The Face of a Stranger

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Monk picked it up, glanced at it, read the entry where Grey had withdrawn his money, and snapped it shut.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

"You mean invent it for yourself?"

Evan's eyes came up quickly and met Monk's. They were devastatingly clear.

"You don't honestly believe he did it, do you, sir?"

How could he know so quickly? Rapidly Monk flew in his mind through all the possible things he might say. Would Evan know a lie? Had he seen all the lies already?

Was he clever enough, subtle enough, to be leading Monk gently into trapping himself? Was it conceivable the whole police department knew, and were simply waiting for him to uncover his own proof, his own condemnation? For a moment fear engulfed him and the cheerful rattle of the alehouse became a din like bedlam- witless, formless and persecutory. They all knew; they were merely waiting for him to know, to betray himself, and then the mystery would end. They would come out in the open, with laughter, handcuffs, questions, congratulations at another murder solved; there would be a trial, a brief imprisonment, and then the tight, strong rope, a quick pain-and nothing.

But why? Why had he killed Joscelin Grey? Surely not because Grey had escaped the crash of the tobacco company-probably even profited from it?

"Sir? Sir, are you all right?" It was Evan's voice cutting across his panic, Evan's face peering at him anxiously. "You look a little pale, sir. Are you sure you are all right?"

Monk forced himself to sit upright and meet Evan's eyes. If he were to be given one wish now, it would be that Evan would not have to know. Imogen Latterly had never really been more than a dream, a reminder of the softer self, the part of him that could be wounded and could care for something better than ambition-but Evan had been a friend. Maybe there had been others, but he could not remember them now.

"Yes," he said carefully. "Yes, thank you. I was just thinking. No, you are right; I am not at all sure it was Shelburne."

Evan leaned forward a little, his face eager.

"I'm glad you say that, sir. Don't let Mr. Runcorn push you." His long fingers were playing with the bread, too excited to eat. "I think it's someone here in London. In fact I have been looking at Mr. Lamb's notes again, and ours, and the more I read them the more I think it could have something to do with money, with business.

"Joscelin Grey seems to have lived fairly comfortably, better than the allowance from his family supported." He put down his spoon and abandoned all pretense of the meal. "So either he was blackmailing someone, or else he gambled very successfully, or, most likely of all, he had some business we know nothing about. And if it were honest, we ought to have found some record of it, and the other people concerned should have come forward. Similarly, if he borrowed money, the lenders would have put in some claim against the estate."

"Unless they were sharks," Monk said automatically, his mind cold with fear, watching Evan draw closer and closer to the thread that must lead him to the truth. Any moment now and his fine, sensitive hands would grasp it.