Читать книгу Detective Ben - J. Farjeon Jefferson - Страница 8

‘Good-evening, Mr Lynch,’ said a soft, effeminate voice. ‘That is, I take it you are Mr Lynch?’

Ben also took it that he was, and struggling to conceal his fright, he replied, with hoarse gruffness:

‘That’s me!’

‘It is a sweet name,’ went on the soft voice. It reminded one vaguely of dressmaking. ‘Almost too sweet to believe. So perhaps, after all, we need not believe it?’

‘Eh?’

‘I expect you have chosen it to indicate your habits?’

A thin, ghostly hand moved up to the speaker’s collarless neck, engaging it in a pale and flabby clasp.

‘The last one called himself Churchyard, but I always thought that was a grave mistake. It proved prophetic. Yes.’

‘I s’pose you know wot yer torkin’ abart?’ inquired Ben.

The visitor’s attitude was not balm to the spine, but at least he did not appear immediately menacing, and this circumstance assisted the process of recovery.

‘You,’ he answered. ‘Mr Harry Lynch. You will look charming one day in wax. Meanwhile, I am very pleased to meet you in the flesh and to welcome you to our little home. Do you like it?’

‘Well, I ain’t seen much of it,’ remarked Ben.

‘You will see more of it.’ He had been standing in the doorway, but now he suddenly entered, closing the door quietly behind him. ‘Perhaps more than you want, but that is only a guess. I spend a lot of my time guessing. Life is terribly boring, apart from its occasional highlights—yes, there are occasional highlights—and you must fill in the time with some occupation. Even staying in bed tires you, after a certain number of hours. Once I played golf. Yes, really. I got so I could hit the ball. But you can’t play golf here. So I guess. I guessed right about Mr Churchyard. Do you mind if I examine you a little more closely? You seem an unusually interesting specimen.’

Once more the electric torch—the only source of illumination—nearly blinded Ben.

‘’Ere, I’ve ’ad enough o’ that!’ exclaimed Ben.

‘Yes, I hope you will forgive me for having used my private peepholes. They are in the wall. My room is next to yours. Isn’t that nice? But it will be better—do you mind?—if you speak a little more quietly.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, it’s rather late, isn’t it? Now, then, your face. Yes, I do like it. Not classic, of course. Not aesthetic. But—as I have already implied—manna for wax. And you can see it on the front page of a newspaper, with interesting titbits under it. I do a lot of reading.’

‘Yus, well, that’s enough abart my fice,’ growled Ben. He disliked the analysis, and he was sure Mr Harry Lynch would have objected also. ‘Wot abart your fice?’

‘Oh, certainly.’ The torch swung round, and the visitor’s chin became grotesquely illuminated. Above the chin were a weak mouth, very pale cheeks, and light blue eyes. The crowning hair was yellow-gold; perfectly waved. ‘Not your fancy, eh?’

‘I saw worse once,’ replied Ben.

‘How you must have suffered,’ sighed the visitor. ‘Personally, I like my face. I spend a lot of time looking at it. My theory is that you either attend to your appearance, or you do not. No half-measures. I attend to it. My life is different from yours, but, having accepted it—and again there are no half-measures—I am quite as happy as you, or a politician, or a member of the Stock Exchange, before we all go to hell. Now tell me something else. This is important. What do you think of your hostess?’

‘Ah, well, there you are,’ answered Ben noncommittally, while trying to work out what Harry Lynch’s opinion should be.

‘Am I?’ murmured the visitor. ‘I wonder! I see you believe in caution. You may be right—especially to one who has not been introduced and who has peepholes in walls. Do you always sit on the floor, by the way? I may be a policeman. Only I am not a policeman. If I were, I should be very careful not to put the idea into your head. My name is Sutcliffe. No relation to the Yorkshire Sutcliffe. Cricket tires me. Stanley Sutcliffe. Sometimes our hostess calls me Mr Sutcliffe. Then I call her Miss Warren. Sometimes she calls me Stanley. Then I call her Helen. sometimes—in strict private—she calls me Stan. What I call her then is not for your ears. Are we better acquainted? I hope so. I am feeling rather tired, and want to get back to bed. I hope you like my dressing-gown. But what I am asking you is whether you like your hostess?’

‘She’s a good looker,’ replied Ben.

‘She is certainly a good looker. She has one look that is so good it melts me. Be careful.’

‘It ’asn’t melted me.’

‘I don’t expect you have seen it yet.’

‘It won’t melt me when I does!’

‘I wish I could still paint. I used to, you know. Futuristic. But I gave it up. I found the brushes so heavy. I’ve given up a lot of things.’ His pale blue eyes grew sad. ‘I would like to paint you. I am sure we could startle Art between us. Your face must be preserved somehow!’

‘Yus, well, we’re torkin’ of Miss Warren’s fice,’ Ben reminded him, secretly grateful for the valuable information of her name.

‘Ah—Miss Warren’s face,’ murmured Stanley Sutcliffe. ‘Yes. Miss Warren’s face.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Dangerous, Mr Lynch. Dangerous. Why, even—’ He paused, and opened his eyes. ‘But it will not melt you, eh?’

‘Nothink melts me,’ asserted Ben. ‘Not even when me victims ’oller!’

‘Mr Churchyard made the same boast,’ smiled Mr Sutcliffe sympathetically. ‘Standing in the very spot you are standing in. “She can’t make me do what I don’t agree to do,” he said. And he would agree to most. Then she came in—’ He paused again, and turning to the door, directed his torch towards it. ‘Well, well, we shall see. Of course, Mr Churchyard was not the first. In my own case, I made no boast. I just gave way at once. Much the simplest. I believe in ease. One day—if we’re allowed the time—we must discuss philosophy.’

‘P’r’aps yer could do with a bit,’ suggested Ben.

‘Perhaps I could, and perhaps I could not,’ replied Mr Sutcliffe thoughtfully. ‘And perhaps, after all, it would be a mistake to discuss it. Discussion is rather fatiguing, though, of course, one can always train. Well, now I have seen you and know what is on the other side of the wall, I shall return to my room. Good-night.’

‘’Ere, ’arf a mo’!’ exclaimed Ben, quickly. ‘If you’ve done, I’ve got a few things I’d like to ask!’

‘Be sure they are few,’ said Mr Sutcliffe, ‘and don’t count on getting answers.’

‘Well—corse, I knows a lot,’ began Ben, cautiously feeling his way. ‘I knows I’ve bin engaged fer a job—’

‘But you don’t know what the job is,’ interposed Mr Sutcliffe, helpfully. ‘No. And you won’t, till she chooses to tell you.’

‘Meanin’ you won’t!’

‘I certainly won’t.’

‘P’r’aps yer can’t?’

‘Perhaps I can’t. Perhaps is such a useful word. It means nothing.’

‘Oh, well—I can wait!’

‘Since you will have to, that is fortunate. I have no doubt, Mr Lynch, that in your own slum, or castle, or service flat, or Soho restaurant, you are the monarch of all you survey—but there is only one monarch here!’

‘Meanin’ Miss Warren?’

‘Meaning Miss Warren.’

‘Well, I’m ’ere to do ’er instrucshuns,’ said Ben, ‘but she can’t twist ’Arry Lynch rahnd ’er little finger!’

‘She can twist Stanley Sutcliffe round her little toe,’ confessed that individual.

‘Then why ain’t you doin’ ’er job?’

Mr Sutcliffe seemed intrigued by the question. He considered it as though this were the first occasion it had occurred to him.

‘I expect I am too gentle,’ he replied, at last. ‘I only know two or three ways of killing people, and of those only one is a certainty.’

‘Oh! Well, what’s wrong with the certainty?’

‘No one knows anything about that but myself.’ He suddenly frowned. ‘And we don’t talk about it … But the real reason,’ he went on, changing the trend of the conversation, ‘is that Miss Warren has other uses for me and likes me to remain at the flat. Do you know, Mr Lynch, I haven’t been out for five months.’

‘Go on!’

‘It’s the truth. And it’s a pity. Or isn’t it? Ease. Comfort. The pleasant passing hours. Omar Khayyám.’ He held up a soft hand and moved the fingers contemplatively. ‘I wonder whether I could still hit the ball?’