Читать книгу Number Nineteen: Ben’s Last Case - J. Farjeon Jefferson - Страница 10

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.