The Face of a Stranger (44 page)

"If it's the same man," Monk said cautiously. "I don't
know that it is. I don't know anything about him but his name, and only part of
that. Where do I find him?"

"Thirteen Gun Lane, Limehouse." He hesitated. "If you get
anything, Monk, will you tell me, as long as it isn't the actual murder? Is
that what you're after?"

"No. No, I just want some information. If I find evidence of fraud
I'll bring it back for you." He smiled bleakly. "You have my
word."

The man's face eased into a smile. "Thank you."

* * * * *

Monk went early in the morning and was in Limehouse by nine o'clock. He
would have been there sooner had there been any purpose. He had spent much of
the time since he woke at six planning what he would say.

It was a long way from Grafton Street and he took a hansom eastward
through Clerkenwell, Whitechapel and down towards the cramped and crowded docks
and Limehouse. It was a still morning and the sun was gleaming on the river,
making white sparkles on the water between the black barges coming up from the
Pool of London. Across on the far side were Bermondsey—the Venice of the
Drains—and Rotherhithe, and ahead of him the Surrey Docks, and along the
shining Reach the Isle of Dogs, and on the far side Deptford and then the
beautiful Greenwich with its green park and trees and the exquisite
architecture of the naval college.

But his duty lay hi the squalid alleys of Limehouse with beggars,
usurers and thieves of every degree—and Zebe-dee Marner.

Gun Lane was a byway off the West India Dock Road, and he found Number
13 without difficulty. He passed an evil-looking idler on the pavement and
another lounging in the doorway, but neither troubled him, perhaps considering
him unlikely to give to a beggar and too crisp of gait to be wise to rob. There
was other, easier prey. He despised them, and understood them at the same time.

Good fortune was with him: Zebedee Marner was in, and after a discreet
inquiry, the clerk showed Monk into the upper office.

"Good morning, Mr.—Monk." Marner sat behind a large, important
desk, his white hair curled over his ears and his white hands spread on the
leather-inlaid surface in front of him. "What can I do for you?"

"You come recommended as a man of many businesses, Mr. Marner,"
Monk started smoothly, gliding over

the hatred in his voice. "With a knowledge of all kinds of
things."

"And so I am, Mr. Monk, so I am. Have you money to invest?"

“What could you offer me?''

"All manner of things. How much money?" Marner was watching
him narrowly, but it was well disguised as a casual cheerfulness.

"I am interested also in safety, rather than quick profit,"
Monk said, ignoring the question. "I wouldn't care to lose what I
have."

"Of course not, who would?" Marner spread his hands wide and
shrugged expressively, but his eyes were fixed and blinkless as a snake's.
"You want your money invested safely?"

"Oh, quite definitely," Monk agreed. "And since I know of
many other gentlemen who are also interested in investment, I should wish to be
certain that any recommendation I made was secure."

Manner's eyes flickered, then the lids came down to hide his thoughts.
"Excellent," he said calmly. "I quite understand, Mr. Monk.
Have you considered importing and exporting? Very nourishing trade; never
fails."

"So I've heard." Monk nodded. "But is it safe?"

"Some is, some isn't. It is the skill of people like me to know the
difference." His eyes were wide again, his hands folded across his paunch.
"That is why you came here, instead of investing it yourself.''

"Tobacco?"

Marner's face did not change in the slightest.

"An excellent commodity." He nodded. "Excellent. I cannot
see gentlemen giving up their pleasures, whatever the economic turns of life.
As long as there are gentlemen, there will be a market for tobacco. And unless
our climate changes beyond our wit to imagine"—he grinned and his body
rocked with silent mirth at his own humor—"we will be unable to grow it,
so must need import it. Have you any special company in mind?"

"Are you familiar with the market?" Monk asked, swallowing
hard to contain his loathing of this man sitting here like a fat white spider
in his well-furnished office, safe in his gray web of lies and facades. Only
the poor flies like Latterly got caught—a«d perhaps Joscelin Grey.

"Of course," Marner replied complacently. "I know it
well."

"You have dealt in it?"

"I have, frequently. I assure you, Mr. Monk, I know very well what
I am doing."

"You would not be taken unaware and find yourself faced with a
collapse?"

"Most certainly not." Marner looked at him as if he had let
fall some vulgarity at the table.

"You are sure?" Monk pressed him.

"I am more than sure, my dear sir." Now he was quite pained.
"I am positive."

"Good." Monk at last allowed the venom to flood into his
voice. “That is what I thought. Then you will no doubt be able to tell me how
the disaster occurred that ruined Major Joscelin Grey's investment in the same
commodity. You were connected with it."

Marner's face paled and for a moment he was confused to find words.

"I—er—assure you, you need have no anxiety as to its happening
again," he said, avoiding Monk's eyes, then looking very directly at him,
to cover the lie of intent.

"That is good," Monk answered him coolly. "But hardly of
more than the barest comfort now. It has cost two lives already. Was there much
of your own money lost, Mr. Marner?"

"Much of mine?" Marner looked startled.

"I understand Major Grey lost a considerable sum?"

"Oh—no. No, you are misinformed." Marner shook his head and
his white hair bounced over his ears. "The company did not precisely fail.
Oh dear me no. It simply transferred its operation; it was taken over. If you
are not a man of affairs, you could not be expected to understand. Business is
highly complicated these days, Mr. Monk."

"It would seem so. And you say Major Grey did not lose a great deal
of his own money? Can you substantiate that in any way?"

"I could, of course." The smug veils came over Mar-ner's eyes
again. "But Major Grey's affairs are his own, of course, and I should not
discuss his affairs with you, any more than I should dream of discussing yours
with him. The essence of good business is discretion, sir." He smiled,
pleased with himself, his composure at least in part regained.

"Naturally," Monk agreed. "But I am from the police, and
am investigating Major Grey's murder, therefore I am in a different category
from the merely inquisitive." He lowered his voice and it became
peculiarly menacing. He saw Marner's face tighten. "And as a law-abiding
man," he continued, "I am sure you will be only too happy to give me
every assistance you can. I should like to see your records in the matter.
Precisely how much did Major Grey lose, Mr. Marner, to the guinea, if you
please?"

Marner's chin came up sharply; his eyes were hot and offended.

"The police? You said you wanted to make an investment. ''

"No, I did not say that—you assumed it. How much did Joscelin Grey
lose, Mr. Marner?"

"Oh, well, to the guinea, Mr. Monk, he—he did not lose any."

"But the company dissolved."

"Yes—yes, that is true; it was most unfortunate. But Major Grey
withdrew his own investment at the last moment, just before the—the
takeover."

Monk remembered the policeman from whom he had learned Marner's address.
If he had been after Marner for years, let him have the satisfaction of taking
him now.

"Oh." Monk sat back, altering his whole attitude, almost
smiling. "So he was not really concerned in the loss?"

"No, not at all."

Monk stood up.

"Then it hardly constitutes a part of his murder. I'm sorry to have
wasted your time, Mr. Marner. And I thank you for your cooperation. You do, of
course, have some papers to prove this, just for my superiors?"

"Yes. Yes, I have." Marner relaxed visibly. "If you care
to wait for a moment—" He stood up from his desk and went to a large
cabinet of files. He pulled a drawer and took out a small notebook ruled in
ledger fashion. He put it, open, on the desk in front of Monk.

Monk picked it up, glanced at it, read the entry where Grey had
withdrawn his money, and snapped it shut.

"Thank you." He put the book in the inside pocket of his coat
and stood up.

Marner's hand came forward for the return of the book. He realized he
was not going to get it, debated in his mind whether to demand it or not, and
decided it would raise more interest in the subject than he could yet afford
_t
He forced a smile, a sickly thing in his great white face.

"Always happy to be of service, sir. Where should we be without the
police? So much crime these days, so much violence."

"Indeed," Monk agreed. "And so much theft that breeds
violence. Good day, Mr. Marner."

Outside he walked briskly along Gun Lane and back towards the West India
Dock Road, but he was thinking hard. If this evidence was correct, and not
fiddled with by Zebedee Marner, then the hitherto relatively honest Jos-celin
Grey had almost certainly been forewarned in time to escape at the last moment
himself, leaving Latterly and his friends to bear the loss. Dishonest, but not
precisely illegal. It would be interesting to know who had shares in the
company that took over the tobacco importing, and if Grey was one of them.

Had he uncovered this much before? Marner had shown

no signs of recognition. He had behaved as if the whole question were
entirely new to him. In fact it must be, or Monk would never have been able to
deceive him into imagining him an investor.

But even if Zebedee Marner had never seen him before, it was not
impossible he had known all this before Grey's death, because then he had had
his memory, known his contacts, who to ask, who to bribe, who could be threatened,
and with what.

But there was no way yet to find out. On the West India Dock Road he
found a hansom and sank back for the long ride, thinking.

At the police station he went to the man who had given him Zebedee
Marner's address and told him of his visit, gave him the ledger and showed him
what he thought the fraud would be. The man positively bubbled with delight,
like someone who contemplates a rich feast only hours away. Monk had a brief,
fierce glow of satisfaction.

It did not last.

Runcorn was waiting for him in his own office.

"No arrest yet?" he said with black relish. "No one
charged?"

Monk did not bother to reply.

"Monk!" Runcorn slammed his fist on the table.

"Yes sir?"

"You sent John Evan out to Shelburne to question the staff?"

"Yes I did. Isn't that what you wanted?" He raised sarcastic
eyebrows. "Evidence against Shelburne?"

"You won't get it out there. We know what his motive was. What we
need is evidence of opportunity, someone who saw him here."

"I'll start looking," Monk said with bitter irony. Inside
himself he was laughing, and Runcorn knew it, but he had not the faintest idea
why, and it infuriated him.

"You should have been looking for the last month!" he shouted.
"What in hell is the matter with you, Monk? You were always a hard,
arrogant devil, with airs beyond your

station, but you were a good policeman. But now you're a fool. This
crack on the head seems to have impaired your brain. Perhaps you should have some
more sick leave?"

"I am perfectly well." Misery was black inside Monk; he wanted
to frighten this man who hated him so much and was going to have the last
victory. "But maybe you ought to take over this case? You are right, I am
getting nowhere with it." He looked straight back at Runcorn with wide
eyes. "The powers that be want a result—you should do the job yourself.''

Runcorn's face set. "You must take me for a fool. IVe sent for
Evan. He'll be back tomorrow." He held up his thick finger, wagging it in
Monk's face. "Arrest Shelburne this week, or I will take you off it."
He turned and strode out, leaving the door squealing on its hinges.

Monk stared after him. So he had sent for Evan to return. Time was even
shorter than he had feared. Before much longer Evan must come to the same
conclusion as he had, and that would be the end.

* * * * *

In fact Evan came back the next day, and Monk met him for luncheon. They
sat together in a steamy public house. It was heavy and damp with the odor of
massed bodies, sawdust, spilled ale and nameless vegetables stewed into soup.

“Anything?'' Monk asked as a matter of form. It would have seemed
remarkable had he not.

"Lots of indication," Evan replied with a frown. "But I
wonder sometimes if I see it only because I'm looking fork."