The Man Without A Face

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

  “Yes, I have put some of Reggie’s things and of my own in a suitcase,” she said. “I thought that might be all we could take, something we could carry with us.”

  “Very sensible, too,” said Harrison, approvingly.

  He went into the sitting-room and looked out of the window. The street was empty and there was no sign whatever of Henry. He then looked at the mantelpiece and saw, with great pleasure, that the small boy had obeyed instructions and placed his treasured collection of cigarette pictures in neat little piles on it.

  In a few moments there was the sound of a key in the front door. “Only just in time,” thought Harrison, and he nodded to the woman who went out into the hall.

  “There’s a gentleman waiting for you,” he heard her say.

  “Waiting, eh?” said a quietly unpleasant voice in return. “Been disobeying orders, have you? Don’t lie to me. I can see it in your face.”

  There was a muffled shriek and Harrison knew that Cross had exacted some penalty from the woman. His blood boiled but he did not dare go outside and interfere.

  “That’s a taste of what you’re going to get later,” said the voice, and Cross stepped angrily into the room to confront his unwelcome visitor. He paused for a moment but his composure did not seem in the least disturbed. His expressionless face seemed even more expressionless than ever and Harrison felt certain that Cross and “the man without a face” were identical.

  “Good morning, Mr. Harrison,” said Cross, quite coolly.

  “Come right in, Mr. Cross,” answered Harrison.

  “I am greatly obliged,” said Cross.

  “Only because I think it would be best if, for the moment, we had equal chances of reaching the door,” said Harrison, keeping both hands in his coat pockets.

  “A good reason,” said Cross, coming well into the room and sitting down. Harrison did the same but still did not move his hands.

  “And to what am I indebted for this early visit?” asked Cross.

  “We parted rather hurriedly the last time we met, Mr. Cross,” answered Harrison, “and I regret to say you had made discussion rather difficult, rather one-sided, if I may put it that way. I thought it might be better if things were a bit more equal.”

  “I am surprised you want to talk to me again,” said Cross.

  “Not surprised that I want to, Mr. Cross,” answered Harrison, gently. “Surprised that I am able to. By the way, if you carry any firearms I must ask you to put them on the table here and I will do the same.”

  “I wish I could oblige you, Mr. Harrison,” answered Cross, with a faint smile, “but can assure you I don’t carry any weapons at all. Why should I? I have no need of them.”

  Harrison looked keenly at Cross for a moment and feeling convinced he was telling the truth, pulled his hands out of his pockets.

  “You said you would do the same,” said Cross.

  “I don’t carry them either,” answered Harrison.

  “You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you, Mr. Harrison?”

  “Very. Are you?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” was the reply. “I’m a busy man so I shall be obliged if you will tell me what you want.”

  “I want you to come back to England with me,” said Harrison, quietly.

  “Good,” answered Cross. “Very good. Do you think I am entitled to some reasons for it?”

  “Of course,” said Harrison, blandly; “that’s why I called on you. First of all, though, I had better tell you that I am in touch with the Havre police and that an eye is already being kept on this house.”

  “I know that,” answered Cross. “The man you call Henry is watching outside now.”

  Harrison inwardly reproached Henry for not keeping himself better concealed.

  “I know what you are thinking,” said Cross, “but it is not entirely Henry’s fault. Look in that mirror,” and he pointed to the sideboard which faced the mantelpiece and was therefore at right angles with the window. Harrison saw therein that Henry was standing looking in the grocer’s shop and occasionally glancing towards the villa.

  “A little contrivance of my own,” said Cross, “based on the periscope principle, so that I can see well down the road without moving from my chair. It has occasionally proved quite useful.”

  “I have no doubt of that,” answered Harrison. “An excellent idea. Now to explain to you why you should come back to England with me. I want to charge you with murder.”

  “And why, Mr. Harrison?”

  “Because the facts point to your having murdered Bamberger.”

  “And the facts are?”

  “I propose to put it very briefly, Mr. Cross, because you said you were a busy man,” answered Harrison. “Working with Miss Williams as an accomplice, you, who are known to quite a number of criminals as the ‘Head,’ arranged to murder Bamberger at Penstoke during the performance of a play which Miss Williams helped to organise. Josephs and Skelofski went down to prepare the ground while you held yourself in readiness for the final effort. Acting on Miss Williams’ information you hired a costume similar to that which Mr. William Marston was to wear. You arrived the night before the play and had an interview in the yard of the ‘Sun’ inn with Miss Williams—putting the finishing touches, I should say.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Harrison,” said Cross. “I am enjoying myself greatly. What happened next?”

  “You left the inn before anyone was about and drove to a gap in the hedge surrounding the Penstoke estate.”

  “You suggest that I spent the whole morning waiting there?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “It would have been very dreary, Mr. Harrison, wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, in a way, that is rather immaterial,” answered Harrison. “The next fact is that you were at that particular gap when this open-air play started—all ready with your costume and life-preserver.”

  “Do you mind if I smoke?” asked Cross, inconsequentially. Harrison was quietly amused. Could it be an association of ideas working unrecognised in Cross’s mind that he suggested smoking at the point of the story where he had himself smoked for some time while waiting to play his art?

  Cross pulled out a cigarette-case and was extracting one for himself when he apologised politely and offered the case to Harrison. It was lucky that Henry was not present, for the pleasure with which Harrison took a cigarette and lit it. Henry knew Harrison’s aversion to smoking anything but cigars.

  “Sorry,” said Cross, puffing serenely, “will you go on?”

  “Having worked everything out to time,” continued Harrison, “you waited until you were certain that Miss Williams was effectively detaining Mr. Marston and then you slipped in and took his place as the king’s cook. Under Miss Williams’ coaching you knew exactly the part you had to play. When the time came to hit Sir Jeremiah Bamberger on the head with your spoon, you split his skull with a life-preserver or something similar. Then it was easy for you to get clear away, even before it was discovered that there was anything wrong.”

  “Anything more?” asked Cross, rather insolently.

  “One could fill in the outline with a description of how, with great attention to detail, you took the place of Mr. Spoker’s assistant at the costume shop. You did that personally, didn’t you?”

  “Go on,” was the reply.

  “And how you bought Finney and had others buy the chauffeur at Penstoke. Very elaborate, Mr. Cross, and very carefully worked out.”

  “Very elaborate indeed,” said Cross, with emphasis. “Your ingenuity is remarkable, Mr. Harrison, but you have forgotten one rather important point—why on earth should I want to murder Sir Jeremiah Bamberger? I don’t think we had ever even met each other?”

  “That may be so,” answered Harrison. “He may not even have known your name, but he knew too much about yourself and your organisation. I hadn’t forgotten, Mr. Cross, but I thought ‘how’ had better come before ‘why’!”

  “My organisation?” asked
Cross.

  “Yes,” replied Harrison. “Bamberger was originally a Czechoslovakian and he was very keen on his native country. He discovered that there was some organisation that was doing his country incalculable harm. Not only were undesirable fellow-countrymen getting into England with dope and other vile merchandise to sell, but girls of his own nationality were being sold in various overseas markets as a result of its activities. That was your organisation. Of course he didn’t know as much as the police of other sides of your activities?”

  “No?”

  “He could have no knowledge of the complete system of international swindling that you were carrying out. The police knew this and attributed it to a man they couldn’t trap, a man they called ‘the man without a face’.”

  “A very good name, too. Mr. Harrison,” said Cross; “but even if Sir Jeremiah had found out all you say he did, I still fail to see that any jury would be convinced that this was a good motive for murder!”

  “Any jury, you say, Mr. Cross?”

  “Of course, Mr. Harrison, surely evidence that will convince me must be the kind of evidence that would convince a jury.”

  “Quite right,” answered Harrison. “Something more was needed—Sir Jeremiah had discovered this address.”

  “I guessed that was it,” said Cross, “and you found it?”

  “I did,” answered Harrison. “There was motive enough; for once this address was known the game was up for some time to come. It was therefore necessary to put the man who knew something about G.H.Q. out of the way, and also, I suppose, the man who told him?”

  “It seems obvious,” answered Cross.

  “What happened to that poor devil?” asked Harrison.

  “What does happen to any number of poor devils in England,” said Cross. “They just vanish. They have no friends. Nobody asks about them. They disappear. Especially if they are poor foreign devils, into the bargain. Sometimes their bodies aren’t even found.”

  “The organisation worked pretty effectively, I can see that,” said Harrison. “Now, how much more do you want?”

  “There’s no need to hurry things, Mr. Harrison,” answered Cross, quietly. “You have found a motive; that’s important, of course, and very clever of you. Indeed, I think I may say that Miss Williams acted against my judgment in having you mixed up with the business at all and I was very foolish to give way to her. She seemed to have a bee in her bonnet about you.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, quite honestly, she was a bit frightened about you. Have you had anything to do with her before?”

  “It is possible,” said Harrison, with a smile.

  “At any rate, her idea—and it sounded quite plausible at the time—was to have you about the place, so to speak, so that we should know what you were up to.”

  “Rather dangerous, I should have thought?”

  “Well, she was convinced that it was better in England than not knowing what you were up to. She was convinced, you see, that you would be up to something and now I know you I am not surprised.”

  “Thank you,” said Harrison.

  “But she failed,” said Cross, lighting another cigarette, “and failures are not allowed in our organisation.”

  “I can believe that,” said Harrison. “She guaranteed to keep me quiet.”

  “Something like that,” answered Cross, “and she hadn’t reckoned on the flashlight. That was cleverer than anything she had thought of.”

  “So you parted company?” asked Harrison.

  “The usual result of failure,” answered Cross. “I couldn’t trust her after that.”

  “Curious,” said Harrison. “I thought she was pretty bright.”

  “A very able woman,” answered Cross, judicially, “but she failed. We have to take so many risks with people like yourself, Mr. Harrison, that we can’t take them with our own employees. Miss Williams did a lot of good work but that is a thing of the past.”

  “You really regard your—what shall I call them—operations as a kind of business, then?” asked Harrison.

  “Of course,” answered Cross. “Why not?”

  “When it involves murder?”

  “A business man gets rid of his rival in his own way.”

  “But society still objects to murder,” said Harrison.

  “And you represent society; that is what you mean?” queried Cross.

  “Precisely,” answered Harrison.

  “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you,” said Cross, decisively. “You asked me what more I wanted and I will put things in this way. You can get me arrested in Havre, I know that, and it is not going to be comfortable, but I can tell you, quite frankly, I have ways and means of my own of getting out of things like that.”

  “Not if it’s a question of extradition,” said Harrison.

  “I was coming to that,” answered Cross. “If you had anything you could pin down to me in England, it might be different, but a good motive and an imaginative story are not enough to satisfy the French authorities. You may be near the truth, who knows, but it is all guesswork. Better leave it alone, Mr. Harrison.”

  “But if I have proofs?”

  “Be sensible, Mr. Harrison,” said Cross; “we understand each other quite well. You have proved your case to your own satisfaction. Don’t spoil it by going too far and making a fool of yourself.”

  “But if I have proofs?” repeated Harrison.

  “What are they?” asked Cross, and for the first time a shade of apprehension went across his face.

  “Three,” answered Harrison, “first of all this cigarette you so kindly gave me.” He held up the half-finished stump. “It is of a peculiar brand called ‘Little Slam.’ Not everybody likes them, but when one gets used to them I expect one smokes nothing else. The person who stood waiting to take Mr. William Marston’s place at Penstoke smoked ‘Little Slam’ cigarettes to pass the time and even threw away the empty packet.”

  “Coincidence,” said Cross with great composure, but Harrison could see the muscles working in his cheeks.

  “Possibly,” answered Harrison, putting the cigarette end carefully in his waistcoat pocket, “the second piece of evidence is a photograph of ‘the man without a face’.”

  “A photograph?” said Cross, in a surprised tone.

  “Yes,” replied Harrison. “I gather you made short work of the camera which was produced on the night of the flashlight and your object was obvious, but fortunately the expose plates had been removed in time. Here is the result,” and he handed the photograph to the astonished man.

  Cross took the photograph mechanically and looked at it without a word.

  “Not only is this a photograph of ‘the man without a face’,” continued Harrison, “but it is also identifiable as that of the man who took the place of Mr. Spoker’s assistant, borrowed a costume exactly like that to be worn by Mr. Marston and replaced it after the murder in a soiled condition.”

  The spring had gone out of Cross’s attitude altogether. He began to look haggard and his eyes searched uneasily round the room.

  “And what is your third wonderful proof?” he asked, in a low tone, with a pitiful effort at bravado.

  “One which will clinch the other two,” said Harrison, going to the mantelpiece. He looked along the little piles of cigarette pictures and selected a small heap. These he took to a little table by the window and spread carefully in a line, leaving a space empty.

  “The makers of ‘Little Slam’ cigarettes are still old-fashioned enough to issue sets of cigarette cards of the old type,” said Harrison. “They have different series, and this particular one is a collection of twenty-four portraits of famous British admirals. There are twenty-three here, you see; one is missing.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Cross, hoarsely.

  “A cigarette card was found in the pocket of the soiled cook’s costume,” said Harrison, “put here by the murderer of Sir Jeremiah Bamberger. Here it is.” Harrison produced a card from his pocke
t and Cross looked at it with fascinated eyes. “It is the card that is needed to complete this particular set—No. 17—Admiral Benbow,” and he put it down in the vacant space.

  Chapter XXII

  Mrs. Clay Harrison

  The colour left Cross’s face and, in that moment, Harrison had a glimpse of the real man. The impassive mask was now covered with deep lines and a definite Teutonic cast of face was to be seen. If a photographer been able to catch him at this moment, the police description of “the man without a face” would no longer have held good. Instead of the vague, nondescript effect for which he had stood so long, Cross became an easily identifiable individual, with a suggestion of keen intelligence, if somewhat sinister. Harrison had the feeling, which he had had with so many of his opponents, that here was an outstanding type, of which there are already too few in the world, which had, unluckily for the rest of humanity and, in the end, for itself, wandered along the wrong road.

  But this was only a temporary glimpse. The neutral features, which Cross must have cultivated for years as a younger man to bring to their present effectiveness, soon returned. It must have been a gigantic struggle to regain that surface calm but Cross was able to do it.

  “Very neat, Mr. Harrison,” he said, “and now?”

  “You come back to England with me,” said Harrison. “If you go to jail here you will have to come to England eventually. I promise you that. You won’t be able to get out of it, so you had far better come at once.”

  “And there is no alternative?” said Cross.

  Harrison looked at him intently and said slowly, “I hope not.”

  “Never trust to hope, Mr. Harrison,” said Cross, jumping up quickly; “good-bye,” and with lightning speed he had dashed out of the room.

  Harrison half expected this move and, instead of following Cross at once, he turned to the mirror where he could see what was happening in the street. Henry was watchfully on guard and Harrison waited for him to move, which would have been a sign that Cross had come out of the house. But Henry stood his ground solemnly and seemed to observe no sign of anything unusual at the villa.