Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

both the chairs.
    "Have you—" Yeats said nervously. "Have you? I still don't think I can—er—could—"
    "Perhaps if you were to allow a few questions, Mr. Yeats." Monk did not want him so frightened as to be incapable of thought or memory.
    "Well—if you think so. Yes—yes, if . . ." He backed away and sat down sharply on the chair closest to the table.
    Monk sat also and was conscious of Evan behind him doing the same on a ladder-back chair by the wall. He wondered fleetingly what Evan was thinking, if he found him harsh, overconscious of his own ambition, his need to succeed. Yeats could so easily be no more than he seemed, a frightened little man whom mischance had placed at the pivot of a murder.
    Monk began quietly, thinking with an instant's self-mockery that he might be moderating his tone not to reassure Yeats but to earn Evan's approval. What had led him to such isolation that Evan's opinion mattered so much to him? Had he been too absorbed in learning, climbing, polishing himself, to afford friendship, much less love? Indeed, had anything at all engaged his higher emotions?
    Yeats was watching him like a rabbit seeing a stoat, and too horrified to move.
    "You yourself had a visitor that night," Monk told him quite gently. "Who was he?"
    "I don't know!" Yeats's voice was high, almost a squeak. "I don't know who he was! I told Mr. Lamb that! He came here by mistake; he didn't even really want me!"
    Monk found himself holding up his hand, trying to calm him as one would with an overexcited child, or an animal.
    "But you saw him, Mr. Yeats." He kept his voice low. "No doubt you have some memory of his appearance, perhaps his voice? He must have spoken to you?" Whether Yeats was lying or not, he would achieve nothing by attacking his statement now; Yeats would only entrench himself more and more deeply into his ignorance.
    Yeats blinked.
    "I-I really can hardly say, Mr.—Mr.—"
    "Monk—I'm sorry," he said, apologizing for not having introduced himself. "And my colleague is Mr. Evan. Was he a large man, or small?"
    "Oh large, very large," Yeats said instantly. "Big as you are, and looked heavy; of course he had a thick coat on, it was a very bad night—wet—terribly."
    "Yes, yes I remember. Was he taller than I am, do you think?" Monk stood up helpfully.
    Yeats stared up at him. "No, no, I don't think so. About the same, as well as I can recall. But it was some time ago now.'' He shook his head unhappily.
    Monk seated himself again, aware of Evan discreetly taking notes.
    "He really was here only a moment or two," Yeats protested, still holding the toast, now beginning to break and drop crumbs on his trousers. "He just saw me, asked a question as to my business, then realized I was not the person he sought, and left again. That is really all there was." He brushed ineffectively at his trousers. "You must believe me, if I could help, I would. Poor Major Grey, such an appalling death." He shivered. "Such a charming young man. Life plays some dreadful tricks, does it not?"
    Monk felt a quick flicker of excitement inside himself.
    "You knew Major Grey?" He kept his voice almost casual.
    "Oh not very well, no, no!" Yeats protested, shunning any thought of social arrogance—or involvement. “Only to pass the time of day, you understand? But he was very
    civil, always had a pleasant word, not like some of these young men of fashion. And he didn't affect to have forgotten one's name."
    "And what is your business, Mr. Yeats? I don't think you said."
    "Oh perhaps not." The toast shed more pieces in his hand, but now he was oblivious of it. "I deal in rare stamps and coins."
    "And this visitor, was he also a dealer?"
    Yeats looked surprised.
    "He did not say, but I should imagine not. It is a small business, you know; one gets to meet most of those who are interested, at one time or another."
    "He was English then?"
    “I beg your pardon?''
    "He was not a foreigner, whom you would not expect to have known, even had he been in the business?"
    "Oh, I see." Yeats's brow cleared. "Yes, yes he was English."
    "And who was he looking for, if not for you, Mr. Yeats?"
    "I-I-really cannot say." He waved his hand in the air. "He asked if I were a collector of maps; I told him I was not. He said he had been misinformed, and he left immediately. ''
    "I think not, Mr. Yeats. I think he then went to call on Major Grey, and within the next three quarters of an hour, beat him to death."
    "Oh my dear God!" Yeats's bones buckled