Читать книгу No. 17 - J. Farjeon Jefferson - Страница 9

Ben stared at the number, closed his eyes, opened them again, and then emitted a simple but expressive exclamation.

‘Well, I’ll be blowed!’ he gasped. ‘There ain’t no gettin’ away from it!’

A queer sensation passed through him as he stood on the narrow strip of pavement that divided the lamp-post from the railings, and blinked at the number that had dogged him ever since he had entered the arena of fog. But, after all—why should he get away from it? The number had not hurt him yet. There were hundreds of houses numbered ‘Seventeen.’ And this house was an empty house, with the door ajar!

‘Come in!’ the door seemed to say. ‘Here’s your free lodging. I’ve been waiting for you!’

Ben hesitated, annoyed with himself for his hesitation. This was the very thing he had been looking for. A gift from the gods! Just because …

‘G’arn!’ he muttered to himself, and walked to the front steps.

Now he was on them—there were only four—and the half-open door was two feet in front of his nose. He turned his head, and glanced back into the fog. It was so thick that he could not see the railings he had passed through. The dim light from the lamp-post sent its feeble rays above them, appearing to have no object in the world but to tell a wayfaring seaman that this house was No. 17, and that he must not pass it by. It would hardly have surprised Ben if the lamp-post had suddenly gone out now, its mission done. It appeared to be waning from where he stood.

Satisfied that nobody was immediately behind him, Ben turned to the door again, crept up to it, and gave it a careful, gentle push. It yielded rather more easily than he had expected, and he prepared to spring back. But nothing jumped out at him. A dark, narrow passage was revealed, and the beginning of an ascending staircase.

Rounding upon himself once more for his fears, he entered; and as soon as he entered, his fears returned.

‘’Ow do I know there ain’t nobody be’ind that door?’ he thought.

Anxiously, he peeped. Nobody was hiding behind the door. The house was as silent as a tomb.

‘Well, we’ll keep the fog aht, any’ow,’ muttered Ben, and closed the front door quickly.

That was better! Now no one could leap in from the street. To ensure further against this unpleasant possibility, Ben bolted the door, and then turned to other places where leaping creatures might lurk. It will have been noted, long before now, that Ben was not a man of iron; but even a man made of sterner stuff than Ben might be forgiven for a few qualms in a strange, empty house, with a thick fog outside, and no illumination inside.

To remedy the latter evil—temporarily—Ben struck a match.

‘Oi!’ he shouted, as something rose and jumped at him.

He dropped the match, and it went out. He lunged, and hit nothing. Whatever had jumped at him had not repeated the attack.

Trembling, he struck another match, holding it behind him ready to hurl at the oncomer. Something stood against the wall … His shadow.

‘Oh, my Gawd!’ chattered Ben, and gave himself ten seconds to recover.

A thought came to him. Until he was quite certain that the house was unoccupied, was it wise, after all, to have the front door bolted? A bolted door would militate against his speed if, by chance, he desired a sudden exit. Napoleon, working out the tactics of Waterloo, was no more earnestly absorbed than was Ben, working out the tactics of a bolted door.

‘Yus, I better hunbolt it, I reckons,’ he concluded, at last. ‘Yus—that’s the idea. Hunbolt it.’

So he unbolted the front door, suppressing a shiver as he did so, and then, striking another match, surveyed the passage in detail.

On his right was a door. A little farther along on the right, where the hall narrowed to accommodate the rickety stairway that ascended by the left wall, was another door. And opposite the second door was a gap, presumably leading down to the basement.

He approached the first door. ‘Wot’s wrong with knockin’?’ he thought. He knocked. There was no response. Opening the door slowly, he inserted his head, holding his match about him. An empty, furnitureless room greeted his eyes. The match flickered out.

‘’Andsome dining-room,’ he commented, ‘with ceiling comin’ dahn.’

Closing the door, he proceeded to the second door, farther along the passage, and repeated the operation. The result was similar, only this time it was a ‘’andsome drawing-room, with piper peelin’ orf.’ Having closed the drawing-room door, he turned and peered into the inky gap that led down to the basement.

‘Oh, well—’ere goes!’ he murmured. ‘Sailors was made ter go dahn!’

He descended into the unpleasant abyss, and spent five more matches on it. They revealed the usual rooms one finds in a basement, bare and tenantless; but there was one door he could not open. It was a stout door, evidently locked, though his match went out before he could find the keyhole. Deciding not to waste any more matches—for they were growing precious—he felt about in the darkness, even running his fingers along the bottom of the door.

‘Cupboard, I hexpeck,’ he muttered. ‘But it’s got a ’ell of a draught!’

The next moment, he bounded back. Something was happening beneath him. The floor was vibrating, and a faint, rhythmic clack came to his ears. Then, suddenly, the vibration increased, a dull roar grew out of the bowels of the earth, and something rushed beneath him. Ben wiped his damp forehead.

‘If I ’ad the bloke ’ere,’ he thought, ‘wot hinvented trines, I’d give ’im somethin’.’

He ascended from the basement to the ground floor. He walked to the foot of the stairs leading to the upper floors. He raised his eyes, and peered, and listened.

And, as he listened, it began to dawn upon Ben that he had done about as much exploring as his nerves would stand. Why go over the entire house? He wasn’t bringing a whole family in! One floor was sufficient for him, and the drawing-room with the paper peeling off was quite good enough for his unfastidious taste.

So he sent his voice upstairs, instead of his person.

‘Oi!’ he shouted. ‘Oi! Hennybody hup there?’

Apparently not. Still, he tried again.

‘If hennybody’s hup there,’ he called, ‘this is ter let ’em know as I’m dahn ’ere!’

Again no response. Ben sighed with relief.

‘Well, it ain’t so bad,’ he observed, to the unheeding walls. ‘I reckons this is a little bit of orl right! I’m a bloomin’ ’ouse-holder. And nah, wot abart goin’ aht and gettin’ a bit o’ food?’

He went to the front door, and opened it. Fog poured in. ‘Lummy!’ he thought. ‘It’s gettin’ wuss!’ Wedging a piece of wood, of which there was plenty about, under the door to keep it open, he walked down the steps and into the street again. And, just as he reached the pavement, the door of the adjoining house opened, and a figure emerged.

‘Don’t be long, father!’ cried someone, evidently standing in the hall.

‘I’ll be as quick as I can, my dear,’ the figure answered. ‘Run in, or you’ll catch your death of cold.’

The door closed with a muffled bang, and Ben drew himself close against the railings. The figure reached him abruptly, and paused in passing.

‘Hallo—where did you spring from?’ asked the figure.

Ben made no reply. He did not see why he should. A fellow didn’t have to explain himself to every passer-by, did he, even if he had just been exploring an empty house that wasn’t his! The figure looked at him suspiciously, and barked:

‘Be off!’

And then, without waiting to find out whether this somewhat peremptory order was obeyed, went off himself.

A few seconds later, the front door of the next house again opened. Quickly, this time, as though on urgent business.

‘Father!’ called the voice he had heard before. ‘Father! I want you to …’

There was no response, and the voice trailed off.

‘Like me ter go arter ’im, miss?’ asked Ben. ‘Oi!’

The girl started at Ben’s voice, and he slipped after the vanished figure. The fog beat him, however. He returned a minute later to report failure.

‘Sorry, miss,’ he said. ‘’E was too quick fer me. It’s a reg’ler needle in a ’aystack in this fog, ain’t it?’

‘Never mind,’ replied the girl. ‘Thanks very much. It doesn’t matter.’

She was a pretty girl, with nothing swanky about her. Quite a good sort, Ben concluded. Ripe for a little human intercourse, he attempted to prolong the conversation.

‘Anythin’ I can do for yer, miss?’ he asked.

She peered down at him, and shook her head.

‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t important—only a letter.’

‘Like me ter post it?’

‘No—but thank you very much.’

The door began to close. Ben felt as though a glint of sunlight had suddenly appeared, and were now vanishing.

‘Shockin’ dye, ain’t it!’ he called. The door, however, was now shut. ‘Well, that’s orl there is abart that!’ he mumbled. ‘That’s the larst I’ll see of ’er!’

An extraordinarily poor prediction, as subsequent events proved. And had Ben realised the conditions of their next meeting, he would have sat down very promptly in the middle of the road.

Alone once more, he took careful bearings, and felt his way along the street, his idea being to keep a straight line until he hit a shop. He did not hit a shop until he had crossed three roads, and then it was not much of a shop. True, it called itself an Emporium, in virtue of the fact that the old lady who kept it had blossomed out from sweets to postcards and a small selection of tinned foods; but the sweets and the post-cards were of modest quality, while the tinned foods were reduced to the single selection of pork and beans.

‘’Ow much?’ demanded Ben, taking up the single selection.

‘One-and-two, or one-and-three, I think,’ replied the old lady. ‘Dear me, I must get some more.’

‘Let it go fer a shillin’, ma?’ asked Ben.

‘We’ll say one-and-two, then.’

‘But I ain’t got one-and-two. I got a shillin’.’

She looked at him, over her glasses. He was very shabby. And it was very foggy. And she was very old. Details don’t matter quite so much when you are old.

‘All right, then—a shilling,’ she said; and the bargain was struck.

He groped his way back to the empty house, noted with satisfaction that the door was as he had left it, and slipped in with his precious packet. This time, he bolted the front door behind him and, after depositing his parcel in the back reception-room, he descended to the basement to make certain that the back door was bolted also. This settled, he returned to the back reception-room, and prepared to make himself comfortable.

He tested the floor by sitting down in a corner of it. Not at all bad. Quite decent, in fact. So decent, that he had no immediate impulse to get up again. Of course, he’d get up soon. He’d find some wood and make a fire. Then, a little later, he would heat the pork and beans on the fire … that would be good … but not just yet … a little later …

He began to nod. His head drooped forward. Ben had walked a good many miles that day. A clock outside chimed six.

Ben did not hear it—he was fast asleep.

He awoke suddenly, with a start. The clock was striking again—midnight. But that had not awakened him. Someone was walking in the basement below.