us touch the stuff.”
“Well, sir,” said Henry, apologetically, “I didn’t know how long you would want to stay up here and talk, and as you don’t want to arouse suspicion I thought a bottle of whisky would be the best thing. I should say that landlord, during the war, saw many Scotsmen disappear to their rooms with a bottle of whisky for the rest of the day. I expect he’ll think it quite natural for us not to reappear for hours now.”
“You win, Henry,” said Harrison, laughing heartily; “a first-rate reason. And I suppose you have an equally good one for the milk?”
“This parcel, sir,” answered Henry, opening a packet which he had carefully carried under his arm. “There’s a remarkable shop not far from here where they sell everything, so I bought a spirit stove—small, maybe, but it will do—some solid methylated spirit, a teapot, and some genuine English tea.”
“Marvellous,” said Harrison.
“I could have got some tinned milk there,” said Henry, with a final flourish, “but I knew you weren’t very keen on it.”
“Good,” said Harrison; “and what about a kettle?”
“I thought a saucepan might be better, sir,” answered Henry. “They boil more quickly.”
“Again you win, Henry,” said Harrison. “I’m thoroughly ashamed of myself for being such a poor
detective in my own surroundings.”
“Will you have it now, sir?” asked Henry.
“Indeed I will,” was the answer, “and while you’re making all your preparations, I’ll tell you what has happened. I don’t think you need take any notes but I want you to listen.”
“Very good, sir,” replied Henry. “You will have to drink your tea out of a glass.”
“The tea keeps hotter that way, Henry,” answered Harrison, with a twinkle. “I wish I had a cigar.”
“They had some in the shop but I thought you wouldn’t like them, sir.”
“Quite right, too, Henry,” said Harrison; “a self-denying ordinance. I shall have to do without. Well, Henry, I went to the house and—now don’t drop the saucepan—I have talked with Mrs. Cross.”
“Mrs. Cross?”
“Yes, Henry, and there’s a little boy there whom they call Reggie Cross.”
“So it’s like ‘Happy Families’, sir.”
“It certainly isn’t, for she isn’t really Mrs. Cross, and the boy isn’t Reggie Cross.”
“If I may say so, sir,” said Henry, patiently, “you’re not making it very clear.”
“Sorry, Henry,” answered Harrison. “As a matter of fact it’s a pretty foul business. This house in the Avenue des Viguerres is obviously Cross’s headquarters. I should think they’re pretty important, from the criminal point of view. At any rate, Cross has gone to a great deal of trouble to camouflage it. He found the woman whom we must call Mrs. Cross— everybody here does—on the Riviera and got a hold over her. He discovered she had something in her past she wished to conceal—Reggie, as a matter of fact—and persuaded her, persuaded being a mild word in this instance, to come and keep house for him at Havre.”
“I suppose she had no option, sir?”
“None whatever,” replied Harrison. “He had discovered that she had a child in England so he very kindly brought the child, Reggie, over here to live with her in Havre. By that means he got a double hold over her.”
“The swine,” said Henry.
“Exactly what I said myself, Henry,” returned Harrison, “and by that means he made his camouflage complete. I had a long talk with a neighbour who happens to keep a grocer’s shop and knows all the gossip. Mrs. Cross, quite a charming Englishwoman who seems to have made herself very popular, lives quietly in a house in the Avenue des Viguerres with her little boy. Nothing suspicious about that, is there, Henry? Her husband, Mr. Cross, not nearly so popular, comes to Havre at intervals, mainly over the week-end. Quite natural for a business man, especially if he travels in something or other during the week. A number of friends come and call on him during the week-end. That might seem a little curious but not specially so. The grocer woman is sorry for the lonely life Mrs. Cross leads. She thinks Cross is a neglectful husband. But that is all. It is impossible to be suspicious of anything connected with Mrs. Cross—”
“Very clever, sir!”
“And believe me, Henry, that woman would have suspicions if she felt there was anything to justify them.”
“And the people who call, sir?”
“Mostly foreigners, Henry,” answered Harrison, “and they don’t all come again; in fact, a lot of them only appear once—to change their clothes.”
“Well, it beats me, sir,” said Henry.
“That’s very disappointing, Henry. I thought you might provide a solution. So really you don’t think there can be very much wrong—this charming English woman leading a retired life with her little boy.”
“I know you’re pulling my leg, sir,” answered Henry, “and you’ve got something in your mind. It seems to me as if Cross is doing something like those terrible things we heard of during the war, making a screen of the women and children so that he can advance safely behind it.”
“Well, it is something like that, Henry,” answered Harrison. “I don’t think we had better guess any more. We’ve done rather well during our short stay in Havre and we are getting a really thorough knowledge of a gentleman named Cross.”
The tea was now ready and while he drank with the greatest enjoyment Harrison studied the letter he had collected from the post office. He handed a photograph to Henry.
“Pretty good,” said Henry. “I feel almost proud of my own work.”
“It is very like him,” answered Harrison, studying the photograph carefully. “Congratulations, Henry. Murray is really almost excited about it—and, you know, it takes a lot to stir up his emotions.”
“May I ask what he says, sir?” said Henry.
“The man without a face,” mused Harrison, reading from the letter.
“The man without a face, sir,” said Henry. “Makes one think of the war again. Terrible to think about, sir.” He was silent for a moment and then he exclaimed excitedly, “Cross, that’s it, sir. The man without a face. It must be him, sir.”
“Murray hopes so, at any rate, Henry,” said Harrison. “That’s why he’s excited. They’ve been looking for him for some time now. The police call him ‘the man without a face’ because nobody seems to have been able to give a clear description of him. He has never been convicted, as far as they know; there are no photographs of him to be found and yet he is a distinctly well-known character and definitely ‘wanted’!”
“What for, sir?”
“Well, if it’s the same man, it seems to be nearly everything. Everything except murder, and I hope we shall be able to add that to the list. Confidence trick, on a big scale, swindling on the Atlantic run, dope, white slaves, a remarkable list, Henry. Some of the police at the ports could swear to the photograph and Murray says the actual name of Cross is not unfamiliar. A pretty big customer, Henry, an organiser on the international scale. Brains again, Henry. I’ve always told you that the clever criminal had organised the international system in a way to put to shame all our amateur politicians, and Havre is an important centre—maybe the important centre.”
“And what are you going to do, sir?”
“Call on him to-morrow morning, Henry,” answered Harrison, “and ask him to go back to England with me.”
“He won’t go.”
“Don’t be too certain, Henry.”
“You can’t take a risk like that, sir.”
“I must, Henry,” answered Harrison. “For a large number of reasons we’ve got to lay Mr. Cross by the heels. It is such an unpleasant piece of work that it is our moral duty. I don’t propose to take a great deal of risk. I shall go to the Avenue des Viguerres to-morrow morning and you will come with me. When I go inside you will watch the door. Make yourself scarce because Cross will come in soon after me. If Cross and I come out together you will know I have gained my point and that he is coming back to England with me. If Cross comes out alone you will follow him and, on any pretext—even if you have to fall on his neck—you will get the first policeman you see to arrest him. I know I can trust you, Henry.”
“You can, sir,” said Henry, feelingly, “if you can tell me honestly you’re not going into too much danger.”
“I can,” answered Harrison. “Cross is not a violent person. He employs other people for that sort of thing: Josephs and Skelofski. That type of person, you know. I shall be all right, Henry, and now we’ll do our best to forget things until half-past nine to-morrow morning.
Harrison finished his tea and soon the two of them were out again but this time to look around the town, putting all problems of crime and criminals entirely on one side. It was one of Harrison’s great assets that he could entirely forget a case if he wished to, and Henry envied him the faculty. Many questions came to Henry’s mind regarding Cross and his activities, questions which seemed to cry out for answer, but he knew that it would be of no avail to ask his master. Indeed Harrison almost like a genuine holder of a week-end ticket. He was extraordinarily light-hearted and wandered round sightseeing to such an extent that when the time came for them both to seek their beds Henry was not at all sorry and felt more physically tired than he had done for ma
ny a day.
They both slept soundly and felt thoroughly refreshed when the time came for them to set out for the Avenue des Viguerres. Harrison was not very talkative and continually hummed the same tune—a mixture of Puccini and Sullivan—over and over again. This was a sure sign to Henry that he was keyed up and, though he might not have been willing to admit it, that he was definitely somewhat excited about the adventure which the morning was to bring.
Again Harrison coached Henry in the part he was to play. “Only if he comes out alone,” said Harrison, emphatically, “you mustn’t make any move unless that happens; unless, of course, I seem to you to have been in the house too long. I leave it to you to fetch the police then. But give me time, Henry. Cross may have a great deal to say—and so may I.”
“I understand, sir,” said Henry.
“And Henry,” said Harrison, solemnly, as they walked towards the Avenue des Viguerres, “if you dare to allow me to come away again without a case full of cigars—well, something will happen to our friendship. One’s loyalty to one’s clients is pretty strained when one has to abstain to this extent.”
Henry fingered his pipe in his pocket and smiled to himself.
“I know what you’re thinking, Henry,” said Harrison. “I should do much better with a pipe. Away with your foul pieces of wood. I should have thought it was a very modest vice, Henry, but fate seems to have taken a rooted objection to my indulging.”
They soon reached the house and Harrison left Henry, with a few parting—and, as Henry thought, needless—reminders of his role. He knocked on the door and it was immediately opened by the woman who was called “Mrs. Cross.”
“Thank heavens you’ve come,” she said, letting him in and carefully closing the door. “Do you think it is going to be all right?”
“Of course it is,” answered Harrison.
“I’m terrified of that man,” she said, her voice trembling.
“I know,” replied Harrison, soothingly, “but you won’t have to be here much longer. Directly he comes you can get your outdoor things on and wait for me. Have you packed anything?”
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