Читать книгу Murderer’s Trail - J. Farjeon Jefferson - Страница 9

Ben received the bad news numbly. For one thing, although it shocked him, it hardly surprised him. For another, his brain was getting a little dizzy and stupid. Two days …

‘Arter you too, is ’e?’ he muttered. ‘Wot for?’

‘P’r’aps—I’ve seen too much, like you,’ suggested his companion.

‘Ah!’ blinked Ben. ‘Sight ain’t always a blessin’. Wotcher seen?’ As she did not reply, he made a guess. It was a nasty guess, but they’d got to get straight with each other. ‘Was it—at ’Ammersmith—wot you seen?’ he inquired.

She nodded. He detected the faint movement of her head against a ghost of light that dimly marked the position of the iron ladder mounting above them. His sympathy for her grew. And for himself.

‘Yus, but you didn’t do it,’ he said, as though he were informing her of a fact she did not know.

Now she shook her head. She was quite aware of the fact.

‘Then you ain’t got no cause ter fear the police,’ went on Ben.

‘Haven’t I?’ she replied.

It was an unsatisfactory reply. It told nothing, but it implied a lot. He put himself in her position—as much of her position, at least, as he knew—reviewed himself from her angle, and then advised her.

‘If I was you, miss,’ he announced, ‘I’d tell me.’

‘It mightn’t do you any good to hear,’ she answered.

‘There ain’t much I can’t stand,’ he retorted, ‘in the way of ’earin’. If you was ter say Windser Castle was blowed hup, I’d ’ardly notice it.’

‘You know, but for our tight corner,’ said the girl, ‘you’d make me laugh! I hope I meet you one day at a party. Meantime—well, let’s see if you can stand this! That—murdering fellow is my working partner.’

‘Is ’e?’

‘Well done! You’re sticking it! Want some more?’

‘Well, we’re orf now like, ain’t we, miss?’

‘You’ve said it! We’re off! And the next tit-bit is that I was in on the Hammersmith affair.’

‘Was yer?’

‘Feel!’

He heard a swift little rustle, and a wad of paper was thrust against his hand. He guessed correctly, with a shiver. A dead man’s notes.

‘’Ere, you must git rid o’ them!’ he gasped, diving straight to the kernel.

Then his mind began to go back on him. He was advising a girl to get rid of evidence that would connect her with a murder. She hadn’t done the murder, but she was implicated in it. In another minute, Ben himself would be implicated. He began to speculate on how he stood. ‘I knows they can nab yer if yer knows and don’t tell,’ he thought; ‘but can they nab yer if yer knows and don’t tell abart some ’un helse as knows and don’t tell?’ It was much too difficult. He gave it up, and tried to concentrate on the words that were now being whispered to him through the darkness:

‘Get rid of them? I’m not quite a fool! They’ll have the numbers taped all right! And, anyway, I don’t feel I want to touch the wretched things. Yes, but don’t think I’m squeamish!’ The voice rose a little, in sudden defiance. ‘I’m the stuff, all right! I could pick your pocket while you winked. That’s my speciality. But—no, not murder! That’s outside the ring. I do bar that!’

‘’Corse yer does,’ agreed Ben hopelessly.

‘And when I joined with this fellow—Jim Faggis—the name’ll be in the papers soon enough—we had it all clear first. You’ve got to make sure where you stand, you know, or you’re soon in the soup. And on our very first job he—does this!’ She paused. ‘Say, I’m telling you a lot, aren’t I?’

‘Everythin’ but,’ replied Ben. ‘’Ow did it ’appen?’

‘God knows! It was Faggis’s show from the word go. He’d already marked the man and the house—sort of old miser who collects money just to keep it away from other people, and then leaves it to a cat’s home—you know—and we got in easily enough, and everything was going all right till Faggis knocks over a chair. That scared me. I don’t like inside work, anyway. Never did. God’s good air for this child! Yes, and when I heard him coming downstairs—I did a bolt, and don’t mind admitting it!’

‘So’d anybody,’ sympathised Ben.

His mind was in a terrible tangle. She had said she was telling him a lot, and it was the truth. He was learning things that were very awkward indeed for a law-abiding citizen like him—because, after all, lying down on seats and being moved on wasn’t actually breaking the law, was it? You had to lie somewhere …

‘But Faggis wouldn’t go, even then, the fool! No, he must stay and see it through. You see, we’d only done downstairs, and he knew there was more on the first floor. That’s the worst of people like Faggis. Never satisfied! Well, by God, I hope he’s satisfied now!’

It had taken her a long while to start, but she was thoroughly wound up now. Hours of emotional repression and tightly-closed lips had had their effect upon her, and now, in this queer sanctuary, before this queerer audience, her tongue was loosened, and words flowed fast from where they had waited frozen.

‘Yer can see she ain’t one o’ the real bad ’uns,’ argued Ben to himself, as he listened. He didn’t know it, but he was actually arguing her case at the gates of Heaven. ‘Never ’ad a proper chance, that’s wot it is. You gotter ’ave a charnce. And, as fer pickin’ pockets—well, didn’t I nearly pick a pocket once, on’y I didn’t ’cos I couldn’t, me ’and was too big. Well, then …’

‘When I got outside, I waited for him. I’d got the wind up properly. Faggis had been getting on my nerves, you see.’ She always tried to make it clear that she wasn’t really soft. ‘He hadn’t exactly got the bedside manner. I waited goodness knows how long. Years!’

‘I knows ’em,’ murmured Ben.

‘And then he came. And—and the moment I saw his face, I knew what had happened. “You’ve killed him!” I said. Just like that. “You’ve killed him!” He didn’t answer. But that didn’t make any difference. It was written all over him. The poor old fool I’d heard coming downstairs to look after his silly property had been bumped off!’

She spoke through her teeth. Suddenly, as Ben tried hard not to visualise the scene she was describing, and failed, he became conscious of the engines again and their ceaseless throbbing. They throbbed like Fate, with all Fate’s indifference and domination. ‘Go on whispering, if it amuses you,’ said the engines. ‘It won’t alter things. You’re being carried on, just the same.’

Throb-throb! Throb-throb! Throb-throb!

‘I don’t know how long we stood there, staring at each other. Only a second, I dare say. Then I got giddy, and turned to run. But he got hold of my arm, and asked me what I was going to do. “I don’t know,” I said. “You’re not going to be a damned fool?” he said. “I don’t know,” I said. I didn’t. And then I managed to get away, and he came after me. You see—he’d got the wind up too. He thought I might tell the police.’

‘Why didn’t yer?’ asked Ben, to fill in a pause.

‘D’you take me for a saint?’ she retorted. ‘It would have looked well for me, wouldn’t it? Besides—when you take on a bargain—it’s for better or worse, isn’t it? Still, I thought of it. And then, there’s another thing. If Faggis was caught, he’d drag me in. He’s that sort. Oh, he’ll do it, don’t worry! And that’s why he’d been after me all day. He knew I’d either make for a police station or a getaway, and he wanted me in either case. And he nearly got me that time I barged into your arms!… I’ve been through it!’

‘There yer are,’ said Ben to St Peter. ‘She thort o’ goin’ fer the police! Tha’s somethink, ain’t it?’ Meanwhile, to the girl whose case he was pleading, he held out a more immediate crumb of comfort. ‘P’r’aps ’e wasn’t dead, miss,’ he suggested. ‘The miser bloke. Arter all, yer never seed ’im.’

‘Yes, I did!’

Ben gulped. Seen him, had she? Seen him! Lummy! Now Ben visualised St Peter thrusting her out—thrusting Ben out, also—and slamming the golden gates in their faces. Ben’s St Peter, of course, was not known to him by name, nor was he the St Peter of your and my conception. The nearest his vision could get to heaven’s gate-keeper was a picture he had once seen of Mark Twain, with wings added.

‘So—yer seed ’im?’ whispered Ben.

‘Yes. Somehow—I had to,’ she whispered back. ‘You see—as you said—he mightn’t have been dead. And, if he hadn’t been—’

‘Yer could ’ave gorn fer a doctor and p’r’aps saved ’im?’

Ben jumped in quickly with that. Again in the dimness he caught the girl’s nod, and this time it rejoiced him. ‘Wot abart that, yer blinkin’ fool!’ he cried to his winged version of Mark Twain. ‘She went back agine, see? Might ’ave bin copped, but she goes back. Puts ’er ’ead in at a winder, eh? Ter mike sure she carn’t do nothin’ fer ’im. Bet you wouldn’t ’ave! Hopen yer gate!’

Then, leaving the future and swinging back to the more vital present, he exclaimed:

‘Gawd, and now this blinkin’ murderin’ bloke is on the boat with us!’

‘Sh!’ she warned him.

The exclamation had been rather on the loud side.

‘Yus, but does ’e know you’re ’ere?’ he asked hoarsely.

‘I don’t know,’ she answered, after a pause. ‘P’r’aps you’ve got an opinion?’

Ben held a consultation with himself.

‘Well, miss, this is ’ow I sizes it hup,’ he said. ‘’E may think yer ’ere, but ’e don’t know it. ’E may think I’m ’ere, but ’e don’t know it. ’Cos why? That ain’t why ’e come aboard, see? No. ’E’s come aboard as a blinkin’ stoker—Mr ’Ammersmith Stoker, the hother feller called ’im—and ’e’s got some gime on that ain’t nothink ter do with you—hor with me!’

‘I believe you’re right,’ nodded the girl. ‘You weren’t asleep under the coal, then!’

‘No—seems as if I jest come aht of me two days’ snooze when they comes in. Yus, and if your ’and ’adn’t give me the wink, I’d ’ave ’ollered.’

‘Then you do see you owe me something?’

‘Fifty-fifty, ain’t it? And them two blokes is fifty-fifty on that hother gime too. They said so, didn’t they?’

‘But what is the other game?’

‘That’s wot we gotter find aht,’ said Ben. ‘Orl we knows hup ter nah is that they’ve marked the spot where you and I are standin’—and that they’re comin’ back!’

His voice dropped to its most sepulchral depth. The girl did not appear to be attending.

‘Comin’ back!’ he repeated. ‘Comin’ back right ’ere!’ Then, as she still made no comment, he became worried. ‘Wot’s hup?’ he demanded.

‘Do you—smell anything?’ came the question.

Ben sniffed. The thing he instinctively sniffed for was fire. No, he didn’t sniff fire.

‘I don’t smell nuffin’,’ he said. ‘That is, barrin’ coal.’

He sniffed again. Ah, yes! There was something. He went on sniffing.

‘Where is it?’ He blinked.

He looked towards the girl and missed her. ‘Oi!’ he whispered. But she was merely bending down, and her position answered his question. The smell was coming up from below them.

Ben got a sudden queer vision. It was of a hospital. He saw rows of small white beds, and nurses moving about and doctors. He saw a man being brought in on a stretcher. He discovered himself on a stretcher, moving towards an operating room. Things happened very swiftly in Ben’s mind.

But why had this vision come to him? They were in a ship, not a hospital. Of course, he did remember coming out of gas once and hearing a throbbing something like that of the engines. Still, this wasn’t gas, even though it brought gas to his mind. Something that reminded him of gas, but not gas. Something …

‘Lummy!’ he gasped. ‘Clorridgeform!’