Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

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.