Читать книгу Ben on the Job - J. Farjeon Jefferson - Страница 9

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.