“I want a word with you,” said the police official gruffly to Harrison.
“Possibly a more sheltered part of the deck—” suggested Harrison.
“As you wish,” was the reply. “Come along,” he said, equally gruffly, to Miss Williams, and the party trooped up to the bow of the ship. Harrison led, followed by the police official and Miss Williams, then came the two policemen and the rear was brought up by Henry and the other two men, making an incongruous trio.
“And what do you want, Miss Williams?” asked Harrison, blandly.
“Listen to him,” she cried in French, and excellent French at that, to the official. “He insults me, an honest woman of Havre, by calling me an abominable English name. I demand justice.”
“Silence, woman,” said the official; “justice shall be done!”
“Thank you, sir,” answered Miss Williams, in a humble voice.
“Tell your story,” said the official.
“It is the story I told you this afternoon at your office,” she started, her voice gathering vehemence as she continued.
“He comes to me as any English visitor might. He says he is an English gentleman and his name is Smith. I know these English gentlemen who are named Smith. English gentleman, indeed; observe his clothes—” Harrison felt acutely conscious, almost for the first time, that he was not cutting an attractive figure in the kindly sergeant’s clothes.
“Never mind his clothes,” said the official abruptly, “continue your story.”
“Your pardon, sir; I was carried away,” she answered. “Then he goes away not only without paying me my just money but having stolen some from my room into the bargain. As I told you, sir.”
“Yes, yes, you told me,” was the curt reply. “What next?”
“I was certain he was going back to his accursed country by this boat so I asked you to come and help me, and you, in your great generosity, said you would. But that is not all. As he comes to the ship to-night I recognise him and ask for my money. What does he do? He abuses me, strikes me and throws me to the ground. See, he has torn my dress.” She pointed to her shoulder and Harrison saw that the rent had been gathered together with a single safety-pin; casually it might be, but Harrison thought a certain amount of artistic effort had been exerted, for the flesh of the bare shoulder was visible at intervals and certainly seemed mute evidence of his brutal attack.
“I have witnesses,” cried Miss Williams triumphantly, and motioned to the two evil-looking men whom Harrison recognised as having been her attendants during the earlier scene.
“This is the man who beat me so cruelly?” she asked. They looked furtively at Harrison, nodded an affirmative and slipped back into their obscurity.
“That is enough, isn’t it?” she asked the official.
“What have you to say?” the official asked Harrison.
“Nothing at all,” was the answer.
“But that is impossible,” said the official, obviously troubled by his task. “You have heard what the woman said. Are you willing to make reparation?”
“I will not accept his money now,” screamed Miss Williams. “He assaulted me. He must be punished.”
“Silence, woman,” said the official angrily. “Will you make reparation; pay her the money and something for the damaged dress?”
“Not a sou,” answered Harrison.
“There, he is a swindler,” said Miss Williams, triumphantly.
“You realise it is my duty to arrest you and put you in prison?” asked the police official.
“I do,” said Harrison.
The police official signalled to his men, but before they could touch him Harrison called out, “Stop; do you realise what you are doing?”
“What do you mean?” asked the official.
“You are arresting an Englishman on a trumped-up charge and, when the facts are proved, your government will dismiss you.”
The police official mentally scratched his head.
“Do you believe him,” cried Miss Williams. “He is a swindler. He is deceiving you.”
“That woman,” said Harrison, pointing to her, “is called Williams. She no more belongs to Havre than I do.”
“Lies, lies,” cried Miss Williams; “I am well-known here. If you do not do your duty I will make Havre so hot for you that you will be sorry you ever dared deny justice.”
“Silence, woman,” said the official, but he was obviously greatly impressed. “I give you one more chance to pay,” he continued, turning to Harrison.
“You are very courteous,” was the reply, “but I still say ‘not a sou’!”
“Then I regret that I must ask you to come with me,” said the official, decisively.
“You would take me by force?” asked Harrison.
“If necessary,” said the official, “but I hope it will not be necessary.”
“I think this has gone far enough,” said Harrison, sternly, looking at Miss Williams. “A legitimate mistake would be excusable but this—” He paused. “Before you go any farther I think you had better glance at my card.”
He took a case from his pocket and handed a card therefrom to the police official while Miss Williams smiled as if at the futility of such a manoeuvre.
The police official read the name and his manner immediately changed. “Mr. Harrison,” he exclaimed, and Miss Williams looked apprehensively at him and she heard the new inflection in his voice. “Mr. Clay Harrison, the English detective, but Scotland Yard has told me you would be here.”
“Exactly,” said Harrison.
“But surely there is some very grave mistake,” said the police official, turning round to Helen Williams. She looked from him to Harrison for one moment and then, as quick as lightning, she ran to the far side of the vessel. With the agility of a cat she had climbed over the rail before anyone could stop her and, without even a look back, she jumped into the water.
Harrison and the police official followed but nothing could be seen in the black oily-looking waters. Meanwhile the two men who had appeared as expert witnesses had simultaneously made a dash for the gangway. Fighting their way past oncoming passengers they reached the quayside with the two policemen well in their wake.
“She will not drown, Mr. Harrison,” said the police official. “People like that are not born to drown.”
“You think she will get to the dock side?” asked Harrison.
“Undoubtedly,” answered the official, “and we shall never find her and she will go on doing mischief. It is a pity, but I must offer a thousand apologies to you, Mr. Harrison—”
“Not at all.”
“But what a mistake to make.”
“It shows how effectively my clothes deceived people.”
“But I am desolated,” said the official, producing a card in his turn. “I am Berthay. Henri Berthay, and I am trusted in Havre. A difficult city to police—”
“I realise that, M. Berthay,” said Harrison.
“I do not excuse myself; that is impossible,” said M. Berthay, “but my action is reasonable. We have had many complaints of these what you call ‘trippers.’ They go without paying their debts and it is a great nuisance. I do not like it. It does not make for order in Havre, and it is always the humbler ones who suffer and they become discontented. I must not forget that I am a policeman, you see—”
“Quite.”
“—And also they will not allow me,” M. Berthay laughed, “so this afternoon this woman comes to my office in the city and she complains so bitterly that I think I myself, Berthay, must this time take notice. She is clever the way she explains her case. She demands justice and I feel I must give it to her. She says you will be going by this boat and I arrange to meet her and question you. If I make one example, I think, affairs will improve. I was foolish in my vanity, for you, Harrison, were the example I tried to make. The woman tricked me and I was simple enough not to realise it.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, M. Berthay,” said Harrison. “She is
a very remarkable woman, an international criminal of the first order, and you could have had no idea what you were up against.”
“You surprise me, Mr. Harrison,” was the reply, “and yet you do not, for she was plotting against you; I see that, and you were over here in connection with her.”
“Not quite,” answered Harrison, “but it is near the truth.” He stopped short because from where they stood they could again see a commotion on the gangway. Two policemen had come up and were talking to the attendant. At first he thought they must be the two who had gone off in pursuit and that they had come back to report. But it was obvious that they did not know where M. Berthay was, for the official of the ship waved them on and seemed to be telling them to go and find him.
“This is very curious,” said M. Berthay, going to meet the policemen. “You will excuse me, Mr. Harrison?” Harrison nodded and then turned to Henry.
“I don’t quite like the look of things,” said Harrison. “Let’s go along to the cabin.”
“What’s the matter, sir?”
“Those policemen have brought some urgent news for M. Berthay.”
“Well, sir?”
“There is enough news in the Avenue des Viguerres, Henry.”
“But they don’t connect you with it, sir,” said Henry, “so what can happen.”
“Anything,” answered Harrison.
Henry pointed out the cabin and Harrison knocked at the door. It was immediately opened by the woman. Reggie was lying sleeping in his clothes on a bunk.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Harrison,” said the woman, looking gratefully at him.
“You hadn’t better start,” said Harrison, with a grim smile; “there won’t be time. I will tell you what I really want you to do. Undress Reggie as far as you can and tuck him up in a bunk and then do the same yourself. Do it as quickly as you can. I can’t explain now how important it is.”
“Of course I will, Mr. Harrison,” said the woman.
“And don’t forget your name,” added Harrison, as the door closed again. “Now we’ll wait here and see if I am right. If I’m not, we shall be lucky. If I am, I’ve done everything I could.”
Henry looked at him in a bewildered manner but deemed it wise not to comment.
Not long afterwards M. Berthay appeared and seemed to be methodically examining each cabin. “I was right, Henry,” whispered Harrison, when he saw the police official. “Keep your eyes open.”
When Berthay saw Harrison he came towards him with a serious look on his face.
“A singular affair they came to tell me about,” he said. “A man has been found poisoned in a good street in the city—not a usual place for violent death. One expects it by the quay but not there.”
“May I ask where, M. Berthay?”
“In the Avenue des Viguerres,” answered Berthay.
“Oh,” said Harrison in a tone which suggested he had not been enlightened.
“You would not know it,” said Berthay. “The visitor does not go there. A woman living near noticed that many people called there during the day and were disappointed of an answer. That was so unusual to her that at last, when one caller had nearly deafened the neighbourhood with his efforts she felt there must be something wrong and told one of my men about it. He broke in the door and found a man lying poisoned inside the house.”
“But that is not very singular?” queried Harrison.
“True, Harrison,” answered M. Berthay, “but there lived in the house with the man, so says the neighbour, a woman who certainly was English and they had a small son. Now the woman and the boy have vanished. The neighbour says she thought she saw them leave the house this morning with a suspicious stranger, but she would not swear to that. But they are gone, of that there is no doubt, and what would an English woman do but take to the ship.”
“That is a very fair assumption,” said Harrison, cordially.
“I thought you would agree with me, Mr. Harrison,” answered M. Berthay, beaming. “It is gratifying. So I am searching the ship. My men are looking in the other classes where I may say I expect to find her, and I myself am making a purely formal search, to save time, of the first class. Is that your cabin, Mr. Harrison?”
“Yes,” answered Harrison. “You may look inside but do it quietly for Mrs. Harrison may be asleep.”
“Mrs. Harrison?”
“Yes,” was the reply. “As I was coming over on business I thought she and the boy might take advantage of it and spend a pleasant week-end with me.”
“Very wise,” said M. Berthay. “I hate to worry her, Mr. Harrison, but I think I ought to look in. It is my duty, you see.”
“Why, certainly,” said Harrison.
M. Berthay opened the door gently and, in the half-light two forms could be seen in the bunks. He looked quickly round the cabin while the woman sat up in her bunk, sleepily, and puzzled at the intrusion.
“It’s all right, my dear,” said Harrison.
“A thousand apologies, Madame Harrison,” said Berthay. “It could not be avoided.”
The woman smiled pleasantly but did not speak, and Berthay closed the door.
“Only one other point, Mr. Harrison,” said Berthay. “I must just see your passport. I am certain they are all right but I must show no favour.”
“Of course not,” said Harrison, with a twinkling eye. “Henry there and I have passports while my wife and the boy had week-end tickets. Give them to M. Berthay, Henry—That is quite in order, isn’t it?”
M. Berthay took the passports and tickets and studied them perfunctorily. Then he returned them.
“Quite, Mr. Harrison,” he said, and then added slowly, “and what do you know yourself about the Avenue des Viguerres, Mr. Harrison?”
“Nothing, I assure you, M. Berthay,” said Harrison, calmly.
“It is best to know nothing, Mr. Harrison,” answered M. Berthay. “Had you known anything I should have had to ask you, your wife and son—not forgetting Mr. Henry—to stay in Havre instead of returning to England. But that I do not propose to do. You know nothing. But,” he added, “suppose I asked your advice?”
“Well?” said Harrison.
“Suppose you put yourself in my place for a moment, Mr. Harrison, what would you think about the house in the Avenue des Viguerres?”
Harrison smiled broadly and answered, “If you put it that way, M. Berthay, as one detective to another, my feeling would be this. That house is the headquarters of a dangerous gang of international criminals. If your men were posted outside to-morrow morning they would make an exceedingly important catch—a man they would be very pleased to see in prison. If they watched during the week and particularly over next week-end they might make some more quite useful captures of odd visitors who come to call. Naturally, that is only my feeling if I put myself in your place, M. Berthay.”
“Naturally,” answered the police chief, smiling placidly. “I will now find my men and lament with them their lack of success.” The ship’s siren sounded insistently. “It is a pleasure to have met you, Mr. Harrison,” said M. Berthay, holding out his hand. “Bon voyage.”
“It is an honour to have met you, M. Berthay,” answered Harrison, shaking the proffered hand warmly.
The police chief walked away and it was not long before the ship started moving slowly from the quay.
“Wonderful, sir,” said Henry, “but it was a close shave. What if he hadn’t believed you, sir?”
“He didn’t, Henry,” said Harrison. “I thought it was thin but not nearly as thin as he did.”
Suddenly he leaned against the woodwork. “I’m nearly done, Henry,” he said. “It’s been a heavy day.”
“I’ve provided for that,” said Henry. “I’ve taken the cabin next door as well so you can settle down for the night, and the steward is bringing some tea as quickly as possible.”
“Henry,” said Harrison, and his voice was a little shaky, “I don’t know what I should do without you.”
Chapter XXIV
The Last Threads
A week or so later, Harrison and Mrs. Marston were sitting in the smoking-room of the Bamberger home at Penstoke. The subdued lighting had fitted the story Harrison had told Mrs. Marston for, soon after his arrival back in London, William Marston had called on him to explain that he had been unable to talk to his wife and to beg Harrison to do so.
“I am glad you told me all this, Mr. Harrison,” said Mrs. Marston.
“That was my job,” answered Harrison. “You sent for me in the first place, Mrs. Marston.”
“Did I?” she said, innocently. “I thought it was Miss Williams?”
Harrison laughed and Mrs. Marston joined in. Quite as remarkable a woman as I at first thought, he mused, and doesn’t seem much upset about the unhappy William.
“But you’re not smoking, Mr. Harrison?” said Mrs. Marston. “Is that your idea of good manners. You who love a cigar to be so stiff and formal with me? I shall be very upset if you don’t light one immediately.”
Harrison obeyed meekly and puffed away while waiting for Mrs. Marston to go on.
“Men are queer creatures,” said Mrs. Marston, “married men, of course, Mr. Harrison. I don’t claim to know anything about single men like yourself, but I think I understand my husband, although he wouldn’t believe it. Men think they are so strong and self-sufficient, don’t they, Mr. Harrison?”
“Must I answer?” laughed Harrison.
“Of course not,” said Mrs. Marston, “When one has been a wife as long as I have, one gets to know a little about one’s husband. Poor William. He does think he’s been dreadful, doesn’t he? And yet this is rather what I expected you were going to tell me, Mr. Harrison.”
“Really?” said Harrison, in some surprise.
“When you asked me how long I had known Helen Williams, I found it difficult to answer,” she continued. “Not so very long really, but I liked her very much. Even if she did push herself on me and, from what you said about the way they treated poor Sir Jeremiah Bamberger, she must have deliberately chosen to be friendly with me because our house was next to his. Still, with all that, I liked her, and even now I can’t help liking the thought of her. She was very attractive, she was well read, she had experience and never talked nonsense, and she was very nice to me.”
The Man Without A Face Page 31