The Face of a Stranger (33 page)

Monk was frightened because suddenly there was no rationality in it at
all. Everything that had seemed to fit ten minutes ago was now senseless, like
puzzle parts of two quite different pictures. At the same time he was almost
elated—if it were not Shelburne, if it were someone who knew forgers and
thieves, then perhaps there was no society scandal or blackmail at all.

"I don't know," he answered Evan with sudden new firmness.
"But there's no need to tiptoe in this one to find out. Nobody will lose
us our jobs if we ask embarrassing questions of a few screevers, or bribe a
nose, or even press a fence a little hard."

Evan's face relaxed into a slow smile and his eyes lit up. Monk guessed
that perhaps he had had little taste so far of the color of the underworld, and
as yet it still held the glamour of mystery. He would find its tones dark; gray
of misery, black of long-used pain and habitual fear; its humor quick and
bitter, gallows laughter.

He looked at Evan's keen face, its soft, sensitive lines. He could not
explain to him; words are only names for what you already know—and what could
Evan know that would prepare him for the hive of human waste that teemed in the
shadows of Whitechapel, St. Giles, Bluegate Fields, Seven Dials, or the Devil's
Acre? Monk had known hardship himself in childhood; he could remember hunger
now—it was coming back to him—and cold, shoes that leaked, clothes that let
through the bitter northeast wind, plenty of meals of bread and gravy. He
remembered faintly the pain of chilblains, angry itching fire when at last you
warmed a little; Beth with chapped lips and white, numb ringers.

But they were not unhappy memories; behind all the small pains there had
always been a sense of well-being, a knowledge of eventual safety. They were
always clean: clean clothes, however few and however old, clean table, smell of
flour and fish, salt wind in the spring and summer when the windows were open.

It was sharper in his mind now; he could recall whole scenes, taste and
touch, and always the whine of the wind and the cry of gulls. They had all gone
to church on Sundays; he could not bring back everything that had been said,
but he could think of snatches of music, solemn and full of the satisfaction of
people who believe what they sing, and know they sing it well.

His mother had taught him all his values: honesty, labor and learning.
He knew even without her words that she believed it. It was a good memory, and
he was more grateful for its return than for any other. It brought with it identity.
He could not clearly picture his mother's face; each time he tried it blurred
and melted into Beth's, as he had seen her only a few weeks ago, smiling,
confident of herself. Perhaps they were not unalike.

Evan was waiting for him, eyes still bright with anticipation of seeing
at last the real skill of detection, delving into the heartland of crime.

"Yes." Monk recalled himself. "We shall be free there to
pursue as we wish." And no satisfaction for Runcorn, he thought, but he
did not add it aloud.

He went back to the door and Evan followed him. There was no point in
tidying anything; better to leave it as it was—even that mess might yield a
clue, some time.

He was in the hallway, next to the small table, when he

noticed the sticks in the stand. He had seen them before, but he had
been too preoccupied with the acts of violence in the room beyond to look
closely. Anyway, they already had the stick that had been the weapon. Now he
saw that there were still four there. Perhaps since Grey had used a stick to
walk with, he had become something of a collector. It would not be unnatural;
he had been a man to whom appearance mattered: everything about him said as much.
Probably he had a stick for morning, another for evening, a casual one, and a
rougher one for the country.

Monk's eye was caught by a dark, straight stick, the color of mahogany
and with a fine brass band on it embossed like the links of a chain. It was an
extraordinary sensation, hot, almost like a dizziness; it prickled hi his
skin—he knew with total clarity that he had seen that stick before, and seen it
several times.

Evan was beside him, waiting, wondering why he had stopped. Monk tried
to clear his head, to broaden the image till it included where and when, till
he saw the man who held it. But nothing came, only the vivid tingle of
familiarity—and fear.

"Sir?" Evan's voice was doubtful. He could see no reason for
the sudden paralysis. They were both standing in the hallway, frozen, and the
only reason was in Monk's mind. And try as he might, bending all the force of
his will on it, still he could see nothing but the stick, no man, not even a
hand holding it.

"Have you thought of something, sir?" Evan's voice intruded
into the intensity of his thought.

"No." Monk moved at last. "No." He must think of
something sensible to say, to explain himself, a reason for his behavior. He
found the words with difficulty. "I was just wondering where to start. You
say Grimwade didn't get any names from those papers?"

"No; but then they wouldn't use their own names anyway, would
they?"

"No, of course not, but it would have helped to know what name the
screever used for them." It was a foolish

question to have asked, but he must make sense of it. Evan was listening
to his every word, as to a teacher. "There are a vast number of screevers
in London." He made his voice go on with authority, as if he knew what he
was saying, and it mattered. "And I daresay more than one who has forged
police papers in the last few weeks."

"Oh—yes, of course," Evan was instantly satisfied. "No, I
did ask, before I knew they were burglars, but he didn't notice. He was more
interested in the authorization part."

"Oh well." Monk had control of himself again. He opened the
door and went out. "I daresay the name of the station will be enough
anyway." Evan came out also and he turned and closed the door behind him,
locking it.

But when they reached the street Monk changed his mind. He wanted to see
Runcorn's face when he heard of the robbery and realized Monk would not be
forced to ferret for scandals as the only way to Grey's murderer. There was
suddenly and beautifully a new way open to him, where the worst possibility was
simple failure; and there was even a chance now of real success, unqualified.

He sent Evan off on a trivial errand, with instructions to meet him
again in an hour, and caught a hansom through sunny, noisy streets back to the
station. Runcorn was in, and mere was a glow of satisfaction on his face when
Monk came into his office.

"Morning, Monk," he said cheerfully. "No further, I
see?"

Monk let the pleasure sink a little deeper into him, as one hesitates
exquisitely in a hot bath, inching into it to savor each additional moment.

"It is a most surprising case," he answered meaning-lessly,
his eyes meeting Runcorn's, affecting concern.

Runcorn's face clouded, but Monk could feel the pleasure in him as if
it were an odor in the room.

"Unfortunately the public does not give us credit for
amazement," Runcorn replied, stretching out the anticipation. "Just
because they are puzzled that does not, in their view, allow us the same
privilege. You're not pressing hard enough, Monk." He frowned very
slightly and leaned farther back in his chair, the sunlight in a bar through
the window falling in on the side of his head. His voice changed to one of
unctuous sympathy. "Are you sure you are fully recovered? You don't seem
like your old self. You used not to be so—" He smiled as the word pleased
him. "So hesitant. Justice was your first aim, indeed your only aim; I've
never known you to balk before, even at the most unpleasant inquiries."
There was doubt at the very back of his eyes, and dislike. He was balancing
between courage and experience, like a man beginning to ride a bicycle.
"You believe that very quality was what raised you so far, and so
fast." He stopped, waiting; and Monk had a brief vision of spiders resting
in the hearts of their webs, knowing flies would come, sooner or later: the
time was a matter of delicacy, but they would come.

He decided to play it out a little longer; he wanted to watch Runcorn
himself, let him bring his own feelings into the open, and betray his
vulnerability.

"This case is different," he answered hesitantly, still
putting the anxiety into his manner. He sat down on the chair opposite the
desk. "I can't remember any other like it. One cannot make
comparison."

"Murder is murder." Runcorn shook his head a trifle pompously.
"Justice does not differentiate; and let me be frank, neither does the
public—in fact if anything, they care more about this. It has all the elements
the public likes, all the journalists need to whip up passions and make people
frightened—and indignant."

Monk decided to split hairs.

"Not really," he demurred. "There is no love story, and
the public likes romance above all things. There is no woman."

"No love story?" Runcorn's eyebrows went up.

"I never suspected you of cowardice, Monk; and never, ever of
stupidity!" His face twitched with an impossible blend of satisfaction and
affected concern. "Are you sure you are quite well?" He leaned
forward over the desk again to reinforce the effect. "You don't get
headaches, by any chance, do you? It was a very severe blow you received, you
know. In fact, I daresay you don't recall it now, but when I first saw you in
the hospital you didn't even recognize me."

Monk refused to acknowledge the appalling thought that had come to the
edge of his mind.

"Romance?" he asked blankly, as if he had heard nothing after
that.

"Joscelin Grey and his sister-in-law!" Runcorn was watching
him closely, pretending to be hazy, his eyes a little veiled, but Monk saw the
sharp pinpoints under his heavy lids.

"Does the public know of that?" Monk equally easily pretended
innocence. "I have not had time to look at newspapers." He pushed out
his lip in doubt. "Do you think it was wise to tell them? Lord Shelburne
will hardly be pleased!"

The skin across Runcorn's face tightened.

"No of course I didn't tell them yet!" He barely controlled
his voice. "But it can only be a matter of time. You cannot put it off
forever." There was a hard gleam in his face, almost an appetite.
"You have most assuredly changed, Monk. You used to be such a fighter. It
is almost as if you were a different person, a stranger to yourself. Have you
forgotten how you used to be?"

For a moment Monk was unable to answer, unable to do anything but absorb
the shock. He should have guessed it. He had been overconfident, stupidly blind
to the obvious. Of course Runcorn knew he had lost his memory. If he had not
known from the beginning, then he had surely guessed it in Monk's careful
maneuvering, his unaware-ness of their relationship. Runcorn was a
professional; he spent his life telling truth from lies, divining motives, uncovering
the hidden. What an arrogant fool Monk must have been to imagine he had
deceived him. His own stupidity made him flush hot at the embarrassment of it.

Runcorn was watching him, seeing the tide of color in his face. He must
control it, find a shield; or better, a weapon. He straightened his body a
little more and met Runcorn's eyes.

"A stranger to you perhaps, sir, but not to myself. But then we are
few of us as plain as we seem to others. I think I am only less rash than you
supposed. And it is as well." He savored the moment, although it had not
the sweetness he had expected.

He looked at Runcorn's face squarely. "I came to tell you that
Joscelin Grey's flat has been robbed, at least it has been thoroughly searched,
even ransacked, by two men posing as police. They seemed to have had quite
competently forged papers which they showed to the porter."

Runcorn's face was stiff and there was a mottle of red on his skin. Monk
could not resist adding to it.

"Puts a different light on it, doesn't it?" he went on
cheerfully, pretending they were both pleased. "I don't see Lord Shelburne
hiring an accomplice and posing as a Peeler to search his brother's flat."

A few seconds had given Runcorn time to think.

"Then he must have hired a couple of men. Simple enough!"

But Monk was ready. “If it was something worth such a terrible
risk," he countered, "why didn't they get it before? It must have
been there two months by now.''

"What terrible risk?" Runcorn's voice dropped a little in
mockery of the idea. "They passed it off beautifully. And it would have
been easy enough to do: just watch the building a little while to make sure the
real police were not there, then go in with their false papers, get what they
went for, and leave. I daresay they had a crow out in the street."

"I wasn't referring to the risk of their being caught in the
act," Monk said scornfully. "I was thinking of the much greater risk,
from his point of view, of placing himself in the hands of possible
blackmailers."

He felt a surge of pleasure as Runcorn's face betrayed that he hadn't
thought of that.

"Do it anonymously." Runcorn dismissed the idea.

Monk smiled at him. "If it was worth paying thieves, and a
first-class screever, in order to get it back, it wouldn't take a very bright
thief to work out it would be worth raising the price a little before handing
it over. Everyone in London knows there was murder done in that room. If whatever
he wanted was worth paying thieves and forgers to get back, it must be
damning."