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Number Nineteen: Ben’s Last Case
J. Jefferson Farjeon


Ben the tramp’s uncanny knack of running into trouble is unsurpassed in the final crime thriller written for him by J. Jefferson Farjeon.On a grey afternoon he was destined never to forget, Ben sat down on a park seat and proceeded to think, not of cabbages and kings, but of numbers, lucky and unlucky. But it wasn’t Ben’s lucky day, or that of the nondescript-looking stranger sitting at the other end of the bench – murdered before his very eyes! That was the prelude to the most uncomfortable and eventful twenty-four hours Ben had ever spent in an uncomfortable and eventful life.J. Jefferson Farjeon’s famous Cockney character Ben, who first appeared in No.17 and six other novels, was never so richly humorous or so absurdly heroic as in this, his last hair-raising adventure taking place at No.19, Billiter Road.









J. JEFFERSON FARJEON

Number Nineteen

















Copyright (#u81ed9a1f-b83a-5fe2-bfc1-4a91c0e66088)


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. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008156060

Ebook Edition © August 2016 ISBN: 9780008156077

Version: 2016-06-28


Table of Contents

Cover (#u58678406-c148-5f3f-8220-d36afc4e0441)

Title Page (#u850b244f-56f5-5ff3-84d6-470d1bbfd8b8)

Copyright (#uc9831132-603f-5a61-90ae-8ecbefe0e950)

Chapter 1: Trouble on a Seat (#u14919c58-fe45-5e9f-b2df-421c087abc73)

Chapter 2: More Trouble on a Bed (#u29fe9df0-ea47-554a-951b-4b139e746b64)



Chapter 3: Mr Smith v. Mr Jones (#u574f6741-248a-5f98-b50d-631e7c56ee8f)



Chapter 4: Transformation Scene (#u3e488479-c0bb-54b1-bb2e-0b6113d96bda)



Chapter 5: Behind the Locked Door (#ubf72e618-5961-56a5-906a-23377ab5bd5d)



Chapter 6: Very Brief Respite (#u265bbb3d-02d7-5f16-8f94-c0bcb24b63f3)



Chapter 7: Conversation on a Doorstep (#u62d3ce50-a4ec-5e78-81b3-4a9e907e8342)



Chapter 8: The Thing (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 9: Caller No. Two (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 10: Conference on the Stairs (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 11: Discoveries in the Dawn (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 12: Ben Receives Instructions (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 13: Cobwebs (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 14: Overture to 10.30 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 15: 10.30 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 16: Where’s Mr Black? (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 17: Lady No. Two (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 18: Oasis (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 19: Exchange of Information (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 20: The Enemy Closes in (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 21: The Locked Door (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 22: Beyond the Cellar (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 23: Who’s the Lady? (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 24: Ben Bounces (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 25: The Owl (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 26: Conference at Top Level (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 27: Topsy-Turvy (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 28: The Nightmare Chimes Out (#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 (#u81ed9a1f-b83a-5fe2-bfc1-4a91c0e66088)

Trouble on a Seat (#u81ed9a1f-b83a-5fe2-bfc1-4a91c0e66088)


On a certain grey afternoon he was destined never to forget—he had a packet of them, and he called them his Album of ’Orrers—Ben paused before a park seat, wondered whether to sit down on the unoccupied end or to move on to the next, decided to move on to the next, changed his mind, sat down where he was, and thereby sealed his doom.

It was a pity there was somebody else at the other end of the seat. Ben liked to be alone, because when you’re alone no one can bother you, can they? But the man at the other end did not look the bothering kind, and as he was busy with a notebook and it was nice and quiet here, Ben could go on thinking. You could just hear the London traffic in the far distance, but only just, and with all this grass and trees about, well, you might almost be in country, mightn’t you?

What was Ben thinking about? If the man at the other end had glanced up from his notebook and made a guess, it was a thousand-to-one chance he would have guessed right, although it so happened this man was good at guessing. When Ben was passing through emotion, and he very frequently was, his thoughts were as plain as the Egyptian Pyramids, but during his contemplative periods there was no knowing what lay behind his glazed, expressionless eyes, which concealed their treasure as the surface of a mine conceals its wealth.

The safest guess was cheese. Ben loved to think of cheese. Though, of course, that came a long way behind eating it. Another possibility was corpses. These he never thought of from choice, but they had a habit of slipping into his mind from that lavish Album of ’Orrers, and—queer, this—there was a sort of fascination about them! You couldn’t get away from it. You know—once you’d done with them. For instance, take that one he’d found in the cellar in Norgate Road, or the one he’d spoken to on the Embankment, or the one he’d tumbled on in the attic of No. 17—only, of course, that hadn’t kep’ bein’ a corpse, ’ad it? You didn’t need a war for Ben to find ’em!

But Ben was not thinking of either corpses or cheese as he sat now on the park seat. He was thinking of numbers, separating the lucky ones from the unlucky ones in the light of his own experience. Seventeen you might call the plum! He wouldn’t live in a house numbered seventeen not if you paid him a couple of quid! He always gave the number a miss when he counted. You couldn’t call fifteen nice, either. That cellar at Norgate Road had been in Number Fifteen. Thirteen—well, of course, you couldn’t ever expect Thirteen to behave itself. He’d known a couple of shockers. And the day he’d found fourteen fag-ends he’d bust his braces, so fourteen was no good, either. Bending dahn fer the last one, that was. Funny how all the ’teens seemed to be against you!

No, the small numbers were best, you couldn’t get away from it. Digiots they was called, wasn’t they? Take Five. That was nice. It was at a Number Five that a girl had nearly fallen for him. Not quite, but nearly. They never did quite. Golden hair, she’d had, and my, what a wink! Then once he’d bet fivepence on a horse, the only time he’d ever won. And that little kid he’d helped across the road only yesterday. She was five, she told him, when he’d asked her. Yes, Five was nice. Very nice. You couldn’t get away from it.

Ben was so busy thinking of the number Five that he did not hear a car stop in a narrow road near where he was sitting. Why should he have paid any attention to it, if he had? It was a quiet road, and the car stopped quietly, as though the driver did not want to disturb the peaceful serenity of the afternoon, or of the two men on the seat, one intent on his notebook, the other gazing at nothing. The driver himself revealed no special characteristic as he began to stroll casually towards the seat. He had dark brown hair and a small moustache. His suit was light grey, and he carried a camera.

He approached quietly. Very quietly indeed. His first view of the two men was of their backs, which meant that neither of them had any view of him at all. He paused when he was within a few yards of them, regarding their backs with, ostensibly, only a vague interest. After a few seconds, during which Ben went on thinking and the man at the other end of the seat went on making his notes, the newcomer turned his head to glance back towards the road. Then he glanced from one side to the other. No one else was in sight. If this gratified the newcomer his expression did not register the fact. His expression, indeed, was rather bored.

Continuing his stroll, he veered a little in his route and came round Ben’s end of the seat. Ben saw him now out of the corner of his eye, but was still too absorbed in his recollection of the little girl of five to be diverted by a glimpse of a casual stroller. It was not until the newcomer had walked a little farther on and, turning, raised the camera he was carrying that he was in full view. Ben lifted his head just as the camera clicked, and a distant clock chimed four.

‘Wozzat for?’ he blinked. ‘Telervision?’

‘No. Just for my private collection,’ answered the photographer, with a faint smile.

‘Oh! Well, if my phiz is goin’ in, yer better keep it privit!’ grunted Ben.

‘I hope you didn’t mind? I just couldn’t resist. I specialise in studies in contrast.’

His turn to take the snapshot had brought him facing the direction from which he had come, and now he began walking back towards the road. Unless he had left his car especially to get this picture, which on the face of it seemed hardly likely, his short stroll appeared somewhat pointless. The man with the notebook had stopped writing at the sound of voices, without looking up. Now he suddenly closed the book and slipped it in his pocket. He was bringing out his cigarette-case as the photographer was returning by the seat, passing it this time at his end.

What happened immediately afterwards was never completely clear in Ben’s mind. One obvious reason was the particular nature of the happenings, but another lay in the fact that the photographer had disturbed his thoughts and he was trying to get back into them. What had he been thinking about? Oh, yus, that little gal and Nummer Five. Nice little kid, and no mistake. He liked ’em that age. They knew just enough to get on with and they hadn’t learned yet to be cheeky. Not that this little girl looked like ever getting cheeky. No, she wasn’t that kind. He’d watched her standing there, waiting to get across—fancy lettin’ ’er aht alone, ’er mother didn’t ought!—and when he’d gone up to her she had put her hand in his, trusting him like he might be anybody. He’d like to have bought her some sweets, but he hadn’t no coupons, and even if he had, how far would tuppence go? Besides, nice little girls weren’t supposed to take things from strangers, or even to talk to ’em, and there was that there time when he’d said it was a nice day to a small child, brown hair she had, and her mother had pulled her away sharp …

Even more sharply, Ben pulled his mind back from the past to the present. Oi! Wot was ’appenin’? That photographer bloke hadn’t gone. He’d stopped again—come round the back of the seat—and was standing behind the man with the notebook, with his hand raised … Oi! Look aht!

Ben tried to shriek the words, but no words came. They stuck in his throat, which had become constricted with horror, and before he could make a second effort the man slumped forward with a knife in his back. Out of a corner of the glazed eye that was glued on that murderous knife Ben glimpsed the notebook slipping down to the ground.

‘Corse, this ain’t ’appenin’!’ decided Ben, making a miserable and familiar effort to wipe out reality. ‘Yer don’t go murderin’ folk not in public daylight, and afore witnessesses! Well, do yer?’

The answer came in the form of the murderer’s face. It suddenly loomed larger than life before Ben’s own. It looked so large it seemed to fill the universe.

‘Wot I gotter do,’ thought Ben, ‘is ter ’it it.’

With a face that size, it was impossible to miss. But just as Ben’s throat had gone off duty when it was needed, so now did Ben’s fist. He tried to raise it, and found it powerless.

‘I gorn numb,’ he concluded.

He had. Not only his fist, but every part of him. The sardonic face was draining all the strength out of him, and seemed now to be curling round him, as though he were imprisoned inside it. If only he could get free for a moment, lummy, he’d show it! Hit and run—hit and run—hit and run! But there was no escape from this facial cage, and even the moustache had grown to a mile in length and seemed to be binding him … And now wasn’t there a second face? Smaller—vaguer—but somewhere about. And what was that prick in his arm? Had that happened this moment, or very long ago? Long ago—yes, of course—very long ago. Because after that—don’t you remember—there was that little golden-haired girl. You saw her standing there and wanting to get across the road, and you went up to her and said, ‘I’ll tike yer across, missie,’ and she put her hand in yours, trusting you jest like you might be anybody …




2 (#u81ed9a1f-b83a-5fe2-bfc1-4a91c0e66088)

More Trouble on a Bed (#u81ed9a1f-b83a-5fe2-bfc1-4a91c0e66088)


When Ben opened his eyes he decided that he was still asleep. You often wake from one dream into another, and it was of course quite impossible that he should be lying like this on a bed. Wasn’t he on a park seat, and even if he had rolled off the seat because of something that had happened—and he felt sure something had happened, though his mind was too muzzy to recall just what it was—he would have rolled off on to the grass, well, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t have bounced into a bedroom, because even though Ben was good at bouncing he couldn’t bounce quite as far as that.

And there was another thing that proved this must be a dream. He could just see the tip of one of his boots, and it wasn’t his boot. His boots were old and shabby; in fact one of them, owing to sundry gaps, could hardly be called a boot at all. You just put your foot in and it came out at the other end. But this boot he could see the tip of—yes, it was the left boot, the one with the gap—had no gap at all. Nor did it look old and worn. It was miraculously complete, and there was even a bit of polish on it. So, well, there you were. It was just another dream.

He hoped it would prove a nice one. He had an idea that the preceding dream had not been so good. If he lay very still, so as not to disturb it, a door might open somewhere and the Prime Minister might come in. And he might say, ‘Don’t move, Ben. I know you’re feeling bad—’ he was ‘—but you did a noble act dashing in front of that car and saving that little girl from being run over. You might of got killed. Well, England doesn’t forget brave acts like that, so we’re going to reward you with Ten Thousand Pounds—’ Yes, that would be a very nice dream.

He closed his eyes, and waited for it. But the Prime Minister did not oblige. A door did open somewhere, however, and suddenly feeling convinced that it did not herald the arrival of anyone so beneficent as a grateful Premier, Ben opened his eyes again quickly, jest to be ready like. Again he saw that impossible, polished toe. He still believed he was dreaming, but he was sure by now that the dream was not going to be a nice one.

The person who had come in had entered by a door behind the bed. He seemed in no hurry—assuming it was a ‘he’—for after closing the door there was no further sound for a full minute. Then the approaching footsteps were resumed, reached the bed, and continued round the foot of it. Then they ceased again, and Ben found himself regarding no longer the surprisingly polished boot but the face above it, and as he gazed, remembrance came flooding back. It was the face of the man with the dark brown hair and the small moustache. The face that had enveloped him before his black-out.

‘This,’ decided Ben, ‘is goin’ ter be narsty!’

For a few moments the two men regarded each other silently. It was Ben who broke the silence.

‘Go on! Let’s ’ave it!’ he muttered.

‘Ah, you have recovered your voice,’ replied the other. ‘Have what?’

‘Wot it’s orl abart!’

‘But you, of all people, should know what it is all about?’

Ben gulped, then tried to steady himself. Things was wobblin’ somethink ’orrerble!

‘I knows a bit,’ he said, guardedly.

‘And what bit do you refer to?’ came the enquiry.

‘Do yer need me ter tell yer?’

‘I am asking you to tell me.’

Ben gulped again.

‘Orl right, guv’ner, ’ere goes. I knows that summon’s bin murdered!’

‘Murdered?’

‘Does it surprise yer?’

‘It’s a nasty word, but—no, I cannot say, truthfully, that it surprises me.’

‘It wouldn’t. See, yer was there, wasn’t yer?’

‘And so, I gather, were you?’

‘I was.’

‘Then of course you will know who did it?’

‘I knows.’

‘Then perhaps you would tell me?’

‘Yer want me ter say?’

‘I should be interested. It was a shocking thing, was it not? Who did do it?’

Ben swallowed, to clear his throat for the next. Of course the man knew Ben knew who had done it, but it is never pleasant to inform a murderer of his crime, especially when there is nobody else about.

‘You did it,’ said Ben.

‘Come, come!’ smiled the man.

‘That ain’t no good,’ retorted Ben. ‘I seen yer!’

‘I’m afraid that is no good, either,’ answered the man, ‘for is it not just what anybody in your position would say?’

‘Eh? In my persishun?’ repeated Ben, blinking. ‘I don’t git yer?’

The man continued to smile. It was one of the least pleasant smiles Ben had ever seen.

‘Please do not disappoint me, my good man. I credited you with some intelligence. Are you speaking the truth? Don’t you really and truly get me?’

And then, all at once, Ben did, and sweat appeared upon his brow.

‘Yer—yer ain’t meanin’—?’ he began, but he was interrupted before he got any farther.

‘Let us go slowly,’ said the man. ‘Sometimes it is not quite wise to say exactly what one means. We have plenty of time, and as this is going to be a long conversation, I think I will take a chair.’

He turned away and walked towards a chair in the corner of the room. How about a dash while his back was turned? Ben had not heard a key turn, so evidently the door was not locked. Yes, that was it! A couple of leaps and then ’ell for leather! He wouldn’t get another chance.

But unfortunately Ben was not in a condition for leaping. He could only leap in spirit; his body refused to oblige. Lummy, he didn’t half feel weak!

‘There is a mirror on this wall,’ remarked the man, as he reached the chair, ‘and I have something in my pocket which would get to the door before you possibly could. As a matter of fact, it would pass through you on its way. Let me repeat my advice. Take things slowly. You may find—if you are sensible—that your position has its saving graces.’

‘Savin’ ’oo?’ muttered Ben.

As the man returned with the chair his teeth became prominent below his little moustache. He smiled with his teeth.

‘Do you know, I rather like you,’ he said. ‘What is your name?’

‘Winston Churchill,’ replied Ben. You might as well die game. ‘Wot’s your’n?’

‘I won’t respond with Clement Attlee. If you want something to call me—’

‘I could call yer plenty withaht no ’elp!’

‘I have no doubt you could, but I suggest Mr Smith. What am I to call you? I confess I find Winston Churchill rather a mouthful.’

‘Orl right. Yer can call me Jones.’

‘That being your real name?’

‘As much as I reckon Smith is your’n!’

‘Very well. Then that is settled—for the moment. I am Smith and you are Jones, and we are discussing the demise—or death, if you prefer simple terms—of a third party who so far has to be nameless.’ He sat down by the bed. ‘Oh, but perhaps you can tell me his name?’

‘Corse I carn’t!’ retorted Ben. ‘’Ow’d I know it?’

‘Well, it occurred to me that you might, since you were so obviously interested in him?’

‘’Ow was I interested in ’im?’

‘That is what I hope to learn, for only lunatics—and I haven’t yet decided that you are a lunatic, though it is a theory—only lunatics attack perfect strangers—’

‘Nah, then, I don’t want no more o’ that!’ interrupted Ben, with anxious indignation. ‘I never seed the bloke afore in me life, and you ain’t goin’ ter put that on me!’

Mr Smith shook his head reprovingly.

‘I fear you are getting me all wrong,’ he said. ‘I am not putting anything on you—or, more correctly speaking, what I put on you need not matter. Your headache, Mr Jones, is what the police may put on you, and that actually is what you and I have got to discuss.’

‘The pleece carn’t put nothink on me!’

‘I wish I could agree.’

‘Well, as I didn’t do it—’

‘Somebody did it!’

‘Yus, but we ain’t torkin’ abart anyone else jest nah, we’re torkin’ abart me, and as I didn’t do it I ain’t got ter worry abart the pleece!’

Mr Smith gave a little sigh, turned his head for a moment towards the door, and then turned it back again.

‘You really are being very difficult, Mr Jones,’ he complained. ‘Here I am, trying to help you—’

‘Oh, ’elp me, is it?’

‘Can’t you see?’

‘I couldn’t see that withaht a telerscope!’

‘You say the most delightful things. My desire to help you increases every moment, and the best way to prove it is to explain to you precisely what your position is, and what the police could put on you if you had the misfortune to meet them. I am afraid we can no longer mince matters, Mr Jones, and we shall have to say exactly what we mean, after all. And, come to think of it, you didn’t mince matters when you attempted to put the murder on me! Not many would forgive you for that, yet here am I, still sticking to you! Now, then, let us begin. You deny, I understand, that you stabbed the man on the other end of your seat?’

‘’Ow many more times?’ growled Ben.

‘One of your troubles, of course, is that you cannot prove an alibi. You know what an alibi is?’

‘Yus. It’s when yer can prove yer wasn’t where they say yer was.’

‘Correct. If ever you write a dictionary I shall buy a copy. And you cannot prove that you were not on that seat.’

‘Come ter that, ’oo could prove I was?’

‘Well—I could!’

‘That’s not sayin’ they’d believe yer.’

‘No, but then I could prove you were, if my word wasn’t good enough.’

‘’Ow could yer?’

‘You have a very short memory. Don’t you remember that, a few moments before the tragedy, I took a photograph?’

‘Lummy, so yer did!’

‘The police might give a lot for a copy of that photograph. Don’t you agree?’

Ben offered no opinion.

‘And then,’ went on Mr Smith, ‘there is something else you ought to know. That horrible knife sticking in the poor man’s back—I had to leave it there, for I had not the nerve to take it out—horrible, horrible!—the police will naturally examine the handle, and they will find your fingerprints upon it.’

‘Wot’s that?’ gasped Ben.

‘You really ought to have wiped them off,’ said Mr Smith, sadly. ‘You can be quite sure that, if I had done the deed, I would have wiped mine off! You might like to make a note of that. Oh, no! Oh, no! I would never have left mine on!’

‘But mine carn’t be on!’ cried Ben, desperately.

‘Not so loud, not so loud!’ admonished Mr Smith. ‘I assure you, Mr Jones, your fingerprints are on that knife. You may deny it till you are blue in the face. It will make no difference. The fingerprints are there.’

‘Owjer know?’

‘A needless question, surely? I was present at the tragedy. I saw the deed, and I know you did not wipe the knife-handle after using it.’

Ben shut his eyes hard to think. It was easier in the dark, without Mr Smith’s face before him. First the photograph—and now the fingerprints. Clearly Mr Smith had not left his own prints on the knife; he had told Ben to make a note of this, and he was far too wily a customer to commit such a cardinal blunder. But he had not merely wiped his fingerprints off, he had apparently stamped Ben’s on! While he was unconscious! He’d worked the whole thing out from the word go …

‘Are you asleep?’ came Mr Smith’s voice.

If only he had been! Apprehensively and slowly, Ben opened his eyes.

‘So you see,’ went on Mr Smith smoothly, as though there had been no interruption, ‘you are in a bit of a hole, are you not?’

‘S’pose I am?’ answered Ben.

‘There is no suppose about it. You are. And you will be in a worse hole if, in addition to the fingerprints, I am unable to prevent that photograph from appearing in all the newspapers—a photograph of a murdered man on one end of a seat with another man wanted for enquiries at the other. You say you never saw the murdered man before today?’

‘Never in me life,’ replied Ben.

He knew this was a frame-up, but would it be wise to let Mr Smith know he knew? Perhaps he’d better lie doggo for a bit—stop makin’ a fuss like—and act as though he thought Mr Smith were really trying to help him, until he found out where it was all leading?

‘Then why did you kill him?’

Still wavering as to his best policy, and with his mind beginning to rocket again, Ben could not answer that one and remained silent. He was stunned by the cool audacity of Mr Smith, who now bent forward and continued, almost confidentially.

‘Do you know, I’ve got a theory about this murder of yours, and you need not tell me whether I am right or wrong. As a matter of fact, it was because of my idea that I brought you along here instead of handing you over to the police, as of course I ought to have done. Oh, don’t make any mistake, I am taking a big risk myself in acting like this—but let that go. I like to help people in trouble—if they’re worth it, of course—and the reason I’m helping you is because I feel sure yours wasn’t a premeditated murder.’

‘Pre ’oo?’ blinked Ben.

‘You didn’t set out to murder this poor fellow,’ explained Mr Smith, ‘as—for instance—I might have done if I had been the culprit. You were ill, perhaps. Or hungry. I don’t know—don’t ask me! But all at once everything got on top of you, eh? You had a brain-storm. As a matter of fact, Mr Jones, that’s just what it looked like to me! A brain-storm. And you jumped upon your poor victim with that knife, perhaps hardly knowing you did it—why, you even thought I did it, which proves the brain-storm, doesn’t it—and then—I suppose you know this?—you had a complete black-out! Well, as my car was handy, for I’d only left it a minute or two before to have a tiny stroll, I acted upon a sudden impulse and bundled you off while the going was good. Of course, there’ll be a big hue and cry for you later, if it hasn’t already started. You’d never have left those fingerprints on the knife if you’d been normal. They’ll damn you, I’m afraid. But you’re safe here, for the time being, so now what we’ve got to decide is what I’m going to do with you.’ He displayed his teeth in another of his unpleasant smiles. ‘Have you any idea?’

Guardedly Ben responded,

‘’Ave you?’

‘As a matter of fact I have, but first let me ask you a question or two. A lot will depend on your answers. Let us hope for your sake they will be satisfactory.’

‘S’pose they ain’t?’

‘That will be just too bad. Now, then. Is anybody likely to trail you here? Apart, of course, from the police?’

‘’Owjer mean?’

‘I speak the King’s English. Have you any people who will wonder why you haven’t gone home tonight?’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Well, have you?’

‘No one never worries abart me, and if they did, ’ow’d they find me? I dunno where I am meself!’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Where I ’appen to be.’

‘Try again. What’s your address?’

‘Nothink doin’, guv’nor! I knows that one!’

‘What one?’

‘I seen it done. Yer gits a bloke away wot’s wanted, and then yer gits a messidge to ’is wife or ’is muvver that yer’ll give ’im up unless they sends yer a pony.’

‘You know, you’re smarter than you look,’ said Mr Smith, admiringly. ‘If I weren’t straight I’d begin to watch my step. Will it ease you if I promise not to communicate with your wife or mother?’

‘Yer couldn’t, ’cos I ain’t got ’em,’ answered Ben.

‘I am full of patience. Who have you got?’

‘I told yer. Nobody.’

‘Where did you sleep last night?’

‘In a bus.’

‘But when you got out of the bus?’

‘I’d ’ad it by then, it was mornin’.’

‘Tell me, Mr Jones. Does all this mean you haven’t got any address?’

‘That’s right. Two and two’s four. And if that ain’t a satisfact’ry answer, I’ve ’ad it.’

‘It is an exceedingly satisfactory answer,’ Mr Smith assured him. ‘If you have no home and no family you should be free to accept the position I’m thinking of offering you.’

‘Oh! A persishun?’

‘That is what I said.’

‘A standin’ up one? Not lyin’ in a bed?’

‘Or hanging from a rope.’

‘Oi! That’s enuff o’ that!’

‘It is an alternative we want to bear in mind.’

‘Well, wot’s the persishun?’

‘Quite a simple one, and just the thing, I should say for you. We’ve—er—lost our caretaker, and we need a new one.’




3 (#ulink_5428eb3a-1be7-5614-985b-4f81c8b270c8)

Mr Smith v. Mr Jones (#ulink_5428eb3a-1be7-5614-985b-4f81c8b270c8)


The announcement of this surprising offer was followed by a silence during which the alleged Mr Smith and the alleged Mr Jones would have given much to have been inside the other’s mind. What lay in the background of Mr Smith’s mind was obscure, but what lay in the foreground was actually quite simple. He was studying his victim to learn his reaction, and was ready to deal with him by other methods if the reaction did not appear satisfactory.

What lay in Ben’s mind ran something like this:

‘Wozzat? Caretaiker did ’e say? Wozzat mean? Wot’d ’e want with me as ’is caretaiker, a bloke wot ’e sez ’e thinks ’as done a murder, if it wasn’t fishy? Fishy? Corse it’s fishy! Look at me bein’ ’ere like I am, and knowin’ ’e done it ’iself, and ’im knowin’ I know! Fishy the pair of us, if yer looks at it like that! Yus, and even if I ’ad done it, not premedicated wot ’e sed, I’d be barmy, and wot do yer want with a barmy caretaiker? It don’t mike sense! Oi, keep yer fice steady, Ben! Don’t let on wot yer thinkin’ from yer phiz, ’cos ’e’s watchin’ ter find aht, sime as yer watchin’ ’im. ’Ow I ’ates ’is mustarch! I carn’t think o’ nothin’ nicer’n ter pull it orf! P’r’aps it’d come orf easy? Yus, I bet it would, it ain’t ’is mustarch no more’n Smith’s ’is nime. Sime as that bloke with the ’orrerble beard in that ’ouse in Brixton and when I got ’old of it it come orf bing in me ’and and I goes back’ards dahn the stairs with nothin’ but the beard on top o’ me! And then there was that chap with the red eyebrows—oi! Wotcher doin’? Keep yer mind on it! Yer ain’t in Brixton now, yer ’ere, wherever that is, and wot yer tryin’ ter do is ter work aht why yer wanted as caretaiker, but ’ow can yer with yer ’ead goin’ rahnd like a spinging-wheel and feelin’ as if yer got no knees, and wunnerin’ why yer boot’s gorn bright and polished, lummy, I’ve ’ad a dose o’ somethink, yer carn’t git away from it! …’

Difficult as Mr Smith’s mind may have been to read, Mr Jones’s was even more complicated.

When the silence was threatening to become permanent, Mr Smith broke it monosyllabically.

‘Well?’

Ben came to with a jerk.

‘Say it agine,’ answered Ben.

‘It was so long ago I’m not surprised if you’ve forgotten. I said we needed a new caretaker.’

‘There was somethink helse.’

‘Was there?’

‘I ain’t fergot that.’

‘Then you might remind me?’

‘Yer sed yer’d lorst the old ’un.’

‘So I did.’

‘Well, ’ow did yer lose ’im?’

Mr Smith did not respond at once. The question seemed both to interest and surprise him. A very faint smile entered his expression when he replied.

‘You’re a careful one, aren’t you, Mr Jones?’

‘If yer wanter learn somethink,’ retorted Ben, ‘I ain’t sich a fool as I look!’

He hoped his tone was convincing. Mr Smith’s smile grew a little more distinct.

‘That, if you will forgive me,’ he returned, ‘would be difficult. Although perhaps you have no precise idea at this moment how you do look—but we will return to that later.’

‘That’s okay by me if we can return nah to that hother caretaiker. Wot ’appened ter ’im?’

‘Ah!’

‘That don’t tell me nothink.’

‘It was not intended to. I only intend to tell you—that is, until I have learned to know you a little better—what is strictly necessary. But I see no reason why I should not tell you that our last caretaker was not a very good one.’

‘Meanin’ that ’e didn’t keep the plice clean, or go ter the door when the bell rang?’

‘What else should I mean?’

‘That’s wot I’m arskin’.’

‘Then let us put it this way. He proved disappointing—after, I admit, a very good start—in not completely fulfilling his job.’

‘And s’pose I don’t fulfil my job?’

‘That would be a pity for both of us. You see, Mr Jones, however well you started—and you are not really making such a bad beginning—you would have to keep it up. You would have to prove yourself trustworthy. In that way, you might eventually be given more responsibility, and end up by doing quite well for yourself. Do you get that?’

‘P’r’aps I do, and p’r’aps I don’t,’ answered Ben, cautiously, ‘but wot I don’t git is wot’s goin’ ter ’appen ter me if I don’t turn aht more satisfact’ry than t’other chap? See, that was why I arsked yer wot ’appened ter ’im?’

Mr Smith shook his head.

‘I would not press that,’ he said.

‘’Oo’s pressin’ wot?’ replied Ben. ‘Orl right, jest tell me this. If I ain’t no good in this job, will I be free ter go and git another?’

‘You are more tenacious, Mr Jones, than a tiger with a hunk of juicy meat, but let me warn you that I am growing tired of these questions. You would be no more free to go and get another job than you are free at this moment to go and get any job. You forget that you have just done one job on a park seat from the consequences of which I am—so far—saving you. I shall only continue in this Christian mood so long as you yourself continue to give satisfaction in the new job I am now offering you.’

‘I see. And so that’s really why yer brort me along? It wasn’t jest ’cos yer was sorry fer me like? Okay, that’s orl right by me, on’y if I’m goin’ ter work fer yer I likes ter start straight—no matter ’ow crooked we git laiter on,’ he added, with a wink which he hoped was impressive. He must not appear too virtuous, for that clearly would be of no use to him. ‘So let’s ’ear wot I gotter do?’

‘Then you accept the job?’

‘Well, I dunno as I’m up ter it, not afore yer tells me?’

‘True,’ nodded Mr Smith. ‘But I feel sure you will be up to it, for—to start with—you will find it quite simple. This house is in the market to be sold. Sold as it stands, with everything in it. Some of the rooms are furnished, some are not. You will keep those that are furnished reasonably tidy. You will not be dismissed, however, if you leave a few cobwebs. Personally I rather like cobwebs. Do you? Nor need you exert yourself chasing spiders. There are a number of spiders here, some quite large ones. I rather like spiders, too. Beetles, for some occult reason, I am less fond of. There is one room here practically devoted to them. A small room at the back, with three loose boards. But in spite of the condition of the house, and the livestock, a big price is being asked for it, because it is really a valuable property—’ he paused, and an odd expression came into his face ‘—yes, a very valuable property, and so we are waiting until somebody comes along who realises its worth. But the price, of course, has nothing to do with you.’

‘No, I ain’t buyin’ it,’ said Ben.

‘That I hardly expected, and I merely mentioned it in case any people who are sent here by the agent make any comments about the price which you otherwise would not understand. The agent is Wavell and Son. The original Wavell died recently, and it is the son who carries on. You may meet him some day, but that is not very likely. He rarely comes here himself, but just sends his clients on with a list, which includes this house among others on his books. Wavell and Son. Make a note of it. The address does not matter to you.’

Mr Smith paused, as though considering what else to tell his new caretaker. Ben took advantage of the pause to put a question.

‘No, the address of the agent don’t matter ter me,’ he said, ‘but it wouldn’t ’urt ter know the address of the ’ouse I’m lookin’ arter.’

‘That certainly would not hurt,’ Mr Smith agreed. ‘The house is in Billiter Road, and the number is Nineteen.’

‘Oh! Nummer Nineteen?’

‘Anything wrong with it?’

There was a lot wrong with it. Earlier that day Ben had been cogitating over numbers, sorting out the lucky ones from the unlucky ones, and as we know he had decided that all the teen-numbers boded no good!

‘If there is, I carn’t alter it,’ he replied. ‘Okay. This is Nummer 19, Billiter Road, and it’s fer sale at a top price, spiders and orl, and the agent is Wavell and Son. I got orl that. Wot’s next?’

‘You will answer the bell and then leave whoever comes to go over the house, staying here in this room till they have gone—unless otherwise instructed. The bell is all you will answer. You are not here to answer questions. Or, for that matter, to ask them.’

‘Why should I arsk ’em?’

‘That was one. I am telling you you shouldn’t. In fact, Mr Jones, you must restrain your bump of curiosity in every possible way, on every possible subject. You will remain in the house, and you will not leave it until you receive permission.’

Ben considered this last instruction. It had its virtues. He did not want to go out—for a while, at any rate. There might be a policeman at the corner, and although he could go up to him and say, if the policeman did not speak to him first, ‘I’m caretaker fer the bloke wot murdered the man on the park seat,’ it was his, Ben’s fingerprints that were on the knife, and the truth about them would appear a somewhat tall story. Though, admittedly, it might be to prevent the opportunity for such a statement that Mr Smith wanted his caretaker confined to the house.

But there were objections to staying perpetually indoors. One was the obvious one of shopping. How was Ben going to buy his food? Yes, and how about the money to buy it with? The question of salary had not yet been raised.

He dealt with these two important points in order.

‘’Ere’s a cupple o’ questions fer yer, if I should arsk ’em or not,’ he said. ‘Fust, I gotter eat? Ain’t I ter go ter no shops?’

‘There is some tinned stuff in the larder,’ replied Mr Smith, ‘and as I shall call periodically, you can always tell me if there is anything you need.’

‘I see. You does me shoppin’ for me, like?’

‘Won’t that be kind of me?’

‘So long as yer don’t fergit me supper beer. Wot’s periodic? Wot time do I expeck yer?’

‘When you see me.’

‘Oh! Yer couldn’t mike it a reg’ler time?’

‘Why?’

‘Well, I jest thort it’d be more convenient like.’

‘More convenient for you to slip out and get that supper beer? No, Mr Jones, we will not make it a regular time.’

Ben gave that one up, and tried the next.

‘’Ow much are yer payin’ me?’ he asked. ‘Ten pahnd a week?’

‘I am not paying you anything,’ answered Mr Smith. ‘Not at the start, anyway. Later on, if you are good, I may raise your wages.’

‘Yer carn’t raise wot I ain’t got!’

‘Aren’t you a devil for accuracy?’

‘I dunno wot that means, but I never worked fer nothink afore. Fer standin’ in front of a ’orse yer gits tuppence!’

‘You will not be working for nothing. You will receive both food and shelter, and since you cannot go out, what would you spend your pocket money on?’

Then Ben gave that one up, too. But all at once he thought of another question, and it hit him bang in the middle of his stomach.

‘Guv’ner,’ he said. ‘Yer ain’t sent that photo ter the pleece, ’ave yer?’

‘As a matter of fact, I shall probably do so,’ replied Mr Smith. ‘Yes, thinking matters over, I am inclined to believe it will be the wisest plan.’

Indignation mingled with apprehension in Ben’s breast as he heard this callous statement.

‘Wot! Send it orf, arter yer sed—?’

‘I made no promise.’

‘P’r’aps yer didn’t, but it’ll put a spanner in the works! Wot’s the good of engaigin’ me fer yer caretaiker if yer ’ave me ’auled orf ter the pleece stashun?’

Mr Smith laughed. Ben’s indignation grew. For the first time he raised himself and sat up, glaring at Mr Smith with challenging eyes.

‘Yer wants it both ways, doncher?’ he exclaimed. ‘Well, yer carn’t ’ave it, ’cos it won’t work, see? I expeck that’s why I ain’t ter go aht of the ’ouse, in caise I’m reckernised from the photo, as I would be, not ’avin’ a ordinary fice like your’n that might be anyone’s—’

‘But you aren’t going out of the house—’

‘Yus, I knows that! But wot abart them ’ouse-’unters wot I’ve gotter show over? Ave yer fergot them? They’ll reckernise me—’

‘Oh, no, they won’t,’ Mr Smith interrupted again. And again he laughed. ‘Have a look at yourself.’

He went to the wall and brought back the mirror, thrusting it before Ben’s face. Ben gazed at himself in stupefaction. This wasn’t him! It was another feller! And—lummy!—he had on a clean dark suit, and brightly polished boots!




4 (#ulink_b2d6cfcf-650e-57f2-b81c-7ab275de1f09)

Transformation Scene (#ulink_b2d6cfcf-650e-57f2-b81c-7ab275de1f09)


‘Well, how do you like yourself?’ enquired Mr Smith. Ben continued to stare at the strange face in the mirror, and the strange face in the mirror continued to stare back. He was not yet ready to reply. He was afraid that when he did so he might find his voice had changed, too!

‘Personally I think that smooth black hair suits you,’ went on Mr Smith, ‘and your side-whiskers give you an air of distinction that was quite lacking when I first met you. I am sure that when your photograph appears tomorrow over the caption, “Wanted,” no one will recognise you as the original of that picture. The only thing I have been unable to change,’ he added, with a little sigh, ‘is your fingerprints. Come, say something! Aren’t you grateful?’

‘I dunno,’ muttered Ben, finding his voice at last, and relieved at its familiar sound.

‘Well, you ought to be,’ answered Mr Smith reprovingly. ‘I took a lot of trouble over you, and there is very little chance now that you will be recognised by any who call here—although, of course, if you are recognised by any unfortunate chance, the fact that you have changed your appearance will be further evidence against you.’

‘But it was you wot done it,’ Ben pointed out.

‘I should make no claim—the credit would all be yours! As a matter of fact, a friend did help me. Changing your clothes was, in the circumstances, a two-man job. During your black-out you gave us no help at all.’

‘Oh! Yer did it while I was subconscious?’

‘I accept your term for it.’

‘And there’s another one of yer?’

‘You refer to my friend?’

‘’Oo is ’e?’

‘If I told you his name you would be no wiser.’

‘Oh! Well, where is ’e now?’

‘Don’t worry about him.’

‘No, I ain’t got nothink ter worry abart, ’ave I? Was ’e in the park with yer?’

‘He was in the car. We were out for a little drive together. Tell me. How are you feeling?’

‘Jest as if I’d come back from a ’ollerday at Brighton.’

‘That’s fine. Then I needn’t worry about your physical condition before I go?’

‘Oh—yer goin’?’ said Ben.

‘I do not live here,’ answered Mr Smith.

‘That’s right. If yer did, yer could be yer own caretaiker.’

‘You’ve put it in a nutshell.’

Ben blinked as a new realisation suddenly dawned on him.

‘Yer mean—when yer go I’ll be ’ere orl by meself?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly.’

‘Oh! Oo’s me company then?’

‘Those spiders and black beetles.’

‘Shurrup!’

‘And I forgot to mention a giant rat. The last caretaker called him Goliath, so you can act the part of David if you meet him. I’m sorry I can’t supply you with a sling and stone, but you may find a brick or two around the place.’

‘Do you know wot yer torkin’ abart?’

‘You evidently don’t. Not biblical minded, eh? I’d better bring you a copy of the Bible—you’ll have plenty of time to read. Now, then, before I go, have you any questions to ask?’

‘I thort I wasn’t ter arsk none!’ retorted Ben.

‘You can ask me, but nobody else. You see, Mr Jones, I shall only answer those I choose. So if you’ve got any bullets, shoot!’

Ben just saved himself from remarking, ‘I wish I ’ad!’ After all, whether he were believed or not by his enigmatic employer the time had come when he must appear to be willing. No other policy would work.

‘’Ere’s one,’ he said. ‘Wot time do we open?’

‘I’m not engaging you to run a shop.’

‘Yus, but them ’ouse-’unters ain’t goin’ ter turn up fer breakfust?’

‘Hardly likely.’

‘Or arter I gorn ter bed?’

‘That might depend on what time you go to bed.’

‘Well, see, that’s wot I wanter know. Even a caretaiker ’as ter ’ave a bit o’ time orf.’

‘I believe the agent opens at nine and closes at about five or six—’

‘Ah, nah we’re gittin’ it!’

‘But as, unless he accompanies his clients, he merely gives them a list of addresses, they may call at any time.’

‘Oh! And s’pose they mike the time midnight?’

‘Your duty will be to admit them whenever they call.’

‘I see. In me perjarmers!’

‘Did you bring any pyjamas? Don’t make trouble before you get it. If it comes it will come without your asking. Next, or is that the lot?’

‘Well, p’r’aps it wouldn’t be a bad idea,’ suggested Ben, ‘if yer was ter show me over the ’ouse? Arter orl, I’d look silly if I was ter ’ave ter show people over it afore I’d bin over it meself?’

‘You are not expected to act as an official guide. You will not have to tell people, “This is where you eat. This is where you sleep. This is where the coal goes. This room’s haunted.” The rooms will speak for themselves. You will merely open the front door, and then let your visitors roam where they like. Do not follow them about. I’ve told you that. You return here to your room. If anything—unusual happens, make no trouble about it, and accept it without question. You can always give me a report when I come along myself. Have you got that quite clear?’

‘No.’

‘What don’t you understand?’

‘Wot’s goin’ ter ’appen that ain’t ushueral?’

‘How can I tell you before it happens? I am just warning you to be prepared for it if it does happen, and to take it all calmly and coolly. Of course you are free to go over the house after I have gone, and this brings me to my own last point. You will find one door locked. Don’t worry about that. All the rest are open to you.’

‘Oh! So one door’s locked, is it?’ blinked Ben.

Mr Smith made no response.

‘And I ain’t ter worry abart it?’

Mr Smith did not seem to be listening. At least, not to Ben.

‘Orl right, on’y s’pose—?’

‘Stay here—I’ll be back in a minute,’ said Mr Smith, and quietly left the room.

It was a disturbing as well as a sudden departure. What had he gone off like that for? And suppose he wasn’t back in a minute? How long was Ben expected to stay like he was. Not that he had any inclination to move, but as the seconds went by, and Ben counted more than sixty, he found it exceedingly unnerving waiting helplessly in bed. Eighty-four, eighty-five, eighty-six …’ow many more? Eighty-nine, a ’undred, no, ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two. And then, s’pose, when ’e comes back, it ain’t ’im? Ben had known that happen before. An Indian goes out, and a Chinaman comes in! Yer never know, do yer? Ninety-eight, ninety-nine … lummy, wot was that? Sahnded like a cry! But he wasn’t sure. Ben often heard things that weren’t. Yus, but this thumpin’ ain’t imaginashinon! Thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud. Oi, it’s gittin’ louder, and faster! Why ’ad ’is farver and muvver ever met? ’Underd-and-five, ’underd-and-six, ’underd-and-seven … thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud …

‘Gawd! It’s me bloody ’eart!’

He lay back weakly and closed his eyes. Or—was it? He opened his eyes. Mr Smith was standing at the foot of his bed again.

‘You were saying?’ enquired Mr Smith.

‘I’ve fergot,’ gulped Ben.

‘I think I know. You were going to ask what you should do if any house-hunters want to go into the room with the locked door? Quite simple. You will tell them—if they ask you, otherwise why worry?—that the owner uses it for storage and has taken away the key. Well, that’s all. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow. Happy sleep.’

And then Mr Smith went away again, and Ben heard the sound of the front door closing.




5 (#ulink_4494fd1f-5baa-5e84-b2bd-5b1f85a5fbed)

Behind the Locked Door (#ulink_4494fd1f-5baa-5e84-b2bd-5b1f85a5fbed)


Well, here he was! And the question he had to solve, while he lay on the bed and contemplated his unenviable position, was whether to stay or whether to cut and run?

He weighed the two alternatives in his own peculiar fashion. S’pose he cut and run? Where’d he run to? And if he couldn’t think of anywhere—and he couldn’t—when he stopped he’d find himself somewhere, and what would he do with his face? Not to mention his suit? If he got rid of his face, which he might do in a public lavatory, though even so it would be tricky—if he got rid of his face and regained his own, his own would not fit his posh suit, and he could not get rid of his suit without being subsequently arrested for wandering about in an immodest condition. He was quite sure that his own clothing, such as it was, had been confiscated by the much too thorough Mr Smith.

Then there were other arguments against cutting and running. One, he was a suspect, and would soon be on the ‘wanted’ list for murder. Two, would he get farther than the street? ‘I bet that bloke’s watchin’ the front door!’ he reflected. ‘Or if ’e ain’t, that friend of ’is is! Don’t fergit, there’s more’n one of ’em in this set-up, even if yer ain’t seed more’n the one so fur!’ And, three—and this alone could have been the deciding factor—he really didn’t feel up to cutting and running. His knees felt that weak, and he was all wobblin’ inside like.

The arguments against staying were, of course, equally numerous. It was goin’ to be no picnic, getting entangled in Mr Smith’s affairs. Why, lummy, he’d be workin’ for a murderer! And how was that going to look, when it came out? ‘Corse, I wasn’t reely workin’ fer ’im, sir, if yer git me. See, I was cornered proper, so I thort if I ’ung on fer a bit I might turn the taibles like, and find aht wot ’e was up ter. Well, that wasn’t goin’ against the pleece, was it? No, it was tryin’ ter ’elp ’em!’ As Ben imagined himself explaining himself thus to a police inspector, he was struck with the force of his own argument. It was all too completely true. He was cornered … and he did want to turn the tables on Mr Smith … but, continuing with the arguments against staying, there were those beetles and spiders, how he hated them both, and that rat, and there was that locked door. And had that been a cry he had heard?

It was not beyond reason to expect, if he stayed, an exceedingly creepy night.

Then, quite suddenly, came two visions that settled the matter for him. The first was of a larder containing tinned food. He needed food, and the need would increase, and was there any food for him outside? He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets—strangely clean and holeless—to find them, as expected, empty. Mr Smith was hardly likely to have left him with any money!

But the second vision, though it did not arise out of any personal need, he found even more compelling. It was of the man at the other end of the park seat. At one moment, quietly making notes in a notebook. At the next, limp, with a knife in his back. Ben had seen plenty of dead people, but if they had nice faces, and this chap had had a nice face if a bit stern like, and if they hadn’t died natural, it upset him.

‘’E may ’ave a wife or a kid,’ thought Ben. ‘I’ll find aht wot Mr Smith’s gime is, and I’ll see ’e swings fer it!’

Having come to which decision, Ben felt a little better. Okay! That was settled, then. Next?

The next thing was to get up, see if his legs would obey him, and if by some miracle they would, use them to tour the premises and to find the larder.

Cautiously he raised himself to a sitting position and steered himself round and off the bed. To his surprise he did not topple, and after a moment or two he took a few steps. These proved that he was weak all right, but he could manage. Jest tike it easy, and yer can manidge.

He began to walk round the room. Its atmosphere of gloom was accentuated by the fact that the daylight was beginning to fade outside, and suddenly realising this he looked about anxiously for an electric light switch or a lamp. He saw neither. On the mantelpiece were a couple of candles in worn metal candlesticks. Well, they were better than nothing, though candles made nasty shadows; and the sight of a box of matches by one of the candlesticks brought back a little of Ben’s fading comfort.

Over the mantelpiece was the replaced mirror. As Ben drew up to it, he received a shock. Lummy, ’oo was this bloke lookin’ at ’im orf the wall? Then he remembered that it was his other self, and he glared at it. His other self glared back.

‘Wot am I goin’ ter do with yer, Marmerduke?’ he demanded. ‘I don’t know you and yer don’t know me, but if we carn’t git away from each other I expeck we’ll ’ave ter chum up some’ow, won’t we? I wish yer could jest see yerself—yer looks like Gawd knows wot!’

Refraining from lighting a candle, for artificial lighting was not necessary just yet and if these were the only two he was destined to find he must not waste wax, he continued his tour of the room. It was a shabby incomplete affair. Bed, couple of chairs, a chest of drawers with three knobs missing, a small table that wobbled if you touched it, a cheap faded carpet, and no washstand. Why did he notice that there was no washstand? He always got along quite well without them.

‘That must be you, Marmerduke,’ he said. ‘You washes!’

It began to dawn on him that Marmaduke had his uses. He was at least somebody to talk to. Ben spoke to him again when he reached the window.

‘Lummy, there’s a view fer sore eyes!’ he exclaimed. ‘Bomb site, eh? Wot a mess!’

It was indeed a depressing view. At the back of the house, it comprised a large square walled space which enclosed a scattered conglomeration of dead buildings on torn ground. The ground was untidy with debris and full of holes. The buildings were most of them scarred beyond repair, but one or two looked sound, notably one low brick structure that stretched to the back wall of the house, just below where Ben was peering. A black cat was sitting on the roof. Suddenly it swooped away.

‘See that, Marmerduke?’ said Ben. ‘’E’s ’ad enuf! So’ve I!’

He turned away from the window, and now taking one of the candlesticks and the box of matches in case he needed them, he adventured farther afield. The wooden landing outside the bedroom was uncarpeted, and so were the stairs that invited Ben grimly down to the next floor, but before accepting the invitation he poked his head into another room on the floor he was on, and found it completely empty.

Now he began to descend the stairs. The stained wallpaper was peeling off the walls, and one bit curled at him as he passed it and touched his nose. He decided not to go quite so fast. He made a breeze.

The next floor was more spacious, though definitely not palatial, and there were four rooms, a cupboard, and a bathroom. Three of the rooms were empty, the other had a bed, a stool and a disconnected gas fire. The gas fire stood in the centre of the floor and looked self-conscious and unhappy. The floor was uncarpeted. There was a damp patch in one corner which Ben hoped was water, but he did not investigate. The bathroom had a rusty yellow bathtub with two taps, only one of which would turn on. The cupboard had a broom that swooped out at Ben and shot him back in one bound to the head of the next staircase.

‘’Ow I ’ates cubberds,’ he muttered. ‘When I ’ave my ’ouse built there won’t be none!’

Halfway down the next flight he paused at a thought.

‘Did Mr Smith and ’is friend cart me up orl these stairs? They’d of saived a bit o’ work if they’d kep’ me at the bottom! Barmy, Marmerduke, wern’t they?’

At the bottom he found himself on the ground floor, and a sense of disappointment pervaded him when he noticed that still further stairs led to a basement. As with cupboards, so with basements; none would figure in Ben’s dream house. The hall was wide, and the rooms opening into it were larger than those on the upper floors, but again only one had any furniture in it—a back room the window of which looked on to the roof where the cat had sat. There was a couch in this room which almost suggested comfort. So did an armchair. This appearance may have been partly due to the fact that they stood on the best carpet Ben had so far come across, but a gate-legged table with a blue china vase upon it helped, and so did a bookcase in a corner. If there were no flowers in the vase or books in the bookcase, these omissions did not entirely destroy the comparative homeliness of these two items. The window overlooking the view of the low roof had long maroon curtains, now half-drawn … Something funny about that roof. What was it? Just it being so low? Couldn’t be more than four or five feet of headroom, you’d think. Wunner wot it had been used for? Wot abart a squint?

But when Ben began to draw the long maroon curtain more aside, his mind was abruptly switched away from the roof and he forgot all about it. Behind the bottom of the curtain was another vase, broken into four pieces, and as he had disarranged the curtain’s folds one of the pieces had come rolling out. Something else also slid across the little space of polished boards between the wall and the edge of the carpet. A hammer.

‘Narsty,’ thought Ben.

Then he rounded on himself.

‘Why is it narsty?’ he demanded, aloud. ‘Anybody can break a vase, carn’t they, Marmerduke?’

It was on the hammer, however, that his eyes were riveted as he spoke. Suddenly, against his will, he bent down to get a closer view of the part you hit with. Some little threads were sticking to it. It wouldn’t be hair—would it?

He turned and left the room. The hall seemed to have grown immeasurably darker during the short time that had elapsed since he had left it. He did not stop walking until he had reached the front door. He wanted to get as far away from that hammer as he could.

He found himself opening the front door. He could not have said just why he was doing it. He had not made any conscious decision to leave, for he had worked all that out already; and a hammer with hair on it was merely one small incident in a series of which the beginning was a back with a knife in it. Probably it was because he needed a bit of air. Yes, that must be it. The air that came at him as he stood in the doorway was cool and refreshing. Nice. Sort of eased down your prickles. And where he stood was midway between outside and inside, without actually being in either. Wouldn’t mind staying here for ever!

His momentary contentment did not last. In Ben’s experience contentment rarely did. It was ended by two eyes gleaming at him out of the gloaming, and he could not readjust his focus swiftly enough to make out at once whether the eyes were just before him or across the street. Were they Mr Smith’s eyes, and was he standing on the opposite pavement, watching? No, they weren’t Mr Smith’s eyes. You’d hardly spot them so clearly all that distance, and besides, his eyes weren’t green …

The eyes loomed suddenly closer, and a dark sleek body flashed past him into the house. He flashed back after it, closed the door, and sat down on the ground. Now facing him again, and purring hard, sat the black cat he had first seen on the low roof at the back.

‘Nah, listen,’ said Ben, seriously. ‘I don’t mind cats, pertickler if they’re strays, so I’ll fergive yer this time—but any more dirty tricks like that, and aht yer go! Got that, Sammy? Okay! Then come along and keep me company dahn in the bisement.’

The basement looked completely dark as he stood at the top of the final flight, and he decided that this time he would need his candle. He lit it first match, which is pretty good when your hand isn’t steady; and now the shadows he so cordially detested began. What he couldn’t understand, as his own shadow wobbled and shifted around him, was what use they were. Light, okay, but why shadders?

And why stone steps? All the others had been wood. Of course, some wooden stairs creaked, and plenty had creaked up above, but once you knew which ones they were you could give ’em a miss, and they didn’t go clang-clang like these stone ones were doing. Lummy, he sounded like the whole British Army!

Sammy, on the other hand, slithered down ahead of him without a sound.

And now began the most unpleasant part of the whole unpleasant tour. With no light beyond that of the flickering candle, and with his shadow—or, rather, Marmaduke’s—now darting all over the place as its unwilling owner jerked his way from spot to spot, poked his head in doorways, and swung round at every sound, real or imagined, Ben checked up on the kitchen and scullery and larder (a bit disappointing, the larder, but it contained enough to go on with) and cupboards. In the scullery he found the beetle population, and left them hurriedly in control.

‘’Ow abart you ’avin’ a go at ’em, Sammy?’ he suggested, before he closed the door.

But Sammy, with tail up, refused to take on the job.

All this while Ben had been anticipating the locked door, wondering whether he was ever coming to it, and he was beginning to believe that Mr Smith had invented it to frighten him when suddenly he found it before him. It was the very last door he had tried in the basement, along a narrow passage at the back that led to nowhere else. He thought it was just another cupboard, for he did not imagine that the basement space allowed for any more rooms, but the fact that it was locked suggested that it must be the room to which Mr Smith had referred. Ben gazed at it speculatively.

‘Wot’s on the other side, Sammy?’ he asked the cat at his strangely polished feet. As the cat made no response, he passed the enquiry on to the third of the party. ‘Orl right, let’s ’ear wot you’ve gotter say, Marmerduke? Wot’s in that there room? Storidge, ’e sed. Orl right, then. Wot’s bein’ stored?’

In the most refined voice Ben could muster—it was a pity the performance was wasted on a cat—Marmaduke replied:

‘Glass and silvah, wot?’

‘That’s ain’t a bad idea o’ yourn, Marmerduke,’ agreed Ben, ‘and p’r’aps they locked it up ’cos that other caretaiker ’ad a go at it? That would expline why they got rid of ’im.’

But somehow Ben did not believe that was the true reason.

‘And then they’d lock that in a cupboard, wouldn’t they? Not in a room?’

‘’Ow dew yew know it is not a cubbard, wot?’ answered Marmerduke.

‘’Cos ’e sed the locked door was the door of a room,’ Ben retorted. ‘Put that in yer side-whiskers and smoke it!’

‘Dew yew believe awl ’e sed?’ enquired Marmaduke, in no way perturbed.

‘No, I don’t, and that’s a fack,’ agreed Ben, ‘but nah yer can keep yer trap shut ’cos I’ve ’ad enuff o’ yer.’

He turned to go, for the larder called, but all at once he turned back, realising that he had omitted an obvious effort to get a glimpse of what the room contained. He put his eye to the key-hole.

At first he saw nothing but blackness. He thought this was due to a key on the other side, but the test of a matchstick disproved this theory, for the match went in the little aperture too fast and before he realised it he found that he had posted it. Lummy, wot a waste! He might need that match before he’d finished here! Still, it was gone, and there was no getting it back, so he’d just have one more squint, and then …

He kept his eye at the key-hole longer this time. Sometimes, when there’s no intruding key, the eye becomes acclimatised, and gradually things become a bit clearer. Yes, and weren’t they doing it now? Not much clearer, but just a bit. Wasn’t that the back of a chair? No. Yes. Well, might be. And wasn’t there a sort of shape beyond? Like a—like a—wot? It wouldn’t be a stacher, would it? Ben didn’t like stachers. If you looked at ’em too long you expected them to move! Gawd! This ’un was movin’!

A sudden ray of light, as from a torch, illuminated for an instant the floor at the moving statue’s feet. Then the ray went out. Ben tried not to feel sick. In that momentary shaft of light he had seen what lay on the other side of the door. It lay on the floor motionless, with arms outstretched.




6 (#ulink_785fe687-e89a-580f-b3c7-644111631d66)

Very Brief Respite (#ulink_785fe687-e89a-580f-b3c7-644111631d66)


No one, and Ben least of all, could have called Ben a brave man. ‘Some’ow I seems ter git through,’ he would have told you, ‘but it ain’t through not bein’ a cowwid, yer carn’t ’elp ’ow yer was born, well, can yer?’ The two kinds of people he admired most of all in this difficult world were those who could twirl china plates in opposite directions on the tips of billiard cues and those who stood firm before corpses.

Of course, sometimes you stood firm because the corpses mezzermised you and took away yer legs like. That kind of standing firm didn’t count. In fact, it truly was not standing firm at all, because since you usually ended on the floor you’d be more accurate to call it sitting plonk.

Now Ben sat plonk.

But he only sat for an instant. This was due to the circumstance that he sat plonk on the cat, which so upset them both that before either of them realised it they were both pelting up the basement stairs in sympathetic unison. The cat’s panic was again soundless, but Ben’s boots on the cold stone clanked more loudly than ever. This time it was the British Army in retreat.

Was the moving statue behind the locked door, now growing blessedly more and more distant, hearing the retreat? ‘’Ow fur,’ wondered Ben, for you can still think in a sort of a way while you run, ‘’ow fur does boots on stairs ’ave ter be from a door not ter be ’eard on t’other side?’ In the absence of definite knowledge, the only logical plan is to make it as fur as possible.

And as fur as possible, of course, was the top room from which Ben had started.

He and Sammy reached it in a dead heat. Lurching into the room which had once seemed a prison but which now seemed a sanctuary, Ben tottered to the bed and sank down on it. Sammy leapt beside him, and for a few seconds they comforted each other. Then, when speech became possible, Ben spoke to his companion.

‘Sammy,’ he said. ‘You and me’s friends. Once I shot a cat. Corse, not with a real gun, it was one o’ them hair-guns, and I didn’t mean ter ’it it, but I was never good at shootin’, and when I tries ter ’it a thing I misses and when I tries ter miss a thing, I ’its, and so I ’it that cat. And I wancher ter know I’m sorry.’

In some things, if not many, Ben was an optimist, and he convinced himself that Sammy understood.

But one couldn’t just go on lying and talking to a cat, so after a little while Ben sat up and tried to become practical again. He had not yet paid that return visit to the larder, most unfortunately located in the basement, and his stomach would have no chance of returning to normal until he got something inside it. Before making another descent, however, he had to do a little constructive thinking. He thought aloud, to Sammy.

‘There’s more’n us two in the ’ouse,’ he said. ‘I mean, us three, ’cos we carn’t leave aht Marmerduke. ’Ow are yer, Marmerduke? I ain’t seed yer laitely, but if I went acrorst ter that lookin’-glass I’d find yer was still ’ere! Yus, but besides us three, there’s a fourth in the room with the locked door, the one wot we calls the Stacher. ’E’s got a torch. Wot else ’as ’e got? Wot we’re ’opin’, ain’t we, Sammy and Marmerduke, is that ’e ain’t got a gun. Or a key! We don’t want ’im poppin’ aht on us, do we? Yus, but p’r’aps ’e ain’t got a key? P’r’aps ’e’s a prisoner like, bein’ kep’ locked up? Yus, ’ow abart that?’

Not precisely an exhilarating thought, yet there was some comfort in it.

Turning then from the living to the dead, Ben continued his reflections, while the black cat beside him concentrated on licking its paws smooth.

‘Nah, then. ’Ow abart that corpse? It mikes a cupple, one ahtside on a seat, one inside on the floor. Yus, that bloke on the floor was a deader, no mistike abart it. Bein’ dead ain’t like bein’ asleep. When yer see a deader there’s somethink abart ’em that tells yer they ain’t never comin’ back. Corse, I on’y seed ’im fer a momint when the torch went on ’im. We didn’t waite fer no more, did we, Sammy? Yer ain’t listenin’! Go on, chuck yer paws, they’re orl right, and listen, wot I’m sayin’ is importent. See, nah, Sammy, I’m comin’ ter it! I’m comin’ ter the ’orrerble thort! ’Oo is the corpse? ’Ave you any idea?’

Apparently Sammy had none.

‘Well, ’ow abart you, Marmerduke? Wot’s goin’ on atween your side-whiskers?’

But Marmaduke proved as barren as the cat.

‘A lot o’ good you are, the pair of yer!’ said Ben, disgustedly. But it was nice talking to them, just the same. Not only for the companionship of one’s voice, but also because it gave one a sort of superior feeling. After all, however lowly you are, you’re a cut above a cat and a feller wot ain’t. ‘Orl right, I’ll tell yer ’oo I think ’e might be. Git ready, ’cos this ain’t goin’ ter be nice. ’Ow abart ’im bein’ the larst caretaiker?… Lummy!… See, I’m the nex’!’

Ben rather wished he had not mentioned this thought aloud. It seemed to fix it like. For comfort he added, rather hastily,

‘Corse, it’s on’y an idea, minjer. I may be wrong!’

But he felt uncomfortably sure that he was not wrong. And, even if he were, the man had been dead, hadn’t he? No doubt whatever about that.

Well, there it was, and when he tried to think beyond this he found that he could not. He had come up against a wall in his mind, and partly because it was a very tired mind existing precariously above a very empty stomach, he had to give up any further mental effort. And don’t forget, he excused himself, he’d had a dose of something put inside him not so long ago, and that never did nobody no good, did it?

‘So I’m goin’ dahn ter git me supper, Sammy,’ he said. ‘Jest that, and nothink else. And this time yer’d better stay ’ere and waite fer me. See, if I gits any more shocks I don’t wanter sit dahn on yer agine.’

Sammy, now with green eyes closed, agreed. The cat was far too comfortable to evince any desire to move.

So down Ben went again, putting blinkers on his thoughts, and kept resolutely moving until he found himself once more in the larder.

For twenty minutes life became bearable again. In the bread-bin he found three-quarters of a loaf of bread. One of those nice, easy loaves, with the slices already cut for you. Slices a bit thin, perhaps, for the ideal conception, but if you lumped a couple of thin ones together, that made one thick one. And there was a tin of shrimp paste to use between as glue. The shrimp paste was all right underneath, once you’d scraped off the top layer of green. Then there were two tins of sardines, and one tin of Heinz’s Cooked Spaghetti in Tomato Sauce with Cheese, and one of Heinz’s Cooked Macaroni in Cream Sauce with Cheese. Big ’uns, both. In spite of the cheese, Ben decided on the sardines, because you were supposed to eat sardines cold while Heinz needed to be warmed, and he didn’t want to waste time trying to do any cooking. Tin-opener? Gawd! Suppose there wasn’t one? He searched in a panic, but found the precious implement at last in a drawer in the kitchen table, and opening one of the sardine tins he feasted first his eyes, and then his stomach, on six fat oily little darlings. He ate them straight out of the tin, skin, backbone, oil and all. Saved washin’ up. And, spotting a bottle of Yorkshire Relish after he had got half-way through the contents of the tin, he filled it up again with the sauce, and for two glorious if somewhat startling minutes lived in heaven.

‘It mikes yer sweat,’ he admitted, when he had licked the tin clean, ‘but, lummy, it’s good!’

What happened next was not quite so good. The front-door bell rang.




7 (#ulink_14d422ff-7c25-5743-a907-57dd538b462a)

Conversation on a Doorstep (#ulink_14d422ff-7c25-5743-a907-57dd538b462a)


Ben’s first feeling on hearing the bell was one of resentment. Wasn’t he ever to be let alone? This was what he had meant to safeguard himself against when he had tried to get Mr Smith to define and limit his working hours.

If the person who had rung the front-door bell was a house-hunter, this was a most unreasonable time to call! How can you expect to see a house properly if you’re shown over it by candle-light? On the other hand, if the person were not a house-hunter, then there would probably be other good reasons against answering this late summons.

‘They’ll ’ave ter ring twice,’ decided Ben, ‘if they’re goin’ ter git me!’

They did ring twice, and the second ring was followed by the sound of the door-knocker. Lummy, he s’posed he’d have to go! But if he had any say in the matter, which was of course a moot point, he did not intend to make himself pleasant.

Managing to keep his eyes from straying along the passage towards the room with the locked door—he was trying hard not to think of that—he left the kitchen and mounted the basement stairs, candle held before him, his shadow sliding up behind. When he reached the hall he was tempted to desert his duty and to continue mounting up to the top, but he knew that the candle-light would be betraying its flickering presence in the fanlight above the front door, so he could not pretend that nobody was in the house. Taking a deep breath—it sort of steadied him like—he went to the door, transferred the candlestick from his right hand to his left, grasped the door-knob, paused, then turned the knob quickly and pulled the door open.

His action was so sudden that the feeble flame of the candle failed to survive the draught of air that came through the doorway, and went out. There was no unkind trick that had not been played on Ben in moments of tenseness. He had had even this one before. The dim figure standing before him on the doorstep might be anybody from the Archbishop of Canterbury to a devil with a forked tail. The voice that addressed him, however, clearly came from neither.

‘Perhaps if you relit it,’ said the voice, ‘we could see each other.’

It was a woman’s voice. Apart from a certain strained tenseness in it, it was not unpleasant. Feeling that, so far, things were not as bad as they might have been, and might soon become, Ben fumbled for his matches. Then it occurred to him that after all there might be some advantage in darkness, and it would be as well to delay lighting up.

‘’Oojer want?’ he asked.

‘I prefer to see who I’m talking to,’ came the response.

‘Oh! But if yer’ve come ter the wrong ’ouse—’

‘Isn’t this Number 19?’

‘Well, yus.’

‘Billiter Road?’

That destroyed his happy hope.

‘That’s right,’ he answered. ‘But it’s a bit laite fer callin’, ain’t it?’

‘If it were earlier,’ replied the woman, ‘we would not need that candle to talk by. Aren’t you going to light it?’

He supposed he would have to, and he did so with an inward sigh. He struck a match, applied it to the wick, and the little flame glowed again. By its insufficient illumination Ben saw that the woman was young and rather attractive, if not exactly his meat. He preferred ’em plump and fair, and this ’un was dark and slim. Nice neat dress, anyhow. In fact, you shouldn’t call her a woman, really. She was a lidy.

All at once Ben switched off her on to himself. He stopped thinking of what he was looking at and thought of what she was looking at, and a wave of self-consciousness swept over him. This was the first person, not counting his employer, who had seen him in his new guise, and quite apart from getting used to being seen like he wasn’t, it set up a pretty problem. Should he try and talk like he thought Marmaduke would, or go on being natural like? His natural voice certainly did not fit his neat attire. A cat as audience didn’t matter, but this was a very different cup o’ tea.

‘Thank you, that’s better,’ said the young lady.

‘Don’t menshun,’ returned Ben.

‘Then I won’t.’ There was something odd in her voice, a hardness which somehow Ben did not think natural. Was she playing a part, too? But Ben did not quite believe that, either. Probably there was some other reason, and not a nice one. ‘May I know who you are?’




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