The writer pauses here to say that the story of "The Man Who Knew" is an unusual one. It is reconstructed partly from the reports of a certain trial, partly from the confidential1 matter which has come into the writer's hands from Saul Arthur Mann and his extraordinary bureau, and partly from the private diary which May Nuttall put at the writer's disposal.
Those practiced readers who begin this narrative2 with the weary conviction that they are merely to see the workings out of a conventional record of crime, of love, and of mystery may be urged to pursue their investigations3 to the end. Truth is stranger than fiction, and has need to be, since most fiction is founded on truth. There is a strangeness in the story of "The Man Who Knew" which brings it into the category of veracious4 history. It cannot be said in truth that any story begins at the beginning of the first chapter, since all stories began with the creation of the world, but this present story may be said to begin when we cut into the lives of some of the characters concerned, upon the seventeenth day of July, 19--.
There was a little group of people about the prostrate5 figure of a man who lay upon the sidewalk in Gray Square, Bloomsbury.
The hour was eight o'clock on a warm summer evening, and that the unusual spectacle attracted only a small crowd may be explained by the fact that Gray Square is a professional quarter given up to the offices of lawyers, surveyors, and corporation offices which at eight o'clock on a summer's day are empty of occupants. The unprofessional classes who inhabit the shabby streets impinging upon the Euston Road do not include Gray Square in their itinerary6 when they take their evening constitutionals abroad, and even the loud children find a less depressing environment for their games.
The gray-faced youth sprawled7 upon the pavement was decently dressed and was obviously of the superior servant type.
He was as obviously dead.
Death, which beautifies and softens8 the plainest, had failed entirely9 to dissipate the impression of meanness in the face of the stricken man. The lips were set in a little sneer10, the half-closed eyes were small, the clean-shaven jaw11 was long and underhung, the ears were large and grotesquely12 prominent.
A constable13 stood by the body, waiting for the arrival of the ambulance, answering in monosyllables the questions of the curious. Ten minutes before the ambulance arrived there joined the group a man of middle age.
He wore the pepper-and-salt suit which distinguishes the country excursionist taking the day off in London. He had little side whiskers and a heavy brown mustache. His golf cap was new and set at a somewhat rakish angle on his head. Across his waistcoat was a large and heavy chain hung at intervals14 with small silver medals. For all his provincial15 appearance his movements were decisive and suggested authority. He elbowed his way through the little crowd, and met the constable's disapproving16 stare without faltering17.
"Can I be of any help, mate?" he said, and introduced himself as Police Constable Wiseman, of the Sussex constabulary.
The London constable thawed18.
"Thanks," he said; "you can help me get him into the ambulance when it comes."
"Fit?" asked the newcomer.
The policeman shook his head.
"He was seen to stagger and fall, and by the time I arrived he'd snuffed out. Heart disease, I suppose."
"Ah!" said Constable Wiseman, regarding the body with a proprietorial19 and professional eye, and retailed20 his own experiences of similar tragedies, not without pride, as though he had to some extent the responsibility for their occurrence.
On the far side of the square a young man and a girl were walking slowly. A tall, fair, good-looking youth he was, who might have attracted attention even in a crowd. But more likely would that attention have been focused, had he been accompanied by the girl at his side, for she was by every standard beautiful. They reached the corner of Tabor Street, and it was the fixed21 and eager stare of a little man who stood on the corner of the street and the intensity22 of his gaze which first directed their attention to the tragedy on the opposite side of the square.
The little man who watched was dressed in an ill-fitting frock coat, trousers which seemed too long, since they concertinaed over his boots, and a glossy23 silk hat set at the back of his head.
"What a funny old thing!" said Frank Merrill under his breath, and the girl smiled.
The object of their amusement turned sharply as they came abreast24 of him. His freckled25, clean-shaven face looked strangely old, and the big, gold-rimmed spectacles bridged halfway26 down his nose added to his ludicrous appearance. He raised his eyebrows27 and surveyed the two young people.
"There's an accident over there," he said briefly28 and without any preliminary.
"Indeed," said the young man politely.
"There have been several accidents in Gray Square," said the strange old man meditatively29. "There was one in 1875, when the corner house--you can see the end of it from here--collapsed and buried fourteen people, seven of whom were killed, four of whom were injured for life, and three of whom escaped with minor30 injuries."
He said this calmly and apparently31 without any sense that he was acting32 at all unconventionally in volunteering the information, and went on:
"There was another accident in 1881, on the seventeenth of October, a collision between two hansom cabs which resulted in the death of a driver whose name was Samuel Green. He lived at 14 Portington Mews, and had a wife and nine children."
The girl looked at the old man with a little apprehension33, and Frank Merrill laughed.
"You have a very good memory for this kind of thing. Do you live here?" he asked.
"Oh, no!" The little man shook his head vigorously.
He was silent for a moment, and then:
"I think we had better go over and see what it is all about," he said with a certain gravity.
His assumption of leadership was a little staggering, and Frank turned to the girl.
"Do you mind?" he asked.
She shook her head, and the three passed over the road to the little group just as the ambulance came jangling into the square. To Merrill's surprise, the policeman greeted the little man respectfully, touching34 his helmet.
"I'm afraid nothing can be done, sir. He is--gone."
"Oh, yes, he's gone!" said the other quite calmly.
He stooped down, turned back the man's coat, and slipped his hand into the inside pocket, but drew blank; the pocket was empty. With an extraordinary rapidity of movement, he continued his search, and to the astonishment35 of Frank Merrill the policeman did not deny his right. In the top left-hand pocket of the waistcoat he pulled out a crumpled36 slip which proved to be a newspaper clipping.
"Ah!" said the little man. "An advertisement for a manservant cut out of this morning's _Daily Telegraph_; I saw it myself. Evidently a manservant who was on his way to interview a new employer. You see: 'Call at eight-thirty at Holborn Viaduct Hotel.' He was taking a short cut when his illness overcame him. I know who is advertising37 for the valet," he added gratuitously38; "he is a Mr. T. Burton, who is a rubber factor from Penang. Mr. T. Burton married the daughter of the Reverend George Smith, of Scarborough, in 1889, and has four children, one of whom is at Winchester. Hum!"
He pursed his lips and looked down again at the body; then suddenly he turned to Frank Merrill.
"Do you know this man?" he demanded.
Frank looked at him in astonishment.
"No. Why do you ask?"
"You were looking at him as though you did," said the little man. "That is to say, you were not looking at his face. People who do not look at other people's faces under these circumstances know them."
"Curiously39 enough," said Frank, with a little smile, "there is some one here I know," and he caught the eye of Constable Wiseman.
That ornament40 of the Sussex constabulary touched his cap.
"I thought I recognized you, sir. I have often seen you at Weald Lodge," he said.
Further conversation was cut short as they lifted the body on to a stretcher and put it into the interior of the ambulance. The little group watched the white car disappear, and the crowd of idlers began to melt away.
Constable Wiseman took a professional leave of his comrade, and came back to Frank a little shyly.
"You are Mr. Minute's nephew, aren't you, sir?" he asked.
"Quite right," said Frank.
"I used to see you at your uncle's place."
"Uncle's name?"
It was the little man's pert but wholly inoffensive inquiry41. He seemed to ask it as a matter of course and as one who had the right to be answered without equivocation42.
Frank Merrill laughed.
"My uncle is Mr. John Minute," he said, and added, with a faint touch of sarcasm43: "You probably know him."
"Oh, yes," said the other readily. "One of the original Rhodesian pioneers who received a concession44 from Lo Bengula and amassed45 a large fortune by the sale of gold-mining properties which proved to be of no especial value. He was tried at Salisbury in 1897 with the murder of two Mashona chiefs, and was acquitted46. He amassed another fortune in Johannesburg in the boom of '97, and came to this country in 1901, settling on a small estate between Polegate and Eastbourne. He has one nephew, his heir, Frank Merrill, the son of the late Doctor Henry Merrill, who is an accountant in the London and Western Counties Bank. He--"
Frank looked at him in undisguised amazement47.
"You know my uncle?"
"Never met him in my life," said the little man brusquely. He took off his silk hat with a sweep.
"I wish you good afternoon," he said, and strode rapidly away.
The uniformed policeman turned a solemn face upon the group.
"Do you know that gentleman?" asked Frank.
The constable smiled.
"Oh, yes, sir; that is Mr. Mann. At the yard we call him 'The Man Who Knows!'"
"Is he a detective?"
The constable shook his head.
"From what I understand, sir, he does a lot of work for the commissioner48 and for the government. We have orders never to interfere49 with him or refuse him any information that we can give."
"The Man Who Knows?" repeated Frank, with a puzzled frown. "What an extraordinary person! What does he know?" he asked suddenly.
"Everything," said the constable comprehensively.
A few minutes later Frank was walking slowly toward Holborn.
"You seem to be rather depressed," smiled the girl.
"Confound that fellow!" said Frank, breaking his silence. "I wonder how he comes to know all about uncle?" He shrugged50 his shoulders. "Well, dear, this is not a very cheery evening for you. I did not bring you out to see accidents."
"Frank," the girl said suddenly, "I seem to know that man's face--the man who was on the pavement, I mean--"
"It seemed a little familiar to me," said Frank thoughtfully.
"Didn't he pass us about twenty minutes ago?"
"He may have done," said Frank, "but I have no particular recollection of it. My impression of him goes much farther back than this evening. Now where could I have seen him?"
"Let's talk about something else," she said quickly. "I haven't a very long time. What am I to do about your uncle?"
He laughed.
"I hardly know what to suggest," he said. "I am very fond of Uncle John, and I hate to run counter to his wishes, but I am certainly not going to allow him to take my love affairs into his hands. I wish to Heaven you had never met him!"
She gave a little gesture of despair.
"It is no use wishing things like that, Frank. You see, I knew your uncle before I knew you. If it had not been for your uncle I should not have met you."
"Tell me what happened," he asked. He looked at his watch. "You had better come on to Victoria," he said, "or I shall lose my train."
He hailed a taxicab, and on the way to the station she told him of all that had happened.
"He was very nice, as he always is, and he said nothing really which was very horrid52 about you. He merely said he did not want me to marry you because he did not think you'd make a suitable husband. He said that Jasper had all the qualities and most of the virtues53."
Frank frowned.
"Jasper is a sleek54 brute," he said viciously.
She laid her hand on his arm.
"Please be patient," she said. "Jasper has said nothing whatever to me and has never been anything but most polite and kind."
"I know that variety of kindness," growled55 the young man. "He is one of those sly, soft-footed sneaks56 you can never get to the bottom of. He is worming his way into my uncle's confidence to an extraordinary extent. Why, he is more like a son to Uncle John than a beastly secretary."
"He has made himself necessary," said the girl, "and that is halfway to making yourself wealthy."
The little frown vanished from Frank's brow, and he chuckled57.
"That is almost an epigram," he said. "What did you tell uncle?"
"I told him that I did not think that his suggestion was possible and that I did not care for Mr. Cole, nor he for me. You see, Frank, I owe your Uncle John so much. I am the daughter of one of his best friends, and since dear daddy died Uncle John has looked after me. He has given me my education--my income--my everything; he has been a second father to me."
Frank nodded.
"I recognize all the difficulties," he said, "and here we are at Victoria."
She stood on the platform and watched the train pull out and waved her hand in farewell, and then returned to the pretty flat in which John Minute had installed her. As she said, her life had been made very smooth for her. There was no need for her to worry about money, and she was able to devote her days to the work she loved best. The East End Provident58 Society, of which she was president, was wholly financed by the Rhodesian millionaire.
May had a natural aptitude59 for charity work. She was an indefatigable60 worker, and there was no better known figure in the poor streets adjoining the West Indian Docks than Sister Nuttall. Frank was interested in the work without being enthusiastic. He had all the man's apprehension of infectious disease and of the inadvisability of a beautiful girl slumming without attendance, but the one visit he had made to the East End in her company had convinced him that there was no fear as to her personal safety.
He was wont61 to grumble62 that she was more interested in her work than she was in him, which was probably true, because her development had been a slow one, and it could not be said that she was greatly in love with anything in the world save her self-imposed mission.
She ate her frugal63 dinner, and drove down to the mission headquarters off the Albert Dock Road. Three nights a week were devoted64 by the mission to visitation work. Many women and girls living in this area spend their days at factories in the neighborhood, and they have only the evenings for the treatment of ailments65 which, in people better circumstanced, would produce the attendance of specialists. For the night work the nurses were accompanied by a volunteer male escort. May Nuttall's duties carried her that evening to Silvertown and to a network of mean streets to the east of the railway. Her work began at dusk, and was not ended until night had fallen and the stars were quivering in a hot sky.
The heat was stifling66, and as she came out of the last foul67 dwelling68 she welcomed as a relief even the vitiated air of the hot night. She went back into the passageway of the house, and by the light of a paraffin lamp made her last entry in the little diary she carried.
"That makes eight we have seen, Thompson," she said to her escort. "Is there anybody else on the list?"
"Nobody else to-night, miss," said the young man, concealing69 a yawn.
"I'm afraid it is not very interesting for you, Thompson," said the girl sympathetically; "you haven't even the excitement of work. It must be awfully70 dull standing71 outside waiting for me."
"Bless you, miss," said the man. "I don't mind at all. If it is good enough for you to come into these streets, it is good enough for me to go round with you."
They stood in a little courtyard, a cul-de-sac cut off at one end by a sheer wall, and as the girl put back her diary into her little net bag a man came swiftly down from the street entrance of the court and passed her. As he did so the dim light of the lamp showed for a second his face, and her mouth formed an "O" of astonishment. She watched him until he disappeared into one of the dark doorways72 at the farther end of the court, and stood staring at the door as though unable to believe her eyes.
There was no mistaking the pale face and the straight figure of Jasper Cole, John Minute's secretary.
收听单词发音 |
1
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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veracious
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| adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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itinerary
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| n.行程表，旅行路线；旅行计划 | |
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sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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softens
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| （使）变软( soften的第三人称单数 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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proprietorial
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| adj.所有（权）的 | |
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retailed
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| vt.零售（retail的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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gratuitously
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| 平白 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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equivocation
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| n.模棱两可的话，含糊话 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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50
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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52
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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54
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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55
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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56
sneaks
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| abbr.sneakers (tennis shoes) 胶底运动鞋（网球鞋）v.潜行( sneak的第三人称单数 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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provident
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| adj.为将来做准备的，有先见之明的 | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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63
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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64
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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65
ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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66
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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67
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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68
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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69
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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70
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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71
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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72
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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