The Face of a Stranger Read Online Free PDF

some long history of incompetence or
deceit that would explain such a thing?
    "You'll be wantin' Mr. Runcorn, sir." The sergeant seemed to
notice no change in Monk, and to be keen to speed him on his way.
    "Yes, if he's in—please?"
    The sergeant stepped aside a little and allowed Monk through the
counter.
    Monk stopped, feeling ridiculous. He had no idea which way to go, and he
would raise suspicion if he went the wrong way. He had a hot, prickly sensation
that there would be little allowance made for him—he was not liked.
    "You o'right, sir?" the sergeant said anxiously.
    "Yes—yes I am. Is Mr. Runcorn still"—he took a glance around
and made a guess—"at the top of the stairs?"
    "Yes sir, right w'ere 'e always was!"
    "Thank you." And he set off up the steps rapidly, feeling a
fool.
    Runcorn was in the first room on the corridor. Monk knocked and went in.
It was dark and littered with papers and cabinets and baskets for filing, but
comfortable, in spite of a certain institutional bareness. Gas lamps hissed gently
on the walls. Runcorn himself was sitting behind a large desk, chewing a
pencil.
    " Ah!" he said with satisfaction when Monk came in.”Fit for
work, are you? About time. Best thing, work. Good for a man to work. Well, sit
down then, sit down. Think better sitting down."
    Monk obeyed, his muscles tight with tension. He imagined his breathing
was so loud it must be audible above the gas.
    "Good. Good," Runcorn went on. "Lot of cases, as always;
I'll wager there's more stolen in some quarters of this city than is ever
bought or sold honestly." He pushed away a pile of papers and set his pen
in its stand. "And the Swell Mob's been getting worse. All these enormous
crinolines. Crinolines were made to steal from, so many petticoats on no one
can feel a dip. But that's not what I had in mind for you. Give you a good one
to get your teeth into." He smiled mirthlessly.
    Monk waited.
    "Nasty murder." He leaned back in his chair and looked
directly at Monk. "Haven't managed to do anything about it, though heaven
knows we've tried. Had Lamb in charge. Poor fellow's sick and taken to his bed.
Put you on the case; see what you can do. Make a good job of it. We've got to
turn up some kind of result." "Who was killed?" Monk asked.
"And when?" “Feller called Joscelin Grey, younger brother of Lord
Shelburne, so you can see it's rather important we tidy it up." His eyes
never left Monk's face. "When? Well that's the worst part of it—rather a
while ago, and we haven't turned up a damned thing. Nearly six weeks now—about
when you had your accident, in fact, come to think of it, exactly then. Nasty
night, thunderstorm and pouring with rain. Probably some ruffian followed him
home, but made a very nasty job of it, bashed the poor feller about to an awful
state. Newspapers in an outrage, naturally, crying for justice, and what's the
world coming to, where are the police, and so on. We'll give you everything
poor Lamb had, of course, and a good man to work with, name of Evan, John Evan;
worked with Lamb till he took ill. See what you can do, anyway. Give them
something!" "Yes sir." Monk stood up. "Where is Mr.
Evan?" "Out somewhere; trail's pretty cold. Start tomorrow morning,
bright and early. Too late now. Go home and get some rest. Last night of
freedom, eh? Make the best of it; tomorrow I'll have you working like one of
those railway diggers!"
    "Yes sir." Monk excused himself and walked out. It was already
darkening in the street and the wind was laden with the smell of coming rain.
But he knew where he was going, and he knew what he would do tomorrow, and it
would be with identity—and purpose.
     

 
    2
     
    Monk
arrived early to meet John Evan and find out what Lamb had so far learned of
the murder of Lord Shelburne's brother, Joscelin Grey.
    He still had some sense of apprehension; his discoveries about himself
had been commonplace, such small things as one might learn of