Ben on the Job

Ben on the Job J. Jefferson Farjeon Ben the tramp, with his usual genius for trouble, runs into danger when he finds a dead body and decides to help out.Ben knew that whenever his thumbs were itching, something ‘orrible’ was about to happen. Sure enough, on one foggy afternoon of itchy thumbs, the hapless Ben is implicated in criminal activity by the police – the kind of mistake it isn’t easy to explain. Doing a runner, Ben hides in the basement of a deserted house, where he discovers the body of a well-dressed man, shot through the head . . . and much more trouble than he bargained for.The subsequent hair-raising events are charged with all the mounting excitement that made J. Jefferson Farjeon a peerless storyteller and Ben one of the most popular but unorthodox amateur detectives of his day. J. JEFFERSON FARJEON Ben on the Job Copyright (#uddba87fc-3466-5a18-9ee7-58240c72f4cc) COLLINS CRIME CLUB An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain for Crime Club by W. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 1952 Copyright © Estate of J. Jefferson Farjeon 1952 Cover design by Mike Topping © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016 Cover background images © shutterstock.com (http://shutterstock.com) A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. 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Source ISBN: 9780008156039 Ebook Edition © August 2016 ISBN: 9780008156046 Version: 2016-06-14 Table of Contents Cover (#u17e45dfa-0254-567a-9c2a-36782538dd81) Title Page (#uc79ae00b-07d3-5949-aa63-1373c6a146b4) Copyright (#uda79b622-1b90-5a5c-9bfd-de439b96c8ea) Chapter 1: Misbehaviour of Two Thumbs (#u14e58c8e-f3a6-599d-aad4-6fbf8df1cdce) Chapter 2: Strange Partnership (#u417ac4f1-0c87-56d4-971e-a1d9cb21a3a0) Chapter 3: Step by Step (#u717200f6-7f4b-5f37-9e72-efa1b2451d54) Chapter 4: The Lady of the Picture (#u52957e9f-7bab-56f6-8ecd-7380a988679a) Chapter 5: Ben Gets a Job (#ub1cf0268-c706-5d9b-ae1f-534161e0d22e) Chapter 6: The Kentons at Home (#uae569e0c-bfa7-52d4-8e88-1414a5f80525) Chapter 7: Conversation on a Doorstep (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 8: Vanishing Act (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 9: Ben V. Maudie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 10: Concerning Two Others (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 11: Start of a Bad Day (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12: Waiting for Maudie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13: Parlour Tricks (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14: Back in Drewet Road (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15: Mrs Wilby Talks (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16: Face to Face (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17: What Happened at Euston (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18: Two in a Train (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19: Conference Over Coffee (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20: Re-Enter Blake (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 21: Ben Listens to the Impossible (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 22: The Truth at Last (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 23: Completion of the Job (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) Also in This Series (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) 1 (#uddba87fc-3466-5a18-9ee7-58240c72f4cc) Misbehaviour of Two Thumbs (#uddba87fc-3466-5a18-9ee7-58240c72f4cc) When Ben had got up that morning—getting up with Ben was mainly the process of changing from a prone to an erect position and peering into a mirror, if there happened to be one, to work out whether he’d washed last week or the week before—he had been quite sure that something would happen to him before the time came to lie down again. He knew it by the infallible sign of itching thumbs. Whenever his thumbs itched, something ’orrible always happened. His thumbs had itched on that never-to-be-forgotten foggy afternoon when he had stumbled into a house numbered ‘Seventeen’, to die a hundred deaths before he stumbled out again. They had itched before he had advised a bloke leaning over a low stone parapet not to jump into the Thames—‘I wouldn’t, mate, if I was you,’ he’d said, ‘it looks narsty!’—to discover that the bloke was already dead. They had itched before a peculiarly unpleasant meeting with an Indian. Ben ’ated Injuns. They had itched before a shipwreck that had hurled him into a situation so completely and fantastically impossible that he still didn’t believe it. And now, here they were, itching again! Lummy, what was it going to be this time? Well, there was nothing to do but to wait and see. What was was, what is is, and what will be will be, for once. Fate puts the spotlight on you there’s no slipping out of it. And so, resigned but alert, Ben paused at a morning coffee stall to fortify himself for whatever lay ahead. ‘Mornin’, guv’nor,’ he said, ‘wot’s the noos terday? ’Ave they started the Fif’ World War yet?’ ‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ grinned the stall-keeper. ‘Nor me neither,’ answered Ben, ‘but let’s ’ope they stop at ’arf a dozen. Cup o’ corfee.’ ‘Did you pay for the last?’ inquired the stall-keeper good-naturedly. ‘On’y by mistike.’ The stall-keeper laughed as he pushed a thick cup across. Ben took a cautious sip. ‘What’s the matter? Think it’s poisoned?’ ‘Well, there’s no ’arm in bein’ careful,’ returned Ben. ‘See, this ain’t goin’ ter be my lucky day. Coo, call this corfee? Am I s’posed ter fork aht threepence fer this?’ ‘Not if you can give me a tip for the two-thirty?’ ‘Saucy Sossidge.’ ‘That’s a new one on me.’ ‘Go on, wot higgerence! I’m ridin’ it meself!’ Warmed by the coffee—warmed but not ruined, for the stall-keeper said he had had three penn’orth of fun and allowed his comic customer to depart with his last shilling intact—Ben shuffled off to face the day, and the morning passed, most surprisingly, without any shocks. It was indeed a remarkably successful morning, for it produced seven fag-ends, one almost half its original length, and twopence for helping a nervous old lady across the road. At one o’clock he partially filled a neglected void with two substantial sandwiches. They were so substantial that you couldn’t taste what was inside them. Thinking it might be a good idea to find out, Ben opened one to see, but as he found nothing he supposed he had opened it in the wrong place. Nevertheless, they did their job, and half an hour on an Embankment seat put him right again. He might have stayed longer on the seat, for Ben liked sitting down, it was comfortable, if an old man with fuzzy white hair had not suddenly darted towards him and sat down by his side. The old man was breathing heavily, and his tongue kept shooting out to moisten his lips. ‘If this is It,’ thought Ben, ‘I ain’t stoppin’!’ And he got up and departed. To his considerable relief, and even more considerable surprise, the old man did not get up and follow him. False alarm! This was not It! ‘I wunner if me thumbs was wrong this time?’ reflected Ben, as he resumed his way to nowhere. The day was passing too smoothly to believe. ‘Arter orl, I expeck yer can get a nitch wot’s jest a nitch, even in yer thumbs?’ There was yet another theory that might explain his strange immunity. Perhaps Fate could be dodged if you were nippy enough? Suppose, for instance, that nasty old man, and he was nasty, the way his tongue was working overtime—suppose Fate had sent him along, but Ben had beaten Fate on the post? With sudden hope Ben grinned. ‘That’s wot it is!’ he decided. ‘I’ve given Faite the KO!’ Before long, however, he found his self-faith weakening. Here came the mist! That was a second sign of trouble. In rather surprising obedience to a weather forecast, a thin, depressing mist began to weave through the streets; and half Ben’s woes took place in fog. He had even been born in one, birth being the initial woe that preceded all the rest. A fog in the street and an itch on the thumb formed a combination to kill all hope. A minor drawback of foggy weather was that it made fag-ends harder to find. In order not to miss them you had to keep your nose well down, which often made you bump into people … And then Ben did bump into someone. Or someone bumped into him. He couldn’t say which. All he knew was that he suddenly found himself sitting on the pavement. ‘Oi!’ he bleated. The man with whom he had collided was also on the pavement, but he was up again before Ben had begun to think about it. ‘Tork abart bounce!’ thought Ben. ‘’E must be mide o’rubber!’ There was no time to find out whether he was indeed made of rubber, because the next instant the man was gone. ‘Corse, don’t say “Beg pardon,” or “Are yer ’urt?” or anythink like that! Jest buzz orf, like I didn’t matter!’ Still sitting on the ground, Ben gazed indignantly after the vanished man. Then all at once his emotion changed from indignation to anxiety, as the unmistakable form of a policeman materialised out of the fog. Was this going to be It? ‘Hallo, hallo!’ said the policeman. ‘Sime ter you,’ replied Ben. ‘Had a tumble?’ ‘No, I jest thort I’d sit dahn in the sunshine.’ ‘Oh! Well, how about finding a seat somewhere else where you won’t be in people’s way?’ ‘’Ow abart you givin’ me a ’and hup first, and then findin’ me one?’ The constable stooped and helped Ben to rise, and then stood watching while Ben groped about himself for bruises. You did it by pressing various parts of your anatomy to see whether any of them hurt. ‘Feeling all right?’ inquired the constable. He seemed friendly enough. Perhaps, after all, this was not going to be It? That might or might not be an advantage, because after you’d screwed yourself up to it like, there was something in getting it over. ‘Dunno,’ answered Ben. ‘Well, no one else can tell you.’ ‘I feels a bit groggy. Things is goin’ rahnd like.’ ‘Then hold on to me until they stop going round like. You’ll be all right if you just take it easy, sonny.’ Funny how policemen seemed to like calling him sonny when he was often old enough to be their great-grandfather! This ’un didn’t look more’n twenty. P’r’aps it was because they was generally big and he was only a little ’un? ‘You haven’t told me yet how it happened?’ ‘Eh?’ ‘Did you slip?’ ‘No. Bloke bumps inter me.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘Yus, and never stops, like them motor-cars they arsks for on the wireless. Fer orl ’e knoo, I might ’ave broke me blinkin’—wozzer matter?’ ‘Nothing,’ replied the constable, ‘only you’ve dropped something.’ ‘Eh?’ ‘On the ground there.’ ‘Not me—I ain’t got nothin’ ter drop!’ ‘Well, if you’ll let go my arm for a moment I’ll pick it up.’ Ben relaxed his grip as the constable stooped. Dropped something? He had spoken truly when he had said he had nothing to drop. His shilling had gone for his sandwiches, and the change had gone through a hole in his pocket. (One does need a wife for holes.) And that was all he had, apart from himself. So he couldn’t have dropped anything, could he? But the policeman had found something, and as he came up from his stoop and slowly straightened himself, Ben saw what he held in his hand. It was a jemmy. ‘Yours?’ inquired the constable. Perhaps if Ben’s thumbs had behaved themselves that morning he would have acted differently, and the course of events for himself and for several other people during the period ahead would have followed a very different pattern. For himself, undoubtedly. He would never have met the other people. But those thumbs had become far more of a superstition to Ben than spilling salt or walking under ladders, and the sense of impending trouble was increased by a sudden movement of the constable’s hand towards Ben’s shoulder. And so, instead of denying ownership—to be believed or not as the case might be—he decided that This Was It, wriggled away, and ran. Nothing could have been sillier. Of course the constable ran after him. To a constable Ben, running, was as irresistible as an electric hare to a greyhound, but when it came to making the pace the electric hare wasn’t in it, and although policemen are experienced in pursuing, Ben was far more experienced in being pursued. From all of which it may be deduced that our present policeman, with the added handicap of fog, had no chance. There was, however, one serious flaw in Ben’s defensive process. He could run fast, but he could not run for long, and although he always got away the first time he did not always get away the second. No legs could last indefinitely at the pace Ben’s were driven, so when his legs and his breath gave out he was forced to seek the nearest sanctuary in the hope that heaven would be kind and send him a good one. If heaven had given Ben his desserts it would always have been kind to him, because strange though this may seem in a difficult world where poverty can be so sorely tempted, Ben had never performed an illegal act for which God might not have forgiven him, and never a mean one. But the luck varied. This time the luck seemed good. Appearances, unfortunately, can be deceptive. Having evaded the pursuing bobby and vanished temporarily out of his life, Ben’s knees went back on him, or down under him, outside the kind of building that he loved above all others. An empty building, useless to all save human derelicts. There were other empty buildings on either side, but at the moment Ben did not know this, for when you are running away all you see is where you stop, and on a misty afternoon you don’t see even that very clearly. But what Ben saw was enough to satisfy him, and after crawling through two tall gate-posts that had lost their gate, he slumped behind one of them as hurried footsteps grew into his drumming ears. The footsteps came closer. Lummy, ’ow many was makin’ ’em? More’n one? Voices soon proved this point. Policemen don’t talk to themselves. ‘Are you sure he turned down this street, sir?’ ‘Well, you can’t be sure of anything in a fog.’ ‘That’s a fact, but I had an idea he took the other turning.’ ‘He may have done, but I don’t think so. It was because I thought I saw somebody bunk round the corner that I spoke when I saw you running.’ The speakers were now just on the other side of Ben’s post. Thank Gawd it was a thick ’un! One of the speakers was the constable; the other, assumedly, a passer-by. Unsporting blokes, passers-by, turning even odds into two to one. There ought to be a law agin’ ’em! Crumbs! They’d stopped! ‘Wonder if I was wrong?’ (‘Keep on wunnerin’!’ thought Ben.) ‘No sign of him, sir.’ ‘Think we ought to go back?’ ‘I think that’s the best idea.’ (‘Don’t lose the idea,’ thought Ben.) ‘What was he like?’ ‘Oh—smallish chap. Put him on a stick and he’d make a good scarecrow.’ ‘What’s he done?’ ‘That’s what I’m after finding out, sir.’ ‘Then what are you chasing him for?’ There was a tiny pause after that, and then a low whistle. ‘Where did you find that?’ ‘On the ground, where I picked him up. He dropped it. He spun some yarn about somebody bumping into him.’ ‘Then perhaps—’ ‘No, sir, he bunked the moment I showed him this jemmy. There’s been a gang working the district—’ ‘Hey! Isn’t that someone?’ ‘Where?’ ‘End of the road! Now he’s gone! But I swear—’ The next moment they were gone, too. For a few seconds Ben remained motionless behind his post, enjoying the blessed silence, and grateful to the red herring that had started them off again on a wrong scent. But he couldn’t remain motionless for long, in case they came back. And, lummy, wasn’t that somebody coming back? Or was it just a tree dripping? Trees often played tricks on you like that! Yes, it was a tree dripping? No, it wasn’t! A tree goes on dripping in the same place, and this wasn’t sticking to the same place, and he couldn’t be quite certain where the place was, anyhow. Of course, it mightn’t be the copper … The new approaching sound ceased, then came on again. Ben hesitated no longer. He twisted round and shot up a side path to the back of the building. 2 (#uddba87fc-3466-5a18-9ee7-58240c72f4cc) Strange Partnership (#uddba87fc-3466-5a18-9ee7-58240c72f4cc) At Ben’s next stop, after hitting a back wall—his progress was rather like that of a billiard-ball bouncing off cushions—he found himself facing a back door. Behind him was the back wall off which he had bounced. It was a very high wall, but as it was behind him and he had seen nothing but stars when he had hit it, he did not know that. What he did know was that the back door, set in prison-like bricks, was just ajar. A thin, dark, vertical slit, contrasting with the filmy white mist, indicated the fact. He could not decide, as he fixed his dizzy gaze on the door, whether the fact was a comfortable or uncomfortable one. A door that is ajar may always be useful to pop into, but you have to remember that before you pop into it, something may pop out of it. There was that time, for instance, when a Chinaman had popped out. And then there was that time when four constables had popped out. And then there was that time when a headless chicken had popped out. Or had that one been a dream? Yes, that one had possibly been a dream, but even so it only went to prove that, waking or sleeping, you could never be sure with a door that was ajar. The great question of the moment, therefore, was, ‘Do I go in or don’t I?’ He certainly felt very queer, and was quite ready to sit down again. ‘Wunner if them sanderwiches ’as anythink ter do with it?’ he reflected. Perhaps he ought to have explored a bit longer and taken out whatever was inside ’em. You couldn’t be sure with sanderwiches, either. Life teems with uncertainties. He did not have to wait long to make up his mind. It was made up for him by a sound like a pail being kicked over. He did not know that he had just missed that pail himself—occasionally he was spared something—as he had shot through the side passage, but since the sound came from outside and not from inside, the inside now proved the preferable location, and once more Ben shot and bounced. But this time he went on bouncing, with the object of bouncing as far away from the back door as possible. He bounced across a dim space, through another doorway, across a black passage, up eight stairs, into a wall, down eight stairs, and then after a dark interval which left no memory, down a stone flight to a basement. Finally, just to round the incident off, he came to roost on the body of a dead man. This was an obvious situation for a further bounce, but by now Ben was beyond it. Instead, he removed himself carefully, and then gazed, panting, at the thing he had removed himself from. It was a well-dressed man lying flat on his back. He had pale cheeks—whether they were normally pale it was impossible to tell—and across one was a very ugly mess. Without this mess, as far as one could judge, the face would not have shown any special distinction. The lips were rather thick and loose, the features rather characterless, though here again judgment could not be final since the spirit behind the features had departed. Light hair sprayed untidily over a bruised forehead … Oh, yes! The man was dead. No doubt whatever about that. Ben was an expert on corpses. They just wouldn’t let him alone. He recalled the first corpse he had ever come across. He had jumped so high he had nearly hit the ceiling. But now—though, mind you, he still didn’t like them—they usually had a less galvanic effect upon him. He could feel sorry for them as well as for himself. They must have been through a nasty time. This bloke, for instance … He heard somebody coming down the stairs. The somebody from whose footsteps he had been flying. The somebody who had barged into the pail outside. But Ben did not move. He wasn’t going to run no more, not fer nobody. Not even fer the ruddy ’angman. You get like that, after a time. ‘Hallo! What’s up?’ It was a constable’s phraseology, but it wasn’t a constable’s voice, nor was it the voice of the passer-by who had been with the constable. Someone new. All right, let ’em all come! Ben turned his head slowly, and in the dimness saw a tall, bony man descending towards him. His big boots made a nasty clanging sound on the cold stone. His trousers were baggy. Not neat, like the trousers on the corpse. He had high cheek-bones, which looked even more prominent than they were as they caught the little light that existed in the basement. The light came through a small dirty window set in the wall at the foot of the stairs. His eyebrows were bushy. His hair was black. His nose was crooked. A boxer’s nose. That was a pity. ‘What’s up?’ repeated this unattractive individual. ‘Doncher mean, wot’s dahn?’ replied Ben. Anyhow, it was easier to talk to this chap than to a bobby. The newcomer regarded the prone figure on the ground with frowning solemnity. Having reached the bottom of the flight he did not move or speak for several seconds, and suddenly conscious of the length of the pause Ben blinked at his companion curiously. He was not reacting to the situation in a quite normal manner, although Ben could not have put it in those terms. What he would have said was, ‘’E don’t seem ter be be’avin’ nacherel like, if yer git me?’ ‘Looks dead,’ the man said at last. ‘’E more’n looks dead,’ replied Ben. ‘’E is dead.’ ‘Oh! You know that?’ ‘I won’t stop yer, if yer want ter find aht fer yerself.’ The man removed his eyes from the dead to the living. ‘Did you kill him?’ he inquired. ‘I wunnered when that one was comin’,’ answered Ben. ‘Well, did you?’ ‘Corse I did. I pops orf anybody ’oose fice I don’t like. That’s why I carry a pocket knife.’ The bushy eyebrows shot up. ‘Bit of a comic, ain’t you?’ ‘Fair scream. ’Aven’t yer seen me on the telervishun, Saturday nights?’ ‘I must look out for you. Meantime, suppose we stop being funny. What would you do if I went for a policeman?’ ‘Well, there’s nothink like tryin’ a thing ter find aht, is there?’ ‘True enough, but I reckon I’ll find out a bit more before I try! What did you kill him for?’ ‘You carn’t learn nothink, can yer?’ ‘Meaning you didn’t kill him?’ ‘Corse I didn’t!’ ‘You told me just now that you did.’ ‘Well, fancy you arskin’. Wot abart me arskin’ if you killed ’im?’ ‘How could I, as I’ve only just come?’ ‘Sez you!’ ‘What’s that mean? All right, all right, let’s get on with it! If you didn’t kill him, what are you doing here?’ Now what was the answer to that one? Ben pondered. ‘Come along! Out with it! You’ve been running like a bloody hare—’ ‘Well, wasn’t you arter me?’ Ben thought that quite good, but it did not seem to satisfy his interrogator, who thrust his face closer to Ben’s. It was a nasty face, you couldn’t get away from it—and you wanted to get away from it! ‘You’re a queer cove, if ever I’ve seen one,’ grunted the man. ‘Is anybody else after you?’ That was a teaser, but Ben evaded it. ‘Ain’t one enough?’ he retorted. And then to divert further questioning on the point and to clear himself generally, he burst out, ‘’Ave a bit o’ sense! Yer chaised me in ’ere, didn’t yer, so if I’ve on’y jest come in ’ere ’ow could I of ’ad time ter kill that bloke, let alone ’ow I did it and why? Orl right! Now yer know why I’m ’ere, but yer ain’t said yet why you’re ’ere—’ ‘I’m here because you’re here, you fool!’ exclaimed the man impatiently. ‘Haven’t you just said yourself I chased you in? Or would the right word be “back”? If you’d been here before you’d have had plenty of time, wouldn’t you?’ ‘Yes, and so’d you,’ returned Ben, ‘with nobs on!’ Now, of course Ben knew he had not been here before, but—yus, come ter think of it serious like—he did not know that this unpleasant bushy-browed individual had not. Suppose he had? After all, in regard to the reason for their presences here at this moment, both were lying. Ben was not here through being chased by this man since it was not this man who had chased him. Therefore the man must have accepted Ben’s version for his own convenience, and his presence must be due to some other cause! Lummy, it was a fishy business from the word go! Because—another thing—here was a deader on the floor, and neither of them was making any move to get a policeman! Suddenly the man’s mood changed. Or seemed to. ‘Don’t let’s lose our wool,’ he said. ‘Let’s find out who this fellow is, shall we? And how about picking up that broken chair?’ He moved forward and began to stoop over the victim of the as yet unsolved tragedy. His large hands groped about the dead man’s clothes. Ben glanced at the broken chair but did not pick it up. A piece of rope lay near it. ‘You wanter be careful,’ Ben warned his companion. Ben’s mood was changing, also, although he could not decide just what it was changing to or whether the change would last. Bushy Brows had not become any more lovable, but his mood certainly seemed less threatening. ‘What do I want to be careful about?’ asked Bushy Brows. ‘He’s not going to jump up and bite me!’ ‘Yer never know—I seen a chicken run abart withaht its ’ead,’ retorted Ben, ‘but I wasn’t thinkin’ o’ that. Wot I meant was—well, seein’ as ’ow this ain’t like jest stealin’, but a bit more serious like, and seein’ as ’ow you and me ain’t done it, sayin’ we ain’t—’ ‘Do you know what you’re talking about?’ ‘Yes. I’m torkin’ abart not bein’ supposed ter touch the body, that is, not afore—’ Bushy Brows interrupted with a laugh, and then looked at Ben hard. ‘You’re a caution, and no mistake,’ he said. ‘Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you before!’ ‘Tha’s right—nobody ’as,’ agreed Ben. ‘I believe it! In fact, old boy, I’m beginning to think this meeting may turn out a good thing for both of us—but we won’t go too fast, eh? It’s nice and quiet here, and there’s plenty of time, and you’ve only just come in, and I’ve only just come in—that’s how it is, isn’t it?—so we’ve nothing to worry about while I find out what’s in this fellow’s pockets! Have we?’ Nice and quiet—plenty of time—nothing to worry about? Hadn’t they? ‘Tork abart fishy!’ thought Ben, unhappily. ‘Lummy, wot’s this leadin’ ter? I—wunner—?’ He tried to stop wondering, for wondering can be exceedingly troublesome. It leads to thinking—or is it the thinking that leads to the wondering? Whichever way it is, just when you’re wanting peace and rest it comes along and throws a spanner into the works. Gives you—what do they call it?—a sense of responsibility like … And there was something else that Ben was wondering, though this had nothing to do with Bushy Brows. He was wondering why there was something familiar—or seemed to be—about the dead man on the ground? He’d never seen him before, he’d swear himself pink he hadn’t, and yet— ‘Ah! Here’s something!’ said Bushy Brows. ‘Wot?’ asked Ben. Bushy Brows did not answer at once. He was counting coins and notes. When he had finished he reported, ‘Five pound eight and six. Would you like the eight and six?’ ‘Nah, then, none o’ that!’ replied Ben. Bushy Brows grinned. ‘You’re not going to tell me, Eric, you’ve never made a bit on the side?’ ‘’Oo’s Heric?’ ‘He was a good little boy.’ ‘Was ’e? Orl right. I’m Heric.’ ‘As you like. Then I’m to have the lot?’ ‘Oi!’ ‘Well?’ ‘You better put that back!’ ‘If I did, what would be the good of having found it? It’s no good to him any more, is it? Come off it, Eric! We’re getting to know each other, and you can’t pull that stuff on me!’ He grinned again as he pocketed the money. Getting to know each other? Again Ben wondered. Was this a trick to catch him out? He’d known it played before. A ’tec comes along, mikes yer think ’e’s crooked, cheats yer orf the stright, and ’e’s got yer! Not that anybody had ever got Ben that way, because by that odd kink in his character Ben was straight, but he’d seen it done, and orf goes the poor bloke to the lock-up, and orf goes the ’tec to promotion … Lummy, here was an idea, though! Why shouldn’t he play the trick? Beat Bushy Brows at his own game, if it was a game, and if it wasn’t, see how far he could make him go? Corse, it’d be a bit of a risk if things went wrong, but this bloke on the floor was getting on Ben’s nerves, and ’e must of ’ad a ’orrible time afore ’e got lookin’ like ’e did! Blarst this wunnerin’! Fair blast it! But Ben knew he would not learn anything from Bushy Brows unless he won his confidence, and what he had to decide was whether to play for dangerous knowledge or to cling to the bliss of ignorance. ‘What’s going on behind your film face?’ asked Bushy Brows. ‘You and I wouldn’t do anybody in, would we? We’re not the murdering sort—but didn’t you say yourself just now that stealing was a different thing? Even if stealing’s the right word for taking a bit of loose change from a man who won’t need it any more! After all, in this naughty world, there’s no saying how he got it!’ Bushy Brows was smiling, but Ben detected a note of uncertainty in his voice. In a flash, his friendly mood might change again. This was the moment when Ben had to give up the game or continue it, and to go on playing it harder. ‘Bit slow, guv’nor, ain’t yer?’ he responded. ‘Meaning?’ ‘Well—fer one thing, when I meets a bloke wot I ain’t never seed afore, I don’t put me cards plump dahn on the tible!’ ‘Ah!’ ‘Yer’ve said it!’ ‘And for another thing?’ ‘Fer another thing, yer gotter be careful wot yer tike orf a bloke wot’s been killed. See, even if yer didn’t do it, it might mike some think yer did!’ ‘Quite a brain, Eric!’ ‘Oh, I got one, even if sometimes I keeps it dark!’ ‘And for another thing? Or is that the lot?’ ‘There’s another.’ ‘Let’s have it.’ ‘Eight and a tanner! I arsk yer!’ Bushy Brows laughed. ‘Not enough?’ ‘Wot do you think?’ ‘How about this, then?’ He dived into his pocket and brought out one of the pound notes. ‘Will that do for the moment?’ ‘If yer mike it a short moment!’ Ben snatched the note, donning an expression intended to convey the fiercest greed. As it was entirely spurious, and occurred on a face surprising enough even without it, Bushy Brows had never seen anything like it before. ‘After you’re hanged, Eric,’ he commented, ‘there’ll be a three-mile queue outside Madame Tussaud’s! Now let’s see what else we can find?’ He continued his search, while Ben watched him closely. That Bushy Brows was a wrong ’un was now beyond all possible doubt, and this confirmed Ben’s determination to maintain his pretence of being a bird of the same feather. But just how much of a wrong ’un Bushy Brows was remained in doubt. Murder was not yet proved. ‘Ticket for the Odeon,’ said Bushy Brows. ‘Or, rather, the counterfoil. Best seat. Hallo!’ He gave a low whistle. ‘Now, this is interesting!’ ‘Wot is?’ asked Ben. ‘The date. What’s today?’ ‘I never trouble.’ ‘It’s the thirteenth.’ ‘Corse it is.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Look wot’s ’appenin’!’ ‘I get you, but superstition never worried me. Anyhow, where’s the bad luck? Aren’t we making a bit?’ ‘’E’s ’ad the bad luck.’ ‘But we’re not him! What I’m interested in is the date on this counterfoil. It’s today’s date, so it looks as if our friend was at the Odeon this afternoon.’ Ben considered the point. ‘Well, why not?’ he replied. ‘’E ’ad ter be somewhere!’ ‘You—don’t—say!’ retorted Bushy Brows. ‘You know, Eric, we’ll get on faster when you drop your pose of being a mug! It’s a good wheeze—I’ve used it myself—but there’s no need to keep it up with me!’ ‘Orl right,’ answered Ben, ‘I’ll work it aht fer yer if yer want ter see me brine. ’E goes ter the cinema, and ’e sees a fillum, and then ’e comes on ’ere ter think abart it, and when ’e’s ’ere ’e bumps inter somebody ’oo murders ’im but wot we’ve agreed atween us ain’t you or me. Is that orl right or ain’t it?’ Bushy Brows narrowed his eyes, as though all at once considering Ben again. ‘You’re quite, quite sure it wasn’t you he bumped into?’ he said. ‘It wern’t me if it wern’t you,’ returned Ben. ‘So was it?’ Bushy Brows looked exasperated, shrugged his shoulders, and bent down over the body again. He came up next time with a letter-case. ‘Nah we’ll know,’ said Ben. ‘If there’s a card in it,’ answered Bushy Brows. ‘Or a letter.’ There was a card. Bushy Brows slid it out of its special little space and contemplated it with thoughtful eyes. He contemplated it for so long that Ben took a peep over his shoulder, and although the light was so dim he could just make out the name inscribed upon it: Then something else attracted Ben’s attention, something that had fallen out of the case while Bushy Brows had extracted the card and that now lay near the dead man’s foot. Ben stooped and quietly picked it up. It was a photograph of a woman. Rather a good-looker. Not one of your film stars, but a face you didn’t mind looking at, that was a fact. Indeed, the more Ben looked at it, the more he didn’t mind, without exactly knowing why. She was smart, and he was more at home with holes and patches. She had dark hair, and as a rule he preferred ’em blonde—if it was nacherel, mind, and not on one o’ them tarts. This wasn’t no tart! You could tell she was the sort that would draw away quick if she saw Ben coming. There was nothing to suggest that the admiration would be mutual. One reason why the face appealed to him was that behind the photographic smile there was a hint of trouble which neither the photographer nor his subject had been able to eliminate. Possibly neither was aware of it. But Ben had a subconscious sense for trouble, and an instinctive sympathy for all who encountered it. Lummy, didn’t he know? Bushy Brows’ voice brought Ben’s head up from the photograph. ‘What have you got there?’ ‘Pickcher,’ answered Ben. ‘Oh! Where did you get it?’ ‘Fell aht o’ the case, I reckon.’ ‘Let’s have a look.’ Rather reluctantly Ben held it out, and the man took it. He seemed as interested as Ben, if from a different angle. When he had finished examining it he slipped it back into the letter-case. ‘Did yer put the card back, too?’ inquired Ben. ‘Don’t worry. You shall have the chap’s name and address if you’re good.’ Deciding not to let on that he already knew them, Ben asked innocently: ‘Yer know ’oo it is, then?’ ‘I know more than that, Eric.’ ‘Oh! Yer do?’ ‘I know who put the bullet through his head.’ ‘Oh! It was a bullet wot done it?’ ‘I never really thought it was a penknife. But you’re not going to pretend now, are you, that you never guessed he’s been shot?’ ‘Where’s the gun?’ ‘If you’d shot him, would you have left the gun behind?’ ‘Tha’s right, and as I ain’t got no gun on me that shows I didn’t shoot ’im, so now yer can tell me ’oo did?’ But Bushy Brows laughed softly as he shook his head. ‘For the moment, if you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘I think I’ll keep that to myself.’ Ben grunted. ‘Yus, yer keeps a lot to yerself, doncher? The corpse’s nime, the corpse’s address, the bloke wot done ’im in, not ter menshun four pahnd eight and six! P’r’aps yer dunno orl yer sez yer does—people ’oo doesn’t tork doesn’t always ’ave anythink ter say!’ Bushy Brows laughed again. ‘Believe me, Eric, I’ve plenty to say, and if I told you the lot those pretty little eyes of yours would grow as big as the moon! Now, listen! You and I have been here as long as is good for us, and it’s high time we said good-bye—or, rather, au revoir. Do you know what that means?’ ‘Orrivor? I sez it every night ter meself afore I goes ter sleep.’ ‘Really? I’ll have to come and hear you one time, but we’ve no time now to be funny any more, so just attend and get down to business. You’ve got a pound, haven’t you?’ ‘And you’ve got four pahnd eight and a tanner, aincher?’ ‘Would you like the chance of making even more than that?’ ‘I ain’t ’eard meself say no yet.’ ‘Very well, then. Let’s agree on certain points. You haven’t seen me here, and I haven’t seen you here. Okay?’ ‘Okay.’ ‘And we’ve neither of us seen this fellow on the floor. Okay?’ ‘Okay.’ ‘Just the same—as we’re getting on so well together—I am now going to tell you what was on the visiting card.’ ‘Yer don’t ’ave ter. George Wilby, 18, Drewet Road, SW3, and ’e works at the Southern Bank.’ The bushy brows rose. ‘I got eyes, sime as you,’ said Ben. ‘And use them, eh? Very well. What’s your own address?’ ‘Wotcher want ter know for?’ ‘Make up your mind quick, for I’m not waiting here any longer. Are we together or aren’t we? If not, I leave you to stew!’ Bushy Brows began to look ominous again. ‘We’re tergether,’ answered Ben meekly. ‘Then act as though we are, or I’ll pair up with somebody else! You see, I’ve got to go away—up north—and what I’m needing is some guy who’ll keep an eye open this end—and particularly on No. 18, Drewet Road—and report when I get in touch again. Got that clear?’ ‘As mud.’ ‘So what’s your address?’ ‘I ain’t got none.’ ‘Couldn’t be better, because I can give you one.’ ‘Where’s that?’ ‘No. 46, Jewel Street, SE. Can you remember it, or shall I write it down?’ ‘I can remember it.’ ‘No, I’d better write it down. Where’s a bit of paper?’ He examined the wallet again, and tore a blank sheet off the back of a letter. ‘This’ll do.’ Taking a pencil stump from his own pocket, he wrote rapidly for a few moments, and then handed Ben the sheet. ‘Read it.’ He grinned. Ben read: ‘“Mrs Kenton, 46, Jewel Street, SE. This is to introduce Mr Eric Burns, a pal of mine. As you know, I have to go away, and I want him to occupy my room till I come back. Ask no questions, etc. Love to Maudie. O.B.”’ ‘Well?’ ‘I’m on.’ ‘Then you’re on to a good thing—yes, and you can consider yourself damn’ lucky, Eric, because if it had been a policeman who found you here instead of me you’d have been on to a very bad thing. And I’m not saying you’re out of the wood yet if you don’t behave! Meanwhile, you’re in Easy Street. All right, that’s fixed. You’ve got your note to Ma Kenton, she’ll feed you, and you have a pound to take Maudie to the pictures. That’s the lot. So long—till you next hear from me!’ ‘Oi!’ exclaimed Ben, as Bushy Brows turned to go. ‘Yes?’ ‘It ain’t quite the lot! Wot abart this bloke ’ere?’ ‘He’s nothing to do with us. Are you forgetting? We’ve not seen him. Someone else will find and report him—you and I certainly don’t want to!’ The next moment, Bushy Brows was gone. 3 (#ulink_a68e8ccf-5b2c-5821-9623-a4d8b356165e) Step by Step (#ulink_a68e8ccf-5b2c-5821-9623-a4d8b356165e) Well? Now what? That was Ben’s perplexing question when he found himself once more alone—because of course you don’t count a corpse as company—and for a few moments he could not find the answer. Then all at once the answer occurred to him with such simplicity and force that he wondered why there had ever been any doubt about it. It was to follow Bushy Brows’ example and to clear out! But after he had cleared out, and by zigzagging through foggy thoroughfares had put three or four blocks between himself and the block he had started from, the question, ‘Now what?’ reverted to him in an even more perplexing form. He had dealt with the problem of his own immediate danger. The problems of the corpse, of the woman in the photograph—funny how that photograph stuck in his mind—and of Bushy Brows remained. Corpse. Woman. Bushy Brows. He considered them in that order. Fust, the corpse. You couldn’t leave even a dead man to himself once you’d found him. Well, could yer? I mean ter say! Especially when he was in an empty house and mightn’t be found by anybody else for days and days. There’d be people worrying. That woman, for instance. P’r’aps an old muvver. And then the police. The longer they didn’t know, the longer the murderer would have to get away. Maybe he was getting away at that moment—up north! But somehow, though he could not explain why, Ben did not think the murderer was Bushy Brows. Though, mind yer, he might be. And setting aside all else, if you left a corpse too long in an empty house, the mice might get at it! All right, then. The police must be reported to. And a nice job that was going to be! A bloke who is being chased by one constable goes up to another and says, ‘Oi, there’s been a murder!’ No, thanks! How about sending a telegram? But another solution was right at hand, and suddenly Ben realised what he was leaning against while he cogitated. A telephone booth! ‘Lummy! That’s the idea!’ he muttered. ‘Give ’em a ring!’ He did not put the idea into practice at once. Two women came out of a house nearly opposite, and he wanted them out of the way before he entered the box. A movement might attract their attention. Fortunately, they turned in a direction which took them away from the booth, and soon they had dissolved into the mist. Nobody else was in sight. Quickly he slipped inside, and quickly he lifted the receiver to get it over. But nothing happened. ‘Oi!’ he called hoarsely. ‘’Allo! Oi!’ Then he remembered that nothing would happen until he did something himself. Lummy, where was two pennies? He recalled that the change he had received from his last shilling had been lost through a hole in his pocket, and a pound note was no good in a ’phone box. ‘I’m sunk!’ he thought dismally. Then he suddenly remembered something else. The old lady who had given him twopence for helping her across the road. Hadn’t he put those pennies in another pocket? To his relief he found that he had, and that by a miracle this pocket was intact. Extracting them carefully and holding them tight in case they jumped away, he prepared to part with them for the doubtful benefit of a conversation with the police, when yet another snag came into his mind. He didn’t know the name of the street or the number of the house in which lay the body he was about to report! There was only one thing for it. He would have to go back. The prospect was so unpleasant that he nearly weakened and gave up the whole affair. Why not drop it, and keep the twopence? Arter orl, ’e ’adn’t done nothink! Why not remove himself as far as possible from this unhealthy district, and end the day in serenity and peace? But he had a pound note as well as twopence, and the pound note had been less innocently earned. There was only one way to square that account! And wouldn’t the eyes of that woman haunt him? Not to mention the less attractive eyes of the late George Wilby, of 18, Drewet Road, SW3? With a grunt of misery he left the booth and unwound his way back to the danger zone, and now he blessed the fog which, when you wish to avoid publicity, is so preferable to sunlight. It made the unwinding process a little more difficult, but Ben was good at groping, and when he came to the turning down which he had dived to escape the constable he immediately recognised it. Ah, there was the name! Norgate Road. Now he only had to go down it as far as the gate-posts without a gate. Not this ’un. Not this ’un. Not—yus, this ’un. Nummer Fifteen. Nummer Fifteen, Norgate Road … As he peered through the gate-posts at the side-path along which he and Bushy Brows had gone round to the back, it seemed that it had happened years ago instead of only a few minutes! But there was the pail on its side, just as Bushy Brows had kicked it … And down in the cellar was the corpse … Or was it? Suddenly assailed by the itch of doubt, Ben paused in the act of leaving. Suppose—it wasn’t there? It wouldn’t be the first corpse to walk off while his back was turned, and in that case there would be no object in reporting it! He hesitated between fear and curiosity, and the curiosity won, drawing him against his will along the side-path, past the overturned pail, round the corner of the building to the back yard, and in through the back door—still wide as he had left it. Or had he left it as wide as this? He couldn’t remember. Inside the doorway he stopped for a moment to listen. Reassured by the silence, he crossed the dim space to the top of the basement stairs and descended to the cellar. Narsty sahnd yer boots mike on stone—there don’t seem no way ter stop it. Something darted towards him as he reached the bottom. He struck out wildly, and just missed a large cat. Swearing at it as it vanished, he advanced a step farther and turned his head towards the shadowed spot where the body had been, uncertain whether he wanted it still to be there or not. He could not see it, but this was not conclusive, because he found he had closed his eyes to shut out the unpleasant sight. He opened his eyes … Ah! Yus—there it was! Lyin’ near the wall, with its feet sort of crumpled like, and with its arms … with its arms … His heart missed a beat. Several beats. Both arms had been outstretched before. Now only one was!… And the chair had been righted … And where was the rope? ‘I’m goin’ ter tell yer somethink,’ Ben informed himself. ‘You ain’t stoppin’!’ The information was correct. Ben was out in the street again almost before he had given himself the news. He had no recollection of the journey from the cellar to the street. Nor, when he found himself back in the telephone booth, did he remember much about that. He must have come back here, because here he was back here. Funny ’ow sometimes wot yer did seemed to of been done by somebody else! All right! Now, then! Get it over! But, first, a little check up. Nobody visible outside through the glass. Good! Two-pence—out it comes. Good! Address—address—lummy, what was the address? Sweat increased on a brow already wet. ’Ad ’e fergot it? His dizzy brain strove to recall the name of the street and the number. ‘If I can’t, this is the blinkin’ finish!’ he decided. ‘I ain’t goin’ back, not fer nobody!’ Ah—of course! 18, Drewet Road. No, was it? Yus. No! That was the address on the deader’s visitin’ card! Blarst. Then what—ah—of course! 46, Jewel Street. No, was it? Yus. No! That was the address of Ma Kenton where he was supposed to go and stay till Bushy Brows let him know. Lummy, what was this other? Like some seaside, wasn’t it? Brighton—Eastbourne—Ramsgate? Ramsgate—that seemed a bit closer. Ramsgate—Margate. Ah! From Margate it was an easy jump, and all at once he saw the black letters against a misty white oblong—Norgate Road. That was it—Norgate Road. Nummer 15. Even at the best of times Ben was not ‘telephone minded’, and this was by no means the best of times, but he must have done all the right things, because after he had parted with his two precious pennies he found himself being invited by an unmistakably official voice to inform the speaker what he wanted. ‘’Allo,’ replied Ben. ‘You’ve said that before,’ came the reminder, patiently. ‘Tha’s right,’ agreed Ben. ‘Who is it speaking?’ asked the official voice, not quite so patiently. ‘’Allo,’ said Ben, and just saved an outburst at the other end by adding, ‘Oi! Do yer know Norgate Road?’ ‘What about it?’ ‘Yer do? Well, see, there’s a dead body on the floor of the cellar at Nummer 15.’ Then he slammed down the receiver. The next five minutes were devoted to separating himself as widely as could be done in the time, and in the fog, from both the telephone booth and Norgate Road. His next stop was a pillar-box. He liked things to lean against. Indeed, this afternoon he needed them. Well? Next? The corpse had, so to speak, been ticked off, and second on his list was the woman in the photograph. Bushy Brows came third—a matter perhaps for longer consideration. But rather to Ben’s surprise the woman in the photograph did not seem to require any consideration at all. He had to know a little more about her, and as the only place where he had any chance of this was the address of the murdered man—sayin’, mind yer, ’e ’ad been murdered and ’adn’t committed suissicide—well, there he would have to go. But the finger with which Drewet Road beckoned to Ben was a very sinister one! Was Drewet Road, as a health resort, likely to prove any more salubrious to Ben than Norgate Road? Perhaps none of us are complete fatalists. We rebel against the idea, even if we cannot disprove it, that we are mere movements in a flow that started before the world was born—that never started at all, in fact, since Time is limitless, with neither beginning nor end. It is humiliating to feel one is merely the ephemeral shape of a wave in a permanent sea. But Ben was as near to a complete fatalist as you could get. In fact, if he could have explained his own position, he would have said that he spent most of his life in a fruitless attempt to avoid doing what he was compelled to do. In his own lingo, ‘Yer tries not ter but yer finds yer ’as ter.’ Take, for instance, the last fifteen minutes. He had tried not to go back to Norgate Road, but he had had to. He had tried not to revisit the cellar, but he had had to. Sometimes, of course, Fate gets caught as well as you, and you’re out of a house before either of you had bargained for it. That had happened after that very nasty shock in the cellar. But after such moments the flow goes on again, and he had tried not to telephone to the police, but he had had to, and now he was trying not to go to Drewet Road, but he knew he would have to. ‘Once yer in it, yer in it!’ But although Ben put it down to Fate, there might be others, with individualistic ideas, who would have argued that Ben had a soft spot inside him that was all his own, and that it was his own self that made him leave the pillar-box, where he could have remained in quite nice comfort, and turn in the direction of SW3. It was not going to be so easy to get there, for all the workings of destiny. In the first place he had never heard of Drewet Road, although he had heard of SW3. In the second, fog didn’t help. In the third, even if he found the right tube or bus—and his knees felt a bit too wobbly for a long walk—could you pay for your fare with a one-pound note? It was while he was pondering over these snags that he was handed an opportunity for solving all three. A taxi loomed out of the mist, and before he knew it he had hailed it. Ben taking a taxi! Lummy, wot did yer know abart that? The taxi stopped, and he jumped in quickly before the driver could refuse so unpromising a fare. ‘Drewet Road,’ he called. As he sank in the seat the driver’s face twisted round and peered at him through the glass window that divided them. Sliding the window aside, the driver called back through the aperture, after a squint at his passenger. ‘Can you pay for it?’ This was a repetition of the coffee-stall keeper’s scepticism that morning. Nobody seemed to think Ben could pay for anything. Quite often they were right. ‘If yer can chinge a one-pahnd note,’ replied Ben. ‘Let’s see the note?’ Ben fished it out and held it up. ‘Oh,’ said the driver. ‘Well, which Drewet Road do you want?’ ‘The one in SW3,’ answered Ben. ‘What number?’ ‘Eh?’ ‘What number Drewet Road?’ Ben hesitated. Taking this taxi was a bit of a risk, and it was a pity the taximan was having such a long look at him, though Ben hoped the corner he was sitting back in was too dark to reveal his features plainly. One of these days the driver might be asked to describe his passenger! ‘There yer’ve got me,’ said Ben. ‘I know the ’ouse but I dunno the nummer. Stick me dahn at one hend, and I’ll find it.’ ‘Okay. I hope you ain’t in a hurry?’ ‘Tike yer time.’ ‘I’ll have to in this fog. You wouldn’t be slipping out on me, would you, at the traffic lights?’ ‘Yer can ’old the stakes if yer like,’ retorted Ben, and thrust out his hand with the note. The driver looked at the note, smiled, and shook his head. ‘That’s all right, chum,’ he said. ‘But we get some funny fares sometimes, and have to be up to their tricks.’ The journey began. Ben closed his eyes, and decided to make his mind a lovely blank. He was so successful, and the blank was so complete, that aided by the soporific comfort of the cab he went to sleep, and did not wake up again until the driver’s voice again called to him through the window. ‘We’re there, chum.’ Ben opened his eyes. Lummy, so they were! The taxi had stopped. ‘Sorry to wake you,’ grinned the driver. ‘You can sleep on, if you like, at five bob an hour.’ ‘No, thanks, I wants a bit o’ change aht o’ me pahnd,’ retorted Ben. ‘’Ow much do I tip yer?’ ‘Oh, nine bob’ll do.’ ‘Mike it pence, and add it ter the bill.’ The change amounted to fourteen and threepence, and as Ben poured it into his pocket it all came out on to the pavement. Most of Ben’s pockets were mere passages. It was a nuisance, because the friendly driver insisted on getting down from his seat and helping to recapture the coins, which further stamped Ben upon his memory. It was unlikely, however, that even without this addition Ben would have been forgotten. ‘All right now?’ inquired the driver. ‘I’ll take you along to your house, if you like?’ ‘No, I can manidge,’ answered Ben, the coins now secure in a pocket that functioned. ‘Good ’ealth!’ The driver got back into his seat, gave Ben one more glance to make sure he hadn’t been dreaming, and drove off, Ben filling in the time by inserting a fag-end he had found with the coins between his lips and sucking it. That is all you can do when you have used your last match. Alone again at last, and trying not to feel anxious and depressed—an impossible effort—Ben began to walk slowly along Drewet Road. He found himself at the low-numbered end, which meant that No. 18 was not far off. He came to it, in fact, in less than a minute, and as he turned his head to the front door it opened, and a lady came out. It was the lady of the photograph. 4 (#ulink_2fe62299-3e6d-5de8-bfb0-ed7f3e0d3db4) The Lady of the Picture (#ulink_2fe62299-3e6d-5de8-bfb0-ed7f3e0d3db4) There was no mistaking her. Ben recognised her at once, not only by her dark hair and smart appearance, but by that indefinable ‘something’ in her atmosphere which he had discerned even in the photograph. This was all the more surprising since her mood at this moment was entirely different. There was a hardness in her expression, her lips were tight, and some inner excitement seemed to be causing the rapidity with which she slammed the door behind her and ran down the front steps. In her hand was a small suitcase. As she came to the bottom of the steps she looked quickly up and down the road. Then she caught sight of Ben. ‘I wonder if you could get me a taxi?’ she exclaimed. Ben’s taxi by now was completely out of sight. For this he was doubly grateful. It wasn’t going to help if she popped off the moment he’d opped along. ‘I ain’t seen one, mum,’ he answered. ‘No, but could you get me one?’ ‘Well, mum, that ain’t goin’ ter be easy in this fog—’ ‘All right, don’t trouble,’ she interrupted, with a slight frown. ‘I only thought you—I’ll get one myself.’ She was about to move when Ben stepped in her way. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, mum—’ Her frown deepened. ‘Could I ’ave a word with yer?’ ‘I’m sorry, I’m in a hurry!’ ‘Yus, but—’ With a quick shrug, she began to open her handbag. ‘No, mum, it ain’t that,’ said Ben. ‘I ain’t arskin’ fer nothink.’ ‘Then what do you want?’ she exclaimed. ‘And please be quick—you heard me say I was in a hurry!’ ‘Yus, mum, and I wouldn’t stop yer, not if it wasn’t himportent. Yer—yer ain’t goin’ off like, are yer?’ Her dark eyes blazed with indignation. ‘You’re impudent,’ she cried. ‘Please don’t stand there in my way. Ah—there’s a taxi!’ ‘Oi! Don’t tike it!’ In the stress of the moment Ben placed a grubby hand on her sleeve, but as the neatness of the sleeve emphasised the grubbiness of the hand he hastily whipped it off, while the indignation in her eyes changed to utter astonishment. The astonishment was so utter that the taxi which had suddenly grown out of the mist went by, and was now beginning to get lost in the mist again. ‘Taxi!’ she called. But she was too late. Now her indignation returned in full force. ‘You’ve made me miss it!’ she cried, wrathfully. ‘What’s the meaning of all this? In a moment I won’t be looking for a taxi, but a policeman!’ ‘I wouldn’t do that, mum!’ muttered Ben. ‘Wouldn’t?’ ‘No, mum. And—and p’r’aps it was a good thing yer didn’t git that taxi!’ She moved a step closer, and stared at him hard. Then she asked shortly: ‘Who are you?’ ‘Well—if I told yer me nime, that wouldn’t git yer nowhere.’ A sudden idea seemed to occur to her. Still regarding him with searching eyes, she demanded: ‘Are you a friend—an acquaintance of my husband?’ The change of word was made with scorn, a scorn which Ben had no means as yet of understanding. Indeed, at this moment he was not attending to the change. It was the word ‘husband’ that had pinned his attention. ‘’Usband,’ he repeated, in a mutter. ‘Answer me at once, or go!’ she blazed. ‘It—it ain’t so easy, mum. I ain’t wot I think yer think, on’y—well, see, I got some noose fer yer, and I’m afraid it ain’t good.’ Now she looked puzzled. ‘Have you come from my husband?’ That was a nasty one. Ben replied to the question with another. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, mum, but might I arsk—are yer Mrs Wilby?’ ‘I am.’ ‘Oh! Then—in a manner o’ speakin’—I ’ave come from yer ’usband. Don’t fergit—on’y in a manner o’ speakin’.’ ‘Then you’d better come in,’ she said, with a little shrug which was an attempt to conceal anxiety. ‘You’ve obviously got something to say that can’t be said out here. Only, if I find you’ve been wasting my time—’ ‘I ain’t goin’ ter waiste yer time, mum. Do I look as if I was?’ She shook her head and, turning, led him into the house, and into a small drawing-room. When he had awkwardly accepted her invitation to sit down, he was wondering how to make a start when she made it herself. ‘Before you say anything, and I haven’t the least idea what it is, I’m going to say something. I’m not interested in gossip, and there’s nothing whatever to be got out of me. I want to make that quite clear. But if what you’ve got to tell me is really important—and true—and if your reason for telling me is genuine—’ She looked at him with sudden curiosity, as though trying for the first time to read what kind of a man he was. She went on: ‘If your motive is good, then I’ll listen. Not otherwise. Do you understand all that?’ Ben nodded. He understood, and he felt sorry for both of them. But he still couldn’t get started, and while he was fishing for the right words his troubled confusion brought a new expression into her eyes. ‘Is it as difficult as all that?’ she asked him, almost kindly. ‘Yus, mum,’ mumbled Ben. ‘Yer see—’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Well, I ain’t sure as ’ow yer’ll tike it.’ ‘There seems to be a lot we’re both not sure about.’ ‘Yus, mum.’ ‘Would you like to begin by telling me just what your motive is?’ Her tone was still kind—very different from her tone at the start of their interview—and he almost wished it hadn’t been. Somehow it made his job all the harder. ‘This is orl wrong,’ he complained. ‘You’re tryin’ ter ’elp me, when I come ’ere ter try and ’elp you!’ ‘Did you? Is that true?’ ‘Corse, mum. Wot other reason would I ’ave?’ ‘I could think of others, but if I thought them about you I see now I’d be wrong. You must forgive me if I’m completely baffled! What do you want to help me about—and why should you want to help me?’ Here was a possible lead in. ‘Well, see, mum, it was the photo.’ ‘Photo?’ ‘Yus.’ Lummy, he was in now! ‘What photo?’ ‘’E ’as it on ’im.’ ‘Who?’ ‘Your ’usband. Mr George Wilby. That’s right, ain’t it?’ ‘Mr Wilby is my husband. And this photo, I suppose you are going to tell me, was of—some woman?’ Her tone was getting cold again. ‘Yes, mum, it was of you,’ answered Ben. ‘That’s why I come. That and the address. ’E ’ad it on ’im, and I—well, I dunno zackly why, but seein’ the photo—corse, that’s ’ow I reckernized yer comin’ aht o’ the door—and, well, things bein’ like they was, I felt a bit sorry fer yer, like, if yer git me, so I thort “I’ll come along and tell ’er fust sort o’ quiet like,” espeshully knowin’ orl I does and thinkin’ she orter know that, too, lummy, that’s goin’ ter tike a bit o’ time, but mind yer it was a risk, in fack I nearly didn’t come, ’cos, see, if the pleece find me ’ere I’m for it, I’ll swing, doncher worry, though it’s Gawd’s truth I never done it, but jest found ’im like ’e was in that hempty ’ouse—’ He paused, breathless, as a car stopped outside. There followed a few moments of deathly silence. Mrs Wilby sat rigid, her eyes staring, her cheeks pale, the knuckles of her tightly clenched hands showing white in her lap. Then came steps, and then the front-door bell. Neither had to look out of the window to feel convinced it was a police car. 5 (#ulink_10ccaab0-fbbe-548d-bdfd-a4831792ee51) Ben Gets a Job (#ulink_10ccaab0-fbbe-548d-bdfd-a4831792ee51) The bell rang again, followed this time by the sound of the knocker. Mrs Wilby got up from her chair, steadied herself at a little table beside it, and then walked out of the room, closing the door behind her. ‘This is the finish,’ decided Ben. ‘Well, when yer on the hend o’ the rope, it’s quick!’ He heard the front door open. Mug he’d been to take that pound note. What help was it going to be that Bushy Brows had all the others? Bushy Brows had vanished and would never be heard of again, and if Ben mentioned him to the police they’d say he’d made him up. Corse they would! That was what murderers did, wasn’t it? Made somebody up! And here were the policemen who wouldn’t believe him, here in the hall just the other side of the drawing-room door, He could hear their voices, though not their words. He was glad she had closed the door, but it wouldn’t stay closed for long. In a moment it would open, and then … Yus, he ought never to of took that note—and he ought never to of took that cab! That fair made him the mug of mugs, because of course the police would get on to the taximan, and was the taximan going to forget he’d received a clean new one-pound note from a bloke like Ben? If he didn’t have the note on him he’d know who he passed it on to, and seeing Mr Wilby probably got it from the bank where he worked you could bet it would be easy pie to trace the number … Why didn’t the door open, and get it over? Ben’s eyes were glued on it, but it remained shut. Was they still torkin’? He listened, but now he could hear nothing. Lummy, that was queer, wasn’t it? Where’d they gone? A minute went by. Then another. Unable to bear it any longer he tiptoed to the door. Not a sound came from the hall, and after a moment of hesitation he turned the handle and softly opened the door an inch. Peering cautiously through the crack he saw that the hall was empty, but faintly-heard voices sounded behind a door on the other side of the hall. ‘She’s took ’em in there fust,’ he decided, ‘ter ’ear wot they say, and then they’ll come along ter me, and good-bye, Ben!’ A few feet to the left of his projecting nose was the front door, and he nearly succumbed to its temptation, but two reasons dissuaded him from a dash for liberty, and as he closed the drawing-room door again and returned to his seat he could not have told you which of the reasons had been the dominant. One was the police car outside. There would probably still be the driver in it, in which case he’d be caught before he’d begun, and would be self-convicted. He had already had one example that afternoon of the trouble you could get into by running away before you were charged. Of course, there might be nobody in the car (he did not go to the window to look, lest temptation should return, or his own face be seen), but even so they’d probably catch him in the end, with all their clues, and then ask, ‘If you were innocent why did you bunk?’ The second reason that had brought him back into the room was, perhaps, less explainable—but there it was, you couldn’t get away from it. Mrs Wilby must have known that, by leaving him alone, he would have his chance. So—well, she’d sort of trusted him like not to take it. Unless—another thought suddenly intruded—she had meant him to take it? Had she led the police into the room across the hall to give him this opportunity to escape? Well, even so, he couldn’t work it. He’d got a lot more to let her know, and he couldn’t do that from five miles off. Four or five minutes must have gone by before he heard sounds in the hall again, and at last the door opened. To his surprise, only Mrs Wilby came in, and she only stayed for an instant. She gave him a quick glance, revealing nothing by her expression, took a handkerchief from the table beside the chair she had been sitting in, and then left him once more to himself. ‘Well, I’m blowed!’ he thought. ‘Wozzat mean?’ Another period of waiting had to be endured. It lasted about as long as the first. Then the door across the hall opened, the fact revealed by the renewed audibility of the voices—one was saying, ‘Very well, Mrs Wilby—in half an hour’—footsteps moved towards the front door, and the front door opened and closed. Ben listened in surprised relief to the sound of the departing police car, and the sound had not died away before Mrs Wilby returned to him. She looked pale, but composed. ‘Well—they’ve gone,’ she said. ‘Yus. I ’eard,’ answered Ben. ‘Why didn’t yer bring ’em in ’ere?’ ‘Did you want me to?’ ‘Gawd, no!’ ‘Then I expect that’s why I didn’t. You’ve got some more to tell me, haven’t you?’ He nodded. ‘Tha’s a fack!’ ‘I want to hear it—and of course you will want to hear what the police said. I didn’t mention you—’ ‘Go on!’ ‘Surely you must realise they’d have come in here if I had?’ ‘Yus, only I thort p’r’aps you’d menshuned me but jest said I’d come and gorn, like?’ ‘I see. Yes, I could have done that. And if you had gone I might have mentioned you. I came back in the middle of our interview to find out whether you were still here or not.’ ‘Oh! Not fer yer ’ankerchiff?’ ‘That was just my excuse. Tell me, why didn’t you go?’ ‘There was a police car ahtside, wasn’t there?’ ‘Nobody was in it.’ ‘Oh! Well, I didn’t know that.’ ‘You could have seen from the window.’ ‘I dessay, but—well, there was hother reasons, too. If I’d done a bunk, yer might of thort, “’E done it arter orl, or ’e wouldn’t of bunked.” That’s wot the pleece’d of thort, any’ow, so it seemed it’d be best ter stay ’ere—you ’avin’ trusted me, like.’ In spite of the distress she was controlling, she smiled faintly. ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Eh? Ben.’ ‘Just Ben?’ ‘Nobody never troubles abart the other part.’ ‘Then I won’t either. Yes, I do trust you, and perhaps I rather need somebody I can trust at this moment. I—I’m grateful that you caught me before I—before I left the house just now.’ He noticed that her eyes wandered for an instant to her suitcase, which she had put down on the floor beside the table when they had first entered the drawing-room. ‘Before you tell me what you have to say, would you like to hear what the police said?’ ‘Yus, mum.’ ‘They said somebody had ’phoned from a public ’phonebox, telling them to go to a house in Norgate Road where they would find a—a dead man. Do you know who that was?’ ‘It was me, mum.’ ‘I guessed so.’ ‘Did they guess?’ ‘How could they, if you didn’t tell them?’ ‘Tha’s right. Funny wot silly questions yer arsks sometimes when yer mind’s goin’ rahnd. But if yer’d brort ’em in, I hexpeck they’d of knowd me voice.’ Again the faint smile appeared, though it was very faint. ‘I expect so, but so far they have nothing to go upon—oh, yes, they have,’ she corrected herself, ‘and perhaps I’d better tell you. They found fingerprints on the receiver at the telephone booth.’ That was nasty. ‘’Ow do they know I didn’t wipe mine orf?’ he said. ‘Did you?’ ‘No, but I might of, and then wot they found’d be some’un helse’s, wouldn’t they?’ ‘Have you ever had your fingerprints taken—or is that a rude question?’ she asked. ‘I’ve never been copped fer nothink, if that’s wot yer mean, mum,’ he answered. ‘That’s fortunate, because they’ve also found fingerprints on some of the things on my husband’s body.’ Ben nodded gloomily. ‘There yer are! And I told ’im not ter touch it—’ ‘Told who?’ she interrupted sharply. ‘Eh? Oh! A bloke ’oo come along jest arter I fahnd it in the cellar. See, that’s wot I’ve got ter tell yer abart.’ She stared at him. ‘Was one o’ the things a letter-caise?’ ‘Yes!’ ‘With a visitin’ card in it, and that photo of you, but no money?’ ‘Yes, yes, but who is this person you’re talking about?’ she exclaimed, with a new anxiety in her voice. ‘Tell me quickly! I have to go and identify my husband—they’re coming back to take me there—and I must know everything before I go! Somebody came to the house after you did? Who was it? And what took you there?’ Once more Ben noticed the direction of her glance. This time it was towards a photograph on the mantelpiece, a photograph of a good-looking man with a small dark moustache. But the glance meant little to Ben, and his mind was too occupied with other details to associate the photograph with the suitcase on the floor by the table. There was no reason why he should do so, although there was something in Mrs Wilby’s attitude he could not quite understand. You’d have thought she might have shed a few tears like? ‘What took me there, mum,’ be began, ‘was—well, I better go back ter the start, didn’t I? If yer’ve got ter ’ave it, I was runnin’ away from a cop arter a chap bumps inter me wot drops a jemmy, see, it wasn’t mine but the cop thort it was so I ’oofs it and slips inter this hempty ’ouse ter git away from ’im. And it was there I fahnd—wot I fahnd, and then this other bloke comes along, and we each thinks the other done it. If yer git me.’ ‘What was he like?’ The question was asked quietly, but Ben was too absorbed in his story to note its tenseness. ‘Well, mum, I ain’t much good at dessercripshun, but ’e was a big feller with big ’ands and feet, and a crooked nose, and ’e ’ad black ’air and heyebrows like a couple o’ birds’ nests. I don’t suppose you know ’im, do yer?’ ‘No,’ she answered, and as he had missed her anxiety, so now he missed her relief. ‘Go on! What took him to the house? Was he running away, too?’ ‘No, mum.’ ‘Then he wasn’t the man who dropped the jemmy—’ ‘Lummy, no, I never saw no more of ’im, but I don’t know why this hother feller come. Corse we both begun with a pack o’ lies, and when ’e tikes the money orf the body, yus, and hoffers me one o’ the notes—well, then I gits proper suspishus, and seein’ as ’ow ’e was a wrong ’un I thort I’d pertend ter be a wrong ’un, too, ter see wot more I could git aht of ’im—not meanin’ more notes, o’ corse, but infermashun. Mind yer, it was a risk, but then that’s life, ain’t it? If yer git me? Yer born ter die. Any’ow, that’s wot I done, and when ’e sez ’e knoo ’oo done the crime—’ ‘What!’ The anxiety that had been quelled by Ben’s description of the man returned. She tried to recover her composure while Ben blinked at her. ‘But, of course,’ she suggested, ‘he might—he could have said that just to put you off!’ ‘Ter put me orf thinkin’ ’e did it ’imself? Yus, I thort o’ that,’ agreed Ben, ‘on’y sometimes yer can sorter smell when yer ’earin’ the truth, even when it’s liars wot’s tellin’ it, and I smelt ’e was torkin’ the truth that time. ’E knows, that I’d swear ter, but ’e didn’t go no further with it, ’e didn’t say ’oo it was, but soon ’e gits torkin’ abart some gime ’e’s got on, and ’ow if I went in with ’im I could do a bit o’ good ter meself—and so—well, yer see ’ow it was?’ Mrs Wilby did not answer for a few moments. She was sitting very still, staring rigidly across the room, as though afraid to move. ‘Or doncher?’ ‘I think it will be best to tell me,’ she answered at last. ‘What did you do then?’ ‘Well, see, mum, wot I ’ad ter decide,’ replied Ben, ‘was if ter brike with ’im, or if ter go on pertendin’? I’d never learn no more if I said “Nuffin’ doin’,” but if I didn’t I might, ’speshully as ’e gives me an address ter go to where ’e’d been stayin’ and where I was ter stay meself till I ’eard from ’im agine. ’E said ’e ’ad ter go away fer a bit.’ Ben dived into a pocket. ‘This is the address wot ’e give me. ’E wrote that. And so I sez okay, and then arter ’e went I telerphoned ter the pleece, like I said, and then I come on ’ere ter you.’ He held the paper out to her, and she took it and read its message: ‘Mrs Kenton, 46, Jewel Street, SE. This is to introduce Mr Eric Burns, a pal of mine. As you know I have to go away, and I want him to occupy my room till I come back. Ask no questions, etc. Love to Maudie. O.B.’ She read it through two or three times, as though to memorise it, and then handed the paper back. ‘I thought your name was Ben,’ she said. ‘That’s right,’ answered Ben, ‘but ’e got callin’ me Heric fer a joke, though I never knoo wot the joke was, and then ’e tacks on Burns ter mike it complete like.’ ‘And he is O.B.’ ‘That proberly don’t mean no more on ’is birth certifikit than wot Eric Burns does on mine. Well, mum, there we are, so wot do I do?’ ‘What do you want to do?’ ‘Well, come ter that, I s’pose wot’s best.’ ‘Best for—’ He filled in her pause. ‘Fer you, mum, wouldn’t it be?’ he said. ‘I mean that’s wot I come ’ere for, ain’t it?’ ‘I don’t understand you.’ ‘It’s a waiste ter try. I was tryin’ ter work it aht meself once when somebody said it couldn’t be done.’ ‘I believe they were right. But let us forget ourselves for the moment—what do you think we ought to do?’ He noticed that it was ‘we’ this time, not ‘you’. He thought hard, so he would make no mistake. ‘I expeck it’s like this, mum. If we was ter go by the copybook—you know, “I must be good,” “I mustn’t tell no lies,” “I must wash arter meals,” then p’r’aps I orter tike this bit o’ paiper ter the pleece, tell ’em me story, and let ’em git on with it, never mind the risk. I’ll do that if yer say so—on’y, some’ow, I don’t think yer want ter say so.’ ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ ‘Ah, there yer are! I’m givin’ yer feelin’s, not reasons.’ After an instant of hesitation she asked: ‘But—don’t you think I would want the person who killed my husband to be caught?’ Ben’s eyes opened wide. ‘Well, nacherly, mum,’ he answered. ‘But arter wot I’ve told yer, yer may think—like me—that p’r’aps I got a better charnce o’ bringin’ it orf than the pleece—things bein’ like they are like?’ She nodded, then suddenly glanced at a clock on the mantelpiece and jumped up from her chair. ‘Wait a moment!’ she exclaimed. She ran out of the room, and Ben got an impression during her short absence that she was telephoning. He thought he heard a faint voice coming from some other part of the house, and although he could not hear any words the voice had that odd, telephonic quality as though the speaker were talking to a wall. When she returned, something had changed in her mood. She spoke swiftly and urgently. ‘We must hurry!’ she exclaimed. ‘They will soon be back for me. Would you go to that address?’ ‘Yus,’ he answered. ‘Okay.’ ‘There may be some risk—’ ‘Well, it’s gotter be one kind of a risk or another, ain’t it?’ ‘Perhaps—I don’t know. But—if you learn anything—well, what would you do?’ ‘Come ter you with it.’ ‘You’d do that? Whatever it was?’ ‘I carn’t see why not, mum? See, if we git on ter ’im defernit like, you could pass it on ter the cops as well as me, couldn’t yer?’ She regarded him uncertainly, then said: ‘Yes—I could. And now you must go quickly—Ben. But there’s one more thing. How are you off for money?’ Ben blinked rather sheepishly. ‘Well, mum, strickly speakin’, I got fourteen shillin’s and threepence, and that’s more yourn than mine. See, it’s the chinge I got orf the taximan arter givin’ ’im your ’usbin’s pahnd note fer the fare.’ ‘You must keep that for expenses. But is that all you’ve got?’ ‘Tha’s right.’ ‘You must have more. Now that—now that I’ve engaged you, you’ll need something to carry on with your job.’ ‘Oh! Yer engaigin’ of me?’ ‘Yes. You’re my private detective.’ He watched her while she opened her bag and took out her purse. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘On’y—I wasn’t doin’ this fer money, if yer git me?’ ‘I know that, but you’ve got to have money if you’re going to be of any use to me. It’s because you haven’t been doing this for money that I trust you. Take this, and if you need any more you must let me know.’ She handed him five pounds in notes. ‘Go on!’ he exclaimed, incredulously. ‘Mike it a couple!’ But she insisted, and he stowed the notes away anxiously in his one sound pocket. Then, in a sudden panic in which he joined, she packed him out of the back door while a car drew up at the front. 6 (#ulink_dc80539b-f125-51fd-8275-f70c9ac5e78c) The Kentons at Home (#ulink_dc80539b-f125-51fd-8275-f70c9ac5e78c) In spite of the glittering name of its thoroughfare, the front door of 46, Jewel Street had less appeal to the visitor than the front door of 18, Drewet Road. In fact, it had no appeal at all. It was in the middle of an unbroken row of a dozen front doors which were equally spaced in a long low width of depressing, time-worn bricks. Each door had a small square window beside it and a smaller square window above it. In some of the windows were uncheerful birds and gasping plants. The door of No. 46 had once been red, but had now faded to a pale and indeterminate hue, like the lips of an ill, disillusioned girl who no longer had the energy or interest to use a lipstick. But, as Ben discovered the moment the door was opened, a very vivid lipstick was used on the other side of the door. Indeed, for an instant he was conscious of little else in the dimness of the narrow passage. Then two bright hard eyes bored inquiringly into his from beneath a glow of blonde hair. It was the lipstick’s triumph that the blonde hair had not been first noted. This, Ben guessed, would be the Maudie he was supposed to take to the pictures! ‘Good evenin’, miss,’ he began, summoning the best smile he could manage. But what were Ben’s smiles going to signify to a girl like this? Maudie responded coldly, without any smile at all: ‘Are you sure you’ve come to the right house?’ ‘Number 46, ain’t it?’ ‘That’s right, but we’re not in need of any carpet- sweepers.’ Hardly a beginning likely to end up at the pictures! But Ben refused to be cowed. ‘And I ain’t sellin’ any,’ he answered, ‘but I know where to find Nylong stockin’s fer people I tike a fancy to.’ ‘Nylons?’ repeated the girl, with a slight change of tone. ‘And they don’t ’ave ter pay through the nose fer ’em.’ She peered at him a little more closely. ‘I don’t see your little case,’ she said. ‘Do you get ’em out of a hat like rabbits?’ ‘Oh, I ain’t brort ’em,’ returned Ben, ‘they’ll come laiter if yer good. It’s yer mother I wanter see this time. Mrs Kenton, ain’t it?’ ‘That’s my mother. But who are you?’ ‘Oh, I got a note that’ll say that. It’s signed O.B., if that means anything to yer?’ ‘O.B.?’ she repeated, and then suddenly her expression changed completely. ‘Come in! Why didn’t you say so at once?’ She backed and pushed a door open at her side. Behind her was a dark flight of stairs, and she turned and called up as Ben went through the doorway. ‘Ma! Someone to see us! Come down!’ Then she turned again, and followed Ben into a living-room which seemed to be under the control of a baleful parrot in a large cage. The cage was in the middle of a red-clothed table, which had room for little else. ‘Where is he?’ asked Maudie. ‘’Oo?’ replied Ben. ‘Oscar—the man who wrote your note? Let me see it!’ ‘It’s fer yer mother.’ ‘Same thing here! Don’t be the limit! Where is he?’ ‘Yer’ve got me instead.’ It was only the arrival of Mrs Kenton that prevented an explosion. Maudie Kenton had a temper. So, Ben guessed, had the parrot. Mrs Kenton was a large untidy woman, as careless of her appearance as her daughter was particular. She looked as though she had just got up, and then not completely, or as if she had come off second-best in an encounter with the parrot. She moved slowly, with an almost swaying motion; but whether this were due to the amount of flabby flesh she carried or to the fear that too rapid movement might cause some of her clothes to come off, was a debatable point. As a household to live with, Ma Kenton, Maudie and the parrot would not have been everybody’s choice. They were not even Ben’s. But, he reminded himself, he had not come here for personal enjoyment. ‘And who is this?’ she breathed as she entered. ‘This’ll tell yer,’ replied Ben, and fished out his note. ‘It’s from Oscar!’ exclaimed Maudie. ‘Oh! Oscar?’ ‘Yes, and he won’t say where Oscar is. Do read it, and then let me see it! What’s happened?’ Ma Kenton took the sheet of paper. Like Mrs Wilby, she read it through twice, while her daughter watched her impatiently; and although it was to her daughter that she spoke when at last she laid the sheet down, Ben felt that her little pig-eyes were watching him closely out of their corners. ‘Oscar’s had to go away, lovie,’ she said. ‘He told me he’d have to before he went out.’ ‘And why didn’t you tell me?’ cried Maudie. ‘What’s the matter with everybody today?’ Her shrill voice penetrated to the parrot, and as she snatched the note and began to read the bird fluttered its feathers as though sharing her indignation. ‘You’ve only been home a few minutes, dearie,’ her mother reminded her. ‘I should have told you. But he’s coming back, and till he does—’ ‘Yes, I’m reading it, I’m reading it, can’t you see?’ snapped Maudie. For the first time Ma Kenton turned to Ben directly and they exchanged understanding glances, although Ben had not the least idea what he was supposed to understand. When Maudie had finished reading she crunched the paper up and threw it into a corner. The parrot, growing more and more interested in the drama outside its bars, fluttered its feathers again, and eyed the scrunched paper balefully to see that it did not come back. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/j-farjeon-jefferson/ben-on-the-job/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.